"Should foreign nations… deceived by [an] appearance of division and weakness, render it necessary to vindicate by arms the injuries to our country, I believe… that the spirit of the revolution is unextinguished, and that the cultivators of peace will again, as on that occasion, be transformed at once into a nation of warriors who will leave us nothing to fear for the natural and national rights of our country."
--Thomas Jefferson 1809

Washington, D.C.

Saturday, November 15, 1997

10:00 A.M. EST

Brian Stillwell walked through the metal detectors and retrieved his briefcase from the Marine guard after passing through the security checkpoint to the Pentagon’s E ring. While the checkpoint looked like most airport security checkpoints, the difference was that the Marine guards actually watched the monitors and checked for weapons. They had 9mm Beretta pistols strapped to their sides and M16 A2 rifles nearby on ready-racks.

He followed the signs to the Tank. The Tank was a secure, windowless room buried beneath ground level that was impervious to all known forms of surveillance technology. Of course, in the current era of peace and goodwill, one only worried about Chinese nukes, the burgeoning Indian Navy, a collection of Arabs, starving Korean madmen, and the occasional Russian weapon of mass destruction gone missing. Oh for the Cold War days, when an enemy could be clearly drawn on the map. You counted their tanks; they counted your fighters. Now you had to worry about Ebola showing up in somebody’s shaving kit at JFK.

The National Security Advisor, the Deputy Secretary of State for Middle Eastern Affairs, the Secretary of the Navy, a handful of generals, and other spooks preceded Brian into the Tank. All were checked against a retinal scan and a Marine guard checked off each name on a clipboard before entering. Something heavy indeed must be going down to pull this many self-appointed VIPs away from their Saturday morning play times. Not that it mattered to Stillwell; he was dressed in black jeans, an Annapolis sweatshirt, and new Nikes. He had no reverence for most of those present, except the military men who had put it on the line and the Marine guards who might end up in some forsaken no-name place fighting for God and country.

Stillwell found a spot reserved for him. He moved his name card out of the way to set his notepad before him and his briefcase next to the chair. He found himself seated at a table next to a collection of spooks and someone from the FBI (probably the counter-terrorism unit). These days everything seemed to boil down to countering some sort of threat. Since flight 800 had turned into a fireworks display over Long Island Sound and Oklahoma City had erupted into a morning killing spree, no one seemed to rule out terrorism—domestic or otherwise. It was the otherwise that brought Brian to this airless, windowless room on a lovely fall day.

Outside, the sun was shining a warm brilliance still possible for mid-November in Washington. The grass remained green with birds chirping in varicolored trees. Lawn tractors were busily scooping leaves into pull-behind carts, kids were chasing basketballs across hardtop, and others chased the elusive oblong football. The NFL and NBA were in full swing, and Saturday mornings were a great time for kids to play at being the next Michael Jordan or Joe Montana.

Brian lived in a world populated by grainy satellite photos, dossiers of crazed world leaders, and deadly weapons most people had never heard of. He was an expert, for sale to the highest bidder, as long as the bidder was a government or business friendly to Uncle Sam. These days friendship was defined by the largest illegal campaign contribution made in the most recent election. Brian sometimes mused whether the crooks in the current administration or the bad guys on the other side of the world represented a greater threat. He suspected it was still the bad guys on the other side of the world.

The normal introductions were made. Surprisingly, the National Security Advisor took control of the meeting. Usually, something in the Tank was the purview of the Joint Chiefs. A map of the Persian Gulf snapped up on the digital display screen at the end of the Tank. Brian sighed; another oil mess. Considering the map was centered on Kuwait, Iraq, and Iran, it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Saddam was up to something.

Brian believed the Bush Administration should have let the 24th Mechanized Infantry and the 101st Airborne roll into Baghdad when they had the chance. It would have simplified life. Instead, Uncle had parleyed away a battlefield victory for an expensive stalemate. It kept precious resources monitoring Saddam, when the real enemy was across the Persian Gulf working on their own missile platforms, biological weapons, and nuclear bombs. Nightmarish artifacts recently procured from the disintegrating Soviet Empire—All for the glory of Allah.

A briefing officer stepped to the podium that controlled the screen. He was arrayed in full dress blues, obviously young, and intense. A prominent Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped air waiting for the NSA to finish his introduction. Stillwell had been that briefing officer once, albeit, not here and not before this many heavies. He had brought the bad news about many nasty problems before generals, admirals, and the odd senator. Thankfully, many of those problems never made it to CNN or the Washington Post.

“Approximately twelve hours ago, this series of photos was taken by an unscheduled U-2 flight. This particular flight followed the course of the Tigris River from Baghdad to the Shat al Arab.” A red dotted border drew a southeastern line from the center of Iraq to the narrow access Saddam had to the Persian Gulf and ultimately to Western ports. It made sense to run unscheduled U-2 reconnaissance flights, because Saddam had certainly bought the overflight schedules for American satellites from our steadfast allies in the Russian Federation—or maybe it was the French. Brian mused how long it would be before Tony Blair, the British Prime Minister, would tire of this expensive game. The screen switched to the hazy graininess associated with infrared and high altitude night vision photography.

“The U-2 continued into the Gulf for approximately one hundred klicks before turning west and landing inside Kuwait.” Brian wondered how many of the civilians did not know that klick was slang for kilometer. Regardless of Arab solidarity, Kuwait made sure the United States had whatever facilities it required to keep the nightmare to the north at bay. The Iraqi invasion during the 1990 summer had created an anomaly—pragmatic Arab leadership.

The next photo was a reconnaissance from some other time. It revealed the conning tower of a submarine with the number 404 clearly painted in white on the side. “This is a file photo of a Chinese Han Class PLAN naval submarine. It is a nuclear powered boat placed in service in 1988. It is comparable to a Russian Victor Class boat, and this particular boat is capable of launching surface-to-surface missiles.

“We know the Chinese do not take kindly to American battle groups paying close attention to their activities. In October 1994, J-7III fighters challenged an S-3B anti-submarine warfare plane from the Kitty Hawk. There are five known boats in this class, although the first boat—the 401—is not believed to be in service due to radiation leaks.” He paused as the screen dissolved into another photo from the U-2.

“Last night a Han Class boat—the 404—was spotted on the surface fifty klicks from the mouth of the Tigris River.” The screen dissolved to the overhead silhouette identified as a Han Class boat.

Stillwell sat forward in his chair. A Chinese SSN on the surface in the Persian Gulf, as close as possible to Iraq in the middle of the night, was not supposed to happen. A decided rumble emerged across the room. Everyone, except some of the State Department and White House aides, recognized the gravity of the reconnaissance photo on display. Chinese boats did not play outside the South China Sea. Certainly, they were not supposed to be bobbing next to two Carrier Battle Groups. Since the Gulf War, the Persian Gulf was tacitly acknowledged as an American asset.

“The next series of photos are a composite of over one hundred taken by the U-2.” He let the imagery speak for itself.

A surface boat appeared. It looked like some sort of light freighter or tugboat. There were four yellowish blobs on deck. Yellow seemed an odd color to use for a clandestine rendezvous. The color screamed like a beacon. Not exactly the effect Saddam or the Chinese were attempting to create.

A greater number of reddish blobs appeared on the deck of the submarine aft of the conning tower and forward of the fin. A black hole materialized on the submarine’s deck. Brian remembered the Han as having missile tubes forward of the conning tower. This hole appeared to be square—more like a platform. Could the Chinese have converted one of their boats to be some sort of submerged delivery truck? They were certainly working on a new class that would retire the Han boats, but that was scheduled for sometime in the next century. The surface ship pulled along side the submarine. What appeared to be a crane began moving across the deck. It was unclear, however, whether the submarine was delivering or receiving.

The next series of photographs depicted a macabre pantomime. Abruptly, three red blobs from the submarine disappeared into the Gulf. The other red blobs scrambled away towards the conning tower. The black hole in the deck disappeared and the submarine sank beneath the waves. The remaining blobs on deck never reentered the boat. Brian concluded the blobs had to be men. Why were they dressed in yellow and red?

The final series of photos showed flashes from the boat. Had they abandoned their men to the sea? What kind of captain makes a decision like that? Submarine crews are small families trapped inside a steel tube beneath the waves for months at a time. Leaving men behind to fend for themselves was certainly out of character, regardless of the navy.

Stillwell stared at the last image. Already, questions were being fired at the briefing officer.

“Where is the Chinese sub now?”

“Still in the Gulf.”

“And the surface vessel?”

“Unknown—most likely port of origin was Basra.”

“What happened to the red guys?”

“Unknown—presumed dead.”

“Why’d the Chinese leave their own guys?”

“Unknown—maybe they detected the U-2.”

“What do you know?”

“Nothing for sure.”

“What do you think you know?”

Stillwell cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Captain.” The idea of civility and politeness from someone as antisocial as Stillwell caused some of the hubbub to subside, and most everyone turned in his direction.

He sat up. “Does anyone have any idea why the Iraqis shot those Chinese sailors?”

“What shots?” demanded the Navy Secretary.

The NSA held up his hand commanding silence and turned back to Stillwell. This was something no one had mentioned up to this point. “Go on, Mister Stillwell.”

“The last picture after the submarine disappears. There are flashes from the surface vessel.” The photo reappeared on the screen. “Now, something certainly scared the Chinese captain. He dropped back into the Gulf without waiting for his men to get back inside. You know what—the same thing scared the Iraqi sailors. Those flashes look like muzzle blasts from automatic or semiautomatic weapons. My money would be on automatic weapons. The Iraqis are shooting the Chinese guys in the water. So something scared them real bad.”

He had their attention now. Center stage, all he needed was a white board to draw pictures on. Instead, he asked the briefing officer to back up several photos to the point where the red blobs disappear.

“Up to this point everything looks fine. We’ve got the Iraqis in DayGlow yellow suits, and the Chinese in DayGlow red suits. Kind of strange don’t you think? Here they are under cover of darkness, in the middle of the Gulf during a US satellite blackout. The sub is obviously black. The surface ship is probably some sort of gray or mottled brownish green thing. So why do we have a bunch of people bouncing around in reflective clothing?” His eyes locked with the Two Star sitting closer to the front of the room. The General knew the answer, but being a General in this administration brought him under suspicion. That’s why Brian had been invited. A civilian expert was needed to tell the political appointees the truth.

“Those look like biohazard suits.” He changed gears suddenly on them. “Does anyone remember The Hunt for Red October? The Russian captain needs to get his crew off the Red October—so they fake a nuclear accident. They frighten everyone. There is no question but to abandon ship.” He tapped his finger at the photo display. “I’ll bet the Chinese inside the sub panicked, because whatever they were working with must have been the real thing. Something went wrong or maybe it started to leak. Perhaps someone panicked on the surface ship. Everyone wanted to run away. Maybe someone thought this was a double cross or they were just plain scared and the shooting started. The easiest thing for the sub to do was to drop out of sight.”

The Deputy Secretary of State interrupted, “So what are you saying?”

Brian switched his focus. “Madam Secretary, I am suggesting that something nasty was transferred between the Chinese and Iraqi boats last night. You don’t need biohazard suits to hand out lollypops. I am further suggesting that something went wrong and there are some dead bodies floating out there. What I don’t know is whether the transfer was from the Chinese to the Iraqis or vice versa. Maybe it’s nuclear, or maybe its chemicals—I really don’t know. I don’t think its something benign like bullets, because there are many ways to procure those items short of using a nuclear submarine as a delivery truck. So something scared them and they started shooting.”

“You can’t be sure those were NBC suits,” countered the Secretary, referring to what looked like nuclear, biological, and chemical biohazard suits everyone was wearing in the photos.

“No I can’t. However, I know we paint ours DayGlow orange, and this wasn’t a casual visit. It was clandestine—timed to happen when our satellites were looking elsewhere. If they went to all that trouble, why wear something that would catch our eye as being out of place? Saddam plays the odds. He knows we can’t watch everything all the time. They know our satellite schedules. That’s why we’re still flying U-2 surveillance, and every so often we find something interesting.”

The blood slowly drained from the Secretary’s face. However the NSA saved her before she could utter some inane challenge to Stillwell. “And, Mister Stillwell, faced with a scenario as you describe, what would you recommend to the President?”

A smirk emerged. No one really wanted to hear the answer, but Brian had always worked on the principle that no one hired him to be nice. He glanced at the Two Star before replying. Their eyes locked again for the briefest of moments. “I would suggest that we hunt down the 404 and sink her if necessary. Whatever went wrong; it is obvious that the transfer was not completed. That means whatever it is could still be on the 404. In addition, I recommend we find the stuff that was on the Iraqi boat.”

“Two acts of war,” chided Madam Secretary. “Generally, we get the recommendation for only one act of war at a time. May I remind you, the Chinese government is a nuclear power on the Pacific Rim? It is not in our interest to start a shooting war with the Chinese. Furthermore, may I remind you, that no one knows this is an Iraqi boat? Or that anything like the weapons you describe were even present.”

“With all due respect, Madam Secretary,” replied Brian. He had no respect for the woman. She was an idiot manning an important foreign policy position because her politics aligned properly on abortion. “No one is suggesting we start a shooting war, but if nothing is amiss, then why are we all here? To see a picture of the tooth fairy?” He was warmed up and ready for a fight. “Are we to believe nothing happened last night? You have evidence of a Chinese nuclear submarine penetrating the Persian Gulf to meet with a boat most likely based out of Basra. We are here, Madam Secretary, because someone believes Saddam Hussein just got his hands on something nasty enough to make good all the threats he’s been issuing since the Gulf War.”

“Your suggestions will certainly be considered, Mister Stillwell.” With that, the NSA dismissed Brian from the discussion. There were other ideas—ideas less plausible and more palatable to the current administration. Brian did not pay much attention to the discussion. His gut told him he was right. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he prayed he was wrong.

Douglas De Bono / DouglasDeBono.Com Minneapolis/St. Paul, Minnesota E-Mail readermail@DouglasDeBono.Com