STATE DEPARTMENT
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Ryan O’Connor met the SSI delegation at the door of the undersecretary’s office. For someone as attuned to Beltway nuances as Mike Derringer, it was as perceptible as a ten-knot wind on the face. Something unusual is coming our way. He thought he knew what it was.
O’Connor was unusually businesslike, almost brusque. He showed Derringer and Wilmont to their seats, offered the perfunctory coffee, and for a change, he got directly to the point. “Gentlemen. This meeting will remain off the record for reasons that are obvious. But I’m confirming that State wants you to proceed with your Chad mission. And I do not mean just the training segment. That will continue, not only to meet the obligation, but to provide some cover for the more immediate operation.”
“So you want us to go after the yellow cake,” Derringer said.
“Just so. You will have the full support of State and DoD intelligence assets, as well as other, ah, sources. Please understand that we may not be able to reveal those to you, but be assured that we will not pass along anything that we do not consider reliable.”
Derringer asked, “What if we get contradictory info?”
The diplomat shrugged. “We’ll try to filter and deconflict, but as always, it’s up to the men in the field to act as they think best.”
Bat guano, Derringer thought. If anything goes south, SSI will hold the bag. But them’s the risks.
Wilmont shifted in his chair. Generally he held back, absorbing information and scribbling occasional notes, but now he spoke up. “Ryan, excuse me for asking what might seem an obtuse question. But if we’re chasing the cake, which seems headed for Iran, obviously it’s going by sea. Why not send the SEALs after it?”
O’Connor regarded the overweight executive with a perceptible, disapproving frown. “Well, the usual reason, Marshal. Deniability. As you say, the operation will almost certainly take place at sea, and likely in international waters. The United States Government does not condone piracy, let alone participate in such things.”
Wilmont nodded vigorously. “Yeah, yeah. I understand that. But we just don’t have the assets—the gear—for something like this. And we can’t get it fast enough to meet the schedule.”
“Oh, I think you can trust me on that score. You’ll have maximum support across the board: intelligence, technical, whatever you need. If there’s ever an audit of the operation—extremely unlikely, by the way—the investigators will find that all the equipment was declared surplus months before SSI ever saw it.”
Derringer pulled an envelope from his Brooks Brothers suit coat. “Ryan, I brought a list of equipment needs and some operational concerns. This is for our liaison officer—whoever that might be.”
O’Connor scooped up the paper but did not bother looking at it. “Right. I’ll give it to the case officer and he’ll get back to you today. He’s arranging logistics right now. But you have the keys to the kingdom on this one, Admiral. Speed boats, a couple of leased ships, communications, even unmarked helicopters if you need them.”
The SSI men looked at each other. Without a word, they rose in unison. “Right,” Derringer said. “We’ll get going. Ah, do we communicate with you or with the case officer from now on?”
O’Connor stood behind his desk. “Preferably through Grover Hinds, but if you need me, call anytime, day or night.” He paused for emphasis. “This is off the record, of course, but I’m in constant contact with the secretary. If you need any logjams broken, she’ll see to it personally.”
Wilmont raised his eyebrows. “Well, that’s about as much as we could ever want. Thanks, Ryan.”
“Just get the job done, gentlemen. There’s too much riding on this one.”