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Rear Admiral Horatio “Harry” Pennington, USCG, Director, Joint Interagency Task Force South, had just arrived in the office with his Executive Assistant, Commander Daniel Keener, USCG, after the three-and-a-half-hour drive from Key West. Air Force Chief Master Sergeant Charles Shipley, who served as SOUTHCOM’s administrative assistant, stood and saluted smartly, with Pennington nodding in return. “Good Morning, Admiral,” he said. “The general requests you go right in, please.” Turning to Keener, he continued, “I’m sorry, Commander, but it’s principals only for this meeting.”
“Sorry, Dan,” Pennington said. “I’ll back-brief you when we’re done.”
“Yes, sir,” the officer replied.
“Please come with me, sir,” Shipley said. He walked over to a set of heavy wooden double doors, knocked, opened the door, and stuck in his head. “Admiral Pennington is here, sir.”
“Bring him in, please.”
Shipley held open the door as Pennington entered the room and then closed it behind him as he departed. Pennington snapped to attention at the sight of his superior and said, “Good morning, General!”
“Good morning, Harry! Relax, please,” General Lamont Miller said as he came around the table with his right hand outstretched. The army four-star general leading Southern Command was six-foot-five and 245 pounds of solid muscle. The only difference between his appearance today and thirty-six years before as a middle linebacker on the University of Tennessee Volunteers was his shaven head and the wrinkles gained from years of standing in the sun in the commander’s cupolas of M2 Bradley Fighting Vehicles and M1A1 Main Battle Tanks. “I’m real sorry to drag your ass all the way up here on no notice. How was the drive?” he continued with a noticeable Tennessee accent as he warmly shook the admiral’s hand.
“No problem, sir,” Pennington replied. “It was long but productive. Although I’ll need a wrist brace—I haven’t signed that many papers since the last time I bought a house!” The physical contrast between the two men was notable. At five-foot-ten and 175 pounds, Pennington was not a small man but seemed so next to the big general. His full head of short-cropped graying brown hair and round metal-rimmed glasses provided more of a professor look than an athlete.
“Yea verily, bubba,” Miller chuckled. “Come on over here, so we can read you in on JUBILEE,” he said as he put an arm around Pennington and guided him to the large table where four people were standing. “You know Fred, of course.” Pennington recognized the Coast Guard Seventh District Commander, fellow Rear Admiral Fred Brown, but was unfamiliar with the female Captain at his side or the two other people, one female and one male, both in civilian clothes. The female was older, about his age, and her face seemed familiar, but he could not put the finger on where he had seen her. The younger man was unfamiliar to him.
“Hello, Fred,” Pennington said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s good to see you.”
“Likewise, Harry,” Brown said. “This is Jane Mercier, my Response Chief.”
“Captain, I’m glad to meet you.” Pennington shook her hand. “I’ve heard lots of good things.”
“Thank you, sir,” Mercier replied.
“OK, on to the new folks,” Miller said, steering him down the table. “I don’t believe you know Vice Admiral Jennifer Irving, Director of the DIA?”
“How do you do, ma’am,” Pennington said, shaking her hand. Aha! That’s where I’ve seen her.
“Pleased to meet you, Admiral,” Irving replied. “May I introduce one of my DCS officers, Dr. Peter Simmons? He’ll be providing the Flag Brief this morning.”
“Doctor,” Pennington said, shaking Simmons’s hand. DIA? Holy shit, what the hell is going on here?
“OK, let’s get started,” Miller said as he and everyone but Simmons moved to sit down. “Harry, you’re both the last one to the table on this and the guy carrying the ball. Sorry about that.” As Pennington nodded, Miller turned to Simmons and said, “Take it away, Doc.”
“Thank you, sir,” Simmons said. “Admiral, we have a situation involving a WMD falling into the hands of a Central American drug cartel.”
Pennington’s eyes widened, and his mouth opened in shock and then closed. He looked at Irving and Miller, receiving a nod from each. “Well, Doctor Simmons, it looks like nobody will accuse you of burying the lede. Is this speculation or known?”
“It’s known, sir,” Simmons replied. “Admiral, we’re pressed for time. May I proceed, please?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you, sir. Are you familiar with the 252 Syndicate?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” Pennington nodded. “They are coming up more and more these days.”
“Yes, sir.” Simmons nodded in sympathy. “The night before last, one of their mid-level bosses suddenly appeared at Miami International after flying in from Grand Cayman. He was immediately tagged when passing through customs, and we put a tail on him until we could get a snatch team together. We bagged him in his hotel room just before dawn yesterday and interrogated him here.”
“Why you? Why not the FBI?” Pennington asked.
“The 252s are a TCO operating outside the U.S.—that puts them in our lane. We didn’t want him to get away while the Bureau and we were locked in a jurisdictional turf war, so we went ahead and grabbed him. Anyway, he was the lead 252 man for their South America operations, working out of a converted Offshore Petroleum Support Vessel in Venezuela. This ship doubled as a mobile laboratory for the 252s’ chemical weapons development program.
“The 252s have been in the contract killing business since they were formed. They recently started using a line of Novichok knock-offs to support that. The Russians persuaded them to abandon that particular horror and develop their own line since we naturally associate any Novichok deaths with Moscow. The 252s hired a biochemical genius with a psychopathic streak and located the lab outside Europe to avoid tangling with the Bear. Things got interesting when the Colombian Army clobbered the 252s’ cocaine vendor in Colombia, and they went looking for a new one. According to the 252 man, he struck a deal with the Salinas Cartel for a significant load,” he paused as Pennington rolled his eyes. “I see you have heard of them, sir.”
“Yes, they’re the new kids on the block in the Western Caribbean. What they lack in brains and organization, they make up for in arms and sadistic violence. It’s surprising the 252s would have anything to do with them.”
“This 252 guy we picked up did not strike me as one of their rocket scientists, and, true to form, the Salinas mob double-crossed them as soon as their ship pulled into Barbello. At last report, they had killed the security guys and were holding the crew and the biochemist heading the lab for ransom.”
Pennington looked around the table. “I don’t know about you folks, but I’m having a hard time seeing a downside here. The 252s got a black eye, and the Salinas crowd is about to get an education in choosing your enemies.”
“Well, sir,” Simmons said. “I would agree with you. It’s hard to get worked up about 252s and Salinas killing each other. However, the problem is that the resident genius has cooked up a new super-lethal nerve agent in the lab and the prototype rig for mass production. It has the lethality, safe handling, and self-cleaning characteristics that make it highly marketable as a large-scale battlefield munition rather than just an assassination weapon.”
“Wait a minute,” Pennington said. “The 252s already have this thing, right? I can see the worry, but what can we do at this point?”
“No, sir.” Simmons shook his head. “The 252s were seriously afraid of the Russians, so they isolated everything on the boat. Even the lab’s computers are air-gapped. Apparently, our 252 guy thought the cocaine pipeline was his primary mission and moved the boat closer to the source of supply. That would be a sound business approach with sane vendors, but it was a big mistake with the Salinas crowd. He knows this now and is singing like a canary to us, trying to stay alive. The bottom line is all the 252 eggs are in that basket, and they need it back. Within a few days, they’ll have enough force gathered to go in and get it, and they won’t give a damn about hostage casualties or collateral damage.
“But that isn’t even the worst case. We also have to consider what would result if the 252’s attack fails. The Salinas survivors would certainly turn on the biochemists and extract the secret of the nerve agent. What then? They are even more vicious than the 252s, and the possibilities of them wielding a WMD are too horrific to think about.”
As Simmons paused, Pennington looked over at Miller. “It sounds like we need to blow that ship to Hell, sir,” he said. “That’s more your lane than mine.”
Miller shook his head. “No, Harry. Besides the foreign relations disaster of our pounding a nominally friendly country with an airstrike, we can’t take a chance on releasing that agent. Imagine a mass casualty event involving both chemical weapons and our bombs. Even if they are all cartel scumbags, we’d be international pariahs. There has to be another way.”
Pennington’s face quickly shifted to disbelief. “Sir, it sounds like you are talking about a cutting-out operation.” He looked around the table. “What do you think this is, the War of 1812? Have any of you seen the charts on Barbello? I read through everything we have on the way here. It’s impossible! Nothing we have bigger than a PB could get within half a mile of that rock, and the Salinas’s weapons’ coverage of the only entrance into the harbor is solid. They’d pick up on anything we send in before it got within a mile. Even if we could get an assault team in there without getting detected, they would get swarmed as soon as they lit off the diesels on that ship. Success would require a high-firepower assault that would be no different from an airstrike, except a lot of our guys would probably get killed.”
“And if you had an asset with stealth capability?” Miller pressed.
Pennington scoffed, “Sir, if I had something with a low radar cross-section that was silent and could tow that ship out of RPG range before the need to start its engines, it might be possible. But I know of nothing like that anywhere, much less in theater.”
Miller turned to Brown. “Fred?”
“Harry,” Brown began. “We have an asset available that might meet your requirements.”
“You’re not serious!”
“I am. I’ll let Jane explain. It’s her baby.”
“Do tell, Captain,” Pennington said warily.
“Yes, sir,” Mercier began. “You might recall about a year and a half ago when Kauai had that mishap during the last Cuban migrant surge?”
“Yes, her CO and XO were relieved for cause.”
“The CO was, sir. The XO went out on a medical because of injuries during the mishap. We took a long look at the unit to see if it was better to salvage it or just bump up her scheduled decommissioning a couple of years. The hull was in good shape, and she had the gun the new patrol boats are getting, so we hung on to her. We identified some solid command cadre and rushed them on board. Things were turning around nicely, so we went all-in on an experimental Special Ops capability. If it didn’t work out, no harm, no foul. So, we stacked the deck with the crew and ended up with a very smart unit.
“So, fast forward to January. You remember that sailboat drug seizure that happened north of the Keys?”
“Yes, I remember that.” Pennington acknowledged the information. “It was almost a record seizure. Wrecked in a storm was the story.”
“Yes, sir. That was the cover story. It was actually a 252 smuggling boat, wrecked when a nuclear-tipped Russian Kinzhal hypersonic missile impacted right next to it.”
“What? The Russians launched on us?”
Mercier nodded to Simmons, who said, “It was an accident, sir. Do you recall how tense things were over Kaliningrad back then? They were saber-rattling with a Backfire off Miami when it got bumped by an F-16, triggering an uncommanded launch. We lost track of the missile almost immediately. We knew it hadn’t detonated and did not know where it ended up other than it did not impact on land. Needless to say, it was in everyone’s best interest to pretend nothing happened, but also to keep an eye out for anything unusual along the missile’s track. The 252 boat got creamed by the kinetic energy of the impact, but the product it was carrying in sealed containers kept the wreck afloat. It drifted for about three days before being spotted by an HC-144 flying out of Miami and then boarded by Kauai’s crew.
“Kauai provided a very detailed description of the wreck’s condition that immediately drew our attention. Within a day, I confirmed that this was an artifact of the impact. Admiral Brown had already detached Kauai from her drug patrol to help search for the warhead. Thanks to a clever off-label application of the SAROPS search planning tool suggested by the boat’s XO, we narrowed down the search target list. After a focused, hard-target search for a few more days, we located the impact site just off Resolution Key. Unfortunately, the 252s picked up our trail, and we had to shoot it out with them.”
“Let me guess,” Pennington began. “That ‘F-22 Crash’ on Resolution was another cover story?”
“Yes, sir.” Simmons nodded. “It provided an excellent account for the fire and smoke and subsequent restricted area. We picked up the warhead and any missile fragments we could find offshore, sanitized any trace of the fight with the 252 men, and salted the site with a few banged-up and scorched F-22 parts ‘missed by the search’ in case someone was curious enough to dig around. As far as we know, it worked. There is nothing in the news, and we have seen nothing online other than the usual ‘tinfoil hat brigade’ ravings that go with any plane crash.”
“Impressive duplicity. You were obviously the right people for the job,” Pennington said, then turned to Mercier. “So, how does that incident play into this discussion, Captain?”
“It was pure luck, Kauai being the one to find that wreck, sir. If it hadn’t been her, we would have gotten her underway to take over. Anyway, there were about a dozen ways that the crew could have fouled up on that mission, but they performed perfectly. The officers, in particular, carried off some brilliant and gutsy moves.”
“I’ll second that, Admiral, if you’ll excuse the interruption, Captain,” Simmons said. “I was there throughout the mission, and I wouldn’t be here now if it weren’t for them. No one could’ve done that one better.”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Mercier nodded again. “The Director of National Intelligence agreed and invested about fifty million dollars on upgrades to move Kauai from a proof of concept to a standing special operations capability. We rushed her through a yard period that replaced her main plant with electric motors, high-capacity generators, and battery bank using the new Lithium-ion batteries the Japanese are using in their latest Soryu-class subs. She can do up to twenty knots with no sound other than the props for two hours. We also upgraded the Bridge and sensors, added composite armor resistant up to fifty-caliber, and cut her radar cross-section to about what you’d see on a Response Boat, Small.”
Pennington was incredulous. “How did you manage that?”
“Mainly coatings, sir. But we also replaced the mast with a composite design.”
“And this capability is available now?”
“Yes, sir.” Mercier nodded. “She’s just finishing workups and fine-tuning at AUTEC. I can get her moving this morning, and she can be off Barbello in as little as two-and-a-half days.”
“What about the crew? This shindig will not be a day at the regatta. We’re talking about close combat, even if everything goes right.”
“We’ll get a SEAL team to handle the assault,” Miller interjected. “Kauai will need to tow the boat out of range.”
“Yes, sir,” Mercier continued. “Plus, we put the XO, two boatswain mates, and the gunner’s mate through the boat assault team course at Quantico and Little Creek while Kauai was in the shipyard. Whoever we send over can look after themselves and do the ship-handling on the target vessel while the SEALs do the heavy lift neutralizing the opposition.”
“Sounds like you have this all figured out,” Pennington said with resignation. “What do you need me for?”
“They’ll be under your command, Harry,” Miller said. “Barbello is a law enforcement concern, and, as far as everyone outside this room is concerned, it stays that way. DoD has practically nothing on the Salinas Cartel and nothing at all on the ground on Barbello. We need you to work your Drug Enforcement and Customs people to provide the Intel prep.”
“What about our Honduran liaison? Do I bring him in on this?” Pennington asked.
Miller shook his head firmly. “Absolutely not. No foreign nationals are to have even a hint that this op is going on, and keep it to the absolute minimum among our guys. Do whatever you need to do to make sure of that. If you feel the need to move the op out of your HQ because of all the foreign presence, Fred assures me Sector Key West can fix you up.”
Pennington said, “OK, sir. Now, other than this wonder boat, what can you give me?”
Miller nodded, “We’ll have twenty-four-hour Global Hawk coverage and one Rivet Joint sortie monitoring emissions each night until the assault to generate a pattern of life. For the op itself, we’ll have the RJ for Command and Control, an MQ-9 for EO/IR, and a SEAL team for the actual assault—they’ll be flying into Key West this afternoon to meet with your staff to work out the plan. If they go in with Kauai, they can board when she’s topping off in Key West. Otherwise, they can launch from there.”
“Any chance of naval support, sir?” Pennington asked. “I lost my last destroyer about a week ago.”
“Nothing I can get down there in time,” Miller replied. “What’s your situation with the Coast Guard cutters?”
“Three two-seventies and one two-ten are in theater. Not much help in this situation compared to a destroyer, but better than nothing.” Pennington smiled ruefully. “While we are on the subject, sir, where are we supposed to sail this thing, assuming we can cut her out?”
“An interesting question,” Miller replied. “Over to you, Jenn.” He looked at Irving.
“Admiral, your orders are to sail her north until you cross the five-hundred-fathom line of the Cayman Trench and then scuttle her,” Irving said.
“What?” Pennington said in astonishment.
“This comes straight from the president. With everything else going on, he doesn’t want that boat turned into a cause célèbre. That location’s deep enough so that no one can get at her or what’s onboard without a major, obvious effort. Our intel is that the precursors of the agent are harmless and water-soluble. Even if they get mixed somehow on the way down, they’ll hydrolyze quickly. Dr. Simmons will accompany the assault team to ensure any documents and computer data are destroyed. If the creator is still alive, he’ll take him into custody. Hopefully, we can drop the boat at night before anyone gets any pictures.”
“But what about the data on the agent? Are we just going to let that go?” Pennington sputtered.
Irving nodded. “Admiral, this is something we wouldn’t dare use or even study. The costs of keeping it secret are immense, and if it got loose, the consequences would be catastrophic. Far better to be rid of it.”
“Hmm. Did I miss something? What happens with casualties? Barbello is eight hundred miles from any of our bases, and there’s nothing more than a battle dressing station and a single health services petty officer on our ships. We need combat medical support standing by.”
“That’s an unnecessary security risk. We don’t expect anything that can’t be handled locally.” Irving waved a hand dismissively. “These are SEALs we are sending in, after all.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Admiral!” Pennington responded with open irritation. “The Salinas crowd are nuts. If they once pick up on that operation, they’ll unload everything they have on it with a religious fury. If that happens, there will be wounded, regardless of how awesome the SEALs are.” He turned to Miller. “I won’t throw away lives, sir!”
“What do you suggest, Harry?” Miller tilted his head. “We don’t have any carriers available, and the air force Jollies can’t reach that far, even with tanking. This is one of those times we may have to roll the dice.”
“I don’t accept that, sir.” Pennington shook his head. “What about the Special Ops Ospreys up at Hurlburt Field?”
Miller shook his head. “Sorry, Harry, no time to get them lined up and down there through the usual channels, and we can’t fast track anything without blowing the cover on this op. Even if we could, it would be a miracle to pull it off in two days.”
Pennington turned to Brown. “Give me two of the Jayhawks out of Clearwater, Fred, and I can lily-pad them down and back on the two-seventies. It’s risky, but a helluva lot better than just writing off the casualties.”
“Consider it done.” Brown nodded.
“I’ll call up to Fort Benning after we adjourn and get a combat surgeon and a couple of surgical medics on a plane to Key West, and they can ride down on Kauai,” Miller added.
“Good.” Pennington looked at his folder. “Good.” After a few seconds, he looked up again at Miller. “Is that all, sir?”
“Yes, Harry. I’m putting my J3 staff at your disposal. They’ll coordinate the DoD stuff and iron out any wrinkles. Can I offer you my Blackhawk for the trip back? An hour flight is better than three more hours on the road.”
Pennington thought briefly, then replied, “Thank you, General. Mind if I use it to get to AUTEC instead?”
Miller sat back. “OK, if that’s what you want.” He gave Pennington a stern look. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”
Pennington nodded. “If I’m going to send those kids into a buzzsaw, I will give it to them face-to-face. The staffs can handle any planning without my kibbitzing, and my EA can hang around here to provide a direct liaison with your J3.” He smiled sadly and turned to Mercier. “Besides, I’m curious about this wonder boat and would like to see what it can do firsthand. They’ll have to stage out of Key West—I’ll just ride over with them.”
“OK, Harry,” Miller said. “I don’t suppose it would take if I gave you any advice about getting too personal.”
“No, sir.”
“Didn’t think so.” He looked around the table. “Well, let’s get’r done then.” As Miller rose, the rest of them followed and stood at attention. “Carry on, thank you.”
The group filed out after handshakes all around, with Pennington bringing up the rear. He stopped at the desk and motioned Keener over, and he turned to the standing administrative assistant. “Chief, any chance of getting a private office with a secure phone?”
“Yes, sir,” Shipley replied. “The general thought you might need one. Specialist Folsom here will escort you and get it set up. When would the admiral like the helicopter to be ready to depart?”
“An hour from now?” Pennington responded with a raised eyebrow.
“Very good, sir. Is there anything else I can do for the admiral?”
“No, thank you, Chief.” He turned to the saluting specialist. “Thank you. Lead on, please.”
As the specialist led them out, Keener turned to Pennington. “Helicopter, sir?”
“Yes, I’ll be heading to AUTEC. The bad news is you still have a three-hour car ride back to the office. The good news is I’m sparing you a fifteen-hour boat ride,” Pennington said, his gaze fixed ahead as they walked.
“Yes, sir.”
