Death Drones

by Christopher Fox

  “Frederico, you old dog,” Miguel responded as he joined him in an affectionate hug.

  “Come, come,” he said as he led Miguel to a nearby meeting room. He closed the door and gestured to a chair for Miguel and selected one for himself and sat down.

  “Of course, the original team knows of your previous identity, but no one else, and it’s best to keep it that way. Also a new person, a female, will be joining the team. I will introduce you to her. We also have one of your old nemeses from the cartel joining the team.”

  “I know. Daniel told me the set-up.”

  “Is this going to be a problem—I'm aware of the history between him and Jenny?”

  “No. I was pissed at the time, but when I met Anna again and found out that she was now alone, I realized that Jenny and I had less in common, and I would have pulled the plug, anyway. The issue with Roberto just made it easier.”

  “Did the two of you ever meet? ”

  “Not really. He was one of the people who stole my boat and kidnapped Jenny at Cocos Island. Someone hit me over the back of my head, but it was dark and raining, and it's unlikely that he recognized me. Also, it was Jimmy and I that retrieved the boat in Buenaventura, and Alberto and Alex went to the hacienda to rescue Jenny.”

  “OK then, let’s go meet the team.” With that, he headed for the door and Miguel followed him. They walked down the hall to another room where Miguel could see Jimmy, Alberto, Alejandro, and another man he presumed to be Roberto, talking to a very attractive young woman. As they entered the room, all five turned in their direction.

  “Miguel—you know Jimmy, Alberto, and Alejandro.” The three men came to meet Miguel, each greeting him warmly with a handshake.

  “And this,” Frederico turned to the fourth man, “is Roberto Campasino from the cartel.”

  Roberto stepped forward and offered his hand to Miguel. It felt a little odd seeing that he had no idea of Miguel’s link to Jenny. He felt somewhat cuckolded as he took the offered hand and shook it.

  “Pleased to meet you,” said Miguel.

  “Likewise,” said Roberto.

  Frederico then turned to the young lady. She stepped forward with her hand extended, smiling at Miguel.

  “Miguel, I would like you to meet Maria Delgado. Maria, Miguel Diaz.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Maria said as Miguel took her proffered hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” Miguel said with one of his best smiles.

  “Maria has a background in covert operations,” Frederico began, “and her experience was with the Policía Federal Ministerial, or PFM, the Ministerial Federal Police of Mexico. She worked with me for a few years as a detective and I asked her to join me when I left the Chief of Police position and worked full time with my agency.”

  Last time Miguel used the resources of the agency, Frederico was still finishing out his term as Chief of Police for San José. As an elected position, one cannot serve for multiple terms in Costa Rica, and the incumbent changes every four years. Since he left his position with the police a year ago, he had expanded the agency substantially, setting up several departments to cover everything from simple surveillance to covert operations. He named the agency Investigaciones Centroamericanas (IC), or Central America Investigations, and had offices in all Central American countries except Nicaragua.

  Miguel sized up Maria. One thing for sure, she was gorgeous with that indigenous skin colour that showed she was from Mayan descent. Her hair, jet black and very long, was swept away from her face, tied up in a large bun behind her head. Her eyes were naturally dark and seemed to burn into Miguel as she sized him up too. Miguel estimated her to be six inches shorter than he was, which put her at about 5' 8". She was small-framed with average sized bust, narrow waist and nicely rounded hips. She wore a pair of white, Nike sports shoes, black slacks, plain black tee-shirt, and a black, sleeveless vest. No evidence of any jewelry and, as far as Miguel could tell, she wore no make-up. However, he sensed a faint but unidentifiable fragrance emanating from her.

  “I will leave you all to make your plans,” Frederico said once everyone was seated around the table. “Let me know of anything you need.”

  Once Frederico had left the room, Alberto arranged the plethora of paperwork on the conference table. He distributed a portfolio to each of them and gestured for them to open it. Inside, there were dossiers and photographs of several people and Alberto addressed each one in turn.

  “The first profile is for Mohammad Al-Barakah.” The team members thumbed through the dossier that contained all the information they had accumulated based on Intel from the CIA and Roberto. “You will see that he is an Afghan national that has spent most of his life fighting aggression within Afghanistan, first with the Russians and then the US. When the Russians were deposed from Afghanistan in 1989, they simultaneously were supporting, surprisingly, anti-Sandinista sentiment and supported the coalition, in the form of the Nicaraguan Communist Party that saw Violeta Chamorro elected as President. Mohammad saw an opportunity to align himself with the Sandinistas and join Ortega in his fight against the contras, bringing captured weapons with him from Afghanistan. He set up a compound for training terrorists in Nicaragua to fight alongside the Sandinistas against the elected government. Once Ortega was elected again in 2006, there was no requirement for his training camp. For a while, he was giving support to the Taliban to fight the US occupation, but with Osama Bin Laden being killed in 2011, the US and NATO forces systematically withdrew from Afghanistan. While in Afghanistan, he set up labs to refine opium into heroin and became a big supplier of illegal heroin. We know he has labs set up in Nicaragua to refine opium paste into black tar heroin.”

  Roberto interjected. “It is true that they have labs to refine opium into black tar heroin. Recently, there was an issue with a shipment of BT heroin from Colombia destined to …” he hesitated as he was about to say the location. “Destined to a location in Panama where we have labs for cutting the raw paste and making black tar heroin. At least one of our shipments was intercepted by Mohammad’s group and they laced it with succinylcholine, a muscle relaxant that if administered in quantity, can arrest breathing to a point whereby if no medical help is immediately available, the patient will die. He re-inserted the shipment back into the distribution network. Apparently, in the US, they recorded over a hundred deaths from contaminated heroin. Naturally, this killed the market for our heroin and opened the market for his. This is why a spirit of cooperation exists between us and the CIA—we both want this guy shut down. Based on information from their informant, there is a bigger plan in the works, but he did not know what it was.”

  “Thank you, Roberto. Clearly, we need to capture this idiot before he does more damage. Just taking him out of action may not be enough because any plan may already be in motion. We need to interrogate him and ascertain what this operation is about.”

  They continued going through all the information in the dossiers.

  “There are photos in the back of the folder. One is a satellite shot of the compound, taken about a week ago. There was spotted cloud cover at the time and the weather forecast was not improving, so the next photo is from a drone taken three days ago. If you want to hit the lights …” Alberto gestured to Jimmy who was sitting closest to the door “… we can watch the video.”

  Jimmy turned off the lights and the digital projector came on to show the home page from Alberto’s laptop. Alberto moved his mouse, made a few clicks and a video screen appeared. The mouse pointer moved toward the ‘play’ icon and the video started. It showed a large hacienda-style house with a courtyard, a swimming pool and manicured gardens. To the north of the house were two large metal buildings as well as several outbuildings. The drone continued its scan of the property and revealed even more buildings that appeared to be barracks. A few people walking around the property signified little activity.

  “Infra-red scans indicate nine or ten people in the house.” Alberto said. “This was taken late af
ternoon, so movement of personnel throughout the day is unknown.”

  “Mohammad lives in the house with his three wives and four children,” Roberto said. “There is also a cook and housemaid.”

  “With three wives,” Jimmy piped up. “Why would he need a cook and a housemaid?”

  Maria gave him a look that could kill.

  “The large metal buildings you see are the labs,” Roberto continued. “When they are operating, upwards of twenty people work there—ten in each building. They operate with impunity, and the local law enforcement leave them alone, no doubt as compensation for his support to the Sandinistas.”

  The drone continued to show details of the property as the camera zoomed out to show a wider angle.

  “If you look at the top of the screen, what appears to be vegetation outside the compound is actually camouflage netting to hide the coca plants that they harvest for their cocaine operations. They are not hiding it from the locals, nor the Nicaraguan drug enforcement agencies, who, as I mentioned, turn a blind eye to their operations. They are hiding it from the US spy satellites. We do this in my own country to protect the crops from eradication techniques.”

  “So,” Miguel queried. “They have both cocaine and heroin operations?”

  “They also grow marijuana, but the profit levels are much lower and they sell most of it in Central America.”

  “What are those buildings that look like barracks?” Alphonso asked.

  “That’s exactly what they are,” Roberto replied. “They can house upwards of a hundred people—twenty in each of the five buildings. Currently, two are allocated to women’s quarters and about thirty women are housed there. Two are men’s quarters with maybe twenty-five occupants. Most of the workers in the labs and fields are women whereas the men provide the security and guard duties. ”

  “So, Alberto,” said Miguel. “What is your plan for infiltrating the place and grabbing Mohammad?”

  “First of all, I want Roberto to get confirmation from his contact that he is there.” He nodded in Roberto’s direction. “We will get as close as we can with the vehicles, then hike to within a mile of the compound. Alex will use a drone copter to update the facility. Alex?”

  “We plan to use a military grade Aeryon SkyRanger equipped with a HD zoom camera,” Alex began. “We can control this up to two miles away, so if we can get to within a mile, that will reduce the air time. The craft can stay aloft for up to 50 minutes, so, depending on wind conditions, it can fly at up to 40 mph, meaning it will take only two minutes to reach the compound and another two to return. Leaving a ten-minute safety factor, that will allow a survey time of about 35 minutes.”

  “Isn’t there a danger of it being seen?” asked Maria.

  “Not really.” Alex continued. “When we were attending demonstrations at the manufacturer’s facility in Canada, they had one filming us from above at only 200 feet, and no one noticed it. Even when they advised us that it was there, it was very difficult to see it. We will be operating at 200 - 300 feet, depending on whether we are taking aerial or side views.

  “Once we can confirm that he is there and have the updates from the drone surveillance, we can finalize the plan. We don’t want any collateral damage if we can avoid it, especially with the women and children. According to Roberto, four night-time guards patrol the property—and they have guard dogs. The dogs will be the problem because they can detect noises and smells that the guards cannot.”

  “So how do we handle the dogs?” asked Miguel.

  “We will spray ourselves with a repellent that will deter our scent—doesn't smell great, but it should work. The main thing is to be very quiet—most of the area we have to traverse is grass, so that shouldn’t present a problem. Close to the house though we will have to move through the shrubbery, so use caution. At the perimeter of the house, we will take out the guards there. The shrubs conceal this area from the patrolling guards and dogs, so we have to do it quietly, and that’s what the dart guns are for. You need to get close enough and make sure you hit them in either the head or limbs where there is no body armour, in case they are wearing any. ”

  “We don’t anticipate the doors to the house to be locked, but if so we will have to improvise on that one—you all know how to pick locks.”

  “Not me,” said Miguel.

  “Not to worry, you won’t be alone, so someone will be with you to handle the locks.”

  Fourteen

  Mohammad al-Barakah was born in a ramshackle hut in the slums of Kabul, Afghanistan in March 1963. The youngest of six children, he shared the tin and canvas dilapidated abode with two brothers and three sisters. His older brothers set about teaching him how to survive in the streets of Kabul. At 15, his father had gone to join the Mujahideen to fight the unpopular Marxist People’s Democratic Party of Afghanistan after their coup of 1978, and they had no idea if he was even alive. The government was highly unstable with in-party rivalry, and after a while fell to a rival group who installed Hafizullah Amin as President. Then, in December 1979, the soviets staged a coup; killed the President and installed soviet loyalist Babrak Kamal from a rival faction. Mohammad’s brothers had both joined the Mujahideen to fight the soviets, and he had to fend for his sisters and mother.

  Mohammad, like most children in Muslim countries, was indoctrinated with Islamic laws and beliefs as part of his childhood education. His mother, although a devout Muslim and wore the full burka when she left the hut, did not know enough of the religion to teach Mohammad. It was therefore the imam at the local mosque that took on the responsibility. Mohammad, being a good student, soaked up the history of Mohammad the Holy Prophet, and how he had fought anti-Muslim forces around 600 years after the birth of Christ. The imam explained that he is the final Prophet of God to restore Islam, which is the unaltered original monotheistic faith of Adam, Abraham, Moses, Jesus and other Prophets. Born in Mecca around 570 CE and raised as an orphan by his uncle, he would periodically seclude himself in a mountain cave for prayer. Many years later, at age 40, he reported being visited in the cave by the Angel Gabriel, from whom he received his first revelation from God. When he preached this in Mecca, other tribes drove him out, so he and his followers migrated to Medina. By 629 CE, able to amass a force of 10,000 Muslims, he marched on Mecca where he seized the city with very little bloodshed. Barely three years later, he fell ill and died.

  Mohammad al-Barakah studied the Qur’an and spent most of his time, when he wasn’t hustling for money or food, reading the verses rather than joining other children to play. He religiously carried out his prayers five times a day, no matter what he was doing.

  When he reached adulthood, he looked at things around him and had to question why life was such a challenge. When he mentioned this to his imam, the cleric merely explained the workings of God.

  “Pain and suffering is a result of sin, my son, and none of us are without sin. From the time Satan, in the form of the serpent in the Garden of Eden, convinced Eve to partake of the tree of life, against God’s instructions, mankind has been in rebellion ever since. As a result of God’s anger, He banished Adam and Eve from the garden. This life is merely a prelude to the afterlife in Paradise where there is no pain or suffering.”

  The imam cautioned him about idolaters—those who worshipped other than the one true God—and why other faiths fell short of the true Islam. Mohammad was a good student and looked forward to his sessions with the imam who taught him the ways of the Sunni Muslim.

  Life on the streets was more challenging with the soviet occupation and it became a lot more difficult to get the handouts necessary for Mohammad to sustain food for the family. Afghanistan always had close ties to Russia. Since 1947, Afghanistan had been under the influence of the Soviet government and received large amounts of aid, economic help, military equipment training and military hardware from the Soviet Union. As early as 1919, economic aid had been provided to Afghanistan, so Mohammad decided at an early age to learn to speak Russian. This was the
single most important decision he had ever made, since it opened the door to conversations with Soviet soldiers, offering them help in tracking dissidents; for a fee of course. As traitorous as this may seem, Mohammad chose those dissidents he knew did not support the abundant poorer class, or those who supported sweeping changes in Islamic ways. Mohammad, through his brothers, coordinated with Mujahideen leaders in the area and learned at a young age how to be a double agent—trading information both ways—at only 16 years old .

  In 1980, the war heated up where the US, via the CIA—aided by Pakistan, Saudi Arabia, the UK, Egypt and China—provided aid to anti-Soviet forces through the Pakistani Inter-Service Intelligence (ISI) in a program called Operation Cyclone, whereby arms and financial aid was provided to Mujahideen Jihadi warriors. Around this time, Mohammad experienced one of his greatest moments.

  A 23-year-old, disillusioned Saudi from a wealthy family had just finished his education at King Abdul University in Jeddah. Like his father, he denounced worldly goods, living a life under strict Islamic Sharia law. His access to large sums of money allowed him to finance weapons used to fight anti-Islamic forces. His first opportunity to do this was in Afghanistan, where, via Pakistan, he funnelled arms, money and fighters to the Mujahideen to fight the Soviets. Usama bin Mohammad bin Awad bin Laden (Osama bin Laden) became popular with the Arabs, and during one of his excursions into Afghanistan, Mohammad had the privilege to meet him. They blindfolded him as they drove through the parched barren desert to a camp on the outskirts of Burza’i, about 15 mi. south of Kandahar. As they neared the camp, he could hear automatic gunfire, and thought that they were maybe heading into a skirmish, but it turned out to be just soldiers training. The sun beat down on them mercilessly as they got out of the air-conditioned vehicle, and Mohammad squinted as his blindfold was removed. His escort gestured to one of the larger tents guarded by two bearded soldiers toting AK-47s. He wasn’t sure if the beads of sweat on his forehead and the apparent wetness under his arms were a result of the heat or his nervousness at meeting such a revered person in the Arab world. After being led into the tent, or suradeq , his first observation was the familiar smell from the many sishas , the traditional Arab contraption that filters smoke through water. He had to let his eyes adjust to the darkened surroundings, and when they did, he could see several men squatting knees-crossed around a large, low table under a haze of smoke. Suradeqs are considered being the Cadillac of tents and, although plain and grayish-white on the outside, are lined inside from top to bottom with exquisite geometric patterns—usually in brilliant reds, greens, blues, and yellows—every inch of them painstakingly sewn by hand according to a craft tradition rarely practised anywhere in the Arab world today, except in the tent makers' bazaar of Cairo .