Chapter Seventeen

 

 

 

Washington, D.C.

 

 

 

The president sat with his national security staff in the Situation Room at the White House. The mood was tense. The Strait of Hormuz had been closed in the Persian Gulf. Energy prices were skyrocketing. It would take time for the military to get naval and air assets in place to deal with the situation.

The Situation Room was built by President Kennedy to provide a secure place for the president to control United States forces around the world with real-time information. Located under the West Wing, the facility was staffed by over thirty agency representatives twenty-four hours a day to provide the most up-to-date information anywhere in the world to enable the president to make informed decisions.

And today there were decisions to be made.

“Mr. President,” the national security advisor started the conversation, “we have evidence the Russians have been supplying weapons to the Iranians in the Gulf. We have evidence the Chinese and the Russians have been buying gold reserves worldwide. We have known for years they both have been active off our shores in the Caribbean as well as globally buying economic and political influence. We also have strong communications intelligence there has been active coordination in multiple areas among Russia, China, and Iran prior to the attack in the Gulf. There have also been coordinated attempts to drive up our interest rates to harm the economy. They are using their substantial ownership of U.S. debt as a weapon.”

“Obviously we have a multilateral effort here, as we suspected,” the president concluded. “They are attempting to weaken this country where she is most vulnerable, our economy. If they can drive up our rates and make our debt unsustainable while concurrently driving us deeper into debt with military spending, eventually we will become less of a power militarily and politically as well. What I want now is options! We have a coordinated attack against the economic viability of the United States. From this point on I consider us on a war footing.”

“We should respond in kind, Mr. President,” the secretary of defense noted. “Iran should be dealt with militarily. Russia and China, economically.”

“I agree,” the president responded. “I have been thinking the same thing.”

The United States was going to war again.

“We have to be strong here, people. Weakness is what got us into this situation. I hate to say it, but people need to be scared of the United States, of her power and her will to use it. I want options on destroying the military capability of Iran. I don’t care what it costs. We will get this economy going again and deal with the expenses. It’s the most resilient economy in the world. I want my people to be safe.”

The staff was furiously taking notes.

“I also want economic options to deal with Russia and China. I have ideas in mind myself,” he added.

 

 

A curious system developed in international finance over the last several decades. As the wealthy were asked to pay more and more of the tax burden in the developed and developing markets, they naturally gravitated towards finding solutions to avoid paying these higher taxes and preserve their wealth. This happened in the corporate world as well. This circumstance was the catalyst behind the development of a plethora of offshore financial jurisdictions that operated as tax havens and, among other purposes, confidentiality and asset protection.

These typically were established on islands in warm climates. This made the board of directors meetings so much more pleasurable. The quintessential offshore tax haven was the Caribbean with its many remote and almost isolated islands. One of the sleepiest of these was Nevis, located down the Western Indies chain towards South America.

The main town of Charleston was established right on the edge of the water towards its sister island of St. Kitts. The infrastructure of the port consisted of a concrete pier jutting out into the ocean and a crumbling seawall protecting the ramshackle buildings up against the sea. The caldera of the long dormant volcano rose behind the town. It was the perfect scene for a thriller novel.

 

The SEAL team was most concerned with one of these buildings. The small submarine drifted slowly towards the harbor in the middle of the night, coming within 250 yards of the seawall while stealthily traveling fifty feet under the surface. The dredged harbor provided the depth needed to operate the vessel. The crew skillfully navigated as close to the target as possible.

The hatch on top of the submarine opened, and five SEALs exited in scuba gear and motored underwater with small propellant devices towards the water barrier in the harbor. They covered the small distance in a short period of time.

Their target was one of the nondescript office buildings located across the road from the edge of the land facing the water. There were tourist shops on the street level with office space located above. T-shirts and small trinkets adorned the windows below. There was a bar on the end of the small commercial building, but at this late hour it was empty. Advertisements for the local brewery fluttered in the night wind off the ocean. Broken glass littered the parking lot next door, evidence of the prior night’s activities.

The frogmen arrived at the base of the pier and stowed their craft for later use, hiding them under the waterline. They then removed their gear, stowed it as well, and silently made their way towards the office building. Under cover of darkness, they slowly and stealthily climbed up the stairs to the outside hallway facing the ocean. No one was in sight.

 

One of the classic offshore schemes to provide confidentiality and asset protection was to set up a corporation in a jurisdiction that would only conduct business outside of its geographic location. These typically were called international business corporations, or IBCs. They usually paid no tax to their domicile and were legally protected by the jurisdiction’s legislative code. Most of the jurisdictions were forced to share tax data with the U.S. and other countries, but that did not hinder their privacy or confidentiality capabilities. Many governments resented this competition for their tax dollars. It was not so easy to strip mine the residents of a country to feed the government when there was an outlet for the person or corporation to move and reduce its tax load. There was a concerted effort by international regimes to rein in this competition, and it had worked to some extent, but the tax havens still existed and even thrived.

The Organization for Economic Co-operation and Development, or OECD, was a group of thirty-four developed economies, whose principal aim was to foster sound economic policies among its members. It was created after WWII to administer the Marshall Plan in Europe. In the past decade this organization had maintained a “blacklist” of jurisdictions that did not provide tax transparency and exchange of tax information with member countries. They had threatened to cut off access to the international banking system if their targets did not conform to their demands. However, many new havens sprang up over the years in this never ending battle.

Each of these financial domiciles could had hundreds or even thousands of companies operating inside their borders. They typically were run by a staff consisting of hired management and a mercenary board of directors. Some of these individuals sat on the boards of hundreds of companies. It was a shell game of course, but it worked for the purposes of the underlying beneficiary.

 

The building that the SEALs targeted housed one of these management companies. The offices of not less than forty-six IBCs made their home in this building at the West Indies Management Company, Inc. One of their companies was sending orders via West Indies personnel in Nevis to sell large amounts of United States treasury bonds to their bond traders in New York and other places. The traders knew it was a shell company but didn’t ask questions. As far as they were concerned, they were making too much money. Besides, their firm had done their due diligence; they were protected legally. Or at least they hoped.

 

The commandos made their way silently down the outdoor corridor to the upstairs office entrance quickly and quietly. Forcefully they entered the office. The team began thoroughly searching the premises and confiscated several hard drives, thumb drives, and reams of paper from the location. The operation took less than thirty minutes and was unobserved by anyone on the island. The precious cargo, or PC, was then protected in waterproof containers. As silently as they came, they made their way back to their equipment and walked into the ocean.

 

 

 

Midtown Manhattan

 

 

Keshwar Rajim was happy. He sat as his terminal, looking over his previous day’s commissions. He had become a very wealthy man. In the last twenty-four hours, he had padded that wealth by five hundred thousand dollars. Life was good. He thought of the new Ferrari he had just ordered. He had just walked into the showroom on Park Avenue and paid cash, three hundred thousand dollars. He couldn’t wait for it to be delivered.

How many other thirty-year-olds could do that? he asked himself. The funny thing was the salesman was not surprised. Such was life on Wall Street, Keshwar reasoned.

His big client in Nevis had been extremely busy. There were repeated orders to sell U.S. treasuries and he had done a good job of getting his client the best price possible. Success brought more success. He was a master of the universe. In other Wall Street jargon, a big swinging dick! He noticed the respect his superiors were showing him. He had arrived. The only thing they respected was money.

He was on top of the world.

What he did not realize was that from there, he could only look into the abyss.

 

It was ten o’clock in the morning when they strode onto the trading floor. The floor was busy and loud with shouting, but it quickly muted as everyone saw them enter. The CEO of the firm escorted them in and led them to Keshwar’s seat.

The floor was now silent. Ten men clothed in FBI jackets tended to do that.

“Keshwar Rajim?” one of the agents asked.

“Yes,” said Keshwar, initially shocked and now frightened.

“FBI, you are under arrest. Put your hands above your head!”

Of course Keshwar did as he was told. He was tender at heart and never had the courage in his life to confront anyone. It was not in his nature. And it certainly was not going to happen now.

He complied as he was directed and was quickly handcuffed and led off the floor, down the elevator, and into a waiting car.

He was then taken to a secret CIA interrogation center in New York City. They mined him for a week on what he knew, and then he was deported back to India.

He never entered the United States again.

 

 

 

Somewhere in the Caribbean Sea

 

 

The pilot flipped the switch, and the auxiliary power unit, or APU, began to whine in the dark of the night as the aircraft came to life. The sound created an odd comparison to the natural noises of the sea around them and the low rumbling of the ship. Connor sat in the rear of the aircraft cabin sandwiched in between some rather rough-looking characters.

He could see through the opening between the pilots to the cockpit where the flight engineer would soon be sitting; the lights on the instrument panel begin to flicker. The pilots were busy going through their processes. Constant short, staccato bursts of human voices permeated his headset from the multiple radio frequencies involved in the mission. The vibration of the small turbine engine of the APU felt like an insect buzzing under his seat. The sound was muted by his helmet and the earplugs he had been given.

Although they were dressed in battle gear, he could still make out the muscled strength beneath the black fatigues of the warriors around him. The green glow of the night vision cabin lights created an eerie scene. The thing he noticed most, however, was their blank stare; it cut right through him, like a dead zone through his heart. Many had beards, some ponytails. They would never be recognized as members of the U.S. Navy’s most elite counterterrorism team, SEAL Team Six. They would fit in on any street worldwide. Of course, that was the plan.

They had endured brutal training for years, which was not survivable for most men. But these were not normal men. They were the best of the best. The finest group of commandos the world could produce. He felt like a dwarf around them; he was just an observer. They tolerated him, respectfully asking him to just stay out of their way.

President Walker had offered the favor of letting him ride on the mission. The president loved Kate as well, like a daughter. Connor very much appreciated the gesture. He had taken him up on it and here he was. The adrenaline raced through his body.

The aircraft were parked on the deck of the U.S.S. Bataan, an amphibious assault ship. This vessel was specifically designed to support helicopter-born-assaults. In fact, she was the ship that initially tested the viability of the MV-22 tiltrotor for naval operations.

There were four U.S. Air Force CV-22 Ospreys from U.S. Air Force Special Operations Command and six MH-60K Black Hawks from the U.S. Army 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment lined up on the deck. The Ospreys were filled with commandos from ST6 and an Air Force Pararescue medical team. Connor was located in one of these aircraft. Inside the Black Hawks were more ST6 snipers and two command modules with appropriate personnel, including the airborne mission commander. Linguists were also on board to monitor communications from the target. There were also backup aircraft and teams available in case the worst happened.

This mission was rehearsed in detail and every possibility thought of. JSOC, Joint Special Operations Command, had leased a similar vessel and the strike team had been practicing on it for a week. They attempted to refine their tactics and get the assault package familiar with this type of operation. Now that the mission was a go, there was an eerie calm. They had trained as hard as they could, and now there was nothing to do but execute.

The National Security Agency had been tracking the white yacht for months now and currently had its location plotted out to sea one hundred miles south of the Bahamas, steaming eastbound. There was very strong circumstantial evidence from this surveillance that Kate had been taken on board the yacht. The occupants had little idea that this would be their last night on the vessel.

The Black Hawks were slower than the Ospreys, so they were scheduled to leave first. To the second, the auxiliary power units of the aircraft started together, the whine sounding like a warning siren in a small town. The cockpits were dimmed, and the pilots lowered and turned on their night vision goggles. Small chemlights with only a pinhole showing through were taped to the pilots fingers, so they could simply point to anywhere in the cockpit and see what was needed. Even that small amount of light lit up the cockpit while flying on the light-sensitive goggles. It was a no moon night, as the pilots called it, with an overcast sky, so any amount of light would help.

A no moon night, the better to surprise you with, thought Connor.

Checklists were run through, guns were checked, and final walk arounds by the flight engineers were completed. Each item was completed with precision by each aircraft at the exact same instant, per the mission timeline. Fifteen minutes later to the second, six rotors began turning. The noise was deafening. A complicated dance was played out as each crew member and team leader executed their radio checks and other items in perfect synchronicity. Then the flight of six aircraft rose to a hover. They departed the ship and dove towards the deck of the black, rolling sea. The lead aircraft directed the flight, and the remaining aircraft followed his every move.

Flying at night over water with no illumination on night vision goggles was a challenging feat indeed. The pilots had no depth perception and relied on radio altimeters, terrain-following radar, and the crew’s vision to prevent them from flying into the water. There was no margin for error flying at almost two hundred miles an hour at twenty feet over the water at night. Low altitude was essential to prevent radar detection from the target. If the first aircraft flew into the water, the rest of the flight would most likely crash as well.

“Red flight whiskey,” the flight lead stated tersely into the secure radio channel to the overall mission commander located on board the carrier. Whiskey was the code word for the flight having departed to the target. Although they were using secure radio and satellite communication, all messages were extremely brief and encoded with predetermined code words.

The mission commander was a one-star general from Joint Special Operations Command. His task was to control all of the moving parts of this complicated dance and ensure the success of the operation. He had video feeds from each aircraft as well as helmet-mounted cameras on each assault team member. All of the video was simultaneously transmitted to the Situation Room at the White House.

Each of the lives of the troops under his command this evening weighed on the officer greatly. However, the success of the mission was paramount for the country and superseded any personal feelings he might have had towards his troopers. He would sacrifice their lives if needed for mission success. It was understood by everyone involved. After all, everyone here tonight had volunteered for this special duty.

 

Five miles into the sky, a lumbering, gray, blacked-out C-17 specially outfitted for special operations slowly lowered its rear ramp. She was a huge beast. The flight engineers and loadmasters checked their cargo and the chutes one more time. The aircraft had slowed to just above stall speed.

The copilot at the appropriate time flipped a switch, and the night vision-compatible warning light illuminated the cabin. The loadmaster flashed a thumbs-up to the team leader and hit the lever to release the cargo.

The large, SEAL fast attack boat silently fell out of the back of the aircraft. The team members were deployed in the boat at the time equipped with oxygen masks. The craft fell for twenty-five thousand feet before the chutes popped open and broke the fall of the vessel. The oxygen masks were removed, and the power systems on the boat were initiated. The boat splashed into the sea with the engine running, and the chutes were released. Two more boats splashed down nearby, having fallen from different aircraft in the formation. The craft were specially constructed to emit very little noise, stealth if you will.

They formed up together and silently headed to the target area.

 

The last aircraft to depart were the CV-22s. Built as a hybrid between a rotary-wing aircraft and a fixed-wing, they were very versatile aircraft. Six glass instrument panels adorned the futuristic cockpit. Every bit of data needed, from aircraft performance, threat information, communications, navigation, et cetera, was perfectly transmitted to the crew in a very efficient way. The Osprey provided extremely unique capabilities, such as self- deployment, range, and speed. However, there were some drawbacks as well. The blast from the large rotors during hover was difficult for the off-loading troops to handle. The aircraft was also very complicated and new. As with all new military aircraft, there were problems to be worked out.

They departed blacked out as well, turned the engine nacelles forward, and quickly achieved close to 250 knots across the ocean surface, the pilots also using a mixture of electronics and vision to fly the aircraft. Connor was in the lead aircraft

 

All of the aircraft and boats converged on the target.

“One minute out!” the pilot of the lead CV-22 called over the intercom to the team leader in the rear. The SEALs stood, released their safety harnesses and began their final equipment checks.

I can’t believe I’m seeing this, thought Connor as he marveled at the precision with which these people operated.

 

The formations moved to the rear of the yacht five miles in trail and began closing the distance. This was to minimize the chances of radar detection. Most civilian scopes had a dead zone to the rear of their coverage.

They began closing the distance at a high rate of speed. The boats were the slowest but had the shortest distance to go. The flight of Black Hawks were next and then the CV-22s. All of the aircraft and fast boats converged on the yacht at the same time plus or minus five seconds. In fact all of the aircraft as well were silently modified for stealth, and no one heard them coming.

 

The boats came alongside the yacht and hoisted grappling hooks to the upper deck. At that exact moment, the Black Hawks, two by two port and starboard of the ship, came alongside. They flared the helicopters abruptly to slow their rapid rate of forward speed, and their noses pitched into the air. At the same time, the pilots reduced power to a minimum. The helicopters stopped on a dime.

Snipers with silencers were sitting sideways in the open doors, secured with gunner’s belts. They began firing at any moving target on deck or that was able to be seen inside. Ten seconds later, two CV-22s began fast-roping commandos onto the deck of the yacht, one on the bow and one on the stern.

The element of surprise being gone, the emphasis now was on preventing anyone on board from destroying evidence or harming hostages. The commandos swarmed the deck, taking out shooters and sprinting down to the decks below. Although it looked chaotic, everything was done in a very methodical fashion.

Kate lay in a closet on the lower deck, bound and gagged. She had been interrogated and tortured repeatedly using chemicals. Her body was suffering but she did not whimper. She heard the firing above, and in her dreamy state due to lack of sleep, she tried to awaken.

The door was yanked open and she was pulled from her cell. Her legs failed her and she soiled herself. She was embarrassed. She had been holding it for so long and couldn’t anymore. Her rescuer didn’t seem to care.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll take care of it soon.”

She felt herself being carried swiftly above deck. Whoever was carrying her was very strong and kind.

The sound of gunfire died down; only the occasional shot was heard as she felt the fresh air of the sea as she arrived on the deck of the ship. She vaguely recognized the fuzzy outline of some type of aircraft that had landed on the helipad on the stern. The large rotors on each wing were still turning, and it was very loud. The stars suddenly shown themselves above as the overcast layer cleared. There were thousands of points of light above her. She felt herself frozen in time as she tried to count them all. It was impossible, she knew.

The sound grew louder as her rescuer neared the aircraft. She felt herself being lifted into the cabin. The lights above were extinguished, and all she could make out was an eerie green glow. However, she knew there were people all around her, tending to her. She felt poked and probed. Her soiled clothes were taken off. She didn’t care. A warm covering was placed over her.

She looked up and saw her new friend. She could make out his smile. The smile told her she was okay.

Everything went black as she passed out on the litter inside the cabin of the CV-22. The U.S. Air Force special operations pararescue team was frantically tending to her medical needs. The aircraft rose vertically into the air and drifted away from the ship. The nacelles on the wings turned slowly forward. The aircraft then deliberately began moving from a hover to an ever increasing forward airspeed. She was free.

Two other patients were on the aircraft with her. Two of the SEALs had been wounded in action. One was shot in the throat and was terminal. The other had just a large flesh wound in the thigh and was bleeding heavily. He would survive, but his colleague died in the medics’ hands. Kate was oblivious to it all.

 

Connor did not fast-rope to the deck with the commandos at the start of the raid. He stayed in the cabin of the CV-22 and watched the mission unfold through the green glow of his night vision goggles. The gunner’s belt around his waist allowed him to move around the cabin unhindered, but he was restricted from exiting the aircraft by the thick, webbed fabric similar to a large seat belt in an automobile.

The aircraft once disgorged of troops had moved to a hover off the side of the ship with a full range of view of the happenings from the open door of the cabin. Gunfire erupted from the vessel, and his helmet was filled with the short, disciplined, staccato bursts of communication from the actors in this elaborate dance.

The deck looked like an ant bed as the commandos scurried around prosecuting their assigned tasks. But Connor was not focused on this. He strained his eyes to look for Kate.

Then he saw her.

Two SEALs emerged from a hatch. The latter carried the prostrate form of a female. She seemed delirious. The SEAL sprinted across the deck to the medical aircraft, which had landed on the helipad at the stern of the vessel.

The girl then raised her head and looked at the sky.

Connor looked up and saw the arrangement of stars splattered across the heavens. It was beautiful. He was moved by the sight of her discovering so much beauty while in the obvious state of distress that she found herself in.

Well that’s my Kate, he thought to himself. Always the optimist.

The commando almost threw her into the aircraft. Behind him was another group of soldiers carrying wounded comrades. They carefully handed their wounded brethren to the waiting pararescue medics and backed away.

With the commotion inside after receiving such cargo, the CV-22 lifted into a momentary hover. They dove to the sea and increased speed as they moved away from the ship.

The remaining troops on the ship completely cleared the vessel. They spent the better part of two hours taking apart the ship and retrieving any intelligence possible. Any occupants left alive were taken off the ship for interrogation. The vessel was then supplied with a new crew and steamed towards an undisclosed location for further analysis.

 

The Osprey was sprinting now at 250 knots of airspeed at low level across the surface of the ocean. The destination was the USS Bataan from whence she started. The crew was sad about the loss of their fellow warrior but was focused on their patients left alive, male and female. They were fifteen minutes out from the assault carrier.

 

The Osprey had many unique capabilities due to its unique design and hybrid nature between a fixed-wing aircraft and a helicopter. It allowed teams to be inserted and extracted in confined areas with a much greater range than normal rotary-wing aircraft.

However, this capability came at a price. This was a very complicated machine mechanically, and the kinks were not all worked out yet. Such was the case with all experimental aircraft were operationally fielded, no matter the amount of testing that had been accomplished.

Many a flight manual of now commonplace aircraft was filled with “notes, cautions, and warnings” that were discovered and paid for with blood and treasure.

This was now one such case.

 

The hydraulics on the Osprey were quite complicated. Although the engineers had attempted to anticipate every possibility, this was impossible. On the starboard wing of the medical aircraft, the pressure in one of the hydraulic tubes became too great at this high rate of speed. The designers had simply made a bad calculation and had not provided enough margin of error in the strength of the tubing. In most cases there would not have been a problem, but due to the rough weather and the high rate of speed and an unknown defect in the metal, the tube failed

It was said that a helicopter pilot is a nervous individual because he knows that his aircraft is held together by opposing forces, and anything that upsets this balance will cause a catastrophe.

Well this was one of those moments.

The failure of the hydraulic line meant that the engine nacelle was now free to travel around its attaching point, and it immediately gravitated towards the path of least resistance, which was upwards away from the oncoming airflow at over two hundred nautical miles an hour, or knots.

This caused an asymmetrical thrust situation on the two wings of the aircraft. In other words, the plane spun out of control.

Since the engine was now pointed upwards on the starboard wing, this wing flipped upwards, and the port wing was pushed down into the ocean.

The wingtip grazed the ocean surface and that was all she wrote. The aircraft cartwheeled across the waves until settling upside down and quickly sank.

Everyone on board was killed instantly due to the forces involved. That was the only consolation.