to the COS level, much to the surprise of some stuffed shirts who said a former non-com could never do it, and requested a posting anywhere there might be some action. After 9/11 that meant anywhere from North Africa through the Middle East, Central Asia and all the way to Indonesia and the Philippines. The posting at Djibouti came open and Simons jumped for it, much to the consternation of his second wife, who would’ve preferred someplace a bit more civilized, like Europe or at least South America. She soon became Simons’ second ex-wife.
Djibouti had indeed been the place to be for a COS wanting some action, especially for an ex-marine who was only three pounds heavier than he was when they pinned the globe and anchor on him at Parris Island. His hair had some gray on the sides now, and he couldn’t hide it now that he had to let his hair grow out a bit from the Corps’ regulation high-and-tight. The former sergeant major’s daily runs and workouts with the martial arts trainers on the nearby base kept him in top condition, and more than once he’d gone into the field himself, sometimes in search of the elusive Sudika, “the Thunderbolt”, the highest-ranked al-Qaida officer in the Horn. Simons had never found him.
Until now, perhaps.
He stared at the note in his hand, and had the feeling that everything he’d worked for, in uniform and in mufti, might just be coming down to this. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then turned back to the younger man sitting across from his desk.
“What do you think, Phil?”
Phillip Klein was Simons’ assistant chief and had been in Djibouti fourteen months now, compared to his boss’s three years. With his rather nondescript appearance, average height and thinning hair, Klein didn’t look anything like a spy, which was one reason he was a pretty good one. “We’ve never had any contact with Sudika before, have we? How would he have found out about this dead drop?”
“After we pulled out of Mogadishu in ’93, it took us a while to re-establish some contacts over there,” Simons said. “Didn’t really get going until we moved into the Lemon in ’01.” “The Lemon” was the local nickname for Camp Lemonnier, the former French Foreign Legion base that was taken over by the U.S. Navy and was now home to the Combined Joint Task Force-Horn of Africa. “We put the word out that anybody from the other side who wanted to come over could contact us through this particular dead drop.”
“Sounds a little risky. The other side could use that to set one of our people up.”
Simons nodded. “Everything’s a risk in this business, Phil. We can’t just drop a business card off at every mosque in town, now, can we?”
“Has it been used before?”
“To my knowledge, only four or five times in the past six years, and never by anyone with, shall we say, the stature of Sudika.” He picked up the file on his desk and flipped through it again. It was about a half-inch thick and contained virtually everything Western intelligence services knew about the Ugandan al-Qaida operative who called himself Sudika. Most of the intel was CIA-generated, but some significant data came from Israel’s Mossad and the French DGSE. “If this is legitimate, it could be big. Pretty damn big.”
“Nobody from The Contractor’s inner circle has ever come over. Voluntarily, anyway.” Klein’s eyes glinted with a glimmer of excitement. “The Contractor” was the CIA’s nickname for Osama bin Laden. In the months since the Navy SEALs had sent The Contractor to his final reward, many more of his associates had been rolled up, the result of the intelligence bonanza that was the other great prize of the raid. Sudika was perhaps the highest-ranked al-Qaida chieftain who wasn’t dead or in Gitmo by now, although there were rumors about someone else rising to the top. To flush out Sudika, and perhaps even this newest and potentially greater threat, would be an intelligence coup
Djibouti had indeed been the place to be for a COS wanting some action, especially for an ex-marine who was only three pounds heavier than he was when they pinned the globe and anchor on him at Parris Island. His hair had some gray on the sides now, and he couldn’t hide it now that he had to let his hair grow out a bit from the Corps’ regulation high-and-tight. The former sergeant major’s daily runs and workouts with the martial arts trainers on the nearby base kept him in top condition, and more than once he’d gone into the field himself, sometimes in search of the elusive Sudika, “the Thunderbolt”, the highest-ranked al-Qaida officer in the Horn. Simons had never found him.
Until now, perhaps.
He stared at the note in his hand, and had the feeling that everything he’d worked for, in uniform and in mufti, might just be coming down to this. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then turned back to the younger man sitting across from his desk.
“What do you think, Phil?”
Phillip Klein was Simons’ assistant chief and had been in Djibouti fourteen months now, compared to his boss’s three years. With his rather nondescript appearance, average height and thinning hair, Klein didn’t look anything like a spy, which was one reason he was a pretty good one. “We’ve never had any contact with Sudika before, have we? How would he have found out about this dead drop?”
“After we pulled out of Mogadishu in ’93, it took us a while to re-establish some contacts over there,” Simons said. “Didn’t really get going until we moved into the Lemon in ’01.” “The Lemon” was the local nickname for Camp Lemonnier, the former French Foreign Legion base that was taken over by the U.S. Navy and was now home to the Combined Joint Task Force-Horn of Africa. “We put the word out that anybody from the other side who wanted to come over could contact us through this particular dead drop.”
“Sounds a little risky. The other side could use that to set one of our people up.”
Simons nodded. “Everything’s a risk in this business, Phil. We can’t just drop a business card off at every mosque in town, now, can we?”
“Has it been used before?”
“To my knowledge, only four or five times in the past six years, and never by anyone with, shall we say, the stature of Sudika.” He picked up the file on his desk and flipped through it again. It was about a half-inch thick and contained virtually everything Western intelligence services knew about the Ugandan al-Qaida operative who called himself Sudika. Most of the intel was CIA-generated, but some significant data came from Israel’s Mossad and the French DGSE. “If this is legitimate, it could be big. Pretty damn big.”
“Nobody from The Contractor’s inner circle has ever come over. Voluntarily, anyway.” Klein’s eyes glinted with a glimmer of excitement. “The Contractor” was the CIA’s nickname for Osama bin Laden. In the months since the Navy SEALs had sent The Contractor to his final reward, many more of his associates had been rolled up, the result of the intelligence bonanza that was the other great prize of the raid. Sudika was perhaps the highest-ranked al-Qaida chieftain who wasn’t dead or in Gitmo by now, although there were rumors about someone else rising to the top. To flush out Sudika, and perhaps even this newest and potentially greater threat, would be an intelligence coup
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