Red Phoenix
A Thomas Caine Thriller
Andrew Warren
Andrew Warren Books
Contents
Readers Group
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
THANK YOU!
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Also by Andrew Warren
About the Author
RED PHOENIX
Andrew Warren
Copyright © 2016 by Andrew Warren. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events or locales is purely coincidental. Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
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Chapter One
HELMAND, AFGHANISTAN
0600 HOURS
SIX YEARS AGO …
To the small, yellow arachnid, every chip of rock scattered across the desert floor was like a towering boulder. The creature scurried over the obstacles in its way. Its eight slender legs moved in an elegant dance, as the morning sun cast a long, dark shadow on the shifting sands behind it.
The creature’s flat, segmented shell was pale and translucent, and the color of a ripe lemon. Its long tail curved behind it and hung in the air, and a drop of venom glistened at the tip. As it travelled over the rocks and sand searching for prey, it kept its sharp yellow claws up and at the ready.
An arachnid known for its deadly sting, the scorpion’s scientific designation was Leiurus quinquestriatus, or "five-striped smooth-tail.” It was named for the striped segments of its shell that ran across its back. But the tribes in the southern Khandahar province of Afghanistan had another name for the creature.
They called it the deathstalker.
Thomas Caine squinted his emerald-green eyes and watched as the creature crossed over his foot. The arachnid paid him no mind and continued moving towards a small mound of sand. Caine took a step toward the scorpion as the tiny hunter lifted a shard of stone with its powerful claws. There was nothing underneath but hot sand. The creature dropped the rock and continued on its search.
As it scurried across the desert, Caine saw a slight tremor of movement in the scorpion’s path. A small lump of sand shifted, as if something was hiding beneath it.
Caine watched with fascination as the scorpion paused. It tapped the sand with its slim, delicate legs. Its claws waved back and forth in the air. The creature took another step. Caine noticed again a tiny shudder in the sand ahead.
The deathstalker stopped in its tracks. It reached out with one of its long, slim legs and took a single tentative step onto the vibrating patch of sand.
With astonishing speed, the clump of sand swung down, revealing a miniature tunnel beneath. The hairy brown legs of a trapdoor spider shot out from the tunnel and wrapped around the stunned scorpion. The creature thrashed its claws in the air, but it could not escape the spider’s tight embrace.
The trapdoor spider dragged the scorpion down into the tunnel, a fraction of an inch at a time. Caine took another step towards the battling creatures, fascinated by the tiny struggle taking place before his eyes. The spider sank its fangs into the softer underbelly of the scorpion. The patch of sand, held together by the spider’s webbing and secretions, snapped shut. The creatures disappeared from sight. The battle was over, and there was nothing left in its wake but sand and dust.
A voice crackled to life in Caine’s ear.
“Hey buddy, how about you keep your eyes off the little bugs in the dirt and stay focused on the big bug standing next to you.”
The voice was slow and soft, like liquid honey.
Jack Tyler.
Tyler was Caine’s partner in what had come to be known as Operation Big Blind. He knew the Special Ops soldier was nearby, hidden in the mountains under a camouflage tarp. Tyler was ex-Delta Force, and had attended sniper school as part of his Operator Training Course. Caine had seen the man wait for hours, or even days, to take down a target. Tyler would wait as long as it took to line up the perfect shot. In his world, a perfect shot was the only shot that counted. Anything less was unprofessional.
A micro-earpiece was buried deep in Caine's ear canal, completely invisible to any observers. He was well-trained, and he resisted the impulse to touch his ear. Instead, he turned away from the scorpion’s grave. He walked back towards another man standing on the dusty runway of the private airfield.
The other man was short and fat and Turkish. His wide, dark eyes darted left and right. They took in his surroundings with rapid, nervous glances. His name was Aydin Turel, and Caine didn't blame him for being paranoid. In Turel’s line of work, paranoia and vigilance were just good business sense.
Turel was a merchant of death.
The bulbous Turk was one of the largest arms dealers in the world. He serviced the many extremist groups that swarmed across Afghanistan and other parts of the globe.
Caine had spent the last several years of his life working undercover, moving up the chain … getting closer and closer to Turel and his network of clients and suppliers. His recent time undercover with the yakuza in Japan had finally born fruit. They had provided him with an introduction to Turel.
Now Turel worked for him. He had turned, gone from player to informant. A sting operation that would have landed the Turk a lifetime sentence in a black site prison had seen to that. Caine had earned the man’s trust. Then he had betrayed it.
That was the first part of this job.
The second part would come soon enough. When Operation Big Blind was completed. When Turel was no longer needed.
Turel removed his khaki canvas hat, revealing a gleaming bald forehead. The shining tan dome was surrounded by twin tufts of bushy salt and pepper hair. The temperature was over ninety degrees, and it was still early. He wiped a layer of sweat from his brow with a damp white handkerchief.
“Bugs,” Turel spat
as he scanned the horizon. “I am risking my life here with you, and you just want to play with bugs.”
Caine stared at Turel. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight like gemstones. They were brilliant, but cold and unfeeling.
“Just a watching a little arms race play out," he said. "Right up your alley, Turel.”
A new voice crackled in Caine’s ear. This time the voice was deeper, with a trace of agitation. There was a precise, machine-like quality to its tone.
“Condor One, you’re losing him. Keep it together.”
It was the voice of his handler. The mastermind behind his undercover work, the man who had planned Operation Big Blind to the last detail. Allan Bernatto.
Caine forced himself to smile. He slapped Turel on the back. “You look nervous. Relax. This will all be over soon.”
Turel scanned the horizon with his nervous eyes. “You don’t know these men. If the White Leopards realize I have betrayed them, they will kill us both.”
“By the time this all goes down, you'll be richer than you can imagine. And we’ll both be hundreds of miles from here.”
Turel shook his head. “They will never stop looking. I will not live to enjoy this money.”
You got that right, asshole, Caine thought. But a part of him wondered. Turel’s death, this mission, all the things he had done and seen in the years spent undercover … what did it all amount to?
Caine was an operative, a trigger man. He didn’t know the fine details of operation planning. He didn’t know what Bernatto’s aim was, or whom this mission was really targeting. But in his years undercover he had seen so much death and ugliness. A nagging question had begun to form in his mind.
Would more death, more violence, no matter whom it was directed at, change anything? Or was it just more blood spilled into an endless crimson ocean?
Snap out if it! The voice in his head was sharp as steel. It yanked his mind from the dark thoughts that seemed to fill his waking hours more and more these days.
Caine looked back at the Hercules cargo plane parked on the dusty runway behind them. Turel’s pilot, a lanky young man with a red bandanna tied around his head, leaned back in the pilot’s seat. He looked like he was asleep.
“See, your pilot doesn’t look worried," he said. "Get a grip. This is happening. You can do this.”
Turel sighed. He looked back at the plane. Its cargo hold was empty. Rows of gray plastic shipping containers lined the tarmac on either side of the gaping ramp.
“It’s a shame,” he said, as he eyed five crates that were set aside from the rest. These crates were spray-painted with red stenciled letters that said “Caution.” Underneath, the warning message was repeated in Russian letters. “This is some of my best inventory.”
Caine thought of all the people killed in civil wars, ethnic cleansings, and other bloody conflicts around the world. Victims, torn to pieces by weaponry provided by Turel. He had seen pictures of villages burned to the ground. Mass graves filled with charred, twisted bodies.
Caine didn’t know if Operation Big Blind would make a dent in the murder and terror that filled this part of the world. But he was certain of one thing. He would have no trouble dealing with Turel when the time came.
A cloud of dust rose from the winding dirt road on the horizon. Jack’s voice crackled to life in Caine’s ear. “Okay compadre, here they come. I’ve got eyes on the lead vehicle.”
Bernatto responded. “Condor Two, can you confirm Sayed? Repeat, are we go for Sayed?”
“Affirmative, Sayed Ahmadi is in the lead car. I have him in my sights. I squeeze my finger a quarter-inch and the man's brain gets a convertible top."
“Negative, Condor Two. That is not the purpose of this operation. Condor One, Operation Big Blind is a go.”
Caine unbuttoned the blue linen blazer he wore and checked the watch on his wrist. It was a solid gold Patek Phillipe, and it gleamed like a miniature blazing sun in the bright light. Caine despised ostentatious watches, but the enormous hunk of gold fit his cover as a high-rolling arms dealer.
According to the expensive watch, the time was just after 6:00 a.m. Sayed’s convoy was late. Caine ran over the details in his mind. Everything still felt right. It was go time.
The cloud of dust grew closer and closer.
A convoy of vehicles charged towards the airfield. The roar of their engines filled the air. Caine could hear the men onboard whooping and hollering as the vehicles circled around them. It was a show of power.
The White Leopard cartel was one of the most powerful tribes in Afghanistan. With the blessing of the Taliban government, they had seized control of opium production in the area. Now, Helmand, and other areas like it, were on their way to becoming larger producers of the drug than Burma and the Golden Triangle.
The circle of vehicles ground to a halt. A cloud of dust hung in the air, blinding Caine and Turel. Silence fell across the airfield. The only sound was a low howling wind moving from the east.
Caine and Turel approached the lead vehicle, a battered Soviet-era military truck. A man stepped towards them, revealed as the wind dispersed the cloud of dust and sand. He was tall and thin, and he wore a black and white patterned Keffiyeh scarf that covered his face. Two shorter men flanked him, each wielding a battered AK-47 assault rifle. Their clothes were a motley assortment of traditional Afghan garb and scavenged military uniforms.
The tall man unwrapped the scarf and let it hang loose in the wind. His face was weathered and gaunt. A thick black beard, streaked with patches of grey, hung beneath a hawkish nose. His eyes were the lightest brown Caine had ever seen. They were almost a pale yellow. The color reminded Caine of the deathstalker scorpion he had watched a few minutes ago.
He knew who the man was. He had memorized his dossier and intelligence files in preparation for this mission. The man's name was Sayed Ahmadi. He was the leader of the White Leopard cartel.
Sayed was former Mujahideen, the Afghan resistance that fought against the Soviet occupation at the height of the Cold War. According to his file, however, the only thing he and his men fought for these days was money.
The Taliban allowed him to grow opium, and even subsidized his crops, in exchange for a cut of the sales. From time to time, to keep his extremist masters happy, he engaged in trades with arms dealers like Turel. In exchange for the weapons, the extremists allowed Sayed and his men to continue their profitable business.
“We are late,” Sayed stated in a deep, raspy voice. “There were patrols. Apologies.”
Caine smiled and held out his hand. “No apologies necessary. I assume you weren’t followed?”
Sayed's lips curled into a frown. He did not shake Caine’s hand.
“I have been fighting outsiders in these mountains for longer than you have been alive,” the tall man rasped. “My men and I know how to move without being seen.”
Caine nodded. “Fair enough. Can’t be too careful.”
Sayed nodded. “I agree. The White Leopards have done business with Mr. Turel. He is known to us. You are not. We have shared meals together. We drink wine together. You have made many promises, Mr. Waters. Now we see if we can trust you to live up to them.”
Turel’s eyes darted towards Caine. Then he turned and smiled at Sayed. “Sayed, I tell you already, I vouch for this man. He is good friend, you see.”
Caine gestured to the rows of cases laid out behind the massive cargo plane. “Let me allay your fears, gentlemen. Please, have a look.”
The wind blew waves of sand across the tarmac as Sayed and his two guards followed Caine to the rear of the plane. Caine spun one of the cases around to face them and tapped a combination into a small keypad. The case unlocked with a mechanical hiss, and Caine lifted the lid to reveal its contents.
Sayed’s eyes narrowed. The case was filled end to end with the sleek metal barrels of automatic rifles.
Caine lifted one from the case and hefted it in his arms. “Chinese-made QBZ-95. Fires a 5.8x42mm high velocity cartri
dge. It’s a bullpup design, so the magazine goes here, behind the trigger group.” Caine gestured to a spot near the rear of the rifle. “Reduces weight and weapon length, gives you an advantage in tight quarters.”
“You see, I told you, Sayed,” Turel boomed. “My friend Mr. Waters has access to top merchandise. His stuff is the best!”
Caine shot Turel a harsh look. He’s nervous, over-playing his hand, Caine thought.
Sayed ignore the boisterous Turk and lifted one of the rifles from the case. He examined the weapon’s sights and squinted as he took aim down the barrel. “Very nice. Grenade launchers?”
Caine gestured to another stack of cases. “Type 91 B, factory original units. 35mm breech loading. And of course, a full complement of high-explosive, tear gas, and illumination loads.” Caine smiled at Sayed. “As promised.”
The tall man nodded and looked Caine in the eye. The yellow tint of Sayed’s eyes reminded Caine of a wolf or coyote. “So far, all is as we agreed. But anyone can get rifles. I am most concerned about my special request, Mr. Waters.”
Caine led the White Leopards to the cases with Russian lettering. The cases were larger than the others, and each case was locked by two keypads. Caine tapped a combination into both pads and lifted the lid. Sayed looked down and smiled.
The case contained two metal tubes with Russian markings. Next to each tube, encased in black foam, were a pair of slim white missiles.
“Russian SA-18 Grouse Man Portable Air Defense System. Infrared guidance with improved resistance to flares and other countermeasures.”
Sayed turned and stared at Caine. “There is a saying among my people. Without investigating the water, do not take off your shoes. How were you able to get these weapons?”
Caine shook his head. “My people have a saying too, Sayed. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I have my sources, and I’m good at my job. Just like our mutual friend Mr. Turel said. You want the best? I give you the best. Weapons like these will help your friends with their little drone problem, for sure.”
Red Phoenix: A Thomas Caine Thriller (The Thomas Caine Series Book 2) Page 1