North from Calcutta

by Duane Evans

  76

  Governor Ghule leaned against the railing at the Farakka Barrage dock and sighed wistfully as he watched Sahar disappear from his view. Glancing at his watch, he decided he also should return to his room to rest up for the night’s activities. He wanted to be in top form for his next run at Sahar. With a little luck, who knew what the night might hold?

  Just then his bodyguard approached and handed him his satellite phone. “It’s ringing, Sir,” the bodyguard said.

  Ghule took the phone and looked at the number displayed in the caller ID panel. At first he did not recognize it, but then remembered; it was Mr. Durrani’s number. He had given it to him just before Durrani had left for Dhaka. Ghule started to answer the call, but then stopped.

  Why should I answer this? He thought. He probably wants to speak with Sahar, and that certainly would not do, particularly at this moment. Ghule handed the phone back to the bodyguard.

  “I don’t want to be disturbed with phone calls for the rest of the evening. Please shut this thing off.”

  The bodyguard took the phone and pressed the power button. “Done, Sir. Please enjoy your evening.”

  77

  After listening to the phone ring for over a minute, Tarek put the phone away, planning to wait for a minute before trying again. “Damn” he said out loud. The Governor had assured him the phone was always with his bodyguard. Why wasn’t he answering?

  As he thought through the possible reasons no one had answered his call, he heard the sound of a car engine being started. Standing up quickly, he turned around. To his shock, he saw the Hyundai start to move. He immediately recognized HV/30 behind the wheel.

  Grabbing his bag, Tarek dashed toward the truck as it started toward the exit to the street. “Mahmoud,” Tarek yelled. He ran toward the vehicle as it moved away from him. Just as the truck reached the exit, Tarek caught up to it and slammed the heel of his fist against its side. “Mahmoud,” he yelled again.

  The truck stopped abruptly, and HV/30’s gray head popped out the driver’s window.

  “Rashid!” he exclaimed as he climbed out of the truck. The two men embraced.

  “Are the others still here?” Tarek asked.

  “No,” HV/30 shook his head sadly. “They have left, and we have failed, my brother.”

  “How long ago did they leave?” Tarek asked urgently.

  “Not more than half an hour ago. I’m supposed to wait for them to come back.” Tears welled up in Mahmoud’s eyes. “I tried to stop them, Rashid, I swear I did. But everything I planned failed.”

  Tarek grabbed HV/30’s shoulders. “Mahmoud, I know you did everything in your power to stop them. But we are not done. Not yet anyway.”

  “You think we still have a chance? You think we can catch them?” HV/30 asked.

  “It will be close, but if they only left half an hour ago, I think there is a way. Does the truck have gas?”

  Mahmoud nodded. “I filled it up right after they left. I was just going to go pick up some food at the market and then you banged on my truck.” HV/30 paused. “Rashid, what are we going to do.”

  Tarek smiled. “We are going after them.” He walked around to the other side of the truck and got in. Pointing to the road he said, “Let’s go. We will take this road east along the river. There is a cluster of fishing villages about 15 kilometers downstream. According to the map, this road is hard-surfaced the entire way, which means we should be able to make up some lost time.”

  “But then what?” Mahmoud asked.

  “There is bound to be a boat we can get our hands on. And then we get on the river and try to intercept them. What do you think, Mahmoud? Are you ready to make another run at this?”

  “Yes I am ready, Rashid. This dish of revenge I have been carrying is getting colder and colder.”

  Despite the gravity of the situation, Tarek had to laugh.

  “Excellent, Mahmoud. So let’s get going. While you drive, I must make a couple of calls.”

  Tarek reached into his bag and took out the remote antennae for the sat phone. Reaching out the window, he slapped its magnetic base on the roof of the truck just over his head. After attaching the antennae cable to the phone, he tried another call to Governor Ghule. This time there was not even a ring.

  What the hell is going on? Tarek wondered.

  He punched in the number for General Ali. Tarek knew it was early in the morning in Washington, but Ali would just have to wake up.

  To his surprise, when the call was answered Ali’s voice was chipper; it was obvious he had not been sleeping.

  “Tarek,” he said. “I wasn’t sure I would ever hear your voice again. Thank Allah you are alright.”

  “General, I’m okay for now, but things are getting down to the wire. I won’t go into the details, but the bottom line is that we have not been able to stop the team, and it is already on the river having left Crowe’s Bazar about 30 minutes ago. I have linked up with Mahmoud, and we are in pursuit, paralleling the river in the truck. Our plan is to get a boat further downstream, then try to intercept them.”

  “Keep after them,” Ali said. “There are no guarantees here, but the situation may not be as desperate as you think.”

  78

  As the guests and dignitaries began to gather under the shamiana for the ceremony, a US-chartered cargo jet with a crew of six men was flying at 35,000 feet, two hundred kilometers to the west of Farakka Barrage. It was bound for Seoul, having departed the Persian Gulf state of Qatar five hours earlier. The aircraft’s approved flight plan called for it to follow the international air traffic lane for South Asia, and it was dead on course, skirting the massive Himalayan mountain range 100 kilometers to its north. As the civilian-registered aircraft passed over the Indian city of Patna, the pilot alerted his crew to get ready.

  In the bay of the aircraft, secured by wood blocks and cargo straps, sat a long and narrow object that looked like a five-meter-long cigar with a bulging center measuring a little more than a meter across. Despite its aerodynamic design, its dimensions were much too small to accommodate even a single human passenger, nor was it intended to. It looked to be sculpted from a single block of material.

  It was this unique visual characteristic and the way the aircraft modified its own shape while in flight that led to its name “Transformer”—the latest generation of US-produced unmanned aerial vehicles.

  The Transformer was the product of a joint-development program between the US Air Force, the CIA, and the US Navy, the goal of which was to develop a UAV with greater reach and capability than possessed by the in-service “Predator” UAV. Like the Predator, the primary mission of the Transformer was armed reconnaissance. But the Transformer’s capabilities far exceeded that mission.

  The Transformer could be air delivered to a target area using another aircraft, giving it superior range and a faster response time. With its state-of-the-art ultra-light weight, and the radar-absorbing material used in its construction, the Transformer could operate in more sophisticated air-defense environments than the Predator. It was almost impossible to detect, even as it loitered for long periods over a target area, and the loiter time was extraordinary, due to the incorporation of a very small hybrid electric-gas turbine engine.

  Perhaps the most unique feature of the Transformer was its ability to change its shape to a stable air platform once deployed. Although cigar-shaped while in the bay of the aircraft, once it deployed from the rear of the aircraft, two short wings would extend from the wide center, causing the UAV to assume the proper flight attitude in relation to the earth, much as a sky diver might extend his arms and legs to stabilize his free fall.

  With stability established, an additional six feet of wing on each side telescoped out from the fin, each wing equipped with four small but extremely powerful motors which, as the wings telescoped out, rotated from the bottom side of the wing, locking in place on the front side

  The Transformer carried only one specially adapted Hellfire missile insi
de the elongated body of the airframe. When the time came to fire the missile, a launching mechanism dropped down below its center.

  As impressive as it was, the Transformer onboard the aircraft that night was little more than a prototype, having never been deployed operationally— until this mission. None of the crewman, not even the pilot, knew what the actual target of the Transformer was; they only knew that their job was to deliver it to the specified location.

  Ten minutes after the pilot had given the alert, Transformer was ready to be deployed, and the aircraft began to slow its forward speed almost imperceptibly. Switching from internal comms, the pilot activated the encrypted satellite communications channel dedicated specifically to operations involving Transformer.

  “Base, Base, this is Alpha six,” the pilot said. “How do you read, over?”

  “Six, this is Base,” was the reply. “We got you five by.”

  “Base, we’re ready to roll a cigar. You got a light.”

  “Roger, six. We’re just waiting on you.”

  “Roger Base, stand by.”

  The pilot switched back to internal comms and told the loadmaster to prepare for deployment.

  On his instrument panel, the pilot watched the rear ramp light come on, indicating that the ramp was opening and being lowered to a position horizontal with the floor of the aircraft. After checking with the navigator to confirm they were in the deployment zone, the pilot told the crew to release the cargo straps and remove the blocks. When he was informed this had been accomplished, the pilot gave a final command: “Stand clear.”

  The pilot pulled back on the yoke, elevating the nose of the aircraft. In less than three seconds, the Transformer rolled down the floor railing and sailed out the back of the aircraft into the coal-black night.

  “Base, this is Alpha six. The cigar has been rolled. All she needs is a light.”

  “Roger Six, we already have her and she is responding well. Thanks for the help, and we’ll take her from here.”

  79

  Thousands of miles away, a young co-pilot sitting in an air-conditioned trailer at a secluded military base in the American southwest stared at a high-definition flat screen in front of him.

  “Wow!” he said, turning to the pilot seated next to him. “The Ganges is damn near as big as the Mississippi!” His southern US roots were obvious in his broad drawl. “Now which one of them little boats is the one we’re looking for, do you reckon? There are at least 20 in our sector, and right now they all look a lot alike.”

  “Well, we’re just going to have to sort that out aren’t we,” responded the pilot. “The target profile is already programmed into the electro-optics and IR systems, so let’s start checking them out one at a time. Aside from the technical identifiers, we know we are looking for a boat that should have five to seven people in it, carrying lots of gear. Also, the analysts believe it will not be in the central river channel. Those parameters should narrow the suspects down to a manageable number.”

  As the Transformer flew over Farakka Barrage, the eastern limit of its search pattern, the co-pilot pointed up at the flat screen to the place where the dam cut across the Ganges. “Some kinda shindig going on down there. Lot of light . . . activity. . . people movin’ round. I wonder what’s up with that?”

  “No clue,” the pilot said, “and it’s not our job to find out. Our target is supposed to be a little boat full of bad men. If we need to check out the party, I’m sure somebody will let us know.”

  With that the two men fell silent and began the routine of checking flight controls and making minor adjustments to the Transformer’s flight path and altitude, while the Transformer’s electro-optics and infrared package did its magic.

  The hunt had begun.

  80

  The boat Tarek and HV/30 ended up renting at gunpoint was a good one. At a fishing village of thatched huts with small boats pulled onto a small white beach, they had bartered with the boat’s caretaker. Frightened that when the owner returned he would be angry, the caretaker was not interested in renting, no matter the price offered. He was more frightened, however, when Tarek and HV/30 pulled their pistols, and he was happy to accept the more-than-generous payment.

  Unlike the sand boat that the LT team had rented, the boat Tarek procured was much smaller, with a powerful outboard motor and no covered area to create drag. The boat moved along at a surprisingly high speed. And it was the boat’s speed that gave Tarek some hope they could catch the team, but they had to do it before nightfall or the game would be lost.

  It was now dusk and the light was quickly fading. Tarek navigated the river while HV/30 sat in the forward bow and used Tarek’s binoculars to check out the boats that were moving east with the flow of the Ganges. The binoculars’ ability to gather in light was helping to extend the time available for the search, but it would only last a few more minutes.

  HV/30, his white hair and beard blown back by the fierce wind as the boat raced down the river, pointed off the starboard side and yelled for Tarek to head toward a distant boat, its shape barely visible on the horizon. Tarek sped toward the boat. Thirty seconds later, Mahmoud jabbed his index finger repeatedly at the boat and yelled, “That’s it! That’s it! I can see the yellow canvas!”

  Tarek’s heart skipped a beat. Immediately he broke off his direct approach and changed course, cutting across the boat’s wake to fall in behind it, gambling that the darkness, the diesel engine noise, and the shelter that blocked the team’s view to the rear would prevent the LT team from detecting their presence.

  HV/30 had replaced the binoculars with the big six-shot revolver Tarek had given him. The dark silhouette of his unkempt hair, long beard, and large revolver reminded Tarek of a scene in an American cowboy movie.

  Tarek signaled for HV/30 to join him at the back of the boat. “Okay, Mahmoud, I want you to take over navigating the boat. For now, just hold our position behind them. Even in the dark, we should be able to follow them as long as we stay inside their wake.”

  Tarek retrieved the satellite phone from his pack and called General Ali.

  Ali answered. “Tarek, tell me you have good news.”

  “We found them, Sir. They are still traveling on the river, and we are about 300 meters directly behind them.”

  “Excellent. Good work, Tarek. Can you give me a GPS coordinate?”

  Tarek looked at his sat phone. It displayed Tarek’s own location using an embedded GPS system. Tarek provided the ten-digit coordinate to Ali, emphasizing it was his location and not that of the LT team. “Our bearing is due east with the LT team positioned about 300 meters further east than our position.”

  “That’s great intel,” Ali said. “I’ll pass this along. Stand by for a call from me and be ready to move out of the area. I don’t want you to become collateral damage. In the meantime, continue to monitor the team.”

  “Standing by,” Tarek said.

  81

  Night had settled on the Ganges as the LT team made its way eastward. The sound of the diesel motor drowned out the noise of the water crashing against the bow of the boat as it cut through the dark river.

  Omar, the boat-owner’s son, prepared to light the lanterns that he would place fore and aft. Sheik Osman, who was sitting on some straw mats on the floor of the boat, raised his hand.

  “No. No lanterns,” he said.

  “But Sir,” Omar protested. “We must put the lanterns out or risk being run down by a river barge.”

  “I said there will be no lanterns.”

  The young man liked neither the message nor Osman’s tone. “This is my father’s boat and we use lanterns,” Omar said sternly. Sheik Osman suddenly stood up, blocking Omar and shoving him hard, causing him to fall backwards onto the boat’s floor.

  The rest of the team, who had been watching the encounter unfold, suddenly became alert.

  “Grab him!” Sheik Osman ordered. Instantly, three of the team jumped on Omar, pinning him to the boat’s floor.

&nb
sp; “Tie his hands and gag him, and put him in there,” Osman commanded, gesturing toward the canvas-covered part of the boat.

  Within seconds, the team had bound and gagged Omar, and two of them dragged him under the shelter, Sheik Osman following behind them. The space in the covered area was largely taken up by the team’s gear, leaving little room to move for Osman, the two team members and Omar.

  Omar was shoved to his knees. The two team members crouched down, holding him on both sides. Sheik Osman reached up under his shirt and pulled out a 9mm semi-automatic. As he did so, he instinctively tapped the bottom of the grip, making sure the magazine was seated before drawing the slide back just far enough to check that there was a round in the chamber. Satisfied, he raised the gun to Omar’s head.

  One of the team members, a hardened LT veteran, cried out, “No! You cannot do this! This man is a Muslim!”

  Unaccustomed to being challenged, it was only respect for the LT member’s combat record that prevented Sheik Osman from striking him with his pistol butt.

  “Brother, Muslims kill Muslims every day,” he said. “Besides, we have no choice. We can’t risk having any witnesses around. This operation is too important. This man can go to Allah knowing he is a martyr to our cause.” Sheik Osman placed the end of the hard black barrel on the center of Omar’s forehead, as the smell of urine filled the crowded space and Omar’s body trembled uncontrollably.

  “Sheik Osman! You know you cannot do this! A Muslim may take the life of another Muslim only if a fatwa has been issued declaring him an apostate!”

  Sheik Osman knew the man was right. He lowered the pistol. “Well, what do you suggest? Look around, brother. Do you see any mullahs to give us a fatwa?”