“No, they’re not just the domestic protesters du jour this time. Seems like we have an international operation today,” Groenwald said with a lowered voice.
“International?”
“This crew is from SHAC, kissing cousins to the hooligans in London.”
“The SHAC Seven are out of jail now, right? Is this part of the same old crusade?” asked Raines.
“Not really. Shall we sit?” Groenwald motioned to an empty couch. “Looks like some of the peaceful groups are trying to recruit a bit of the fringe in order to add some bite to their bark. Another 15 are over at Aberdeen Proving Grounds this morning as well. The British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection has gone to great lengths to ramp up their intelligence gathering, especially on the issue of transporting research animals. They’ve even blogged about a top secret shipment we received last month. Animal Aid is now making in-roads in the states, even mounting a campaign against the American Cancer Society and the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer folks. Worse than that, the public believes what they tell them.”
“Why Aberdeen?” Raines asked.
“Vervet monkeys, mostly. SHAC got a hold of some training video a couple of years ago, and every few months they pull it back out to gin up discontent.”
“Nerve agent training, wasn’t it? I thought the Army stopped doing the training program with vervets several months ago.”
“They did. But protesters aren’t inclined to let facts get in the way of a TV news camera and some potential donations now are they? Then they got wind of a USDA report that mentioned 94 guinea pigs and 54 rats. Nothing unusual, all by the book really, but written by a clueless science geek who forgot the reports are public domain. His written report came across like he was a heartless bastard.”
“BIO or CHEM?” Raines asked.
“Chem for these. They were checking lethal doses for inhalation. You don’t know what’s really lethal until, well, you know. Anyway, the guy cites a 1984 Clement and Coperman study in his report and asserts that even though the chemical agent-induced convulsions and death that did not necessarily mean the animals went through any pain or suffering. Well, they certainly weren’t enjoying a Saturday afternoon playing in the park! The American Humane Fund gets the report, goes international with all of the animal rights underground, some groups align, and today they trot out the vervets. When the Army denies, it comes across as the liar.”
Raines took another pull on her latte.
“I don’t like the use of guinea pigs and rats, but how would they like us to protect our troops, or the innocent Kurds in Anfal, or the Serbs or any other group? So why Detrick, why today?”
“Aerosolized inhalation. A young community newspaper reporter has apparently been getting some pillow time with one of our scientists who apparently forgot he had an oath along with a single-scoped, polygraph security clearance when he just happened to mention that we would be conducting aerosolized Ebola tests on primates this week. Front page story in the Bethesda Weekly this morning; local citizens are going nuts.”
“I don’t subscribe.”
“Well, there are plenty of copies around today so help yourself. It’ll be unusually quiet as everyone speculates as to the identity of our sex offender with the big mouth.”
“Pretty remote, isn’t it?”
“What?” Groenwald asked, as they got up and headed for the elevator.
“That a band of terrorists could aerosolize Ebola effectively as a WMD? They’d have to get the appropriate strain of the disease pathogen and know how to handle the organism correctly. They’d have to grow it in a way that would produce the appropriate characteristics, and then they’d have to store the culture and scale it up to production capacity. Aerosolized or not, dispersing a perfectly lethal recipe for inhalation and widespread destruction is next to impossible.”
“That’s what we thought, too, until three weeks ago. An Illinois company gets an order for two commercial misting machines for pesticides, something called SkitoMister. The municipality in Hamburg, Germany buys them for mosquito control. Hamburg takes delivery last April just in time for mosquito season. But there’s a problem. The two 101-pound machines are nowhere to be found in the maintenance garage when the mosquitoes start to hatch. The city officials get busy with other work, get sloppy and finally file a police report in September. The Bundespolizei contact the American company to verify shipping and get the serial numbers. Next thing you know BPOL says the serial numbers showed up at a port in Jakarta, Indonesia. The local Polri checks out the importer who quickly compensates the Indonesian National Police with an appropriate bribe and confesses to shipping both machines black market to Islamabad.”
Stunned, Raines asked, “Oh my God, could this really work? I mean, do they have the competence to formulate the organisms to really be able to facilitate aerosolized particles?”
The elevator door opened and Groenwald swiped his card as did Raines. They both did their biometric scans and the elevator without floor buttons closed and climbed to their floor.
“That’s the million dollar question, Colonel Raines. We’re not running a Dark Winter or a Top Off, but that’s why we’re testing aerosolizers this week.”
“Do we have any clues on the biologicals? Ebola? Smallpox? Marburg’s?”
“No clue. But two American-made, high performance, aerosol misters, sold to Hamburg, stolen and shipped to Jakarta before black market transit to Islamabad, can’t be a good thing.”
“And the protesters?”
“Right now, the least of our worries…they’re just the detritus of our storm.”
FOB Lightning – Level 1 Clinic
Paktya Province, Afghanistan
A short-straw Army specialist was about to end his evening shift guarding the prisoner-patient when Camp walked through the doors of the clinic.
“Good morning, specialist. How’s our patient?”
“She seems fine, sir; she woke up about an hour ago.”
“She’s awake?” Camp asked as he moved quickly toward her private room.
“She said something all whacked out in that Afghani shit and then, all of a sudden like, she says ‘my son’ in like perfect English, you know?”
“I’ve got it from here, specialist. Go hit your rack.”
“Doc, I was wondering if you could get me some Ambien. I’m having a real hard -.”
“Big bottle behind the counter, little round blue pills, help yourself. One per night. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Miriam’s face was crusted and more swollen. Blotches of red covered her neck and forehead. Her arm was heavily bandaged from the escharotomy, but Camp could feel a pulse. The IV bag kept a constant flow of antibiotics, pain meds, sedation and fluids flowing. The intubation tube was uncomfortable, but it was better to have it in, especially if the airway should close from swelling. The Level 1 clinic on a Forward Operating Base was intended for PT sprains, colds, diarrhea, flu and Ambien. It was hardly a burn center, but Miriam was luckier than most burn patients. Camp and the medics got the fire extinguished quickly. The patient would be in recovery for several weeks; there would be scarring, but she would live.
“Miriam, can you hear me?”
Her eyes were swollen shut with bandages and ointment covering them.
A weak raspy whisper pierced the silence.
“Yes.”
“How are you feeling?”
“My son…my husband will kill him if he finds out that I lived.”
Camp walked around to the other side of her bed.
“You’re dead, Miriam…we sent reports to the Afghan media about the suicide bomber who killed herself and several others at the hospital. So relax…you’re dead.”
“I wish I was.”
“But your son may not be as lucky as you, Miriam.”
Her body writhed, and she grew agitated.
“What have you done to him?”
“Nothing yet. But I intend to hunt him down and kill him myself unle
ss you tell me what I want to know.”
Camp heard the clinic door open. He saw Billy Finn walk into Miriam’s room just as Camp bent over toward Miriam’s ear.
Miriam became still.
“Mr. Finn is here,” she said to their mutual surprise.
“How are you, Miriam?” Finn responded though not really caring if she was feeling well or ever would.
“Your husband, Miriam, who is he? Why did he make you do this?” Camp continued the interrogation.
Miriam did not speak.
“Did he have something to do with Major Banks’ kidnapping?” Finn asked.
Miriam stayed silent.
“Does he live in Khost? Does he live there with your son and his family?” Camp asked.
She did not respond.
Camp walked away from Miriam’s bed and over to the desk phone in the room. He looked up at the phone numbers on a sheet of paper taped to the plywood wall. Pressing the speaker button, dial tone filled the room before Camp punched in the numbers.
“Task Force Duke, this is Sergeant Melendez,” said the voice on the other end.
“Melendez, you’ve got Khost in your area of operations, do you not?”
“Affirmative, sir.”
“Great. Operation Baby Bird is now green. Send your team over right now. Dead or alive, doesn’t matter to me,” Camp said as he pulled the handset up and disengaged the speaker phone.
“No!” Miriam pleaded as urgently as possible through the pain.
“Sir, what the hell are you talking about? You’ve reached the medical clinic at TF Duke in Khost,” Sergeant Melendez shot back into Camp’s handset and ear.
“Excellent. Let me know as soon as the mission is completed.”
Camp hung up the phone and walked closer to Miriam who was starting to twitch uncomfortably as Finn pinched the bridge of his nose, closed his eyes and held back the laughter.
“I’ll tell you.”
“Too late, Miriam, you’re nothing but a suicide bomber with a dead kid. You certainly didn’t care whose sons you were going to kill yesterday. Why should you care if your son is killed today?”
“Datta Khel, Miran Shah District, in the northern tribal regions.”
“Pakistan?” Finn asked now fully engaged.
“He is called Khyber Abbasin.”
“Is he Talibani?” Camp asked.
Miriam did not answer.
“Haqqani? He deals in the Haqqani network, doesn’t he Miriam?” Finn prodded.
“ISI…Inter-Services Intelligence,” Miriam said as Finn bolted out of the room.
“Okay, Miriam, I’ll trust you on this one…we’ll call off the mission for your son.”
“No…please rescue him…bring me my son.”
Camp reached down and touched her left hand by the IV drip, the only part of her upper torso that wasn’t burned.
“Inshallah.”
* * *
10
* * *
Kabul, Afghanistan
Camp and Finn exited the Blackhawks on the LZ at Camp Phoenix and made their way to the Rhinos for the six-mile ride through the streets of Kabul and over to ISAF where General Ferguson was waiting for them. The Rhino was an up-armored “Winnebago on steroids”, virtually indestructible in both Iraq and Afghanistan, and served as a civilian and military personnel carrier. It was presumed to be indestructible until the Taliban sent a vehicle-borne improvised explosive device into one a few months earlier. The VBIED car bomber knocked the Rhino over and left a morass of twisted steel scattered among 14 dead and 11 wounded civilians and military personnel from three different NATO nations.
Ferguson and two coffee-pouring majors were seated and waiting for Camp and Finn when they arrived.
“Camp! Billy Finn! Great to see you, boys,” Ferguson said as he got up to shake their hands then stopped abruptly as he saw the bandages wrapped around Camp’s hands.
“Good God, Camp…your AAR said nothing about being wounded.”
“I must’ve forgotten to write it down, sir.”
Ferguson leaned over to one of his majors. “Make a note and file the paperwork.”
“Sir, really it’s nothing.”
“That’s another Purple Heart, captain…your nation is paying you jack shit for dollars. The least we can do is to give you a damn medal when it’s earned.”
“Why don’t you just send me a bottle of cabernet, and we can break General Order Number One together and call it good.”
Ferguson smiled and lit a cigar. No one was about to tell him he couldn’t smoke in his own office in the middle of a war.
“What do we have, Billy?”
“Well, Miriam the Terp straps on three plastic water bottles, loads them with what I’m guessing was acetone peroxide – kitchen table TATP, the woman always smelled like bleach to me – and then coupled a homemade fuse out of some cotton shoelaces and lit the candle.”
“What about the Afghan doctor?” Ferguson asked.
“That one puzzles me a bit. The guy sports a brand new pair of Air Jordans, not a speck of dirt on them, had to cost him a month of salary, even in the black market. But he was standing in the middle of the kill zone when Miriam lights up the room.”
“Finn’s right. Clearly Miriam didn’t mind killing Mahmoud, so it’s hard to know if they were in bed together, figuratively speaking of course,” Camp added.
“Base commander at Thunder?”
“Well, that’s an interesting study in itself. He refuses to send any Afghan army troops after the ambulance claiming he’s out of fuel but calls for a full investigation of his checkpoint and medical crew.”
“That’s good,” Ferguson reasoned.
“It would be, except he’s still thinking about who he wants to appoint to that committee. As far as he knows, Miriam blew herself up and killed an undisclosed number of Afghan soldiers, Afghan civilians and American military.”
“That was the point of the ruse, right?”
“That’s correct, general, but wouldn’t you think he’d like to reclaim and identify some bodies or notify next of kin? Nothing. Not a peep about the casualties. But he’s on all of the Afghan radio and TV stations promising retribution to those who committed the cowardly act on his base,” Finn said.
“Me thinks he doth protest too much,” Camp quipped.
“Responsibility?”
“Less than 30 minutes after the news broke the Taliban spokesman claimed responsibility and threatened more actions.”
“Pretty standard, Billy. The Taliban will claim responsibility for a car accident, goat flatulence or runny scrambled eggs in the DFAC.”
“But this was different, general. The Taliban referred to the bomber as being a woman, an interpreter who had been hidden within Coalition Forces for four years. Sir, we never described the bomber,” Camp added.
“So, they had no doubt that it was Miriam. Have you gotten anything out of her? Can she talk?” Ferguson asked.
“I spent some time with her yesterday morning, sir, and was able to, ah, persuade her to cooperate with us,” Camp said.
“Does she know anything about Banks?”
“Sir, it looks to us like her husband may be the common denominator in all of this. Miriam says that if she didn’t fulfill her role, her husband would kill their son. She apparently lives for the kid,” Camp said.
“She’s from Khost. Khost and Paktya are all Haqqani turf. They’ve got shadow governors in place wherever you look. As far as I’m concerned, I’d bet you the commander at Thunder is Haqqani, too.”
“You don’t know that Billy.”
“No, but this much we do know,” Camp added, “Miriam said her husband is ISI.”
“Pakistani intelligence? Now what the heck am I supposed to do with that?” Ferguson grunted as he got up and paced the room. “Major Spann…play the video.”
Camp and Finn looked at each other.
“Video, sir?”
“Major Banks is a reservist out of Bucks County,
Pennsylvania. Board certified gynecologist for a women’s health practice. He’s got a son, Chad, and a daughter, Brittany. Two days ago Chad gets a video posted to his Facebook wall from one of his new ‘friends’, a friend he thought was part of a Philadelphia Phillies Baseball Fan Club.”
Major Mitchell dimmed the lights then started the two-minute video clip as Camp and Finn watched intently. Spann brought the lights back up. The room was silent.
“Well?” Ferguson asked trying to stimulate discussion.
“Well, at least they didn’t chop his head off in the video,” Finn said with some degree of honest relief.
“Camp?”
“He’s alive…at least he was…that’s a start. Maybe we should show it to Miriam and see if she can tell us anything about it.”
Finn stood up and walked toward the TV monitor.
“Major Spann, would you play that one more time? Let me have the remote control this time.”
Spann dimmed the lights and started the DVD over again from the beginning. He handed the remote to Finn.
“Watch his hands…his hands are on the table but he’s doing something with his fingers.”
They watched the video again and saw Major Banks contorting his fingers while he was speaking. The DVD ended and Spann turned the lights back on.
“Looks kind of random to me,” Ferguson said less than excited.
“Does anybody know sign language? You know, for deaf people?” Finn asked.
The coffee-pouring majors looked at each other, but there were no takers.
“You think he’s saying something, Billy?”
“I don’t know, but the movement of the fingers isn’t natural. Something’s going on there. General, can you see if we have someone at Eggers or ISAF or even the Embassy who’s familiar with sign language?”
With a quick nod from General Ferguson, one of the majors scrambled out the door and down the hallway.
“Okay, why don’t you boys find some billeting and get some food. Let’s reconvene back here at 1400 hours. Camp, if you’d stay an extra second or two, I’d appreciate it.”
Finn stood up and left with Major Spann as Ferguson moved closer to Camp and sat on the front edge of his desk.
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