Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  “This is a better look at the target.” She again flipped the sheet to show a precise layout of the Makondo compound. “This is a composite rendering of the site from the architectural drawings and landscape design. You will see marked in red—here, here, and here—what appear to be security positions with machine gun emplacements. This outbuilding here is where we think the security element keeps itself when not on duty. Apparently their barracks are inside the hotel. This is all we have from the limited satellite coverage of the area. Given the size of the guard force, there have to be more security emplacements than we are seeing here from these few fixed defensive positions.

  “There will be five phases to the operation. Phase one will be the approach to the target. This will comprise of getting the assault force across the Zambezi to the target, and to get the support assets in place. Akheem, this will give you two full days to get through the mountains. Phase two will be a twelve-to-twenty-four-hour period to observe the target and make the final refinement to the assault plan. Phase three will be the actual assault, which is planned for zero four hundred four days from now. With the facility secure, we will begin phase four, a careful inspection of the hotel for signs of bio-weapons activity. Phase five will be the extraction to the forward operating base. If all goes well, we will be clear of Zambian airspace and on our way to Nairobi in a little more than four days from now—if all goes well. I will be your tactical controller, and I will do my level best to see that it does.

  “We have an hour and a half before the first helicopter arrives. By noon, I want this hangar empty, except for the vans, and completely sanitized. Questions so far?” There were none. “All right, let’s get started with the details of phase one.”

  The briefing lasted for a little over an hour. It was designed primarily for the Africans; Brisco would conduct separate briefings for the aircrews and support elements. Steven Fagan stood alongside Garrett while she detailed the infiltration to the target area. They listened carefully; both had been in the business of covert and special operations long enough to know a brilliant operational plan when they saw it. Two Bell Jet Rangers would arrive shortly after dawn, along with a stake truck driven by one of Benjamin Sato’s cousins. The operational equipment and most of the men would be loaded onto the truck, while the medical boxes were put on the Jet Rangers with the remaining Africans. The helos would return midmorning and begin ferrying pumps and water purification equipment out to projects managed by Africare and Water Aid International. Jet Rangers are the most common helicopters found in Africa, used extensively in moving equipment too fragile for the primitive roads, and for flying tourists out to see wild game and to view Victoria Falls. A military version of the Jet Ranger, the OH-58 Kiowa, had been used by militaries around the world for four decades. These two aircraft were owned and operated by the Simpson Foundation, but flown by contract pilots with extensive military special operations experience. One of the first things Janet Brisco had done when it became apparent that they would stage out of Zambia was to get two of these helicopters headed for Lusaka along with crack maintenance crews. Until they were again needed, the helos would fly humanitarian sorties for NGOs working in Zambia.

  Early that afternoon, the two vans left hangar B-5, which was again as deserted as it had been only twenty-four hours earlier. Both vans bore the logo of the Zambia Electricity Supply Company, Ltd., or ZESCO, and had the documentation to prove it. They were headed for the rural area of southeastern Zambia to survey for a new power line that was to run from the Central African Power Corporation generation site at the Kariba Dam, across Zambia, and into Tanzania. Since the prospective power lines were to run across the Lower Zambezi National Park, the route had to be carefully chosen. Steven, Dodds LeMaster, and Bill Owens all had CAPC documentation. Two of Tomba’s men who were with them had ZESCO identification as vehicle drivers. Since it would be odd for a Zambian woman to have technical expertise, Janet was identified as an American consultant with the Zambia Media Women’s Association, visiting the area with the survey crew in the hope of catching a herd of elephants or zebra. The documentation didn’t have to be all that good, so long as they had something to hand a curious constable along with a 50,000-kwacha note.

  Late that afternoon, Garrett and Elvis Rosenblatt arrived at Chiawa Camp in the Lower Zambezi National Park. One of Africa’s top safari camps, it carried a five-star rating in the guidebooks. The camp, if it could be called that, was on the northern shore of the Zambezi River. The grounds were spacious and well tended. Guest accommodations consisted of large tents with slatted teak floors, queen beds, high-draped mosquito netting, cushioned rattan armchairs, and Victorian nightstands complete with a large porcelain bowl and water pitcher. There were fine cotton sheets and chocolates on the pillow. It was a setting that Katharine Hepburn, filming The African Queen, would have been quite comfortable with. And it was also just the kind of place that would attract two wealthy Canadian real estate brokers.

  “Now this is what I call roughing it. And here I thought we’d be out in the bush with the tsetse flies and the hyenas. This is really cool,” Elvis Rosenblatt happily remarked as he surveyed the camp surroundings. A black man in shorts and a sparkling white T-shirt with the Chiawa Camp logo, two Cs superimposed with an elephant in the center, arrived with their luggage. Giving his name as Alfred, he placed a bottle of Crown Royal on the table next to the cut-crystal glass service and ice bucket. Alfred addressed them as “bwana,” and explained that he would be their personal helper while they were in camp. They could come to the main lodge for dinner, he explained, or he would bring it to them. They told him that they would dine in.

  “Bwana,” Rosenblatt said after Alfred had departed with Garrett’s bag to deliver it to the tent-bungalow next door. “I’ve always wanted to be called that. This is great. And you can be my manservant and gun bearer. ‘Oh, Walker. Please bring up the Mannlicher big-bore. I think blighter is about to charge.’”

  “Don’t push it, Elvis,” Garrett replied.

  Ten minutes later they were sitting on director’s chairs under Garrett’s tent fly, sipping Crown Royal and watching the broad, muddy Zambezi flow past them, right to left. Garrett, who was no stranger to wild splendor, had never seen anything quite like this. They sat in an awed silence.

  “I’ve gotta get out of Atlanta more often,” Rosenblatt finally said. Garrett freshened up their drinks.

  In the manner of two businessmen on African safari, they had left the hotel for Lusaka International midmorning and been flown by air charter to the Jeki airfield deep inside the National Park. It was a half-hour flight into the dirt strip, and two hours by Land Rover to the camp. The drive should have been only an hour, but they stopped to observe and photograph a herd of elephants and a family of giraffes.

  Alfred arrived, quickly set up a camp table, and served them a groundnut stew over a bed of jollof rice and ashanti chicken. A traditional sub-Saharan meal does not include appetizer or dessert. Alfred left them with a carafe of hot coffee and withdrew.

  “Is this typical spy work? You do this kind of thing all the time?”

  Garrett’s mind was across the Zambezi, up in the rugged Mavuradonha Mountains, where AKR, Tomba, and the others were soon to cross. It would be a brutal forced march with very little sleep, but he would trade his luxurious setting in an instant to be with the assault team.

  “This is about it, Elvis. Another continent, another five-star outing. Just one patch of tall clover after another.”

  “So what do we do while we wait? They’ve got everything here—river cruises, canoe trips, game drives, fishing, you name it. After all, we have to maintain our cover, right?”

  “I don’t want to be more than a couple of hours from camp and the helo pad. We wait in luxury, but we have to be ready to move. I’ve booked us on a series of day bush walks with one of the camp rangers. He carries the gun, we carry cameras and photograph game.”

  “Then we come back here for drinks, and Alfred brings us dinn
er?”

  “That’s it. War is hell, but someone has to do it. We’ll have to earn our keep soon enough, but for now, we’ll just have to tough it out in this hellhole.”

  Rosenblatt poured coffee, and they sat in silence, watching the clouds at the foothills of the mountains on the Zimbabwean side as they were set afire by the last rays of the sun.

  The two vans, with their ZESCO markings, were led by a battered Toyota pickup truck over mostly unimproved roads southeast from Lusaka. The Toyota was driven by Benjamin’s uncle on his mother’s side, along with his son. They knew the roads and were able to find their way, even after dark. Two hours after sundown, about the same time Garrett Walker and Elvis Rosenblatt were pouring themselves a nightcap, the dirt-covered vans and their escort arrived at the Jeki airfield. This was some eight hours after the air charter that had delivered the two Canadian businessmen had departed on the return leg back to Lusaka. Tomba and one of his men were there to meet them. They had set up a small base camp across the dirt strip from the ranger shack that served as the runway office. Janet and Steven got out, stretched, and began to inspect the area by lantern light. They could hear hyenas howling in the distance. Charter aircraft and a few intrepid private pilots used the 3,000-foot-strip at Jeki several times a week to shuttle guests to Chiawa Camp and for other national park business. It was a natural place for a survey crew to spend a few days. Resupply by Jet Ranger would be in keeping with their business.

  “Welcome to the bush, Miss Janet, Steven.” Tomba said in greeting. “I believe you will be safe here, and no one will bother you. A park ranger is assigned to monitor traffic at the airstrip, but he has been paid and knows you are with CAPA. He may come around out of boredom, as he has very few duties to keep him busy. Once we are away, Benjamin will be back here with you to oversee your camp. He and one of my men will remain with you, along with his uncle and cousin. A few of the local people may come from the bush and approach, perhaps to beg for food or out of curiosity. Benjamin will be here to deal with them.”

  “The medical equipment?” Steven asked. There was more staged than would probably be needed, but they had planned for all contingencies.

  “The helicopter delivered it as planned, and it is cached under that tree over there, along with the other supplies. The rains are late this year, but they could come at any time. Everything is on pallets and in waterproof containers, and covered with a tarpaulin. So,” he said, smiling as he turned to Janet. “How do you like Africa?”

  “It’s a little like what I expected, but I was not prepared for the vastness. Somehow, I didn’t imagine that it was so…so empty.”

  “I know you and the others will be busy with your duties, but as they permit, ask Benjamin to take you on a walk in the bush. It can be very settling. But do not go without him.”

  She looked around to where the lantern light was lost in the blackness of low scrub. “I think you can count on me not taking five steps from camp unless he is with me.”

  “Excellent,” Tomba replied. “And now the others and I must leave. Benjamin will return before first light. Allow him and his relatives to deal with the park rangers and others who are curious. And relax. Africa can be a frightening place, but it is not as dangerous as one might think.”

  “Good luck to you, Tomba.”

  “And to you, Janet. If all goes according to your excellent plan, I will see you back here in less than four days.” He formally offered his hand to Steven and left them.

  Tomba, the two who had served as drivers, and his other fighter climbed into the pickup and drove away. The others busied themselves around the small camp. Benjamin’s uncle, a silent man of undetermined age named Godfrey, and his son, Christian, started to erect tents and tended the small fire. Dodds LeMaster and Bill Owens began to get the two vans set up. As survey support vehicles, they could be expected to have some creature comforts along with some electronic gear, but that was not the half of it. The two vans were crammed with state-of-the art, solid-state components and microprocessors. The vehicles were connected with thick umbilical cables, and two small satellite antennas were set out a short distance away, each camouflaged with canvas drape. Inside each van were two consoles served by flat-plasma screens and a host of computer-driven electronics and communication equipment. The genius of Dodds LeMaster and the miracle of microtechnology had given these two dingy-looking vans the capability of a large, well-equipped military command center.

  Steven found Janet by the fire. He took a canvas stool and pulled it alongside her as Christian approached and quietly handed them each a mug of tea. There were night sounds, but they were comfortably in the distance. It was cooling off nicely, and the canopy of stars was breathtaking.

  “You’ve done a great job with the planning and logistic flow,” Steven said, “and in an amazingly short period of time. Thanks for all your hard work.”

  She smiled. “I appreciate your saying so, but isn’t that what you pay me for?”

  “I suppose so. But I do have a question for you.” She sipped at the sweet, strong tea as he spoke. “With the dedicated satellite links and the technology of the vans, you could be controlling this operation from our base in Diego Garcia, or from the embassy compound in Nairobi. Or even from a warehouse in Lusaka. Why out here?”

  Janet Brisco considered this. On Tomba’s advice, they had decided to remain in Lusaka no longer than necessary and to get their small force broken into small groups as soon as practical. Much of what they were doing looked like mercenary activity or a smuggling operation, and would invite official and unofficial attention. Their presence at any embassy compound would have had to come at the expense of some State Department knowledge and approval. Most embassy staff were hardworking professionals, but they did talk. In African capitals, the embassy compounds were well-guarded American ghettos, where everyone seemed to know about everyone else’s business. They had previously used Diego Garcia to control IFOR activity, and it was both secure and very private. But during that mission, they were operating in Iran and the operation was totally black—no one knew who they were or why they were there. Africa was more like operating in Arizona or New Mexico, only the officials were bribable. But it was more than that.

  One of the reasons Janet had come out of retirement to serve as planner and tactical coordinator for IFOR was the freedom and trust afforded her by Steven and the others. He could have asked this question back in Hawaii when they were putting this together, but he hadn’t. That he was asking now was a matter of curiosity, not trust.

  “The operational security of what we do, given our lack of official portfolio, is always going to be something of a tradeoff. Out here our OPSEC is probably as good as anywhere else. Since we don’t know what or who we’re dealing with, they could have agents just about anywhere, especially in large cities. And it’s imperative that our men get there unobserved and undetected. Moving like this—hiding in plain sight—seemed to be the best way.” She was silent for a moment, and Steven, always the careful listener, did not intrude. “Since this is our first operation with the Africans,” she continued, “I thought it would be important for them and for us that we’re out here with them. Of course, we’ll not be doing what we are asking them to do, but they see it as our sharing some of the risk. I believe our being here, even in the safety of camp, will help the mission.”

  Steven nodded. “I agree with you that it will most likely help the mission. Tell me something else. You’re African; how does it feel to be here? Were you not drawn back to see something of Africa, out of curiosity if nothing else?”

  “You mean the roots thing and all that?” She smiled and lit a cigarette. “Steven, I grew up in East St. Louis. I’m used to the city, the smog, the lights, and all the creature comforts of the mall. I drive a Lexis, and I have a big-screen TV. When I’m not with you running special operations, I’m going to PTA meetings or getting my nails done.” She suddenly became serious. “When the operational considerations put us here, I was excited;
I thought perhaps there would be some movement in my soul about ‘returning’ to Africa—the land of my people and all that. Well, it ain’t happened. It’s beautiful—dramatically beautiful—but in all honesty, it’s foreign. I’m an American, just like you. I just have black skin. When the job is done, I’m going to want to go home to America. Still, from what I’ve seen of it, it’s beautiful and very peaceful.”

  Dodds LeMaster stepped into the glow of the campfire. “Am I interrupting anything?”

  “Not at all, Dodds,” Janet replied. “Pull up a stool.”

  “I’ve just run a complete set of diagnostics on all the electronics,” LeMaster continued after he was seated by the fire, “and we have a clear satellite link—full communications and full backup. All the gear is up. We’re ready to go to work.”

  “How about comm checks?” Suddenly, she was all business.

  “I have AKR on satcomm and HF backup. He’s good to go. Garrett and Miss Burks are on encrypted sat links on both our dedicated channels. Bill has the first watch and is guarding all channels. I’ll relieve him midnight to four.”

  Sat phone technology was satellite communications technology. It was clear, secure, and reliable. Through Guardian Services International they had contracted for commercial satellite time with a dedicated primary channel and one for a backup. In the highly unlikely event of the failure of their satcomm links, they could always revert to old-fashioned high-frequency radio.

  Janet nodded and relaxed. “Good job. So now we wait for Tomba and the others to make the crossing and watch for indicators.” Then, turning to Steven, “So what’s on the menu this evening?”