Operation Jericho Read online

  Those funding terrorism did not hold enough votes at any table to sway or thwart sanctions. Enemy countries felt the full force of America’s positive influence in the United Nations. Worldwide support of American action shifted, and people stood against their oppressors. To the dismay of a few, many came together in a cause of peace. The world watched as leaders set aside political correctness to denounce true heads of terror organizations. Leaders who took a stand for liberty overtly opposed those who would pay for murder. Then the world waited for backlash.

  The anticipated retaliation never came. Enemy countries were stared down at the table and shied from the sleeping giant. Suspected ties were cut from terrorist organizations to preserve national economies and prevent global sanctions. Would-be insurgent groups fell to a lack of financing. Those who would do harm to civilians and Westerners were no longer able to carry out their missions in the name of any country or cause. Terror groups were left to their own wares and devices. They had to scrape for funding from isolated and small private sponsors seething from the deepest shadows of the world. Terrorists had to coil up like snakes and hibernate in the new cold they found outside their caves.

  Even still, funding came through small pipelines. Terrorists with the most influence in any given area could amass enough money and weapons to carry out a single attack anywhere in the world. Much like a hidden snake, they would strike, recoil, and slither away. Secret funding was the problem facing world leaders who remained steadfast against those who sought only to kill. Such was the fight that the secretary of defense faced as he stood in front of the intelligence briefing room inside the Pentagon.

  “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,” the secretary of defense said as he looked out over a thick crowd of uniformed officers in the darkened room. He tried not to smile at the brass echelon he once knew as a soldier.

  For every general, there were two colonels. For every two colonels, there were two lieutenant colonels. The lieutenant colonels had two majors each. Then he looked over as a Marine sergeant shuffled quietly to a nearby table and delivered coffee cups. The Secretary thought to himself, The heart of the fight…and he’s reduced to brewing coffee for people who will never see it. He quietly cursed his thoughts. He knew that many of the officers sitting before him were political children, but many others were war-weary veterans who knew the scars of combat. He continued.

  “I appreciate all of you being here today. I know that you are very busy with the many operations in which we are involved, so I will get to the point as quickly as possible. The nature of today’s brief is that of a foreign matter. However, we will not be taking this to the United Nations because there are too many who cannot be trusted…or who simply seek to sell America out.” The Secretary was tired of political correctness and pussyfooting around issues. He went for the throat of any task ahead of him and bore down with a smile. He never gave a second thought to who might or might not be offended. He spoke only in facts, in refreshing truth.

  “In light of that, my orders are to continue the fight at present and as planned to this date. Carry out your orders accordingly.” He reiterated, “Continue the fight.” He paused, then continued, “With that said, I only need three men to stay. Generals Gutzwiller and Potts, please meet with me at”—he looked at his watch—“thirteen hundred hours. The third has already been designated. Everyone else is dismissed, and again I thank you for your time and service.”

  The secretary of defense stepped back from his podium to the Marine sergeant’s call, “Attention on deck.” Each man and woman stood in military order and waited for the secretary to leave. The herd, confused by what they thought would be another military intelligence brief, shuffled out the theater doors and went about their day.

  The selected generals were both Marines. They were called to the meeting on the basis of their records, the billets they filled for the Marine Corps, and because they were warriors beyond politics. Their collective service at the Pentagon amounted to that of any liaison who would administer broad-scale reports of troop whereabouts and equipment functionality. However, their service, separate from each other prior to arriving in Washington, was the prompt for their call to the Secretary. Each man would fill a specific function in a mounting plan to destroy the enemy. Each man brought with him knowledge and a skill set beyond his peers that would move America to a successfully achieved objective. Each was ready to answer his respective purpose.

  GENERAL KNOWLEDGE

  The brass echelon of American armed forces, including Generals Gutzwiller and Potts, cleared the theater room where the Secretary once held all attention. Some officers grumbled for having their time wasted. Others whispered their questions surrounding the mysteries of carefully selected men. The secretary of defense stood idly by with his immediate staff. He listened to the confusion and assumptions the herd held in a broad exodus through opened doors.

  He realized they were naturally curious, and his suspicions were reinforced. His trimming of informed personnel meant that he was able to isolate how data would be shared and disseminated. He knew that involving fewer people would reduce the risk of information leaks. He also realized that even the most current sources of usable intelligence are time sensitive and subject to instant change. America had little time for bureaucratic filters of information if his planned strike was to be successful. The old politician knew the war’s momentum rested in his hands. The Secretary listened until the last officer exited to quiet sounds of intrigue, and he knew he had done the right thing.

  “The room is secure, sir,” the Marine sergeant called to the secretary and staff. The Secretary extended a mutual courtesy: “Thank you, sergeant. Carry on.” The Marine, with his duty belt fitting his holster tightly to his hip and his cover pulled low over his eyes, rendered salute and exited the room. The senior man returned salute with an appropriate nod and considered the sergeant as a reflection of the entire Marine Corps. They are, without a doubt, a cut above the rest. God bless the United States Marine Corps.

  The Secretary turned to his staff and gave direction. His administrators were to go about their days as planned. All of them were to send word to very specific people throughout the inner world of war, men selected in the same fashion as those directly involved in the developing mission. All of the staff, trusted and held close, carried the same message with them that the Secretary was about to deliver. All of them dispersed to carry out their deeds as instructed. The Secretary set doubt aside in faith that his staff would obey orders.

  A mounted wall clock banged away at the silence of the room. Seconds screamed their tick-tock call. Politicians, especially secretaries who answered directly to the President of the United States, rarely experienced a moment of quiet still. The secretary of defense stood alone. The theater-styled briefing room brought a sudden calm. Unexpected peace, an ever-sought tranquility, gave the Secretary time to pray.

  “Lord…I’m about to send men to kill…” He paused in the realization that every order he gave since taking office led to death in the name of preserving life. He realized that thousands of enemy combatants, insurgents, and terrorists were killed in the several wars fought across the globe. He then concluded that evil men must sometimes die so that good men may live without torment in the clutches of fear. His philosophical pause ended as he continued aloud, “Please guide me, Lord. Please show me your wisdom and strength so that I might better fulfill my duties to this country and to her people. Please protect the men I am about to condemn to war, and please let them go home safely to their families…and if their return home is not in your plan, God…please accept them into your kingdom, for they will have done good here. In Jesus’ name I pray, amen.”

  The Secretary raised his head and opened his eyes. He was immediately startled. He tried to keep water from welling out and flowing down his cheeks.

  “I’m sorry to have barged in, sir,” a younger and well-dressed man spoke across the empty room. He had been standing with his hands folded in front of him and resp
ectfully waiting for the Secretary to finish a moment with God. “Would you like me to come back?” the man questioned as he stood by for an answer.

  “McKenzee, I didn’t see you standing there,” the Secretary said, smiling across the room as his eyes began to dry. “Come on in. I was just saying a quick prayer for what we’re about to do,” he explained to the younger man, unworried about being judged for his commitment to faith. Each of them smiled.

  Special Agent McKenzee, with the Central Intelligence Agency, answered, “Don’t worry, sir. I just did the same.” They chuckled and joined in a handshake at the center of the theater.

  “What time did you tell the generals, sir?” McKenzee asked as he nonchalantly glanced at his watch. He was answered as a side door opened with a loud click. General Gutzwiller, a man who would be considered wiry if not for his bold and well-decorated uniform, entered first. He was immediately followed by the broad-chested and stoutly built General Potts.

  “Sir.” General Gutzwiller opened his palm to the Secretary. They exchanged greetings, as did Potts. The generals greeted the Secretary first out of obligation, but they knew who he was. After giving salutations to their senior, the generals’ curiosity centered on Special Agent McKenzee. He was wearing an obviously expensive suit and stood proudly upright like a soldier returned home from the field of victory. Yet groomed ends of his prematurely graying hair rested over the tops of his ears. The placement of his hands in his pockets and failure to have every inch of his person in place let each of the Marines know that the stranger was a civilian. Even still, the stranger kept important company, and they gathered that he must have been of some equal significance in a battle plan not yet widely known.

  “Hello, gentlemen. I’m Special Agent Joshua McKenzee. I specialize in human intelligence, especially in the 5th Fleet CENTCOM area,” he said as he shook each of the general’s hands firmly. He instantly let them know his purpose was to gather information from spies and paid informants in the Middle East. He could have continued his credentials for quite some time, but the generals just assumed he was well qualified to be standing in the same room as war-bound leaders. They also understood that McKenzee divulging his information likely meant that he was seeking to pull out of field operations and climb the ladder of clandestine success behind a desk.

  The Secretary took charge of the conversation quickly. “Gentlemen, you have been called upon because of your billets prior to the Pentagon. General Gutzwiller, your command at Guantanamo Bay and continued communications with personnel there led us to you because we know you can be trusted… and we know you have a knack for picking out spies who can gather intelligence from the lowest levels of Gitmo prisoners.” The Secretary spoke directly, but incidentally shed some light on the fact that General Gutzwiller’s emails and phone calls were previously monitored as part of his selection to an isolated team.

  “General Potts, your time in CENTCOM… and the things you did at the IMEF Intelligence Battalion bring you here because you know, firsthand, what our men are going to face.” General Potts came to the same realizations that Gutzwiller experienced. They were watched and were happy to be clean of indiscretions.

  “Now that everybody knows each other,” the Secretary joked, “I’m going to give the floor to Special Agent McKenzee here.” The Secretary opened his palm and waved to the civilian. As Marines, Gutzwiller and Potts did not trust the spook. They remembered the Central Intelligence Agency’s failures leading to devastating attacks in New York City. The Marines still held a bad taste for the CIA and its many minions. McKenzee knew their disdain to be true and silently commended an innate Marine ability to shield any revelation of emotions. He knew they would prove to be valuable in their purpose.

  McKenzee spoke quickly, but gave a great deal of information. “Since 2001, we’ve only been able to engage and destroy sixteen truly high-value target areas where we were able to dismantle terror networks in the area of operations. We’ve known about many, many more. However, every time we make a plan to kill the bastards, information gets leaked, the bureaucracy takes too long to act, or one strike disperses the many other snakes into deeper grass. Therefore, we,” he pointed to the Secretary and himself, “have devised a new strategy for approach and dispatch.”

  “At this time, we have confirmed information for twenty-eight locations where terrorists are being quartered, armed, and trained. Six of these locations are known to be bomb-making facilities that will continue to arm suicide bombers throughout the region. We’ve learned that striking the locations one at a time is ineffective because these people are highly motivated and highly mobile. Therefore, we are aiming to strike all twenty-eight locations at once.” McKenzee watched as the generals’ eyes widened to the insurmountable task.

  “Don’t worry, gentlemen. Your job is to strike only one of the twenty-eight. Twenty-seven other teams just like this one have been formed here and elsewhere. No one has been identified publically, and no one has been informed as to the identities of other team members across the board. You will not have any other staff involved. You will not be able to discuss this throughout your commands. You are now isolated until Mission Accomplished. You have, at your disposal and discretion, any available asset needed. However, the assets will not be informed of purpose or mission. They will simply be tasked to complete an objective and leave. We no longer reason why. We simply do.” Both of the generals nodded and tried not to grin at the agent’s words.

  “Priority one is to select two spies, preferably from our side, that can be trusted absolutely.” McKenzee pointed to Gutzwiller, “general, I understand there were two brothers at Gitmo that you used directly… who answered to no one other than you, for the sake of getting information… a couple of Arab American Marines on station?” McKenzee looked to General Gutzwiller almost certain he would receive an elaborate answer.

  Gutzwiller nodded and knew who the agent was referencing. “Where are they now?” McKenzee questioned as if he were not already aware. He was testing the general’s knowledge of personnel.

  “They are both still at Gitmo and mixing with prisoners in process there,” Gutzwiller answered.

  McKenzee nodded. “Alright, sir. Let’s get them here.” He pointed to the ground as if he wanted the young Marines present the same day. Gutzwiller ignored the agent’s arrogance and agreed.

  McKenzee continued, “General Potts, I have a file for you on the town that we are targeting. It is an encampment of heavily armed insurgents, and I need you to make a battle plan to send in two teams on ingress and egress routes. Their job will be to paint the target and call in an airstrike.” The agent spoke in heavy jargon for two reasons. The first was that he knew the generals would understand every word he spoke and could save time in bypassing unnecessary explanations. The second was that he was genuinely nervous around the well-accomplished Marines despite his steady voice. He wanted them to know that he was at least well versed in matters of clandestine combat.

  General Potts, logical and even-keeled, interrupted. “If we know where the camps are, why don’t we just send bombing runs simultaneously and call it a day?” The question was obvious, and everyone wished the answer would be simple.

  The Secretary answered for McKenzee. “That’s where it gets sticky, gentlemen. These camps are set up like towns. The insurgents are there with their wives and children. The snakes are using the women and children aspect of media warfare as their human shield. However, we all know that these women and children are picking up AK-47s and RPGs with the rest of them. We know they are as likely to be used as suicide bombers in the next terrorist attacks wherever. We just need to confirm it so the United Nations does not send us a backlash for killing unarmed civilians. So, Guts,” the Secretary said, calling Gutzwiller by his obvious nickname, “you are going to send the two young Marines in. They’ll have to assimilate to the camp, blend into the mantra of kill America, and gather as much verifiable intelligence as they can while in camp.”

  He then turned his
attention to Potts: “You will then have to extract them from the camp, help set up some sort of escape, only to send them back in with the secondary team and level the place if the women and children factor is no longer applicable.”

  The Secretary paused hard before continuing, “The harsh reality is that we might find peace-loving people being bullied by terrorists. If the villagers are living in fear and abiding by terrorist rule so as to not be killed, then the whole quick-and-easy mission is scrapped. However, if we find that these people are of a collective mind then they will all be sent to meet whatever version of the maker they choose. Either way, we have to know…not suspect, but know that we are killing the enemy with minimum collateral damage and not the other way around.” He waited for everyone to nod and show their agreement.

  McKenzee spoke again. “It probably goes without saying…” Potts interrupted, “Then it probably shouldn’t be said.” The general unveiled his feelings toward the arrogant agent for a split second before continuing, “No one is going to say anything to anyone, and no one will act until we are given the orders. Guts will get the Marines here. I will work the file that you give me.” He rubbed the thick index finger of his right hand into his open left palm to punctuate his point.

  The room went silent once again, but it was no longer still. The air was tense. Then the Secretary offered relief. “Good. Let’s make it happen.”

  GREEN

  Get up and face the wall!” a Marine guard on yard duty shouted to a collection of detainees. He shouted to be heard, but his voice was calm. He was not the angered warmonger frothing at the mouth and urinating on prisoners as he was made out to be by an unfavorable American press. He was, by all standards, respectful. He was just loud. All Marines are loud. They simply have that presence.