Hunt the Scorpion

Chapter Three

Crocker dreamt he was surfing off the west coast of Maui with his teenage daughter. She wore a bright orange bikini and a big smile as she waved to him from the water. He didn’t see the huge wave building up behind her until it was practically right over her head.

He shouted, “Jenny, watch out!” as the wave came crashing down-hundreds of tons of water.

And then he awoke.

His surroundings weren’t immediately recognizable. The bunk he lay in was tight and the air around it stifling hot. To his right he saw a blue wall with a framed photo of a blue whale bursting out of the water.

He sat up, read the name printed on the bed’s top sheet-USS Carl Vinson-and relaxed.

As he scanned the contents of the eight-by-ten room-a chair and a counter built into the wall that served as a desk, his gear and clothes stacked neatly on the bunk below-the events of the previous night came rushing back at him, increasing his anxiety. He sensed that he’d left something undone.

What? He’d never called his wife, who was scheduled to leave for Cairo, Egypt, sometime soon. He had wanted to reach out to her before she left. Their friends jokingly called them Mr. and Mrs. Smith, like the married CIA assassins in the Brad Pitt-Angelina Jolie movie.

He pulled on a freshly laundered shirt and pants, found an office with a satellite connection, and, not knowing his wife’s time of departure or the time difference between the Gulf of Aden and Virginia Beach, Virginia, called home.

No one answered, so he tried his daughter’s cell phone.

“Hey, Daddy, what’s up?” Jenny answered brightly on the third ring, sounding as if she was only a few blocks away.

He loved it when she called him daddy. “Where are you?”

“I’m staying with my friend Francesca.”

“Francesca?”

“Yeah. Remember Francesca?”

He did, vaguely. Another tall girl with long brown hair. “Yeah, sure.”

“I’m watching her dad make paella in a special pot Francesca bought for his birthday. Have you ever had it?”

“Paella, yeah. It’s good.” Memories of one of his favorite cities, Barcelona, flooded back, along with an image of a Spanish girl he’d dated before he was married-dark hair, dark eyes, magnificent body.

“Where’s your stepmother?” he asked.

“She left for the airport early this morning. I guess she’s in the air somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean by now.”

Jenny was the product of his first marriage-a clever girl, charming, pretty, full of energy and mischief like he’d been at her age. No, he’d been far worse.

Still, she had her own mind and never listened to anyone, especially her mother, who couldn’t deal with her. Reminded him too much of himself, which made him worry. She needed direction, goals. Like Crocker had before he joined the navy at nineteen.

He knew there wasn’t much he could do now except tell her he loved her and hoped to see her soon.

“Sure, Dad. When do you think that will be?”

“Probably in two weeks, when the race is over.”

“What race is that?”

ST-6 operators weren’t allowed to tell their families where they were or what they were doing. But in addition to his SEAL commitments, Crocker competed in long-distance endurance events. So he told her, “I’m running in an ultramarathon, the Sahara, that starts in a few days.”

“Isn’t that, like, in the desert?”

“It is a desert.”

“You’re running in a race in the Sahara desert?”

“That’s right.”

“Won’t everyone just, like, burn up and die?”

He laughed. “I hope not.”

“You’re so crazy, Dad.”

He’d considered the possibility sometimes. Yes, the choices he made were extreme. Even abnormal. But he blamed that on his thirst for adventure and the wild energy he’d possessed since he was a little boy. During different phases in his life that energy had been both a blessing and a curse.

“Everything okay with you?” he asked.

“Fine, Dad.”

“When did Holly say she’s getting back?”

“A week from Friday.”

He remembered Francesca’s last name. “Say hi to the Novaks and thank them again for me. Be good.”

“You, too, Dad. And one more thing.”

“What’s that?”

“I hope you win!”

He hung up and asked for directions to the ship’s mess. Noticing photos of famous visitors, including his favorite NFL quarterback, Joe Montana, as he entered, Crocker found Ritchie and Mancini sitting at a corner table chowing down on eggs, ham, and hash browns.

He filled a plate, grabbed a cup of coffee, and sat. Mancini-the combination weight lifter and tech geek-was talking about a whole new generation of drones the air force was developing, some of which were the size of insects and birds.

“Insects and birds? You’re exaggerating like a motherfucker,” Ritchie said.

Bull-necked, crew-cut Mancini held his ground. “In another five to ten years max, war is gonna be fought by geeks at video screens.”

“No way.”

“Yeah.” Mancini sniffed at a slice of bacon on his plate and pushed it aside. His wife, Carmen, had him on a strict diet to keep his cholesterol down.

“I’ve seen photos of one they’re testing now that looks like a hummingbird. Flapping wings and all. Flies at about twelve miles per hour and can perch on a windowsill.”

“You hear this, boss?”

Crocker listened as he filled his stomach.

“In the future, the government wants to take out some terrorist leader, they dispatch one of these little suckers equipped with a camera and a weapon. Flies in the window, IDs the bad guy, then puts a bullet in his head. Maybe even tickles him first.”

Ritchie, part Cherokee, ex-rodeo rider, shook his head. “That’s when I’m retiring to Montana to raise horses.”

“You ever see a Raven?” Mancini asked.

Crocker had, near the western border of Pakistan. He nodded.

Mancini continued. “It’s about three feet long. Right, boss? You want to see something on the other side of a hill, you toss this thing like a model airplane that’s equipped with an electric engine and an infrared camera. It beams images back.”

Crocker was thinking that change was a law of the universe. Even the planet was shifting as they spoke. He cleared his throat. “Where’s Akil?”

“In the infirmary getting his hand attended to. Davis is getting his hair cut.”

“Soon as I’m done here, I’ll call the CO.”

“Oh, and the captain wants to see you. He’s in his office on the bridge.”

Crocker finished his breakfast and hurried up the seven flights of steps. Whereas the bridge of the MSC Contessa had been cramped, blood-splattered, and chaotic, this one was vast, orderly, and serene. Alert clean-cut officers manned various stations-the wheel, radar, sonar, weather. Everything seemingly under control.

An ensign in navy dress blues took him to see the captain, who sat in an office with his feet up on his desk. He and a half dozen other officers had their heads turned to a flat-screen monitor tuned to CNN.

The captain said, “Welcome, Warrant Officer Crocker. You still intact?”

“More or less.”

“Nice piece of work you and your men pulled off.”

“Thanks.”

“Pull up a chair. Take a load off. The commander in chief is making a statement.”

As Crocker watched, the president of the United States stood behind a lectern in the White House and talked about the rescue of Captain McCullum and his wife by commandos from the Joint Special Operations Command. No mention was made of the fact that they were navy SEALs from Team Six, or of the Middle Eastern men, or that the MSC Contessa had been carrying sensitive nuclear material.

But that was no surprise to Crocker. He and his men had carried out many daring missions all over the world that never made the news.

“Did the salvage team find the barrels?” Crocker asked after the president had finished.

“Yes, they’re bringing them up now,” the captain answered, as if it was no big deal.

Another officer with commander stripes on his uniform said, “They’ve also recovered the bodies of some of the men on the launch.”

Crocker sat up. “Any idea who they were and who they were working for?”

“The Agency is keeping that to themselves.”

The sun was setting red over the desert when the Gulfstream IV carrying Crocker and his team landed at NSA Bahrain, a U.S. Navy base on the island of Bahrain, home of the U.S. Naval Forces Central Command and the Fifth Fleet. The Persian Gulf base occupied over sixty acres in the Juffair suburb of the capital city, Manama. Like other American military bases around the world, it seemed like a little piece of home-complete with fast food joints, a miniature golf course, and a bowling alley-far away from the continental United States.

After dropping their gear off at the Central Command barracks the six SEALs set out on a slow and easy run that took them along the perimeter of the base, beside the coast. It felt like months since they’d last trained.

As they ran, Mancini filled them in on local history. He was blessed with a near-photographic memory and could tell you what he’d eaten for dinner on any given night three years ago. “The Kingdom of Bahrain is actually a chain of thirty islands in the Persian Gulf, just west of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia. The ancient Sumerians considered it an island paradise where wise, brave men could enjoy eternal life.”

“The Sumerians?” Davis asked.

“Yeah, the Sumerians.”

“I read a book about how the Sumerians described having contact with aliens,” Davis offered. “They were the first great culture and spawned the Babylonians, Persians, and Assyrians.”

Davis, who looked like a California surfer, was the other reader in the group. His tastes included science fiction, New Age, and philosophy-everything from Russian literature to American history, and from Nietzsche to William Gibson and Edgar Cayce.

Akil changed the subject-sort of. “Let’s talk about Kim Kardashian’s booty.”

Ritchie: “What about it?”

Akil: “I read that it’s been invaded by aliens.”

Ritchie: “Thousands of times!”

Akil, Crocker, and Cal cracked up.

Mancini, who didn’t find this funny, continued, “Like Saudi Arabia, Bahrain is ruled by a Sunni royal family. But in Bahrain’s case about seventy percent of the native population of seven hundred thousand are from the Shia sect of Islam, which creates political problems. The remaining half million of the country’s 1.2 million population are guest workers from places like India, Pakistan, and Asia. Many of them work in the oil and gas fields and in Manama’s financial center.”

“Boring,” Akil said.

Ritchie: “Let’s talk about what we’re doing tonight.”

They were passing the harbor, with the Marina Club (filled with luxurious yachts) and the Bahrain National Museum on their right. The lights of modern office towers sparkled in the clear night. Even though the city was relatively small, with a population of less than two hundred thousand, the skyline was impressive and featured two of the tallest buildings in the world-the Bahrain Financial Harbour at 853 feet and the Bahrain World Trade Center at 787.

“We might want to explore the city,” Mancini said. “It’s active and lively. All kinds of restaurants and nightclubs. Last time I was here I went to a place called BJs that had a killer DJ and loads of beautiful young women.”

Akil: “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“Foreign workers mostly, looking for a good time.”

“You hook up?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“You tell Carmen about that?” Davis asked.

“Do I look stupid?”

“Now that I think about it…” but Akil stopped. Nobody really wanted to piss Mancini off. He was a teddy-bear-type guy with a keen sense of justice who didn’t react well when certain boundaries were crossed.

Crocker had read that during demonstrations in February 2011 in support of the Arab Spring, five people had been killed by Manama police. This sparked further protests by the Shia majority, which were eventually quelled with the help of troops from Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates.

There were no signs of unrest now as they crossed the island and jogged down Al Shabab Avenue in the suburb of Juffair, which featured local franchises of McDonald’s, Dairy Queen, and Chili’s.

“I know a great Indian restaurant we can go to,” Mancini said. “Best chicken masala and spinach bindi I’ve ever tasted.”

Crocker was less interested in which restaurant they ate at than in getting his team ready for the grueling Marathon des Sables next week. As the team’s lead trainer, it was his job to keep them in shape and prepare them to deal with any contingency-arctic mountains, rough seas, jungles. He was concerned because, compared to their competition, he figured they were behind in training, mileage, and long-distance desert runs.

He had led his team on climbs in the Rockies, on Mount Washington, the Devil’s Tower, Grand Teton, the Himalayas, K2. They had done parachute drops from thirty thousand feet in Germany, winter training outside Juneau, jungle training in the Philippines and Borneo.

Now it was time to beat them to shit in the desert. His motto was “Blood from any orifice,” and he lived it over and over.

When they returned to the barracks, a civilian aide stood waiting beside a black SUV.

“Chief Warrant Officer Crocker?”

“Who wants to know?”

“The embassy political counselor. He wants to see you.”

That likely meant CIA.

Ten minutes later, showered and dressed in black cotton pants and a black polo, he entered an air-conditioned room in a utilitarian four-story building. The local CIA chief, Ed Wolfson, a medium-height, sandy-haired man with gray eyes, rose to greet him. Judging by his paunch and stooped shoulders, Crocker pegged him as an analyst type.

Sitting at the table behind him was Crocker’s old nemesis, Lou Donaldson.

The last time he’d seen Donaldson, he was serving as the CIA deputy in Pakistan. He had since been promoted to an important job with CTC, the CIA’s Counterterrorism Center.

“Congratulations, Lou,” Crocker said, extending a hand. “I heard you were promoted. What brings you to Bahrain?”

Donaldson ignored his hand and responded with a curt “Sit down.”

His manner hadn’t changed. Still an asshole.

They were joined by Donaldson’s broad-shouldered deputy, Jim Anders, carrying plastic-wrapped sandwiches and Diet Cokes. Anders explained that they’d driven five hours from Saudi Arabia and were delayed because of repairs to the sixteen-mile King Fahd Causeway, which linked the two countries and also happened to be one of the longest bridges in the world. They hadn’t had time to stop for dinner.

Instead of enjoying chicken masala, Crocker bit into a stale turkey sandwich. And he hated Diet Coke.

Donaldson spoke as he chewed. “That launch was completely destroyed, and with it a trove of potentially valuable intel. Were you aware of that, Crocker?”

“No, sir.”

“Blew up and sank to the bottom of the bay.”

“I suspected that might happen.”

“You couldn’t put out the fire?”

“No time, sir, and nothing to do it with.”

“Fucking shame. The White House is disappointed. Could have bolstered their case at the UN.”

“What case is that?”

Donaldson had dripped some mustard on the front of his blue shirt. Instead of answering Crocker’s question, he used a handkerchief and water from a plastic bottle to blot it. This only seemed to make a bigger mess.

“The salvage team recovered some scraps, pieces of documents, one man’s body.”

“Have you been able to ID him?” Crocker asked.

“You interview the crew?” Donaldson asked back, sidestepping Crocker’s question.

“The crew of the Contessa?”

“No, the crew of the fucking Starship Enterprise.”

Crocker clenched his jaw, fighting back an urge to reach across the table and punch him in the mouth. “Didn’t have time, sir.”

“How many of them were there?”

“We recovered six dead. There were another five men injured, plus the captain.”

“For a grand total of twelve, including the captain.”

“And the captain’s wife. That’s correct.”

Donaldson slapped the table. “Wrong.”

“Sir?”

“Captain McCullum says he set sail from Melbourne with a crew of twelve, which means thirteen, including him.”

“He sure of that?”

“Yes, he is. One of them apparently got away.”

“Got away?”

“Yes, goddammit. Escaped.”

“Maybe he fell overboard and drowned.”

“Wrong again, Crocker. I suppose you weren’t aware that one of the Contessa’s lifeboats was missing, too.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Then there’s your answer.”

What answer? Crocker asked himself. Why is this important? He was going to explain that he and his men had been under attack and that the action aboard and around the Contessa was unrelenting, but he realized there was no point.

“Where did this crewman go?” he asked instead.

“Unclear.”

“Then why is his disappearance such a big deal?”

“It is, Crocker. That’s all you need to know.”

Trying to understand what had been going on with the Contessa, Crocker asked, “Were you able to ascertain the nationality of the men on the launch?”

Donaldson nodded at Anders, who reached for a folder. “You ever hear of the Qods Force, Crocker?”

Of course he had. The Qods Force was the external intelligence apparatus of the Islamic Revolutionary Guards of Iran-essentially state-sponsored terrorists linked to assassinations and bombings in countries all over the world, including Lebanon, Israel, Saudi Arabia, Argentina, Thailand, and France.

Crocker nodded. “They’re only the nastiest motherfuckers on the planet.”

“Among the cleverest, too.” Donaldson grunted and turned to Anders. “Show him the photo.”

The image was of a middle-aged man with intense black eyes, a broken nose, and acne-scarred skin partially covered by a short black beard.

“Recognize him?”

The eyes looked familiar. He thought they belonged to the third man in the launch cabin, the one who had slipped away while he was grappling on the floor with the two others.

“Maybe.”

“His name is Colonel Farhed Alizadeh, also known as Colonel D, member of the Iranian Revolutionary Corps and an engineer linked to Iran’s nuclear program.”

Crocker had never heard of him. “Did the divers find his body?”

“Not yet.”

“I hope they find him.”

“That would be a huge relief.”

Back at the barracks, Crocker tossed and turned throughout the night. He kept waking up and thinking about a museum he had visited in Nagasaki when he was a young navy corpsman stationed with the marines, and about the horrors of nuclear weapons.

On the morning of August 9, 1945, a U.S. B-29 bomber veered away from its intended target-Kokura-because of thick cloud cover and instead dropped a 10,200-pound nuclear bomb, known as Fat Man, on Nagasaki. The resulting 21-kiloton explosion-the equivalent of 75 million sticks of dynamite-destroyed almost all of the city’s buildings and killed roughly 39,000 people. Another 25,000 were horribly burned. Over the following weeks and months another 40,000 residents died from radiation exposure and other injuries.

According to one observer, “A huge fireball formed in the sky…Together with the flash came the heat rays and the blast, which destroyed everything on earth. When the fire itself burned out, there appeared a completely changed, vast, colorless world that made you think it was the end of life on earth. The whole city became extinct.”

It was the pictures of the burn victims, and the deformed children born to survivors from outside the city who were exposed to radiation, that gave Crocker the chills. He knew that the Fat Man plutonium bomb dropped on Nagasaki was primitive and limited in firepower compared to some of the bombs built today, ten kilotons compared to as high as ten megatons-approximately a thousand times bigger.

As the WMD officer at ST-6, he also understood the dangers of nuclear proliferation and on more than one occasion had risked his life to stop it. After the fall of the Soviet Union, when approximately two hundred nuclear warheads were either sold or stolen, he had launched spectacular missions into Belarus, Uzbekistan, and caves in North Korea to recover them.

The idea of an aggressive country like Iran, run by a group of religious zealots, getting its hands on nuclear weapons that were even more lethal than the ones dropped on Japan filled him with dread. And the more he thought about Farhed Alizadeh and the incident on the Contessa, the more he was plagued by questions.

They were still screaming for his attention as he ran his team thirty-five miles around the island that morning. Even after they had stretched and he had reminded his men about the importance of hydration, electrolyte replacement, bringing extra shoes, and race tactics, he kept asking himself what the Iranians were up to.

He’d learned not to shy away from things that nagged him. They always came around to bite him in the ass. So despite the fact that he had a number of things to do that afternoon to prepare for the race in Morocco, he arranged to meet Ed Wolfson in a coffee shop near the U.S. embassy.

After they sat down, he said, “I hate being made to feel responsible for an outcome that I don’t really understand.”

“Likewise, I’m sure. What’s on your mind?”

“What do you know about Farhed Alizadeh’s mission on the Contessa?” Crocker asked.

“Enough to tell you that from my perspective the whole thing was planned ahead of time. More precisely, the crew member who disappeared was working for the Iranians. The whole pirating incident was staged.”

“Do you know what was in the barrels?”

“I do, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Crocker nodded.

“High-strength aluminum alloy. Component parts for L-2 centrifuges manufactured by Scomi Precision Engineering in Malaysia. High-speed triggers made in China.”

“So Iran really is trying to build nuclear weapons.”

Wolfson folded his hands on the table and said, “Correct. And they’ve been playing a double game. Holding talks to stall the international community and playing up to China, which is secretly supplying them with parts, while working pedal-to-the-floor to build a bomb.”

“How close are they?”

“That depends on who you talk to.”

“What do you think?” Crocker asked.

“Most experts agree that they lack two things: some of the high-tech parts needed to build one, and enough enriched uranium.”

“Hence the high-speed triggers and parts in the barrels on the Contessa.”

“Exactly.”