Chapter Seventeen.

As the weeks turned into months the trainees sweated through countless evaluations of their writing, planning abilities; ability to think on their feet and cope with increasing amounts of stress that was no less real for being artificially generated. Several trainees were asked to leave because of fatal flaws in judgment or attitude... making the same mistake twice, not demonstrating appropriate respect for the instructors, cheating in any way, or simply not possessing the intangible "It" quality that was seen as a prerequisite for making someone into a case officer.

Meanwhile; the M.O. had pronounced Stacey fit and capable of accompanying the trainees out on exercises as a referee. He did, however, insist that she would not be expected to be involved in any major physical tasks... her back injury, although much improved, was still susceptible to renewed injury. In addition to her weekly lectures, Stacey now spent her time sitting on tree stumps in the forest, with supplies of water; encouraging the trainees as they struggled through their navigation treks; and handing out Band-Aids for their blisters. She also took a couple of flights in the De Havilland Canada, DHC-6 Twin Otter airplane that was used for the trainee's parachute jumping exercise.

This training involved low-altitude parachuting from two thousand feet above ground level, with the target being a fifty-foot circle in the open space off the end of the runway which was bounded by a broken white chalk line around its circumference; into which the trainees were instructed to attempt to land.

Before they were ever allowed near the Twin Otter, the trainees were given intensive primary training on the ground. This involved learning the correct way to land by jumping from a six-foot-high platform until their rolling landing satisfied the instructor. This was followed by launching themselves from a sixty-foot tower clinging on to a zip line which hurtled them down to land in a padded truck at the far end of a two-hundred and forty-foot long cable.

As the Twin Otter steadily gained height; flying in a wide orbit to reach the jump altitude; Stacey studied the trainees. One or two of the "Gung Ho" Fort Bragg types were chatting amongst themselves eagerly; but most of the trainees had a distinctly uneasy aura about them. She attempted to calm their obvious qualms at jumping out of a perfectly serviceable airplane with their lives depending on a few yards of parachute fabric. As she was explaining that it would be fine; one of the trainees turned to her with a solemn expression. He looked at the wings and propeller insignia on her Instructor's ID badge, and spoke;

'How many times have you jumped Ma'am?'

She smiled wryly.

'I haven't ever had to jump. Chopper jocks don't use 'chutes… they don't work too well in a Huey… it's something to do with the rotor downwash! We have to cross our fingers and ride those birds in. Now, don't you guys start figuring that I talk the talk, but can't walk the walk… I have crashed twice in fixed-wing airplanes, and brought a crippled Huey back on several occasions.'

The trainee looked embarrassed.

'Sorry Ma'am; I didn't mean… we've all heard the stories about what you were doing out in Laos…'

Stacey smiled.

'Bunk room scuttlebutt! There aren't any Americans in Laos... Washington has said that on many occasions; and just remember… the guys on the seventh floor at Langley wouldn't appreciate you even thinking like that. You know the drill; just stick with the old tried and trusted D.O. cliché: Admit nothing, deny everything, and always make counter-accusations.'

She glanced along the cabin towards the pilot, who raised his hand with two fingers extended. Two minutes to the drop zone! She shouted for the trainees sitting on the benches that lined the wall on the port side to stand up and hook their static lines; which were connected to their parachutes and would cause the chutes to deploy at four seconds from the jumpers exiting the plane; onto a cable above their heads. As she yanked the cabin door open, air rushed in, and a thin cloud of dust on the airplane floor billowed around the compartment before blowing back out into the slipstream. One of the Fort Bragg Career trainees gave the now, visibly apprehensive trainees an arrogant grin.

'Can the pucker, you guys. Don't you go sweating that you are goin' to jump out of a perfectly good airplane with your parachute that was made by the lowest bidder and packed by someone with a death wish, 'cos they volunteered for the army! You wanna be hard-core, so just suck it up!'

Stacey glared at him.

'OK, hot-shot... you'd do well to remember that the nameless gold stars in "The Book of Honor," on display in front of the Memorial Wall beneath the carved stars in the lobby at Langley belong to smart-ass paramilitary jerks just like you; who thought they were invincible… so button it!'

He looked as though he was about to say something... then chose not to. The stakes were high. Giving lip to an instructor meant a thumbs-down; and a thumbs-down at the Farm meant you weren't likely to get certified as a case officer.

She called for each man to check his gear and the gear of the man in front. When they went out they were to count to four, and, if the main canopy hadn't deployed; they were to pull their reserve chutes. The call came at one minute, and then the signal to jump came. She yelled "GO!" and slapped the first trainee on his butt. He jumped, and was followed by the rest of the group's jumpers. The pilot then made another pass over the drop zone and the remainder of the trainees who had clipped on to the static line as the last of the first group cleared the door, followed them out. Firmly attached to her safety line, Stacey leaned out of the fuselage and looked down. She counted twelve deployed 'chutes. All the main canopies had deployed safely. Pulling herself back into the fuselage, she hauled in the trailing static lines and pulled the door shut. She moved up the fuselage to the cockpit and reported all away and airframe secure. The pilot nodded, and began banking around to return to the airstrip.

As the pilot completed his base leg turn over the York River and lined up on Camp Peary's runway; Stacey noticed that one of the facility's Ford Bronco four-by-fours was waiting on the ramp at the south western end of the runway. As the Twin Otter touched down and taxied to the ramp; one of the Farm's security men opened the Bronco driver's door and stepped out. The pilot shut down the engines, and Stacey moved back along the cabin, opened the fuselage door, and jumped down onto the ramp. The security man approached her; saluted, and spoke.

'Major Andersen; the Director needs to see you, right now.'

Stacey nodded and climbed into the Bronco; which the security man sent roaring off through the facility towards the Headquarters building.

As she entered the main hallway; Paula, the receptionist looked up and gave Stacey a thin, bureaucratic smile.

'Major; the Director will see you right now.'

Stacey nodded and hurried down the long corridor to the stained-wood panelled door of the second office on the left-hand side which bore the engraved plastic plate numbered "G10." She knocked on the door and heard a quiet voice saying "come in." Stepping into the office, she saw the Director sitting at his desk with a cigarette between his fingers, letting the thin trail of smoke rise towards the ceiling as he studied a flimsy signal sheet on the desk before him. He looked up and invited her to sit.

'Sorry to have to drag you in straight from your exercise, Stacey; but something's come up.'

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

She studied him briefly. He had used her true name instead of the allocated assumed identity that all the Farm instructors were always known by. He tapped the signal flimsy.

'From the Director of Ops at Langley. You've been recalled. They need you back there. There's a Company Gulfstream en route to pick you up. Go, get into civilian clothes, and leave all your equipment at the cabin. We'll sort it out from there. You've got twenty minutes. Leave your I.D. with me, and good luck... we'll miss you.'

Twenty minutes later; the Gulfstream II came up Chesapeake Bay, hugging the Virginia coast until it reached the mouth of the Potomac River. As the pilot gently banked to starboard; crossing the River into Maryland; heading for Andrews Air Force Base. Stacey was gazing out of the cabin window wondering what the hell had happened for Directorate of Ops to consider calling her back into the fold. She wouldn't have long to wait before she found out.

At Andrews; she transferred to a waiting Marine Corps HUS-1 Seahorse chopper which flew her to Langley; and she was sitting in Director Helms' office within thirty-five minutes of leaving Camp Peary.

Richard Helms opened a thin file on his desk.

'I understand that you are pretty well fit as far as your injuries are concerned, Stacey.'

She nodded.

'Pretty much so, Director.'

He smiled.

'Good. I have an assignment for you. It's compartmentalised on a very much need to know basis. Only a select few have been given the specifics, most of them, seventh floor suits; but I think it will fit you just fine. Are you confident enough to fly again?'

She looked at him.

'Isn't that rather dependent on the Medical Board?'

He shook his head.

'Not if I say it's not. I guess that all you'll need is a quick refresher.'

She nodded.

'So when do I start, Sir?

He gave a faint smile.

'As of now. Since the Israeli's victory in the Six-Day War it has become clear that the victory has served only to increase Israel's isolation. A long series of incidents and policies within Israel and its neighbours and the suspicion that France, her main arms supplier, was about to impose an arms embargo; culminated in Israel's pre-emptive attack on the Egyptian Air Force as the opening move of the Six-Day War. However; since the war, General de Gaulle has ordered an immediate halt of arms supplies to Israel... and France is not the only Nation that has failed to honour arms supply agreements the moment the Arabs found out about them.'

He gave a slight shrug.

'Britain, pissed with the region after the Suez fiasco of 1956, reappraised her Middle East policy on arms supplies, to the benefit of the Arabs, and to Israel's cost. We have remained the good guys as far as supplying Israel with money but in spite of our American Jewish lobby making dire threats in relation to our Banking industry; we have not supplied any arms. Meantime, the Soviet Union has been resupplying Israel's enemies with most of the arms they could ever want.

This isolation had long been accepted as a fact of life by Israel's leaders. But now; The Hill has decided that the President will go and strong-arm the Israeli Prime Minister, Golda Meir... good luck with that; Dickie!... with regard to the suspicion that Israel is moving towards developing a nuclear deterrent. However; the Israeli Prime Minister, Mrs Meir, is quoted as having said that "Israel will act in such a way to ensure that the Jews who died in the gas chambers would be the last Jews to die without defending themselves"; and Congress has read this as a notice of intent with regard to Israel's nuclear aspirations.'

His tone beacme sombre

'We have known, since the early sixties… by way of Egyptian intelligence, that Israel has a facility known as the Dimona Centre in the Negev Desert forty miles to the south-east of the old town of Beersheba, where they have built a clandestine nuclear reactor. This has been confirmed by certain reconnaissance flights over the area. We also know that certain cabinet ministers such as Moshe Dayan and Shimon Peres have argued that the problems of acquisition of increasing stocks of conventional weapons would eventually become impossible. They have also pointed out that Israel's military strategy had always been based on the belief that the Arab countries could afford to lose one or two wars with Israel; whereas just one Israeli defeat would be her last. If Israel continues to rely on conventional weapons, her eventual defeat will be inevitable. Dayan, and others, argue that the time has come to concentrate Dimona to the production of the ultimate deterrent.'

Stacey stared at Richard Helm.

'So what do you want me to do?'

His face became serious.

'Last November; through a complicated undercover operation, the Israelis obtained two hundred tonnes of raw uranium oxide, known as yellowcake, which was held in a stockpile in Antwerp. Mossad agents arranged to set up a fictitious company named Biscayne Trader's Shipping Corporation in Liberia to purchase an ocean freighter; which was re-named the "Scheersberg A"... named after a town in northern Germany near the border with Denmark. With the assistance of a friendly official at the German Asmara Chemie petrochemical company, three-point-seven million Dollars was paid to the Belgian mining company Union Minière for 200 tonnes of the yellowcake which was left-over inventory from uranium mined from the Shinkolobwe mine in the former Belgian Congo.'

Richard Helm studied the document on his desk, and looked back at Stacey.

'Using the West German front company, they labelled five hundred-and-sixty sealed oil drums containing the yellowcake as "Plumbat," a harmless lead product... hence the code name "Operation Plumbat"; and managed to get them out of Holland, ostensibly to be transported to a plant in Morocco, where the yellowcake would be processed for use in the petrochemical industry. They were loaded onto the newly-renamed freighter; and a contract was arranged with SAICA, an Italian paint company for the yellowcake to be processed.

This yellowcake can be spun out in high-tech underground centrifuges to convert it into the weapons-grade uranium which could potentially be used to make an atomic bomb.'

Turning the page, he continued.

'In the early dawn of Sunday, November 17th, the German-built, freighter "Scheersberg A" chugged out of a fog-bound Antwerp harbour under a Liberian flag with the drums of yellowcake packed beneath her decks. The ship never reached its declared destination of Genoa, Italy.

As far as our intelligence can establish; approximately seven days into its voyage, it rendezvoused with an Israeli freighter under cover of darkness, somewhere east of Crete. The cargo was transferred in near silence whilst Israeli gunboats kept watch nearby. After loading, the Israeli freighter set sail toward Haifa, and eventually, the cargo finally arrived at "The Tunnel," a six-level automated chemical plant for processing fuel rods into plutonium at the Dimona reactor.

The "Scheersberg A" docked in Turkey eight days later; without any cargo to deliver; the Captain and crew abandoned her, and disappeared. The contract with the Italian paint company was cancelled. Several pages were missing from the ship's log and no explanation was offered; the Italian paint company assumed the cargo had been lost to hijack or piracy. The West German government may have been involved directly but remained undercover to avoid antagonising the Soviets or Arabs. Israeli intelligence information on the Nazi past of some West German officials may well have provided motivation for the Germans' covert involvement.'

'Because of your extensive linguistic talents, I want you to work with Israeli intelligence… Mossad. Congress and the President do not want Israel to join the nuclear club under any circumstances. It's the old "Big Boys... Big Toys" syndrome. What they can't see is, that if the Arab nations annihilate Israel; that leaves the entire Middle East open to the Soviets... and there's a hell of a lot of oil in the Middle East.'

Stacey nodded again.

'What do you want me to do with Mossad? I understand that they are responsible for intelligence collection, covert ops, and counter-terrorism; as well as protecting Jewish communities. Its Director reports directly to the Israeli Prime Minister. How do I fit in?'

Richard Helms studied her.

'Mossad is the World's most efficient killing machine. I want you to go in and liaise with them to prevent them from targeting any of our case officers in reprisal, if Nixon screws up his meeting with Prime Minister Meir. You fly out to The British Royal Air Force base at Wildenrath in Germany, tonight. From there, it's a short hop across the border into Belgium, where one of our local assets will pick you up, and bring you up to speed with what is happening over there.'

Stacey nodded again.

'So what are my rules of engagement, and Legend, Sir?'

Helms opened the file.

'You are with the Inspectorate of the United Nations International Maritime Organization. You are, as of now, Lucy Parker, and you are attached to their investigative branch; based in their London Headquarters at 22, Berners Street, London, West One. Your assignment is to ensure that the European authorities don't rattle too many cages as they try to distance themselves from the fact that they've been screwed over by Mossad.'

He reached into a drawer and brought out a bulky manila envelope. Pushing it across the surface of his desk, he studied Stacey for a moment then spoke.

'Your documents, authorisations, and funds in Belgian Francs, Dollars, and Sterling. Unless you have any questions; that's it.'

She looked at him.

'Isn't this whole operation just a teensy bit unconstitutional, Sir?'

Helms smiled softly.

'The whole goddamned thing is totally unconstitutional; but, if it levels the balance in the Middle East, it’s a job well done… although nobody will ever get a pat on the back for it. Plausible Deniability is the name of the game these days.'

Stacey nodded.

'Yeah, that's what I thought, Sir.'