by Dan Fox
Kabul, Afghanistan, late Spring 2012
‘You play a very dangerous game my friend’ retorted Maahir Kermani, the current and increasingly desperate President of Afghanistan, ‘The United Nations might not be wise enough to understand your nefarious plans, but the Americans will expect such things to happen. They will keep looking for such things even if they’re not there. They have people who would stop your heart with fear just by looking at you. They have people who do not play by their own rules. Be warned my friend, continue with this deception and they will kill you.’
Assim Karuna was a little angry now and maybe a little scared. He would be more careful in future. Perhaps he would refrain from discussing these particular matters with Maahir Kermani. Yes, that was what he would do.
‘Thank you, Sir, for your advice. I will heed it’, Assim Karuna bowed slightly, turned around and left the room.
Assim Karuna had started his working life as a very junior clerk in the Afghani equivalent of the British Civil Service. Whilst he had been given a fairly good education which had cost his now deceased parents a small fortune, he had never performed very well. He’d only got the clerk’s job because of family connections. His problem was low ability coupled with extreme ambition. He could imagine himself taking over the Afghani Presidency one day. He was an out and out dreamer. In reality he had as much chance as a snowball in hell, but everyone loves a trier, and Assim Karuna tried harder than most.
Generally he got his promotions and positions of responsibility by being a continual pain in the arse. His superiors simply gave in. He was simply too much like hard work. He’d only got the job of an Aide to the president because his predecessor had been killed in a bomb attack and Assim was immediately on hand telling everyone he could do the job. In truth President Maahir Kermani rarely used him for anything or anything important anyway. In American terms he was a Dork.
Because he had little to do and a lot of time with which to do it, he fantasised about his future role and imagined all sorts of scenarios where he could tell the foreign forces to quit the country. Whilst he was not a particularly devout Muslim or an extremist, he did love his country and hated the way it was being broken apart by what to him was a form of Civil War.
He believed that getting rid of the foreign forces and letting the Taliban take back control would re-stabilise the country and cure its economic ills overnight. He was certifiable but had got himself into a position of some influence and he was intent on using that position and the power that came with it.
He had wheedled his way onto a number of influential committees often substituting for someone who was ill or otherwise engaged. He would turn up to meetings he had not been invited to when the other attendees assumed the president had sent him. Had they been aware of how low an opinion the President of Afghanistan held for Assim Karuna, he would have been shown the door, but Karuna was obsessive and annoyingly persistent.
It was from these committees and meetings that he gleaned information about troop movements and certain planned operations. It was this sort of information that threatened the UN and American forces and why he was now under suspicion. He was not clever enough to cover his tracks properly not realising the simple tenet that everyone was under suspicion until they were proved to be loyal and even then they were checked and double checked from time to time.
The forces involved had a couple of very close calls and it became patently obvious that there were leaks from inside at least one of the committees. When the net was drawn a little tighter, his name stood out along with a couple of other possibilities. Had he not been so pig ignorant and stubborn he might have realised he was leaving a sizeable trail but his narcissistic belief in his own self-importance had long since overridden any rational thinking or concerns for his welfare.
His prime ambition was to stir up trouble mainly with the American forces. He believed that some significant deaths in the scale of hundreds or more at a time would force the American government to re-think its presence there. Certainly public opinion in the United States was not good when Afghanistan was referred to, and the United States President and the ruling party were probably more controlled by the whims of the people than any other country on earth.
After his scolding by President Maahir Kermani, Assim Karuna got a chauffeur to take him to his home only a mile or so from his place of work. He lived on his own in an impressive apartment and had a domestic assistant available a few times a week to do the usual cleaning, washing, ironing and a little cooking. She would not be there today. He would have the place to himself with the exception of his normal bodyguard who was assigned to him by the Presidential Palace. His bodyguard could have a few hours off today and come back later. There were things Karuna needed to do which were better done in private. After his bodyguard had gone, Karuna rummaged through his belongings until he had sorted out a few special items of clothing and went into his dressing room to prepare himself.
Two hours later and quite heavily but amateurishly disguised, he entered a small café in the far east of the city, sat down and began talking in a very quiet voice to the most unremarkable Afghani he had ever met who sat next to him. After this meeting he would still be hard pressed to describe his face.
‘I have covered my tracks well’, said Karuna, ‘I hope you have too?’ The Afghani nodded. ‘In the next two to three months there are many things about to happen with the United Nations and the Americans that you need to be prepared for. I do not have all the details yet, but when I do you shall have them. It might be wise to disperse your men a little wider until I have better information.’
The Afghani, a top boy with the Taliban, nodded gently, finished his thick, black coffee and left. Five minutes later Assim Karuna left as well and was noticeably more careful with his counter surveillance techniques since his chat with President Kermani. He would meet again with the Afghani in two weeks. It was likely to be the same café although he would find out when and where in due course.
The poor, penniless cripple who had sat on the dirty floor in a corner of the café opposite them, left about ten minutes later. In the shadows of the alley outside the café he carefully removed his earpiece from under his long, matted hair, and stowed it with his voice recorder which he had now switched off. He gently slid the top of the crutch to one side and deposited his surveillance equipment in there and hobbled away. He thought of Karuna and his amateur attempts at the double agent. It was so funny he could have laughed out loud.
The cripple was a very talented freelance under-cover agent who happened to work well for those who paid him well. He made his way back towards his home very carefully, frequently stopping to check that he was not being followed. He would wait in building recesses and hide in alleyways until he was absolutely sure that he was not under surveillance. He always reminded himself that those who didn’t perform adequate counter surveillance measures often failed the test for living longer.
When the cripple got back to his home which was little more than a hovel, deliberately, he securely locked and bolted his more than sturdy door, and then checked for signs of entry. There were always six small traps set which gave him a lot of leeway. Those trained to break into properties without leaving any trace would expect to find a few traps set and be most careful to leave them intact. They wouldn’t expect to find or even look for six. This was not a James Bond movie where a strand of hair would make all the difference.
When he was satisfied he walked over to an old cabinet against a wall, reached down behind it and flicked a switch. With a little humming noise a small computer keyboard and screen rose out of the cabinet. He switched the machine on and went make himself some tea. When he came back to the desk with his tea, he was in time to login to his secure network and off into the ether to make his report. He poured a little whiskey into his tea and put the small bottle back in place within his swirling robes. He drank a little of the tea savouring the sharp whisky taste and logged in.
He then started typing
a brief message to his coded counterpart who he assumed was somewhere in America. He reported briefly on the meeting between Assim Karuna and the top dog Taliban man whose name he didn’t know. He doubted that Karuna knew it either. He then signed off and returned the computer to the cabinet. I hope they are in time he said to himself.
Chapter 14
Andrews Air Force Base, Early 2012
Rani Desai had previously applied for an Airfield trucking vacancy at Andrews Air Force Base’s Catering Corps and got the job not apparently minding the mandatory unsocial working hours.
Andrews Air Force Base, later to be known as Joint Base Andrews, lies just a few miles to the south east of Washington DC and covers an area of almost seven square miles. It is ‘home’ to over sixteen thousand personnel and their families.
Rani had completed a month’s worth of rigorous induction training for his trucking job without a problem. After that month he was a free agent and took on full normal duties. He was conscientious, hard-working and a pleasant person to deal with. He was never a problem. He could be relied upon to do the right thing. His bosses wanted more people like him. They could phone him at any time of the day or night and he’d go to work. No problem. No problem at all.
Dado Desai, his slightly younger twin brother who’d been seconded by Boeing from his job at Grange Engineering had always worked long hours. He often worked past the end of one shift and into another. There were always gaps in time between one person leaving to wash up and the next arriving at the job. The security men were not that different. They had been on the job for too long and were becoming stale and idle and bored.
Staff rotation was poor for them and after all nothing had ever happened. So occasionally they did drop off the job or turn out late or sometimes not turn up at all. The president would have had a fit if he knew about any of these lapses in the supposedly tight security.
Dado’s most recent job entailed working on the presidential Jumbo’s. His seconded role from Grange Engineering to Boeing was on the air flow and air conditioning systems. He was currently doing experimental work on Air Force Two.
All the main electronics and services are towards the rear of a 747 just behind the main cargo area on the lower deck. In these heavily modified military versions known as VC25’s the internal configuration was like nothing you’d ever seen. There were Kitchens, Bathrooms, Bedrooms, Conference Rooms, Communications Rooms and Press Rooms. The list went on and on. The president would spend most of his time on the main deck where he had his suite and facilities for his closest advisors. The upper deck was for the crew, their lounge and communications.
Whenever either plane was due to take-off from Andrews it was first scanned by Air Force crews with the most advanced surveillance equipment available. Every inch, every nook and cranny was searched. Clearance for take-off was only given if there was absolutely no problem. No strange electrical transmissions would get past those checks.
Military Police with trained dogs guarded the planes and anyone who went near them had to have special clearance. As a ‘bona fide’ employee of Boeing, Dado had the necessary clearance.
On behalf of Boeing, Dado had spent many hours poring over the air conditioning plans for these special 747s. Ostensibly he was trying to improve the air quality and rate of flow.
After a little trial and error he came up with pipe junction immediately before the main filter and compressor unit which he thought required more work. He explained his plan to his superiors and produced detailed drawings which were carefully scrutinised. The plans were approved because the modification made sense and were well designed.
Dado was a trusted employee.
Chapter 15
Extremadura, Spain, late Spring 2012
Team Headquarters
Steve Black, the special ops team leader, got as far as the hills surrounding their remote Spanish Finca on his trail bike. He’d flown into Madrid from Malaga having arrived there by a circuitous route from Chicago in the United States. He’d just returned from the private job in the Windy City. The trail bike was in a lock-up not far from the airport. Motor bikes in Spain are anonymous. Anonymous was good.
He checked around for the signs that surviving ex Special Forces personnel look for in order to survive longer. When he was satisfied he rode down to their location, parked the bike against a wall and went into their building through the kitchen door. He felt good. The ankle sprain he’d picked up on the quick exit from Chicago was nearly gone.
The Finca, or ranch or farmstead, doubled as a bed & breakfast and a remote pony trekking centre. Some forty years before it had been a working farm. After the owner had died it laid empty and unused for many years. In the late 1980s it had been taken over to run a horse and pony trekking business which lasted a few years until consecutive recessions had taken their toll. It was too far out of the way and without reasonable accommodation nearby for holidaymakers and tourists. Again the farm and its buildings lay empty for some years until Steve sought it out and pumped money into it.
Significant building and renovation work took place with the outbuildings being converted into Bed and Breakfast accommodation and the stables were refurbished. Steve took the main farmhouse itself and renovated it to provide five large bedrooms and three bathrooms. The downstairs boasted a huge kitchen, an immense superbly appointed lounge with panoramic views of the beautiful countryside and a number of multi-purpose smaller rooms. These north facing quarters were neatly separated behind the main trekking business premises with some close relations of Jean McKenzie running the fronted show. There were plenty of people coming and going throughout the year. Great cover for a black ops base. There was plenty of open land with a variety of terrain to train and practice in.
The Finca was in the remote hills a few miles north of Navalvillar de Pela, roughly equidistant from Lisbon to the west, and Madrid which was on the main A-5 highway less than four hours away to the north east. There were also a few local airfields scattered around if you needed to get anywhere really quickly by private plane or helicopter.
Steve grabbed a beer from the large American style fridge and dropped into a farmhouse chair. He put his feet up on the big old scrubbed wooden table and relaxed giving his ankle a little more rest in the process. He surveyed the old flagstone floored kitchen with a smile. He loved this place. To him it was home, well the only one he’d had that felt like it for many years.
Jackson Leonard, the special ops team’s Quartermaster, came into the kitchen from inside the house, almost smiled at Steve and likewise pulled a beer from the fridge. ‘You want another beer?’ said Jackson. Steve shook his head and smiled thanks. They said little else. Enough talk would be had when the others arrived.
Jackson was an ex-Marine, slightly shorter but heavier than Steve, with a bald black head and was in his mid-thirties. He knew every weapon imaginable and could take them apart, clean them and re-assemble them in record time, blindfold. Not only was he their Quartermaster, he was also a bloody good sniper. He was one of life’s good guys and had been seconded to one of Steve’s earlier missions some years ago in Iraq. He’d proved most useful and very loyal. He was big and tough and very brave. He was thirty-one years old when he was given this opportunity and took it gratefully.
He never talked much about his early life. People knew he’d spent most of it in an Orphanage but he didn’t seem to need to say more. He had no family that he knew of and was probably the only member of the team not to be wary of Jean McKenzie.
It was a sad fact that Jackson Leonard was a very lonely man. He never phoned or wrote to anyone, he didn’t send birthday or Christmas cards and more to the point he didn’t receive any. It was as though he had cut himself off from the rest of the world.
If it had been possible to get him to discuss his situation, which it wouldn’t, the answer would be that his family were the team, his friends were the team and his loyalties were only to the team and of course his mother country, its president and The American Way.
He believed that the job that Steve Black had given him by inviting him to join the team was and always would be the best job in the world. He would lay his life down in an instant were it necessary to do so and particularly if one of the team’s lives were in danger.
Such behaviour was exemplified by a recent job in the Yemen when they were deliberately targeted in a ‘friendly fire’ incident. Jackson realising they had been betrayed before the others did, deliberately shielded Steve from a burst of gunfire by standing between Steve and the gunman and took five rounds in the back for his trouble. It gave Steve the opportunity to nail the gunman but Jackson surely would have been dead had it not been for his body armour. The problem the rest of the team had was that Jackson would have done exactly the same thing even if he hadn’t been wearing the body armour such was his loyalty to Steve and the team.
It was Jean McKenzie who should be the next to arrive. She was a pert, striking, almost pretty and relatively slim girl of twenty-eight with a terrific figure. What you didn’t see on the outside was the second Dan Martial Arts credentials until you were in real trouble.
The word was that she was a very good shag but only on her terms. The last guy who tried to force himself on her, which in her view meant he tried to rape her, now lived in a wheelchair courtesy of the broken back she’d given him. She had remarked afterwards that he could now look down upon his flaccid pride and joy knowing that it would never rise again with the dawn. Everyone in the team treated her with immense respect and just a little fear.
Jean was born to an English mother and an American father and was brought up in a leafy north London suburb. Her father was something to do with the American Diplomatic Corps and her mother had always been involved with voluntary work for local hospitals. Their car went off the road on the way home from an Embassy function, burst into flames, and they were burnt to a crisp. Excess alcohol was suspected as the cause.