Tom Clancy's Op-Center: Out of the Ashes

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Tom Clancy’s

O P - C E N T E R

OUT OF THE ASHES

Cr e at e d by Tom Clancy and Steve Pieczenik

W r it t e n by Dick Couch and George Galdorisi

St. Martin’s Griffi n New York

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Th is is a work of fi ction. All of the characters, organizations, and events

portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are

used fi ctitiously.

tom clancy’s op- center: out of the ashes. Copyright © 2014 by Jack Ryan

Limited Partnership and S&R Literary, Inc. All rights reserved. Printed in the

United States of America. For information, address St. Martin’s Press,

175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www .stmartins .com

Library of Congress Cataloging- in- Publication Data (TK)

ISBN 978- 1- 250- 02683- 5 (trade paperback)

ISBN 978- 1 - 250- 02682- 8 (e-book)

St. Martin’s Griffi n books may be purchased for educational, business, or

promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan

Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1- 800- 221- 7945, extension 5442,

or write [email protected].

First St. Martin’s Griffi n Edition: May 2014

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De cades ago, Winston Churchill famously said, “We sleep safely at

night because rough men stand ready to visit violence on those who

would harm us.” More contemporaneously, in the 1992 fi lm, A Few

Good Men, in the courtroom dialogue, Col o nel Nathan Jessup (Jack

Nicholson) responds to an aggressive interrogation by Lieutenant

Daniel Kaff ee (Tom Cruise) with, “We live in a world that has walls,

and those walls have to be guarded by men with guns . . . Because deep

down in places you don’t talk about at parties, you want me on that

wall. You need me on that wall.”

Th is book is dedicated to the selfl ess men and women— in and out of

the military— who toil and sacrifi ce in obscurity so we may sleep safely

at night. Th ey receive no medals or public recognition, and few know

of their risks, dedication, and contributions to our security. Th ey

endure lengthy— and repeated— deployments away from their families.

Yet they stand guard “on the wall” for all of us, silently, professionally,

and with no acclaim.

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Th e Muslim East and the Christian West have been at war for

over a millennium. Th ey are at war today, and that is not likely

to change in the near future. As Samuel Huffi ngton would put

it, the cultures will continue to clash. At times in the past, the

war has been invasive, as in the eighth century, when the Moors

moved north and west into Eu rope, and during the Crusades,

when the Christian West invaded the Levant. Regional empires

rose and fell through the Middle Ages, and while the Re nais-

sance brought signifi cant material and cultural advances to the

Western world, plagues and corrupt monarchies did more to the

detriment of both East and West than they were able to do to each

other.

In time, as a century of war engulfed Eu rope and as those

same nations embarked on more aggressive colonialism, the East-

West struggle receded into the background. Th e nineteenth-

century rise of nationalism and modern weapons technology in

the West resulted in an almost universal hegemony, while the

Au t hor s’ Introduc t ion

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xii Authors’ Introduction

East remained locked in antiquity and internal struggle. Th e

twentieth century and the developing thirst for oil were to change

all that.

Th e seeds of today’s East- West confl ict were sown when

Western nations took it upon themselves to draw national

boundaries in the Middle East after the First World War. Th e

infamous Sykes- Picot agreement, which clumsily divided the

Middle East into British and French spheres of infl uence, cre-

ated weak- sister countries such as Syria, Iraq, and Lebanon, all

but ensuring permanent turmoil. After the Second World War,

Pan- Arab nationalism, the establishment of the state of Israel,

the Suez crisis, the Lebanese civil war, and the Ira ni an revolu-

tion all drove tensions between East and West even higher.

While the competition for oil and oil reserves remained a major

stimulus, long- standing Muslim- Christian, East- West issues

created a catalyst that never let tensions get too far below the

surface— and then came 9/11.

Th e events of September 11, 2001, and the retaliatory inva-

sions that followed, redefi ned and codifi ed this long- running

confl ict. For the fi rst time in centuries, the East had struck at

the West, and delivered a telling blow. Th us, from Af ghan i stan to

Iraq to Yemen to North Africa and into Indonesia, Th ailand,

the Philippines, and beyond, the struggle has now become world-

wide, nasty, and unrelenting.

Surveys taken just after 9/11 showed that some 15 percent

of the world’s over 1.5 billion Muslims supported the attack. It

was about time we struck back against those arrogant infi dels, they

said. A signifi cant percentage felt no sympathy for the Amer-

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Authors’ Introduction xiii

icans killed in the attack. Nearly all applauded the daring and

audacity of the attackers. Many Arab youths wanted to be like

those who had so boldly struck at the West.

As the world’s foremost authority on the region, Bernard

Lewis, has put it, “the outcome of the struggle in the Middle

East is still far from clear.” For this reason, we chose the Greater

Levant as the epicenter of our story of Op- Center’s reemergence.

Dick Couch

Ketchum, Idaho

George Galdorisi

Coronado, California

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Long before the events of 9/11, even before the fi rst attack on the

World Trade Center, America has been under siege by the dark

forces of terrorism. Radical Islam, technology, and repressive

regimes in oil rich nations had encouraged the disenfranchised

to seek new and more deadly ways to bring harm to our nation.

Th e attacks of 9/11 demonstrated to the world that America was

vulnerable. However, in response to those attacks, an aroused

America proved it could strike back.

Th e incursions into Iraq and Af ghan i stan, while only mod-

estly successful in stabilizing those nations, took a fearful toll

on the se nior leadership of al Qaeda and their franchises around

the world. Th e world’s most formidable terrorist group was deci-

mated to the extent that Americans began to look at the attacks

on New York and the Pentagon as a one- time event. Such an

attack on our soil had not taken place before, and it hadn’t hap-

pened since. Perhaps those trillions of dollars spent in the Global

War on Terrorism had not been wasted after all. Th e U.S. military

Prol o gu e

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2 dick couch and george galdorisi

and intelligence communities could rightfully take credit for

pushing the terrorists back into the shadows, but there had been

another force at work— one that operated in the shadows as well.

Before 9/11 and for several years afterward, our nation was

protected by a quiet, covert force known as the National Crisis

Management Center. More commonly known as Op- Center this

silent, secret mantel guarded the American people and thwarted

numerous threats to our security. Th e charter of Op- Center was

unlike any other in the history of the United States, and its direc-

tor, Paul Hood, reported directly to the president.

Op- Center dealt with both domestic and international cri-

ses. What had started as an information clearing house with

SWAT capabilities had evolved into an in de pen dent or ga ni za-

tion with the singular capacity to monitor, initiate, and manage

operations worldwide. Th ey were good; in fact, too good. Bud-

gets were tight and cuts had to be made. Th ere also was the

vaunted U.S. Special Operations Command to deal with terror-

ists. So Op- Center was disbanded, but the need for Op- Center

remained.

For America in the second de cade of the twenty- fi rst cen-

tury, Op- Center was becoming little more than an increasingly-

distant memory and even those who had taken issue with

Op- Center’s disestablishment were fi nally moving on. However,

the nation was about to learn just how dangerous it was to do

away with this valuable force and the awful price it was about to

pay. Just how much Op- Center was needed was about to be

demonstrated.


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Pa rt I

THE DIE IS CAST


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Ch a p t er One

New York City

(September 6, 2230 Eastern Daylight Time)

He didn’t particularly like being in America, and especially didn’t

enjoy being in New York City. However, Abdul- Muqtadir Kashif

was above all else a businessman and this was business.

Kashif was Arab, wealthy, and, from outward appearances,

quite Westernized. He was in his midfi fties, slim, fi t, well-

educated, and sophisticated. His eyes were alert but not preda-

tory, and he had a disarming smile. Kashif wore his hair stylishly

long but well barbered and kept his goatee and mustache neatly

trimmed. He was Kuwaiti by birth and citizenship, but he kept

elegant, if not lavish, homes in Paris, London, and Mumbai as

well as a primary residence Kuwait City. He had but a single

wife and three children, all girls, who he shamelessly spoiled.

He read the Koran often and found the teachings of the Prophet

made for an ideal guide for a good and productive life, yet, by

and large, he rejected any literal interpretation of the book.

Abdul- Muqtadir Kashif was one of those men who his London

and Pa ri sian acquaintances never seemed to see as an Arab or a


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Muslim. If they did, they were quick to comment, “Th at Abdul,

what a splendid fellow. Why can’t more of them be like him?”

He permitted himself the indulgence of bringing his wife,

Jumana, along on this short, three- day, business trip. It hadn’t

been his idea. Somehow she found the shopping in New York

superior to that of even London. What harm could come from

making her happy by allowing her to busy herself trolling through

the high- end boutiques on Fifth Avenue while he hammered out

a business deal? Her chauff er and escort would look out for her.

Th at same chauff er had delivered them from their hotel,

the Intercontinental New York Barclay, to the pent house condo

of his new business associate who was hosting a small dinner

party in their honor. Th ey had bid their host good- bye and were

riding in the swiftly descending elevator when Jumana turned to

Kashif.

“My husband, it is such a beautiful night, and our hotel is

only a short walk away. Would you just dismiss the chauff er? We

can enjoy an eve ning stroll together.”

Kashif did some quick mental calculations. It was a mere

eight blocks walk to East 48th Street where the Intercontinental

enjoyed a prominent location between Park and Lexington

Avenues. What harm was there if it pleased her? She had, as she

always did, charmed his new business associates. It was their last

night in New York, a beautiful Sunday night with a full summer

moon, and he was feeling exceptionally good about the deal he

had struck. Perhaps being in America wasn’t so bad after all.

“Of course, my dear. It is a lovely eve ning.”

As they excited the building Kashif dismissed his driver


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out of the ashes 7

and they set out walking south on Seventh Avenue. Jumana

pulled her hijab tightly around her head, feeling the need for

more modesty walking the streets in an American city then she

might elsewhere. Abdul- Muqtadir Kashif was happy they had

left the dinner party a bit early. Th e oafi sh American men there

talked about little else then the opening of their football season

that weekend. Th ey were even rude enough to keep incessantly

checking their smart phones for the progress of one of their

hometown teams, the “Giants,” who, apparently, would have to

save the city’s honor that eve ning in their Sunday night game.

Th eir other team, the “Jets,” had lost badly earlier in the day.

As they approached 48th Street and prepared to turn east

to reach the Intercontinental, Kashif saw commotion ahead as a

number of men poured out of a sports bar. Th e sign on the bar

read tonic. How apt, he thought as he pulled Jumana close to

him. Th ey quickened their pace.

Th en he heard them.

“He choked! Th ey had them. Th en he throws an intercep-

tion. What a piece of meat. Th ey need to get rid of him.”

“He’s a complete fraud. God, this is going to be a long

season.”

“What a punk.”

“Th e Giants suck so bad!”

More men tumbled out of the bar, all obviously inebriated

and clearly angry their team had lost.

He pulled Jumana closer and accelerated their pace even

more, intending to give the swelling crowd of men a wide berth.

Th eir language was growing fouler and they were now pushing


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and jostling each other. What juveniles. America is as de cadent as

many of my friends say it is.

Kashif thought about crossing 7th Avenue to avoid these

contemptible men entirely, but the traffi c was heavy even at this

time of night. Turning around and walking back north was not

an option he considered. He didn’t run from scum.

As they walked close to the curb to avoid the crowd of agi-

tated fans, a large man on the outside of the pack bumped into

Jumana.

“Ouch,” she said instinctively as she fought to keep her bal-

ance, still clutching her hijab.

Refl exively, Kashif stuck out his left hand to fend the man

off as he tried to steady his wife with his right.

In his drunken stupor the man fell to the ground. “Shit,” he

cried.

Th at got the attention of some of the other men and they

tried to pick him up. Instinctively, Kashif attempted to go around

the crowd, but instead he bumped into another man.

Th e man pushed back at him, looked at Jumana, and

shouted, “Hey, watch it, you fucking ragheads.”

“You watch your mouth,” Kashif protested.

By now, the other men had been attracted to the commo-

tion and surrounded Kashif and Jumana.

“Back off ! You’re in our country, you stinking Arab. She

part of your harem?”

“Get out of our way or I’ll call the police,” Kashif yelled as

he pulled Jumana in a tight grip and he tried to push their way

through the now- roused pack of men.


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out of the ashes 9

“Good luck with that, camel jockey,” another man shouted.

From behind Jumana, a man grabbed her hijab. “So, let’s

see what’s under here. What you hiding there, bitch?”

Kashif wheeled and threw a right round house punch and

staggered the man.

Th at was all it took. With one blow another man knocked

Kashif to the ground. Jumana tumbled down with him. Th e en-

raged mass of men began stomping the two Kuwaitis. Fit and

agile, Kashif was able to fend off many of the blows with his arms.

Jumana was not so lucky. Th e men continued to stomp them,

cursing and swearing at the two now- helpless people.

Suddenly, one of New York’s ever- present yellow cabs

screeched to a stop right at the curb and the driver began honk-

ing his horn while shouting, “Hey, stop. Get the hell away from

them.”

“Mind your own business,” one of the men shot back.

“I said, stop it!” the cabbie replied as he emerged from the

cab, a gun in his right hand and a cell phone in his left. Th at he

was white and overweight, and wore a Jets sweatshirt, meant

nothing; all they saw was the big automatic. Th at was all it took

for the men to turn and run.

Th e Good Samaritan rushed over and helped Kashif lift

himself up. Jumana remained inert on the ground, a pool of blood

spreading from under her head.

It had all been a blur for Abdul- Muqtadir Kashif. A New York

Police Department cruiser had appeared minutes after the cab-

bie had called 911. Shortly after that, an ambulance had arrived.


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Th e EMT’s placed Jumana on a gurney, started an IV, and put

her in the ambulance. Lights fl ashing and siren blaring they

raced south on 7th Avenue and East on 31st Street to reach the

New York University Langone urgent care center on 1st Avenue.

Despite his protests, the doctors would not let him in the

OR. He was put in a waiting room for those who were with

critically- injured patients. Th ere he sat for over three hours, the

worst three hours of his life, but the next few minutes were

about to be more awful than those hours.

“Mr. Kashif?” the man with the green scrubs asked softly.

He had coal black hair, soft brown eyes, the smooth olive skin

and broad handsome features that marked him as of the upper

caste. It was 0430, and in his state Kashif saw only the physician.

“Yes, yes, Doctor?”

“Sir, your wife will be wheeled into ICU recovery in a bit,

but it may be some time before you can see her. Does she have

an advanced directive?”

“Advanced directive?”

“Yes, an advanced directive. Sir, your wife has severe inter-

nal injuries and major head trauma. We’ve already removed her

spleen and she has at least four broken ribs. I’m sorry, sir, but you

must be prepared for the worst.”

Abdul- Muqtadir Kashif just gasped, but what would follow

would be worse.

“Sir, would you sit down, please?” the doctor asked, gently

taking Kashif ’s arm and helping him into a chair.

“Mr. Kashif, I’m sorry to say your wife has suff ered major

head trauma and is in a deep coma. We have taken an initial


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out of the ashes 11

MRI and based on those results we’ve woken up our chief neu-

rologist and he’ll be arriving in less than an hour. We’ll know

more then, but I can’t tell you with certainty your wife will ever

wake up. Th at’s why I asked you if she had an advanced direc-

tive— in the event her injuries are irreversible.”

“I want to see her.”

“Sir, you can’t see her. She wouldn’t know you were there

anyway, and she’s surrounded by doctors, nurses, and life- support

equipment.”

“Please, I want to see her,” Kashif implored.

Something in his pleading eyes moved the doctor. “Only

through the ICU glass, all right?”

“Yes.”

Kashif hardly even remembered the doctor steadying him

as if he were a tottering old man as they walked the short dis-

tance to the ICU room that contained his once- vibrant wife.

His eyes went wide with horror at the sight of Jumana. He

broke free from the doctor and ran back the way he had come,

weeping bitterly. Th e doctor followed closely behind.

Kashif collapsed in a chair in the waiting room, still sob-

bing openly, as the doctor sat down with him, putting his steady

hand on his shoulder. “Sir, is there someone we can call for you?”

“No.”

“Are you staying nearby?”

“Yes.”

“Sir, can I get you something; a sedative perhaps?”

“No. No. I just need to make some calls. You’ve been very

kind. I will be all right here.”


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Reluctantly, the doctor had left Kashif alone in the waiting

area. An hour had passed and Kashif had sat doing nothing but

thinking. He knew he should call his oldest daughter, now six-

teen, back in Kuwait City, tell her what had happened, and have

her break the news to her two younger sisters. Yet what news?

Th at their mother might be a vegetable for the rest of her life?

He couldn’t fi nd the right words, so that call would have to wait.

Kashif felt the bile building and his rage simmering. He

had led a good and righ teous life and followed the teachings

of the Prophet— to a point. What had just happened to them

would not stand. Th eir life had been so blessed. Now it was all

but ended and ended by drunken Americans angered by nothing

more than the fact their sports team had lost. Th is was worse

than Eu rope and their stupid soccer! Th ey needed to pay and

they needed to pay as dearly as he was now paying.

Most Americans shared the misconception that all Arabs

who had wealth were distant cousins of some Middle East mon-

arch, but Abdul Kashif was more than just another wealthy

Arab, though few who knew him thought of him as anything

more. He was too quiet, too reserved, and not showy as were

most Arabs who had money. Kashif had taken his family’s mod-

est funds, his degree in fi nance from the London School of Eco-

nomics, a work ethic that would have won approval from Warren

Buff ett, and the underworld connections of an unsavory uncle

from his wife’s side of the family, and had amassed a consider-

able fortune. It now amounted to several hundred million dol-

lars. He was wealthy and now, for the fi rst time in his life he was

consumed with rage— rage and the desire for revenge.


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out of the ashes 13

Some Arabs with the fi nancial resources of Abdul-

Muqtadir Kashif contributed to radical Arab causes. Th ose who

did secreted these funds to Arab charities from which a good

portion of the money found its way into the off shore accounts of

those who ran the charities. Th ose monies that did fi nd their

way to a serious terrorist or ga ni za tion like al Qaeda in the Ara-

bian Peninsula were used by Arabs aligned with AQAP to kill

other Arabs. Kashif had no intention of spending his hard-

earned money that way.

While he was consumed by rage and the need for revenge,

he was not blinded by it. If America was to be punished for what

had just happened to him and his beloved Jumana, then it needed

to be done professionally and with some precision. A strike like

the one Osama bin Laden and Mohammad Atta had brought

about on 9/11 was no longer possible. Th e Americans were too

well prepared to allow a repeat of that event. However, there had

to be a way, Kashif thought. He was a businessman, and there

was always a way.

He picked up his cell phone and called a particularly capa-

ble and discrete Lebanese who sometimes worked for his wife’s

uncle and arranged for him to fl y to New York. With that single

call, he had set in motion the events that would once again bring

America to its knees.


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Ch a p t er T wo

Aboard Eva Air Flight BR0017

(November 9, 1330 Eastern Standard Time)

Azka Perkasa sat in the midlevel comfort of his business- class

accommodations. When the fl ight attendant came by with the

drink cart, he asked for tea. Th e attendant was polite and de-

mure, and he lowered his head in thanks for her kind attention

and ser vice. He had left Washington’s Dulles Airport early

Sunday morning on a direct fl ight to San Francisco. Now he was

fl ying on an Eva Air 747- 400 that would take him from San

Francisco to Taipei and then on to Kuala Lumpur. He was glad

to be on a Taiwanese carrier and even more glad to be out of

American airspace. He almost always fl ew coach class; as his

current occupation dictated that he keep a low profi le, but after

what he had just accomplished, he felt that just this once he

could allow himself a small plea sure.

Perkasa was Indonesian by birth, Chinese by ethnicity, and

Christian in his upbringing and education. His paternal grand-

father had left Hong Kong under a cloud of shame his parents

refused to talk about. Th ey settled fi rst in Jakarta, but, following


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out of the ashes 15

yet another business reversal, moved to the West Java city of

Bandung. His family was poor to the point of despair, and Per-

kasa and his three sisters had grown up with barely enough to eat.

Being both poor and Chinese caused his family to be shunned

by both the small but affl uent Chinese minority and the Javanese

majority.

At the mission school, he proved to be an exceedingly bright

student. He studied hard, kept to himself, and vowed that he

would someday not be poor and hungry. When a typhoon de-

stroyed their home, he left without a word and headed back to

Jakarta. Th ere he found work as a janitor for an American fi rm of

consulting engineers who designed the skyscrapers that seemed

to springing up everywhere in the capital city. Th ere he was no-

ticed, trained as a clerk, then as a draftsman. Finally, one of the

se nior engineers said, “Th is Azka is a bright lad. Let’s get him to

the polytechnic. Might even put us in a good light with the locals

come contract time.”

He again excelled in school, but he would always be one of

them, a token local; he would never be a partner and never see

the inside of the boardroom. He wanted more, much more. One

day, seemingly out of the blue, a rival fi rm just down the street

from his approached him with an off er of cash for information

about a bid his fi rm was about to submit on another high rise;

specifi cally, the amount of the bribe his fi rm had off ered to the

building authority. He gave them the information without hesi-

tation and pocketed the money.

Shortly thereafter, the same fi rm came to him demanding

more information. Th is time, instead of off ering payment, they


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said they would inform on him if he did not comply. Azka reluc-

tantly agreed to do their bidding, but before he did what they

asked, a large explosion ripped through the offi ces of that fi rm

during working hours, causing great loss of life. When the blast

took place, he was in his cubicle, calculating the load bearing of

the I-beams on one of his fi rm’s projects. He felt the slight move-

ment as the pressure wave passed, smiled to himself, and contin-

ued with his calculations. Later that month, he resigned his

position with the American engineering fi rm; he had found a new

calling.

Th e life of an ethnic Chinese in Jakarta with no family was

an isolated and lonely existence. Yet Azka didn’t mind; he had

his work, although that work took only one or two weeks every

few months. He had discretely made contact with an element of

a Singapore triad operating in Jakarta. With only a post offi ce

box that served the interests of all concerned, Azka had a new

employer, and one that paid well.

Azka was physically a slight man, partly from his ancestry

and party from his lack of a proper diet when he was a child.

He had regular features, a pronounced overbite, and a lazy left

eye that was the result of a bout with scarlet fever that had gone

untreated. One day soon, Azka told himself, I will be wealthy

enough to leave this place and purchase a better life. Aside from his

intellect and training, he had another advantage to aid in his new

calling. He was a man totally devoid of compassion or conscience.

Finally, his day had arrived and he would be wealthy.

When he took the job, Abdul- Muqtadir Kashif, through

his Lebanese intermediary, had assured him US$10,000 for


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out of the ashes 17

every American life he took. He hoped to earn close to US$20

million from this venture. It was not as much as the Americans

paid to their contractors, like Blackwater and Triple Canopy, but

it was still a tidy sum. Th e contracting of mercenaries had worked

well for the United States. Was he not entitled to his share in

this killing- for- hire business?

Azka looked at his watch; it would not be long now, minutes

perhaps.


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Tom Clancy's Op-Center: Out of the Ashes