The Bin Laden Plot

Mixell typed his response: “The scenario specified for the fourth man will cost you double. But the fifth man, I’ll do for free.”

You two have a history?

“You could call it that.”

We have a contract.

Mixell’s gaze returned to the last name on the computer display, then smiled at the irony.

Jake Edward Harrison was already on his list.

5 USS MICHIGAN

“Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet.”

The Diving Officer, the senior of three watchstanders seated before the submarine’s Ship Control Panel, acknowledged the Officer of the Deck’s order, then executed it.

“Ten up,” he ordered the Lee Helm, who adjusted the stern planes until the submarine achieved a ten-degree up angle.

“Full rise, fairwater planes,” he ordered the Helm, who tilted the control surfaces protruding from both sides of the submarine’s sail to maximum rise.

Slowly, the eighteen-thousand-ton submarine rose toward the surface.

Peering through the periscope with its optics shifted upward, Lieutenant Brian Resor, on watch as Michigan’s Officer of the Deck, searched for evidence of ships that had evaded detection by Sonar: sailboats, trawlers with their nets out and engines off, or close contacts blending in with farther ones.

Aside from the Diving Officer’s reports, it was silent in the Control Room. There would be no conversation until the periscope broke the surface and Resor called out No close contacts or Emergency Deep. Like the rest of the watchstanders in Control, Resor knew the ascent to periscope depth was hazardous. A few years earlier, transiting these same waters, USS Hartford had collided with USS New Orleans while Hartford rose toward the surface, almost ripping the sail from the top of the submarine.

Sitting on the starboard side of the Conn in the Captain’s chair, Captain Murray Wilson monitored his submarine’s ascent. Less than twenty-four hours ago, Stethem had been sunk in the Strait, most likely by an Iranian submarine. For the next few minutes, Michigan would be vulnerable. It was traveling slowly as it ascended, plus the hull expanded slightly as the water pressure decreased; the submarine’s decks adjusted accordingly, emitting hull pops that could be detected miles away.

The Diving Officer called out the submarine’s depth in ten-foot increments, and Resor gradually rotated his wrist, tilting the scope optics down toward the horizon. The scope broke the surface of the water and Resor began his circular sweeps, searching for nearby threat contacts — quiet warships or deep-draft merchants bearing down on them.

After assessing a half dozen distant ships on the horizon, Resor called out the report everyone in Control was hoping for.

“No close contacts!”

Conversation in the Control Room resumed, and now that the antenna built into the top of the periscope had broached the surface, Radio’s expected report over the Control Room speakers broke the subdued discussions. “Conn, Radio. In sync with the broadcast. Receiving message traffic.”

The Quartermaster followed with his report, “GPS fix received.”

After the usual two-minute duration, Radio confirmed that Michigan had received the latest batch of naval messages. “Conn, Radio. Download complete.”

They had accomplished the two objectives for their trip to periscope depth — copy the message broadcast and obtain a navigation fix — so Resor ordered Michigan back to the safety of the ocean depths.

“All stations, Conn. Going deep. Helm, ahead two-thirds. Dive, make your depth two hundred feet.”

Michigan tilted downward, leaving periscope depth behind.

“Scope’s under,” Resor announced, then lowered the scope into its well.

As Michigan leveled off at two hundred feet, a radioman entered the Control Room, message board in hand. He delivered the clipboard to Captain Wilson, who reviewed the messages, then handed the board to Resor.

“Change in plans,” Wilson said. “Someone decided we’re due for a port call. Only for a few hours, though, but enough time to load fresh food. Have the Navigator plot our course to Bahrain.”

6 LANHAM, MARYLAND

As darkness crept across the Eastern Seaboard, Lonnie Mixell stood in the misting rain not far from a large warehouse, his SIG Sauer P226 in a shoulder holster beneath his gray windbreaker. It was late in the day, and the encroaching night added a layer of secrecy to the overcast skies, reducing what prying eyes far above might discern.

The transportation hub of Snyder Industries was immense. The warehouse of interest, one of several dozen in this complex, stretched into the distance, perforated by loadout platforms every thirty feet. Backed up against each of the ten nearest platforms was an eighteen-wheeler transporting a CONEX shipping container, its rear doors open. A steady stream of forklifts moved back and forth, loading long, rectangular metal containers into the awaiting CONEX boxes.