The Bin Laden Plot

Sixteen hours earlier, Verbeck and Hoskins had departed Joint Base Andrews near Washington, D.C., stopping in Frankfurt, Germany, for a quick refueling before continuing toward their destination in the Gulf. As the aircraft descended, Verbeck examined the Kingdom of Bahrain, an archipelago nation comprising fifty natural islands and thirty-three artificial ones — a country designated by the U.S. as a major non-NATO ally.

Bahrain Island, where they would soon land, was the largest island by far, making up over eighty percent of the country’s landmass. Located on the northern tip of the island was Naval Support Activity Bahrain, home to U.S. Naval Forces Central Command and the United States Fifth Fleet, an area advertised as the busiest 152 acres in the world, hosting 78 military commands.

As the C-32’s landing wheels were deployed, Verbeck’s thoughts returned to the reason for her trip.

That pompous ass, Dan Snyder.

He thought he could arrange a secret deal with Iran. With him, it was always about making the next buck, and in this case, the next billion. As a kid, he would hoard his allowance, saving it for the annual summer trip to Aunt Kay’s, knowing they’d stop by the Phantom Fireworks store on the way back. Upon returning home, where it was illegal to buy fireworks, he’d sell his stash to the neighborhood kids at a tenfold markup. Dan had probably invented the term shipping and handling charges apply.

The C-32 touched down at NSA Bahrain, and after having been met by representatives from U.S. Naval Forces Command and Fifth Fleet, Verbeck and Hoskins were in the back seat of a Navy sedan, on their way to the pier where USS Michigan was tied up, skipping the normal perfunctory greetings with the base’s senior officers. For this trip, speed was of the essence.

If Wilson was as good as advertised, the UUV problem would be quickly resolved. However, there was a wrinkle in the situation that she hadn’t discussed while briefing the president, and the issue was on the verge of spiraling out of control. If that happened, she would end up in an untenable position with no good options. She already knew the choice she would make — one that made her decision to eliminate her military aide pale in comparison. She prayed that it didn’t come to that.

The sedan stopped beside Michigan’s brow, a walkway extending from the submarine’s deck to the pier, where they were greeted by Michigan’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Tom Montgomery. He escorted them topside, then down the nearest hatch as the submarine’s shipwide intercom announced, Secretary of the Navy, arriving.

They entered the submarine’s Wardroom, where a table covered with a white tablecloth was laden with drinks, pastries, and fruit. Two place settings awaited them, as did the submarine’s Supply Officer and chief culinary specialist. Following introductions, Verbeck and Hoskins were offered a hot breakfast in addition to the continental offerings. Verbeck declined, as did Hoskins, since the fruit and freshly baked pastries were more than enough.

Both selected a few items, then took their seats, and Captain Murray Wilson entered a moment later, introducing himself before settling into his chair at the head of the table.

Wilson, sporting a full head of gray hair, was much older than Verbeck expected. Then she recalled Hoskins’s brief during the flight. Wilson was a mustang, a term for an officer who was prior-enlisted, plus he was a captain. Michigan was a special warfare submarine carrying two platoons of SEALs and 154 Tomahawk cruise missiles, one of only four submarines commanded by an officer with the rank of captain — not to be confused with the Captain of a warship, who could be of any rank — whereas all other submarines were skippered by commanders. His seniority, plus the extra time Wilson had spent as an enlisted reactor controls technician, added fifteen years to the age of a typical submarine skipper.

Wilson engaged in small talk while his visitors ate, then cleared the Wardroom of other personnel once they finished.

“Secretary, I understand you’d like to talk with me privately.”

Although Michigan’s mission would become apparent to its crew, Verbeck preferred the details of her conversation with Wilson be confidential. Depending on how things evolved, credible deniability regarding what she had directed Wilson to do was essential. His orders, which Hoskins carried in a locked courier satchel, were vague, with the details conveyed verbally.

“That’s correct, Captain,” Verbeck replied. She glanced at the satchel on the table beside Captain Hoskins, and he took his cue.

He unlocked it and retrieved an orange folder marked Top Secret, which he handed to Wilson.

Wilson pulled out his orders and quickly read them, then looked up in surprise. “One of our own UUVs may have sunk Stethem?”