The Bin Laden Plot

8 WASHINGTON, D.C.

It was almost midnight when a group of weary passengers emerged from the Mount Vernon Square metro station. After a short ride on the Yellow Line from the Pentagon, Navy Chief Cryptologic Technician Jason Johnson stepped off the rising escalator. He turned right onto a nearby street, leaving behind the brightly lit exterior of the Walter E. Washington Convention Center, headed toward a sleepy row of townhomes in a dimly lit portion of the city a few blocks away.

Johnson had just finished his evening shift at the Pentagon, monitoring intelligence data from a black program of UUVs in the Persian Gulf. It was late, but he was hungry, and he contemplated a stop at Full Yum Carryout, a few blocks from his home. As he passed the 7th and N Streets Park on his right, he paid little attention to a man wearing a dirty gray sweatshirt slouched on a bench beneath the trees, sipping from a bottle inside a crumpled brown paper bag.

Lonnie Mixell locked his eyes onto Johnson for only a few seconds, long enough to verify who he was, before looking away. It wasn’t hard to spot Johnson; he wore the Service Khaki uniform that Navy chiefs were required to wear at the Pentagon. He had also arrived at the expected time, emerging from the metro station shortly after his evening shift in the five-sided building. After Johnson pulled a fair distance away, Mixell stood and followed, leaving the bottle of water inside the brown paper bag behind.

Mixell closed on Johnson, adjusting his pace to reach the Navy chief at a predetermined point near a dark alley on the right. The man seemed oblivious to his impending doom, trudging along until Mixell was only ten steps behind. Johnson’s sixth sense must have kicked in, because he cast a glance over his shoulder, spotting the drunk from the park moving briskly toward him. He picked up his pace, matching that of the drunk, who was probably approaching to beg for money. Mixell sped up, continuing to close on his prey.

Johnson glanced behind him again, surprised to find the drunk only five paces behind. He slowed and veered toward the street, hoping the man would pass by without engaging. Mixell reached behind his back, pulling his sweatshirt up with one hand and retrieving his P226 with the other, aiming it at Johnson when he stopped a few feet away.

“Into the alley,” he said, gesturing with his pistol toward a dark opening on the right.

Johnson held his hands up before him in a supplicating manner. “If it’s money you want…” He fumbled for his wallet.

Mixell motioned with the gun again. “Into the alley.”

Johnson eyed the darkness as he pulled out his wallet and opened it. “I’ll give you whatever you want — money, credit cards. Just let me go.”

Mixell waved his gun again. “Now!”

“All right, all right!”

The Navy chief moved slowly into the alley. Mixell sensed the man’s mind was going in several directions at once, wondering what Mixell wanted, what he might do to him, and whether there was a way to ensure his safety.

He turned suddenly toward Mixell, his features silhouetted by a streetlight farther down the alley. “Look, mister. I’ll give you all the money I’ve got on me, plus I can get you more. Just don’t kill me. I’ve got a wife and kids.”

“I don’t want your money,” Mixell replied. “It’s information I want.”

Since reading the five names on his hit list, Mixell had wondered about the connection. That the three SEALs had something in common was obvious, although he hadn’t yet determined what that was. The other two men worked in the Pentagon, so they seemed connected. But what was the relationship between the Pentagon guys and the SEALs?

While researching his targets, it hadn’t taken long to figure out that Johnson worked in a black, off-the-books program. He’d start there.

“What’s your job in the Pentagon?”

“How do you know I work there?”

“Just answer the question!”

“I review overseas intelligence data.”

“What kind of data?”

“Communications, primarily.”

“From who and where?”

Johnson hesitated. “That’s classified.”

Mixell raised his pistol, aiming it at Johnson’s head. “We can either end this conversation now, or you can start talking.”

“CENTCOM, Persian Gulf area,” Johnson said. “Mostly Iran.”

Mixell cursed silently under his breath. It was now clear why he’d been offered this assignment — it was related to the shipment en route. That damn Snyder guy. He said he had everything on his side under wraps, but that clearly wasn’t the case. The Navy, at least, had been tipped off.

“Has anything of special interest been collected? A shipment from the U.S. to Iran, perhaps?”

Johnson nodded. “One of the UUV data dumps contained discussions about a high-priority shipment to Iran, due in the next few weeks. I flagged it for further research by the CIA, but it must have been something sensitive, because I was directed to delete the information from our servers and sign a nondisclosure agreement.”

“Who directed you to do this?”

“Captain Andy Hoskins.”

The reason Johnson and Hoskins were on the list suddenly became apparent. Both were aware of the shipment to Iran, and the two loose ends were being taken care of. That was good news, but it raised another question. This wasn’t Snyder’s work. Someone else, far more ruthless, was pulling the strings.

“Is there anyone else who’s aware of this shipment?”

“Not that I know of.”

Mixell contemplated what he had learned about the Navy chief and Captain Hoskins, then pivoted to the other three men.

“Have you ever interfaced with Navy SEALs, or have they come up in any context with regard to this shipment?”

“No.”

“Have you ever come across the names Gary Nagle, John McNeil, or Jake Harrison?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Based on our discussion, is there anything else I might be interested in?”

Johnson shook his head.

“Thanks, Chief. You’ve been somewhat helpful.”

The Navy chief glanced at Mixell’s pistol. “You’re going to let me go now?”

“Yes. But just one more thing. Turn around.”

“What for?”

Mixell pressed his pistol against Johnson’s head. “I said turn around!”

Johnson turned around, standing tensely while Mixell slid his pistol under the waistband of his jeans, then pulled out a knife with a six-inch blade. He stepped closer, then clamped one hand around Johnson’s mouth as he reached around with his other and drove the knife deep into the man’s chest, just below the sternum, severing his aorta.

Mixell held him as he bled out until his body went limp. He released Johnson, letting him collapse onto the ground.

He took Johnson’s wallet, hoping the murder would be interpreted as a mugging gone bad, then cleaned his knife on the Navy chief’s uniform.

After sliding the knife back into its sheath, Mixell emerged onto N Street NW. There was no one within eyesight. As he walked to his car, not far away, his thoughts had already turned to the next man on the list.