Arabian Deception

by James Lawrence

  “I don’t have any training or experience in espionage. When I was active-duty, I was a door kicker. You know that.”

  “And a good one from what I remember. But not much of a politico is what I’ve heard.”

  “You heard correct. My business skills are also a bit suspect at the moment, which is why I’m here. I can’t really afford to lose this job if I get caught playing super spy. There’s a whole bunch of people back in the States counting on my monthly paycheck.”

  “The only thing I can tell you is that Wardak is a bad actor, and if my suspicions are correct, he’s getting American servicemen killed.”

  Pat thought about what he’d said for a few seconds. “If I’m going to be a CIA asset, the only person I am going to report to is you. I don’t want anyone from my company knowing, and even within your organization, the fewer people who know, the better. I don’t want to be reading about myself on WikiLeaks.”

  “WikiLeaks, really?”

  “Hey, I just read a story about some gender-confused private first class who spilled the names of a whole bunch of agents and assets working for you guys.”

  “Done,” Mike said reaching over the table to shake Pat’s hand.

  Chapter 5

  Pol-e-Charki, Afghanistan

  When Pat entered the 201st the next morning as a newly minted CIA asset, the experience was no different than in the past. Each morning began with a battle update brief. Pat stood next to Colonel Chu, the RCAT commander, off to the side in the bullpen area with a small receiver to his ear to hear the translation. Colonel Khan, the intelligence officer, began with a quick summary of enemy activity. He was followed by Brigadier Aqa, who provided an update on the dispositions of the various units and a brief summary of where and what had been attacked over the previous twenty-four hours. He was followed by the logistics officer. It was the same routine every day. The Corps commander concluded the meeting as he always did, by praising the brilliant performance of his Corps and complaining about the support from the Americans. This morning’s grievance was because he had not been notified of an American SOF mission conducted within his area of operations the night before.

  After the briefing, Colonel Chu and Pat went to Lieutenant General Wardak’s Office on the second floor. The camp had been built by the Russians in the 1970s, and the building reflected the Soviet utilitarian style of the time. Wardak’s office was huge. The walls were covered with white fabric, the huge windows were adorned with heavy red velvet curtains, and enormous bouquets of roses covered every flat surface. His desk was an enormous slab of heavily varnished mahogany. Colonel Chu was a no-nonsense Marine officer. He was an infantry officer with Force Recon experience who wore a silver diving and parachute badge on his camouflage uniform along with the eagle that represented his rank as a colonel. They got along very well.

  They both sat across from Wardak’s desk with Chu’s TERP (translator/interpreter) seated behind them. Colonel Chu’s deputy, Lieutenant Colonel Collins, Brigadier Aqa, the G3, and the deputy G3, Colonel Fareed, sat in chairs against the wall off to the side.

  Neither Wardak nor Chu had much use for the other. Both tended to be antagonistic in their conversations. Chu made Pat look like a regular diplomat. They went through the perfunctory tea ritual with the obligatory small talk.

  “Was there a reason you asked to meet this morning?” Chu asked.

  “Americans attacked my people last night in Logar. One of my captains was killed, two others were wounded. What do you have to say about this?”

  “Your captain fired at an American SOF unit that was conducting a mission to capture a high-value asset. He was killed when they returned fire,” replied Chu.

  “The report I received was that the Americans confused the target and attacked my forces. There was no provocation.”

  “Bud, bring me the laptop.” Bud, Chin’s deputy, was a giant. He was a Navy officer and not a Marine, and he was an F-14 pilot. Naval aviators all had call signs, and since Bud had a face only a mother could love, his was Big Ugly Dude, or Bud for short. Chu turned the open laptop to Wardak and played the video. Pat got up and stood behind Wardak so he could see the screen.

  The video had been taken from an Apache helicopter. It began with the thermal image of a Blackhawk helicopter hovering near a village. Operators were fast-roping down from the aircraft. As soon as the Blackhawk left the screen, a stream of machine-gun fire could be seen impacting near the operators. The audio was a conversation between the Apache crew and the assault team leader.

  The TERP provided a translation of the communication to Wardak. The short version was:

  “We’re receiving fire, do you have eyes on?”

  “Roger, target identified. Are we cleared to fire?”

  “Affirmative, cleared hot. Fire.”

  The video showed the focus of the camera move from the operators to a bunker adjacent to what must be an ANA combat outpost. Then you saw the reticle pattern and display of the gun camera, followed by the launch of a hellfire missile and the deadpan report by the aircrew: “Target destroyed.”

  “The real question is why your forces are engaging US forces,” said Chu.

  “President Obama and General McCrystal have new rules that you’re not following. We are supposed to be warned of any operations in our area. We were never warned. How can you fault the captain?” replied Wardak.

  “It was a Blackhawk helicopter. How could your captain not know he was shooting at Americans? When was the last time the Taliban fast-roped out of a Blackhawk?”

  “I can’t say what the captain did or did not see. The point remains that the Americans are not following the rules. Additionally, if you are going into Afghan homes, you are supposed to have Afghan forces with you. Once again, we received no such request.”

  “Nothing you’ve said is an excuse for shooting at Americans. Your captain caused his own death. Death comes to those who seek it.”

  “We expect compensation. I will be meeting with your commander, and I will explain to him your view toward Afghan and American cooperation. Especially the part about death coming to those who seek it. I don’t think that is the American policy, Colonel.”

  They filed out of the office. Pat went down the hall to Brigadier Aqa’s office. Pat’s TERP met him at the door. Ramian, as he was called, was in his thirties. He had been injured while working for the US Special Forces, and the ODA commander had landed him a job with Pat’s company. Ramian had been working inside the 201st Corps longer than anyone and was a great source of information on just about everything. Brigadier Aqa was the polar opposite of Wardak. It was impossible not to like the guy. Unlike Wardak, who was a Pashtun, Aqa was a Tajik. He was an older guy, with a belly and a bald head with soft features. Aqa preferred to speak in Dari. Aqa was a former member of the Mujahideen, and he had ridden with the great Masoud in the Northern Alliance back in the day. Unlike Wardak, whose only military experience was serving as the commander of the Taliban Staff College, Aqa was a multidecade combat veteran who’d battled the Russians and later the Taliban. His warrior years were behind him, and the meeting with Aqa was purely social. He had almost no involvement in the day-to-day operations of the Corps.

  After spending an hour with Aqa, Pat went down to the Operations Center. Colonel Fareed, the deputy G3, ran the Ops Center for the Corps. He was well educated, and his English was excellent. Fareed only had one arm. Pat had never asked him how he lost it, but one day he’d volunteered. It was a bizarre conversation. They’d started talking about the Russians.

  “Did you ever wonder how I lost my arm?” Fareed said.

  “Yes, but I didn’t want to ask.”

  “Aqa took it.”

  “Brigadier Aqa, your boss, took your arm,” Pat said.

  “I’m a Pashtun from Kabul. We sided with the Russians. One day, I was part of a vehicle convoy moving north when we were ambushed. The commander who ambushed our convoy was Aqa. His men shot me, and I lost my arm,” he said.

  �
�Does that make it difficult working for him?” Pat asked.

  “No. He’s a good man. He was doing his job and I was doing mine. It wasn’t personal.”

  Whatever corruption was going on in the 201st, Pat didn’t think it involved Fareed, because he didn’t have any money. The salary for an ANA colonel was four hundred dollars a month. Pat had spoken to him one day and he was very upset. He told Pat his wife was very sick with an infection, and that the military doctor refused to see her unless he paid him five hundred dollars, which he didn’t have. Pat had walked back to his B-hut and returned with five hundred dollars. Fareed seemed genuine in his response. He had tears in his eyes when Pat gave him the money. Pat didn’t think it was a con, but in Afghanistan, one never knew. Similar to Aqa, discussions with Fareed rarely involved the war. Obama had come into office just a few months earlier, and Fareed was enthralled with the Americans’ new president. Discussions with Fareed were almost always political.

  The last two hours of every work day were usually spent with the one person in the 201st Corps who knew everything that was going on operationally. Major Ibrahim was brilliant. In the US Army, he would be the guy who would win the white briefcase at the Command and General Staff College. Explaining decision support templates, D3A targeting processes and RISTA planning with anyone else in the Corps was a waste of time. Ibrahim had no trouble understanding such things. He was the master of all things military, despite the fact that he only spent about ten percent of his time actually doing anything related to tactical planning. He spent most of his time on other pursuits.

  A major pursuit was his tea boy. Major Ibrahim could never seem to get enough of the poor child. When Pat entered the G3 plans shop, he often found it empty and had to knock on the adjacent sleeping room to get Ibrahim and his paramour back on task. Another even more consuming pursuit was Ibrahim’s drug habit. He was very open about his need for hashish to function, but Pat was also pretty sure he was a user of Afghanistan’s number one export, which was opium. The third pursuit, which towered over both the pederasty and the drug habit in Ibrahim’s world, was bird fighting.

  Ibrahim was the proud owner of a champion fighting bird. Almost every night, the bird went to battle, and so far it was undefeated. Ibrahim often invited Pat to attend the fights, but he always begged off. Ibrahim’s winnings from his bird’s triumphs were significant. He had mentioned that once he’d won ten thousand dollars in a single bout.

  Pat sat down with Ibrahim to review the attack plan for an operation in the Uzbin Valley.

  “Pat, I’ve completed everything. The plan is on the commander’s desk, waiting on his signature. Don’t you want to hear about the fight last night?”

  “Did he win?”

  “Did he win? Did he win? He was amazing. He was heroic, the greatest bird the world has ever known. It was a tough fight. Many thought he was beaten. Many feathers were lost. I never doubted. He battled back. He’s a genius bird. He pretended to be more hurt than he was. My bird drew the other in and then, when the opponent thought he had him beat and was moving in for the kill, my bird struck, with a vicious surprise killing blow. He drove his beak into the neck of the opponent and then, with his talons, ripped his heart out. It was magnificent. My bird is the champion of all birds.”

  “That’s great, Ibrahim. At the rate you’re going, you may want to just give up this military thing and become a full-time trainer.”

  “My bird doesn’t need to train. It’s a natural.”

  Chapter 6

  Kabul, Afghanistan

  Pat drove his dirty beat-up Mitsubishi SUV to the security gate at the Kabul Intercontinental Hotel. He unwrapped the scarf around his face and showed the guard his CAC ID card, identifying Pat as part of ISAF. The guard raised the barrier and waved him through. Pat headed up the steep hill to the parking lot next to the lobby entrance. He had a driver, but he didn’t want anyone else to know who he was meeting. Plus, Pat liked to drive.

  He found Mike in the café outdoor seating area and joined him at a table. The Intercontinental was on a flat plateau on top of the highest hill in the city of Kabul, with a view of most of the city. The weather was warm and sunny. From their table near the edge of the hilltop, they could see a plume of smoke in the distance and two Kiowa Warrior helicopters orbiting above the source of the smoke.

  “What’s going on down there?” Pat asked.

  “They hit one of the residences used by the UN,” Mike replied.

  Pat ordered a coffee and a club sandwich, and for several minutes they watched the battle play out in the distance. They were too far away to make out any of the details. At the edge of the hotel grounds, where the top of the hill ended in a cliff, a CNN crew was filming the battle. A war correspondent was wearing a helmet and body armor in the shot, with the plume of smoke in the background.

  “Did you read my report?” Pat asked.

  “Yes, I went through it last night.”

  “What are your thoughts?”

  “It’s not enough.”

  “What do you mean? It’s full of details. Seventy-five percent of the fuel provided to the 201st ANA by the US military is being diverted and resold on the black market. Half of the troops are ghost soldiers. They exist only on the payroll accounts. That’s a big rip-off on the American taxpayer. I even outlined how the religious officer is skimming the death gratuities earmarked for the families of ANA soldiers killed in action. What more do you need?”

  “None of what you provided is new information. The kind of corruption you described is a way of life in Afghanistan. It’s happening everywhere in all of the units. It’s not a big deal. We think Wardak is up to something far more sinister.”

  “I guess I’m going to have to change my methods, then, because I gave you all I could find.”

  “What are your sources?”

  “The TERPs, mostly. They all seem to have a chip on their soldier when it comes to the ANA, and most of them have been around long enough to know where the skeletons are buried.”

  “TERPs are good, but you need someone on the inside. Who knows the most about what’s really going on inside the Corps?”

  “Wardak, of course. Then his intel officer, who avoids me like the plague. The religious officer is a close confidant, and the brigade commanders would have to be in on it.”

  “What about in the G3?”

  “Brigadier Aqa doesn’t seem to be involved, and if he knows anything about what the others are doing, I doubt he would talk. He’s that kind of guy. Colonel Fareed is not involved. If he’s a crook, he’s a very bad one, because he’s dirt poor. I doubt he knows much. Ibrahim is the one guy who I think would know what Wardak is up to.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You can’t move a vehicle or a person in the 201st without Ibrahim knowing about it. He knows where every player is on the chess board, and he’s the guy who writes the orders to move them. A lot of what he does is a secret between himself and Wardak.”

  “What about the chief of staff?” asked Mike.

  “Major General Azimi doesn’t seem to get along very well with Wardak. I doubt he’s involved, but he might know something,” Pat said.

  “Do you think you can cultivate Ibrahim and Azimi as sources?”

  “Probably, if I paid them.”

  Mike reached down to his feet and retrieved a small black backpack, placing it next to Pat’s chair.

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “One hundred thousand dollars, a burner cell phone and the pistol you requested.”

  “I’m going to have to wait until Ibrahim’s bird starts losing before this cash is going to do much good with him. General Azimi, on the other hand, should be able to deliver faster results.”

  “What’s the deal with Ibrahim’s bird?”

  “It’s a chukar—a fighting partridge. He’s making serious bank betting on his bird, which, from the way he describes it, is the Mohammed Ali of birds.”

  “Ibrahim sounds like a character.”


  “If you can get past the gambling, drugs, animal cruelty and sexual depravity that borders on child rape, he’s a great guy.”

  “Child rape?”

  “Maybe not. I’m not really sure how old his tea boy is. He might be of the age of consent in this country.”

  “I think you should kill the bird and speed things along.”

  “I’ll see what I can do. He’s always inviting me to the bird fights. Maybe I should go.”

  Pat spent most of the drive back to Camp Blackhorse thinking of ways to assassinate a bird. The Army had spent a couple of million dollars training him if you combined the costs of just the courses: Airborne, Ranger, HALO, diving, SERE, jumpmaster, demo, driving, tracking, sniper, SOT and the rest. Now he was going to put all that training and his years of combat experience to work assassinating a two-pound partridge.

  Lost in thought, the sound of a gunshot startled Pat to alertness. He hit the brakes, his heart raced, and his attention returned to the immediate surroundings. Just ahead of him was a HMMWV with a machine gun aimed directly at him. Pat must have gotten too close to the convoy for their comfort, which had caused them to fire a warning shot. He let the convoy get far ahead of him before moving again. Getting too close to American convoys was dangerous business. They were bullet magnets for the Taliban, and if they didn’t fire at you, you were just as liable to get caught up in the crossfire when the Taliban fired at them. Driving around alone in his unarmored beater is so much safer.

  The next morning, Pat walked to the morning battle update briefing at the 201st Headquarters with a plan to attend the next bird fight. His plan was simple. When the opportunity presented itself and nobody was looking, he was going to put a bullet in the bird using the suppressed 9mm Mike had given him. When the BUB was over, Pat made his rounds. He spent a few minutes with General Wardak, then Aqa and Fareed, before heading to the plans shop. Ibrahim wasn’t at his desk. Through his TERP, Pat asked his tea boy where Ibrahim was. He pointed to the sleep room.