by Jack Strain
Chapter Twenty Two
Afghanistan/Pakistan border region
When the Western world thinks of Islamic extremists and terrorism, many familiar groups come to mind, Al Qaeda, ISIS, the Taliban, and certainly the latest manifestation, Allah’s Avengers. However, few are aware that perhaps the deadliest source of state-sponsored terror other than Iran comes from Pakistan’s infamous Inter-Services Intelligence, better known as the ISI.
The most frequent victim has traditionally been Pakistan’s mortal enemy, India. Some of the most deadly and infamous attacks in recent years were conducted under the direct supervision of the ISI. The 2001 Indian Parliament attack that almost brought the two nations to the brink of nuclear war, the 2006 Mumbai Train bombing, the November 2008 Mumbai hotel attacks that targeted both Indian nationals and Westerners was watched live by the world. The ISI provided the money, arms, and training for thousands of insurgents and terrorist groups fighting in the disputed Indian controlled Kashmir region that has cost tens of thousands of lives. Lastly, the ISI has supported the Afghanistan Taliban for three decades and indirectly responsible for more American combat losses than even the Iranians.
And yet Pakistan purports to be a loyal ally of the United States and a key partner in the war on terror. Many tens of billions of dollars have been sent to Islamabad to support the regime for providing port facilities, airfields, and intelligence support to supposedly help the American military campaign against the Taliban in Afghanistan. However, the ISI had been playing their own double game against the Americans for years, some say decades.
American intelligence had known for years that Pakistan’s ISI provided a broad range of support from money to arms and especially safe haven for the deadly Haqqani terror and insurgent network that was allied with the Taliban against the U.S. backed Kabul government. This powerful group operates primarily within the Federally Administered Tribal Area, known as FATA along the Afghanistan border.
For more than a decade American military forces fought the fierce Haqqani fighters and watched in frustration as they would cross back and forth over the Pakistan border with impunity, safe from U.S. military forces. Although in recent years, drone strikes started hitting suspected camps and command centers but never seemed to slow down the Haqqani network. In fact, they were now stronger than ever, and the ISI continued to feed intelligence and provide trainers to enhance the effectiveness of this deadly group.
Avenging Angel intended to change all of that.
Two heavily loaded B-52 Stratofortresses flying from the American airbase on Diego Garcia in the Indian Ocean each carried a full load of twenty AGM-86B air-launched cruise missiles. While all hell was breaking loose in Syria and Iran, the two American bombers reached their final wayward point, opened their bomb doors, the missile rotary was lowered, and each began firing off their cruise missiles, roughly every thirty seconds another left the rack leaving a white vapor trail into the clear morning sky. Next, each bomber began firing the missiles from their wing mounts, and within ten minutes thirty-seven missiles were streaking to their targets. Three failed to engage their first stage rocket motors and fell into the ocean below.
It took nearly seventy-five minutes for the cruise missiles to cover their roughly thousand-mile journey. Flying nap of the earth, the Cold War era missiles with their updated GPS guidance packages operating in the green, flew a rather direct route, about three hundred feet above the ground hugging the Afghan/Pakistan border until the formation of American missiles broke off near the Pakistan city of Bannu. Eighteen missiles broke left towards the Haqqani network stronghold of Miran Shah while the other nineteen continued towards Peshawar.
American intelligence had pinpointed numerous command and control posts, weapon depots, and suspected private residences of several ranking Haqqani commanders, especially that of the founder of the Haqqani group, Jalaluddin Haqqani himself. It was nearly seven in the morning, and already the small outpost near the Afghan border was coming alive with morning activity. None of the residents of this small town paid much attention to the American president’s speech last night. They should have because instead of the sounds of the market bazaar and calls to prayer, the residents of this strategic border city were greeted with powerful explosions that rocked the city.
Each AGM-86 packed a 3,000-pound, high-explosive warhead that violently shook the city as one after the other exploded over the course of ten minutes. The old poorly constructed cement buildings targeted by the Americans were turned into blackened holes. Clouds of smoke and dust soon engulfed the city as secondary explosions from weapon bunkers caused numerous fires. Soon the wails of women could be heard as the dead and wounded were being pulled from the shattered remains of buildings. One building, in particular, drew a crowd. The compound of the Haqqani leader was struck by two missiles killing Jalaluddin, three of his wives, nine children, and dozens of other retainers and guards who were mercilessly struck down by the deadly twin explosions.
But the Americans weren’t done yet. People began screaming and running for shelters when American fighter-bombers were heard thundering overhead. Two dozen F-16 Fighting Falcons flying from Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan armed with a range of air-to-ground missiles and guided bombs roamed the western tribal areas of Pakistan and struck thirty separate Haqqani and Taliban training camps and major staging areas. Overhead armed drones lingered over target sites sending back vivid images and launching Hellfire missiles at targets of opportunity. In that thirty minutes of the bombing, American warplanes killed more enemy fighters than they had in the past six months. Pakistan would no longer be a safe refuge.
While a mix of bombs and missiles struck Haqqani and Taliban targets, the other nineteen AGM-86B missiles continued traveling north towards their main targets in Peshawar. The ISI headquarters was five-story modern building and stood out in this crowded and poor frontier city. Long a command post for ISI coordination of their various proxy wars and a major logistical site to support the Islamabad directed wars in Afghanistan, many of the ISI’s senior-level operatives and most experienced intelligence agents were forward deployed at the Peshawar headquarters.
After traveling nearly a thousand miles the sub-sonic ACM-86B missiles broke off from their staggered formation, fourteen targeted suspected Taliban recruiting and weapon warehouses in and around the city while the five remaining missiles popped-up and made their terminal dives in twenty-second intervals. The ISI building was struck from five different angles. By the time the last missile struck, the structure was already on the verge of collapse, and the final explosion sent the structure careening to the ground. Shattered glass sent deadly shards raining down below, many striking bystanders standing near the building while flying hunks of concrete and metal debris added to the devastation. The building was utterly destroyed, untold numbers of ISI personnel dead, and a deadly message sent and received.
America would no longer allow its so-called friends and allies to play a double game. Islamabad would be forced to make a choice; they would either be with the Americans in this new war on terror, or they would be the victims of an angry president bent on revenge.
Zurich, Switzerland
The Habib Bank AG Zurich official, Herr Frederic Hunziker, was not amused by the urgent call to finish his lunch and quickly return to the office. Like many bank officials in Europe on this day, he had been up early to address the American president’s supposed threats to any financial institutions who allowed unsavory elements to occasionally take advantage of Switzerland’s pliable banking laws to ensure secrecy and security. His own bank convened an emergency meeting at 7:00 a.m. to address the bank’s potential exposure.
Hunziker, austere and not particularly known for his sentimentality, made it clear that he thought the Americans were simply being Americans. They will create much noise, cause a certain level of difficulty, but in the end, it would be business as usual. Most of those attending the early morning Monday meeting concurred with his assessment and treated the
day like any other day.
They would all be wrong.
Hunziker finished his entrée but left before dessert and coffee were served, so he was in a foul mood when he entered the main lobby of the family-owned international bank with operations on four continents. The fifty-five-year-old Swiss banker specialized in managing foreign accounts, primarily from the Middle East, and his usual brusque manner was often viewed as verging on the insulting, but now his irritation of the day’s events had put him into a positively foul state of mind. When he was told that a trio of Iranian nationals was waiting in his office, his mood did not improve.
He gave his assistant an angry look, hastily removed his overcoat and gloves and did not say a word to her as he swept into his office only to find three agitated men. He recognized all three instantly. They came to their feet as Hunziker entered, two were younger, fit, and with an air of menace about them while the oldest of the three looked more nervous and spoke first.
Balding and with a face deeply etched with lines signaling both his age and more likely a lifetime of worry and stress, Arman Rezaei was ostensibly an Iranian diplomat and trade official, but in reality, he was one of several agents throughout Europe responsible for the Iranian Revolutionary Guards assets held abroad. News from home or more accurately lack of news from home and the horrible images on Western media sources were increasing disconcerting. He considered his mission this afternoon most pressing.
“Herr Hunziker, thank you, sir, for coming to meet on such short notice. I hope that I did not unduly impose on you, but this is a matter of great importance.”
The dour-faced Swiss banker maintained his blank expression and blandly responded, “Mr. Rezaei, I received the urgent summons while eating my lunch and returned as quickly as possible. How can I be of service?”
All three Iranians in the room could not fail to take note of the obvious displeasure the rude Swiss barely concealed and wondered if it was because he was being inconvenienced or something more insulting. For today insults needed to be ignored. Perhaps they would be dealt with in the future, but not today. Unlike the Swiss, Iran could not afford to ignore the American threats and so financial men like Rezaei were attempting to ascertain the security of their money.
Rezaei’s brow wore a light sheen of perspiration, and his voice signaled his anxiety. “Herr Hunziker, I am sure you are well aware of the massive attacks the Americans are inflicting upon my country, and the threats to perpetrate further harm were made painfully clear last night. I am here to ensure that my country’s assets are secure.”
Hunziker raised an eyebrow and let out an audible sigh as if he was annoyed that his time was clearly being wasted, he said “Yes, I am well aware of both the American attacks and their threats. The Habib Bank has been watching these matters very closely, and I assure you that your assets remain quite secure or you would have been informed immediately of any potential issues. I am not sure what it is that you want me to do at the moment.”
Allah, give me strength. I so hate dealing with these rude infidels who treat us like ignorant barbarians.
Rezaei stiffened a bit, but maintained an outward calm and respectfully said, “We have nearly two hundred million Euros invested with your bank, and my Government would feel more secure to have additional assurances. Please if you would be good enough to review our holdings at this time, I would be most appreciative.” He passed along the relevant account numbers across the desk and waited.
The respectful Iranian request was greeted by something closer to a grunt, and the Swiss banker began pulling up the accounts on his computer. His fingers moved quickly across his keypad and began passing through the normal security measures and then inputted the first account number . . . and found nothing. Without missing a beat, he assumed this was a mere glitch, easily explained, so he quickly glanced over at the Iranian’s list of accounts and pulled up a random one and found . . . nothing. Zero holdings.
This can’t be. What game are these Iranians playing?
The three Iranians exchanged nervous glances. Clearly, something seemed amiss. Visibly anxious, Hunziker entered three more account holdings and found the accounts zeroed out and quickly scanned for any transactions to explain the missing funds and saw that there was no record of any account held by these Iranians, which was impossible because he had set them up himself.
He cleared his throat, now suddenly quite parched and asked, “Who else has access to these holdings?”
Suddenly very agitated, Rezaei leaned forward and defiantly announced, “I am the only authorized account user…here are the original terms of the account. Look, it has both of our signatures. What has happened? Where is our money?”
Hunziker quickly scanned the paperwork and knew something dreadful had happened. He quickly picked up the phone and explained the situation to the bank’s senior security and fraud official who rushed down to Hunziker’s office. After an exasperating thirty minutes, all the security expert could say was that the money was gone . . . without a trace.
Completely numb, Rezaei now feared for his other holdings and gravely said, “What does that mean the money is gone? Surely, you can find it?”
A shaken Hunziker shook his head and spoke barely above a whisper and said, “I don’t know how that would be possible. There is not a single trace of these accounts in our system. The money is gone, and I am afraid there is nothing to be done. I don’t know what else to say Mr. Rezaei.”
With a grave tone in his voice the older man said, “How will we rebuild?”
◆◆◆
Meanwhile an entire ocean away, team leader for Cyber Strike’s Operation Pick Pocket was having the time of his life. Miguel Alvarez, a tall, lanky twenty-eight-year-old who sported a Fu Manchu beard and long black hair now tied into a man-bun couldn’t stop grinning. The legendary former hacker earned his street cred back in college for his unusual hacking exploits and came to be known as the “Latino Robin Hood.”
Corny, but he loved it.
He had a gift for hacking into financial institutions, a real prodigy. His exploits made national news when he sent a notorious hedge fund’s $25 million bonuses to a hundred different kid’s charities around Christmas time. Suddenly flush with funds from identity-hidden good Samarians, the Christmas of 2012 would not be easily forgotten from El Paso to Detroit. When the fabulously wealthy hedge fund finally tracked down the money, they couldn’t very well ask for the money back, so it was a win-win for everyone except for Miguel who was arrested but disappeared before his trial.
Given a choice between prison and working for the Government, it was an easy choice for young Miguel who assumed a new identity for himself and his family. Now nestled in a lovely community in Northern Virginia, he was the team leader for an operation that was massive in scale. He was coordinating the biggest theft in history. Billions were at stake. It was an elegant plan in many ways, something that Robin Hood would have much admired. His team successfully infiltrated dozens of banking institutions throughout the world and were not only able to make the money disappear, but they left no digital fingerprints. By the end of the day more than seventeen billion dollars, mostly Iranian but also from other terror-related accounts, was simply gone.
Rather proud of himself, Miguel decided to grab a much-deserved Buffalo Chicken Hot Pocket and a replenish his now empty candy jar to keep his sugar high going. He glanced up at the digital scoreboard his team put up and saw another three hundred million had come their way. Robin Hood can kiss my ass. He ain’t got shit on me.
Chapter Twenty Three
October 16th
National Military Command Center, The Pentagon
The Joint Chiefs were about to convene a meeting to evaluate ongoing military operations, but the meeting had to be hastily postponed when the president suddenly showed up and wanted a quick tour and informal briefing. General Duncan left his fellow Chiefs at the “Tank” and went to greet the president and the small number of his advisors who accompanied him. President Wol
fe had only been out to the NMCC twice thus far in his presidency and didn’t linger either time. He was never shy about expressing that while he respected those who wore the uniform in defense of their country, he was a business guy and his mind was on the economy more than anything else.
Today was different. He was the Commander-in-Chief, and the United States was waging a global war, and he wanted to go where the action was happening. General Duncan saw that the Secretary of Defense Mahler was in tow, caught his eye and shot him a look that said, “thanks a lot.”
The former Marine officer just shook his head back and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “what can I do?”
The entire room came to attention and the president saluted back, after which the nearly three hundred staff members returned to their workstations. General Duncan decided to direct the president and his entourage to the “bullpen,” a nickname for a slightly raised section of the NMCC that was manned by an Air Force Major General who was responsible for evaluating all Flash Traffic communications and updating the threat board.
President Wolfe was taking everything in and was highly impressed by the organization and precision on display. Monitoring the combat operations of American forces around the globe was challenging during peacetime, let alone during major combat ops. Unlike the semi-organized chaos of a Wall Street trading floor, the non-stop stream of messages and updates were unlike anything he had ever experienced.