Undeclared War

by Dennis Chalker

  With its grittiness and progressive electronic music, the Factory won over even the hardcore ravers. A rave was a place to go to release tensions and burn off excess energies. The subculture who flocked to raves preferred a place that offered them their distinctive style of techno music, dress, dance, and visual effects. It also would allow them to combine the atmosphere with open sexual behavior and consumables that included alcohol and psychedelic chemicals.

  What neither the suburban upscale clubbers or the ravers knew was that the Factory was just another means of feeding their decadent habits and taking their money in the process. Many things went on in the six-story old building, besides the frenzied dancing and sexual antics of the clubbers. Those who wanted to could find that there was more than alcoholic drinks and exotic cocktails available to them. Various top-quality drugs were available on the floor of the Factory.

  Sales of such things remained inside of the building and a very hard force of security goons saw to it that any entrepreneurs who sought to sell their own wares on Factory grounds quickly chose another line of work, once they had healed. Those who continued to sell never had the chance to heal after dealing with security a second time. The bulk of the security force had been recruited from the Arab community in Dearborn and surrounding areas.

  Speaking among themselves mostly in Arabic, the security people distanced themselves from the customers even as they watched them. All the security force were deeply committed believers in Wahhabi Islam, as such they considered themselves immune to the entreaties of even the prettiest of the clubbers.

  Local drug gangs let the Factory alone as long as it kept its retail share to itself and didn’t extend into their turf. If any of the dealers thought that their wholesalers might be supplied from the Factory, they kept that theory to themselves.

  Police and drug enforcement agencies never had any proof to substantiate a search warrant for the Factory. Informants knew better than to even consider dealing any information on the Factory to the authorities. The few who had tried had never been found, except as some unidentified parts left as private examples to others.

  The most modern scanning techniques and shielding kept listening devices from ever transmitting from inside the building, and wiretaps turned up nothing useful. The police and DEA never connected more than rumors to the Factory, and that wasn’t enough to get a warrant. Not that any authorities expected to get past the first floor of the place with any real chance of finding anything. The huge plant was small only by automotive manufacturer’s standards. The block-long edifice was a nightmare to a police agency.

  On the first floor, there were still remnants of the conveyor system and frames that had assembled cars decades before. The place could be a whirling flux of gyrating bodies during peak hours, and just a huge area to cover during slack times. All attempts to infiltrate undercover agents into the club had failed. Without having hard intelligence on what was going on inside the building on the upper floors, the police could do nothing. The only thing that was known was that the public owner had his offices on the sixth floor at the east end of the building.

  The owners of the Factory according to official documents was a consortium of investors. The listing of investors consisted of other businesses, holding companies, even mutual funds. Following the line of ownership would only result in running up against a blank wall as the paper trail disappeared into foreign finance laws. Liquor licenses and such were all in line with the necessary requirements, no legal details had been missed.

  A very stylish Steven Arzee showed himself on the club floor on occasion. He was listed as the executive manager of the club, but he reported to the real manager regularly.

  Cary Paxtun had opened the club several years earlier with funds from his overseas investors. He did not maintain quarters or offices in the Factory. The money from the legal aspects of the club were quite lucrative though they were small change in comparison to the profits from the drugs, money laundering, and other activities.

  Part of that money had gone through more fronts and businesses to pay for several very major land purchases. Two whole islands in Lake Michigan had been purchased almost outright by Paxtun through cutouts. He now maintained his quarters between a luxury high rise in downtown Detroit and the mansion of a private hunting club on South Wolverine Island in Lake Michigan. Paxtun’s privacy was very important to him, and so was the maintaining of cutouts between himself and his trusted lieutenant Steven Arzee.

  But in spite of his security and distance between the illegal activities of the Factory and himself, Paxtun was anything but a relaxed man. He had his own bosses that he had to satisfy. The overseas investors who not only had supplied him with funds, but were also his source of high-grade narcotics, had made demands on Paxtun. These demands were ones that he could not refuse, and must not fail to satisfy, and he was in the process of failing them now.

  “…officials said that the quantity of arms seized was the largest ever taken in Canada. Elsewhere in the news…”

  A thumb punched down hard on the remote control. The TV screen across the room immediately faded to black with a dull “snap” as the sound clicked off. Cary Paxtun looked up from the desk and snarled at Steven Arzee standing nearby.

  “How the fuck could this have happened?” Paxtun said. “That route was supposed to be solid. The weapons had been built into the bottom of the shipping container itself and shouldn’t have even been detectable through the insulation. There was no reason for anyone to have even been looking at that shipment—we spent a bucketful of money to make everything seem as legitimate as possible.”

  The fact that Paxtun was cursing indicated just how angry he was—a fact not lost on Arzee. He knew that the situation was a serious one. The seized weapons were intended for people who expected them. They wouldn’t have accepted the shipment even being delayed. The fact that the authorities had found them was a disaster.

  “It was just blind, stupid, bad luck they were ever discovered,” Arzee said. “The Toronto port authorities had asked for a demonstration of a new mobile scanning system. They were trying to meet the demands of the Homeland Security Border and Transportation people. The damned system uses some kind of new X-ray technology called Z(R) Backscatter. It was set up at the exit gate and it checked every container that was going out of the port. The truck driver couldn’t have turned around even if he had known about the system.

  “I checked with our people in Toronto. None of them knew the system was going to be demonstrated that day. The setup that was being demonstrated was packed in a van that just parked next to the exit. It was just bad luck, there was no way to have foreseen it.”

  “Bad luck, huh,” Paxtun said. “Everything’s fucking gone. The guns, the grenades, the missile launchers, the ammo, explosives, everything. A few hundred thousand dollars worth of ordnance just gone with no decent explanation for its being missing, at least not one that Ishmael will be willing to hear. Or do you want to tell him that he won’t get his shipment because of bad luck?”

  Arzee’s face blanched at the idea of telling the terrorist leader any bad news at all. Paxtun could see in his lieutenant’s face that he wanted nothing at all to do with Ishmael, that he was terrified of him. And Paxtun couldn’t blame Arzee for his fear.

  Ishmael was not the man’s real name. It was a kunyah, an Arabic pseudonym adopted from the names of the Companions of the Prophet and other heroes of Islam. A kunyah was used to disguise the name of a faithful while he was on a mission.

  No matter what this man’s real name was, he was dangerous to anyone who blocked his path. As the leader of a major terrorist cell infiltrating into the United States, Ishmael would kill anyone he saw as a threat to his mission. And he would kill them quickly and without hesitation. Paxtun knew the man well because it was Paxtun’s organization that was bringing the cell members into the United States and Ishmael had been one of the first men brought in.

  The demand to bring in the terrorists had been made of
Paxtun by people that he could not refuse. It wasn’t a matter of money, or even of stopping the very lucrative flow of drugs he was receiving. You refused al Qaeda only once, and that was when you felt tired of living. Failing them was a quick ticket to Paradise.

  After the events of 9/11, the Afghan drug traders there expected U.S. reprisals against targets in their country. That fear caused them to dump their stockpiles of heroin and opium before they could be destroyed by U.S. military action. Accepting a low profit margin was considered better by the traders than a complete loss of their stocks.

  A large amount of these drugs found their way into Paxtun’s hands. And he took advantage of the situation to build up his distribution network, and profits. The heroin out of Afghanistan was an 80 percent pure narcotic. It was known as Heroin No. 4, or White Heroin, by the addicts who craved it.

  Al Qaeda didn’t mind the increase in business by Paxtun, they also benefited from the profits of his drug sales. The drugs were simply considered another sign of the decadence of the infidels, another means of attacking them. Osama bin Laden liked destroying the West through its own sins and indulgences. He had specifically financed the development of a new liquid heroin, the “Tears of Allah,” to help corrupt the population of the West even faster.

  Paxtun, Arzee, and their people had accepted al Qaeda’s help, and their money. Paxtun had proven himself trustworthy by his deeds in Afghanistan and his later actions in Bosnia and finally the United States. He had proven himself so trustworthy that his organization was considered a hawala, part of an ancient form of money exchange. A hawala used trusted people around the world as a way to transfer millions of dollars in cash without documents. Money was left in a hawala and the responsible person was simply told who to give it to.

  At the moment, Paxtun was holding over several million dollars in cash in an al Qaeda hawala. But that would mean little if he failed to supply Ishmael with what he needed. And Ishmael wouldn’t speak to an underling, even one as highly placed as Paxtun’s second in command. Arzee was a fellow Muslim, but he hadn’t proven himself in the jihad. That meant Arzee was off the hook in telling Ishmael the bad news. It was going to be Paxtun’s task, and that had him thinking quickly.

  “There were just too many things that could go wrong with the shipment,” Paxtun said, “and a number of them did. Delays due to plain bad weather made the ship late. But we planned for that possibility. Now, we’ve just run out of time. Ishmael has told me to expect the time schedule to change again. He won’t tell me the operation, but he’s probably going to move the timetable ahead again.”

  “He’s probably never told you his real schedule anyway,” Arzee said. “The man is more than paranoid about security. If anything, he’s gotten worse about holding back vital information until damned near past the last minute. He even kept the arrival schedule of his men to himself until they were practically waiting at the border. Ever since Khalid Shaikh Mohammed was captured in Pakistan back in March, Ishmael and his bunch have become even tighter about keeping things to themselves.”

  “We have to accept the situation for the time being,” Paxtun said. “We’re in way too deep for there to be any way out for us now. There’s nothing we can do but carry on supporting Ishmael and his people. Besides, we owe them our lives and they have no problem in reminding us of that fact.”

  “Well,” Arzee said, “at least the money has been good the last couple of years.”

  “Yes,” Paxtun agreed, “there’s no question of that. But that’s not going to help us. He wants firepower, a lot of it. And he’s going to want it right now.”

  “Supplying something like that’s going to be next to impossible,” Arzee said. “It’s not like anyone advertises heavy firepower and we can’t just buy the weapons he wants. Maybe if we had enough time to go out into the underground market….”

  “What did you say?” Paxtun asked.

  “Go into the underground market?” Arzee said. “I mean the contacts are there. But Ishmael didn’t want to trust any kind of black market to supply his needs. And to get what he wants would take time we don’t have.”

  “No, no,” Paxtun said with excitement rising in his voice. “What you said before that.”

  “What?” Arzee said. “Just buy the stuff? There’s no way to really do that. It’s not like you can just walk into a gunshop and they’ll have the kind of hardware we need. Nobody carries that kind of military weapon, no matter what the movies say. And Ishmael is going to want the real deal. Full automatic fire and lots of it.”

  “So what if we had a source of the guns and someone who could build what we wanted?” Paxtun said.

  “Around here?” Arzee said. “Where?”

  “Something Nicholas was talking about a while back,” Paxtun said.

  Raising his voice, Paxtun called out, “Nicholas, get in here.”

  Nicholas Murat was a cousin of Arzee’s. As such, he and his brother Amman, held positions of high trust in the organization. This wasn’t a matter of simple nepotism. It was very common in the Arab community for a business to use many members of an extended family. Blood counted for a lot, and loyalties inside of a family were strong.

  At first glance, Nicholas and Amman Murat didn’t look like brothers at all. Amman was taller than his bother as well as being a bodybuilder. Heavy muscles covered Amman’s frame, and he liked to use his strength to solve problems. His mean streak was satisfied when he helped enforce his cousin’s directives. And he knew that Paxtun was in charge.

  Nicholas Murat was the physical opposite of his brother, but no less mean. His smaller size was balanced out by being much faster than most people. Nicholas hadn’t put his speed to use learning a martial art. Instead, he had developed a taste for and skill in the use of firearms. Taste would be something of an understatement. Nicholas was fascinated by guns, all kinds of guns. He made up for his slight stature by using large and powerful weapons. And he kept up on the latest developments in the firearm market.

  Moving into the office from his usual position near the outside door, Nicholas came to see what Paxtun wanted. Not being one to speak a lot, the gunman waited quietly for his boss to speak to him.

  “Nicholas,” Paxtun asked, “what’s the hottest piece of firepower on the market at this moment?”

  “That would depend on what you mean, boss,” Nicholas said, “hand-held, vehicle mounted, what?”

  “Something an individual could use for an assault.”

  “Well, there’s an outfit down in North Carolina that’s making a pump-action 40mm grenade launcher. They’re reproducing one from the Vietnam War.”

  “A grenade launcher?” Paxtun said. “No, that would have too many ammunition supply problems for what I’m thinking of. Besides, North Carolina is too far away to consider. Anything made closer to here?”

  “There’s just been an article published in Small Arms Review about a full-automatic shotgun going on the market,” Nicholas said as he warmed to his subject. “It was demonstrated earlier this year down in Florida at the SHOT show. It’s called the Jackhammer. Ten-round magazine and a really short overall package. Hottest piece of hand-held firepower there is right now, and the company making it isn’t more than an hour’s drive from here, somewhere up near Port Huron.”

  “Do you have that magazine available?”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said, “I was just reading it a while ago.”

  “Could you get it for me please?” Paxtun said.

  As Nicholas left the room, Paxtun sat with a pensive smile on his face. “A machine shotgun,” he said. “That would be just the weapon for a fast raiding party. Its effective range would be pretty short compared to a rifle, but close-in, it would rip a target apart.”

  Quickly returning with an issue of Small Arms Review in his hands, Nicholas laid the magazine down on the desk in front of Paxtun. Pointing to the cover, he said, “They must have thought a lot about this weapon themselves, they mentioned the article right on the cover. I marked the page
for you there.”

  Flipping the magazine open to the indicated page, Paxtun just looked at the picture that led off the article. It showed a large man holding a very futuristic-looking weapon. Nicholas took Paxtun’s intent look at the article as showing interest in the weapon.

  “This was written by Matt Smith,” Nicholas said, “he says he was at the demonstration firing. That’s it, the Jackhammer Mark 3-A3 shotgun. It’s only thirty-one inches overall length. That’s barely more than an inch longer than a military M4 carbine with the stock collapsed. And the bullpup design puts the firing mechanism behind the trigger group, that lets the weapon have nearly a twenty-one-inch-long barrel and still be very compact. It’s short enough to hide under a coat.

  “That big drum at the rear holds ten rounds of twelve-gauge ammo. With magnum 00 buckshot, that’s twelve pellets downrange for each shot. It fires on full automatic at four rounds a second—that’s sixty-four pellets downrange in one second. That swarm of buckshot can rip a house down. And you reload just by dumping out the drum and slapping a new one in place.”

  Looking up from the magazine, Paxtun had a strange look on his face.

  “You don’t have to sell me on this, Nicholas,” Paxtun said. “I acknowledge your greater expertise.”

  Nicholas positively beamed with pride at the unaccustomed praise.

  “Where can we find this weapon?” Paxtun asked.

  “The address of the shop is at the end of the article,” Nicholas said as he pointed back to the magazine. “It’s near Marine City north of Lake Saint Clair. The article does say that the Jackhammer is only made as prototypes right now. But it’s been months since the SHOT show and they may have gone into production by now.”

  “Thank you, Nicholas,” Paxtun said, “would you excuse us for now?”

  As Nicholas left the office, Paxtun looked down at the magazine open in front of him and the smile grew across his face.