To Kill a Dead Man
Part One
The Remembrance
“Fear those who are afraid of you.” Arab proverb
Executive Action
Summer 1978
Hot summers are not that common in Westphalia, but this July was the exception. The passenger, in the back seat of the yellow Mercedes, was suffering in silence—wiping his sweaty forehead and praying he’ll get to his destination soon.
The taxi crossed the Rhine, entered the West German capital and headed south on Konstantin Strasse. At Deichmanns the passenger tapped the driver’s arm. “Halten Sie hier, bitte.” He paid the fare and got out. Of medium build, this man in his late forties, in a tailored grayish three piece suit, glanced at the imposing building with the Stars and Stripes fluttering in the breeze. He sighed noisily and marched to the Marine sentry to present his diplomatic passport.
At ten in the morning the phone started ringing in the office of the director of the CIA. The U.S. Embassy in Bonn advised that a general, the head of Romania’s Securitate and a close confidant of Ceausescu, has walked in demanding political asylum.
The director immediately called the White House and the State Department. When President Carter granted the request, Donald Fulton, the head of Black Operations, was dispatched to bring the defector in.
They tucked him away at a safe house in the Virginia countryside and started his debriefing. He unloaded a wealth of data—not only about Romania’s foreign intelligence gathering but also about other East Bloc services and their worldwide covert operations.
It wasn’t until a week later that the General mentioned, matter-of-factly, a summit he might have attended had he remained in the East. Some high level representatives of East-Europe’s finest spy agencies were to meet Gaddafi in September. Also attending would be the elusive Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, the Venezuelan-born terrorist better known by his nom de guerre, Carlos.
The late-August sun dipped behind the horizon and WRC Radio started its nine o’clock news. Donald Fulton sat in the dark, the only light the reddish glow of his cigarette. He took one last puff, crushed the butt in the ashtray, then switched on the lights and went to sit behind his desk. He reached for the blue “eyes only” folder and opened it.
The high level conference he attended earlier had been with the Director of Central Intelligence, the Deputy Director of Operations and the General Counsel.
The Director, a new political appointee with no priors in intelligence or covert operations, had listened to his plan and then ordered changes. He wanted all the participants to the Libyan meeting black-listed, not just Carlos. Fulton thought that the termination with extreme prejudice of so many warranted a closer, more thoughtful consideration. When the DDO and the GC kept their mouths shut Fulton did too and now he was stuck with an operation he no longer believed in.
Fulton loosened his tie and lit another cigarette. To think clearly, he needed his poison. He had no assets in Libya and to find out where the East-Europeans and Carlos would be at any given time he had to outsource the fact-finding job. The Comitato Esecutivo per i Servizi di Informazione e Sicurezza came to mind and he called Rome.
That solved, he concentrated on choosing the right men for the operation—men who could anticipate the unexpected and improvise accordingly.
Chapter 1
September 1978
Night descended on Spain’s Costa de la Luz and the fog followed shortly. It shrouded the NATO Naval Station of Rota and the nearby Puerto de Santa Maria in an opaque cloak. SSN Hammerhead, a fast attack submarine of the Sturgeon class, slipped her moorings and headed out. The dark hull started the run across the Bay of Cadiz then turned southwest into the Atlantic swells. Twenty miles out, the boat flooded her ballast tanks and slid beneath the waves.
By the time the morning sun rose from the sea and gilded the Rock of Gibraltar, Hammerhead entered the Mediterranean and pointed her bow eastward toward Sardinia. Forty hours later, she rounded Malta and changed course for the Gulf of Sidra.
At 03:00 hours, on the third day out, Hammerhead came to full stop. Spy satellites have photographed a number of Dugas, Soviet built radar systems which littered the Libyan coast and could easily pick up the boat if she surfaced. Hammerhead remained five fathoms deep, cloaked by the sea. From her escape trunks, four dark shapes detached themselves and headed for the coast.
Clint Vaughan reached the shore and sprawled in the sand. Motionless, as a permanent fixture of the beach, he allowed the seconds to tick away. He couldn’t see or hear any movement besides the rhythmic crash of the surf at his feet. Using his elbows he slunk inland. Twenty meters from water’s edge he stopped yet again, checked his watch, then brought up a pair of Zagorsky night glasses to scan the surroundings. He had never been to this shore before but it looked no different than so many others he’d visited in secret—sand dunes and a two lane coastal highway snaking across a monotonous desert landscape. It appeared safe enough, he decided. If Langley got it right, there would be two hours before the next patrol. He flashed a small blue light and three black-clad figures emerged from the sea.
Mike Shannon, better known in their trade as “the bloody Redcoat,” crab-crawled to Clint’s side. His shorter, more powerful frame contrasted with Clint’s well-toned slimness. Through breaks in the heavy storm clouds, the moon bathed the landscape in a silvery light. Glancing at Mike’s face, smeared with black camouflage paint and looking like a hooded skull, Clint grinned—his must look just the same, he thought.
Mike let his fingers do the talking. He indicated a walk, pointed at his eyes and finally in the direction of the road.
Clint nodded and Mike dropped his air tanks and vanished into the night.
Jerry and Steve, the last two of the team, came dragging the waterproofed boxes containing their gear. For this operation everything they carried was of foreign provenance—nothing to indicate their true origins, not even the pocket litter. They hustled to twist out of their wet-suits and changed into Egyptian desert camouflage uniforms, devoid of any insignia or markings. Next, they reached for their guns. In their profession weapon-of-choice was the norm and each had his favorite but this occasion called for something different. Jerry picked up a Model 56, the Chinese version of the AK47, and Steve armed himself with a Czech-made Skorpion. While the pair split the fragmentation grenades, Mike returned and gave Clint the thumbs up sign. He quickly changed into his cammies then used a special harness to hang two Polish PM63s—great for spraying lead at a short distance—one under each armpit. Lastly, he grabbed the pack with the RPG tube and its warheads.
Clint reached for the bag containing his sniper rifle, two Swedish AP12 mines, and a remote detonator. “Mike and I will go set up an OP,” he whispered to Steve and Jerry. “You know the drill. When you’re finished follow us.”
Steve piled the diving gear into the boxes, pulled his short shovel and started digging. “Come on,” he told Jerry, “help me bury them.”
They had used the cover of darkness to set up the waylay. Jerry and Steve dug individual foxholes in the sand, about fifty paces apart, on the seaward side of the highway and covered themselves with the netting. Clint and Mike set the directional fragmentation mines, camouflaged them, then crossed the narrow asphalt strip and found protection about fifty meters from the road behind a cluster of thorny acacia bushes.
The seven o’clock dawn filtering through the heavy overcast enabled them to see their surroundings. The terrain chosen for the ambush was mostly barren land, broken by an oasis to the west and a greasy-looking salt marsh to the east.
By ten the wind managed to clear the sky and temperature inched close to forty degrees Celsius. Sand and rock already simmered under the sun’s harsh glare. Clint, dark stains under his armpits, felt the worst was still to come. Wiping rivulets of sweat from his forehead, he watched the occasional traffic while chewing on a cold Cohiba cigar.
Mike broke the silence. “How long we gonna sit in this God-forsaken place?”
Clint stopped fiddling with the old Russian lighter and took the cigar out of his mouth. “Who knows? The Italians will call Langley when the target gets rolling.”
“Do you trust those guys?”
Clint shrugged. “Fulton’s setup, not mine. All I’ve been told was that a few spilas from CESIS are shadowing Carlos and his gang.”
“I would love to know how the Macaronari found out about this meeting.”
“They didn’t. Fulton had a bird chirp to him. He asked the Italians for help and they discovered that Carlos and friends will visit the archeological site of the Roman Leptis Magna and that today they’ll travel to Cyrene, to see the Greek ruins.”
Mike grinned. “Interesting discovery if you ask me. Maybe a Libyan woman read them the future at the bottom of a cup of tea.”
“Maybe.”
The VHF radio interrupted. “Patrol coming.”
Clint glanced at his Pobeda watch. “Right on time.”
Using high-power binoculars, Mike followed the two fast moving halftracks of the Libyan border guards. When they vanished out of sight, he elbowed Clint. “They drove by without even looking. One miserable highway in the whole country and they can’t even patrol it right. What a bunch of morons.” Mike stopped long enough to light an Egyptian Manolaki. “The fact is that if Gumbas are right and the convoy needs to get from Al Khums to Cyrene this is the only way, unless they bloody fly.”
“I’ve seen hundreds of aerial photos, Mike. I know what the country looks like”
“I’m sure you do. Actually, Libya doesn’t need more highways. The rest of the country is nothing but desert, roamed by Berbers and Tuaregs. Those towel heads need no paved roads for their camels. Aye, it’s a screwball of a place. They live like in the Dark Ages but insist on being treated as equals. If not for their oil they’d all be starving….”
Clint stiffened a yawn and moved under the meager shade of the acacias. “For God’s sake, would you shut up?”
Thirty fathoms beneath the choppy surface, SSN Hammerhead ran silent. At 10:30 hours the sub rose to ten fathoms depth, activated its Seafarer communication system and prepared to receive the ELF broadcast from the Sanguine Transmitter in Michigan. The sub also released a small communications buoy which would allow it to contact the men on shore and pass on Langley’s message.
Mike shook Clint awake. “We have a problem.”
Clint rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What are you talking about?”
Mike pointed to the east. “That.”
“A Shareqi?”
“Sure looks like one.”
Clint grabbed the radio. “Sandstorm’s moving in, boys. Goggles on, cover your weapons and protect the radios.”
“Roger that,” came in twice.
Satisfied, Clint faced Mike. “Anything happen?”
“Not much. Another patrol drove by, in a big hurry.” He checked his watch. “I hope the sub will call soon. I’m not that thrilled about fighting in the middle of a frigging sand storm.”
As if on command, the radio crackled. “This is Popeye. Come in, Hawkeye. Do you copy?”
Hawkeye, Clint’s call ever since Nam, referred to his legendary deeds as a sharpshooter. He now reached for the radio and spoke softly. “I read you loud and clear, Popeye. Send your traffic.”
They weren’t using elliptical conversation. The VH frequency made it highly improbable that someone could intercept their signal. For that to be possible, a receiving station would have to be no farther than five kilometers away. Langley had told them that there were none in the area.
The skipper of Hammerhead continued. “We have confirmation that the visitors left Al Khums at 09:00 hours. We calculated that they should reach your location about 13:00 hours.”
“How do they travel?”
“In a motorcade of four vehicles: a soft top Land Rover up front, two Mercedes limos and a green VW minivan at the rear. There are about a dozen Libyans riding shotgun, so be alert.”
Clint chuckled. “Believe me, we’ll be extra careful.”
“And one more thing. Home office advises that an Iraqi General may be in that group. You’re to take extra precautions not to harm him. Did you get that?”
“I got it all. Thanks. Expect us home for late lunch by 15:00 hours.”
“Copy that, Hawkeye. We’ll be waiting. Good hunting.” The radio went dead.
Mike was scratching his scalp. “What if they see the storm coming and hole up?”
“Don’t think so. By now they’ve long passed Surt and don’t know about this Shareqi yet. By the time they reach it they’ll have no choice. The only places in that area, Bin-Jawwad and As-Sultan, are nothing more than overgrown villages. They’ll push on, trying to make Benghazi.”
“And how about this Iraqi? What makes him so important and how are we supposed to avoid taking him out?”
Clint eyed Mike. “Langley changed again the rules of engagement. But don’t worry; we’ll go ahead as planned.”
“That’ll piss Fulton’s off.”
“Nothing new. I’ll take care of it.”
Mike grinned. “If you say so.”
“Damn it, Mike, would you stop worrying. We were hired to take those commies out and that’s what we’ll do. If they didn’t want us to proceed, they should have told us to stand down.”
The Shareqi struck before noon. A relatively mild one by local standards, it still raised thick clouds of dust. They couldn’t see beyond the length of a football field.
An hour later the storm almost blew itself out but the air was thick with a fog-like reddish hue. It shielded them from the sun but played hell with the visibility. Mike grabbed the canteen, took a long drink then poured some water down his neck. “Want any?” He asked Clint.
Clint reached for it but the radio came alive. Steve, at the outpost farther west, spoke calmly. “I have a convoy in sight. Looks like our boys.”
Mike dropped the flask and raised his IOR spotter’s glasses. “Have command of the target,” he called. “Splash them before they get to the mines.”
Clint brought out the Dragunov—not his first choice in a sniper rifle, but a close second—chambered a round and pressed the butt tightly to his shoulder. He allowed the convoy to proceed. At two hundred meters the PSO scope seemed to pull the lead vehicle close enough to touch. Clint’s thumb flicked off the safety. He took a deep breath and let it out, slowly. When the Rover was one hundred meters away, he squeezed the trigger. The blast of the weapon was almost completely swallowed by the silencer. The 7.62 round went through the windshield and took part of the Libyan driver’s head off. The Rover, pushing sixty, zigzagged then left the pavement and turned sharply for the desert. Almost immediately it rammed a sand dune and flipped over. Unaware of what had caused the Rover’s erratic behavior, the other three cars skidded to a stop. Clint fired three more shots in close succession and three more drivers died without knowing what killed them. Clint grinned: “Adios, motherfuckers!”
Mike already had the RPG in hand. Calmly, as if on a shooting range, he aimed at the minivan, the one most likely to hold the bulk of the Libyan bodyguards, and pulled the trigger. The Soviet RPG-7 was a reloadable weapon, notoriously inaccurate at ranges beyond three hundred meters. Mike was well within range. The 85mm HEAT warhead left the tube with a mighty whoosh. An instant later the VW disintegrated in an orange ball of flames. Mike reloaded quickly, looked through the optical sight and fired at the first Mercedes. A sudden gust of wind made the round hit the asphalt inches from the front bumper. The explosion lifted the car and dropped it on its back. Mike’s jaw muscles twitched in frustration. “Shit!” He reached for the last rocket, loaded the tube, aimed at the last standing vehicle and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened. Unperturbed, Mike tried again. This time there was a clinking noise inside the launcher but the rocket refused to ignite. “Bloody rubbish!” Disgusted, Mike threw it away, armed his two MP63s and called out to Clint. “Let’s go get‘em, Yank.”
The two dashed across a hundred yards of open space toward the wreckage. From the other side of the highway, Jerry and Steve charged along.
A Makarov in his right hand, the radio in his left, Clint followed Mike who was firing in steady, controlled bursts at the last car. From a dead run, Clint shouted orders to Jerry and Steve. “Get that Mercedes. Use grenades.” As Clint and Mike stayed clear of the car, two near-simultaneous detonations completely demolished it. Fueled by gasoline, bright orange flames devoured the wrecks. In the absence of gunfire and grenade explosions, the roar of fires was almost like silence.
“Let’s mop it up,” Mike called, loud enough to be heard across the road.
The four converged on the center car, the one with its front wheels spinning in the air. Cautiously, while the others covered him with guns at ready, Clint opened a door. All inside were dead, except for a Libyan bodyguard seated up front. He was bleeding profusely and flames licked at his legs, pinned under the crumbled dashboard. Clint nodded at Jerry and turned away. Regardless of how much death he’d witnessed, the sweet odor of burned human flesh and acrid stench of rubber always insulted his nostrils.
Jerry pulled the pin off a grenade and threw it in the car.
They scurried away.
“The Rover,” Mike reminded them.
They deployed across the desert and closed in. They found three dead men in their seat harnesses; one shot by Clint, two apparently killed in the crash. They tracked the fourth one behind a dune, where he’d crawled on broken legs.
When they surrounded him, the man’s black eyes radiated fear.
Mike sat in the sand and lit a cigarette. He got closer and whispered in Arabic. “Where’s Carlos? Where’s the Iraqi General?”
The man, teeth clenched by pain, shook his head.
“Do you smoke?” Mike asked.
The man nodded and Mike took his cigarette and placed it between the Libyan’s lips. He got a blink for a thank you.
Mike stood up and started walking away. After five paces he turned around and the pistol bucked in his hand. The bullet hit the Libyan between the eyes. “Had to be done,” he said, more as an excuse to himself, and turned his attention to Jerry and Steve. “Go get your backpacks and the mines. When you’re done, come to the beach. Clint and I will dig up the diving gear.”
At eight that evening Carlos was in Misratah, enjoying the company of a seventeen-year-old Nigerian prostitute. He answered the rudely repeated knocks on his door stark naked, except for socks. Six uniformed Shurtas guarded the hallway. A civilian he’d seen in Gadaffi’s entourage, one he’d already figured for an officer of the secret police, broke the news. Carlos stood shamelessly framed in the doorway and thoughtfully combed his fingers through disheveled, recently-dyed blond hair.
“So, what do you want me to do about it? I told those idiots to stay here and have a party. No, they said. We’ll go look at some two-thousand-years-old Greek ruins.” Carlos’ moon-face contorted in a grimace. “Bury those idiots next to their fucking ancient ruins. They got what they deserved.”
Clint came to Langley for the customary debriefing. He expected the usual team but instead was escorted to the office of the head of the Black Ops—highly irregular, he thought. Seated in a comfortable chair, he watched Fulton wear the carpet down with his pacing. “Take a load off your feet and tell me what bugs you.”
“Oh man, you sure fucked up this time.”
“How do you figure that?”
“You were paid to get Carlos…”
“We got him.”
“Like hell you did. You got everybody but him, and he was the primary target.”
Clint jumped up. “Impossible. They were all dead.”
“Really? How do you explain that just yesterday he was in Bucharest, pledging revenge for the murder of his cohorts?”
“If he’s not burned to a crisp, there can only be one explanation. He wasn’t in any of those cars and that’s faulty info on your side.”
“He was and the Italians have pictures to prove it.”
“Fuck those Gumbas. If they were any good, they would have taken him out themselves.” Clint scratched his scalp. “And even if he was at Leptis Magna, he could have gotten out at some point between Al Khums and the ambush site…. Right?”
“Damn it, Clint, you screwed up royally. You were hired to dispose of Carlos and you didn’t. Instead you’ve killed a number of officers of the East-European Intel Services. To top it off, you were told to make sure that a certain Iraqi General was not in any of those cars. You didn’t even bother to check. In your gung-ho style you blasted everybody, disregarding our instructions.”
Clint walked over to stare into Fulton’s eyes. “I did exactly what you told me two weeks ago, right in this office. I took them all out. How was I supposed to kill the bad guys and leave the Iraqi unharmed? Was I to stop the cars and ask for identification?”
“But what if Saddam was there?”
“So that’s who it was. Now I understand your concern. After all, you went through lots of shit to position him as the de facto strongman of Iraqi politics. And if you were so concerned about his health, why didn’t we get a stand down message?”
“That’s what I asked the Deputy Director when he grilled my ass. Luckily for you, Saddam never left Tripoli or you’d be breaking rocks at Leavenworth.”
“I’m thrilled.”
“You should be. Romania’s courts issued a death sentence against the General who sold us the tip and a two mill bounty was placed on his head. Gadaffi upped the ante by a mill and offered two more for info leading to the apprehension of those responsible. The commies have no way of knowing who sanctioned the hit but we should expect some tit for tat, just the same. It’s been standard retaliation procedure for the past thirty years. That’s got some people here scared shitless and screaming for your head. I covered for you, but my advice is to be careful. And next time, if there is a next time, play it by the book. Don’t start taking decisions on your own. That’s what we’re here for.”
Clint slapped Fulton’s back. “Thanks for the warning and next time, if there is a next time, I’ll do it by the book.”
“Why don’t I believe that?” He used his finger to poke Clint’s chest. “Hear this. Screw up one more time and I’ll personally tell the commies that it was you and Mike who took their people out.”