‘It’s no one’s fault,’ Major Crowe said finally, breaking the silence that had descended over the control cockpit, ‘we did everything we could. It’s the ugliness of war,’ he added, cursing the terrorists who so often took refuge among innocent villagers, or in mosques, and in the process ignoring the Qu’ran, which forbade fighting in places of worship.
The briefing room at Bagram had been secured, and O’Connor flicked on the classified satellite images.
Neither the commanding general in Afghanistan nor Special Operations Command had been amused, but when the president’s chief of staff leant on them, they had no choice but to allow O’Connor overall command of the operation in the notorious Korengal Valley, a valley that had seen more action than any other part of Afghanistan; but at the tactical level on the ground, the four assigned members of SEAL team six were more than happy. O’Connor’s reputation preceded him, and they had worked with him before, as had the other four handpicked members of the CIA’s Special Activities Division, all veterans of the hunt for Osama bin Laden. They knew the Hindu Kush well.
‘When we withdrew from the Korengal Valley, al Qaeda and the Taliban were given free reign,’ O’Connor began, letting his laser pointer rest where the Korengal Outpost had once stood in a dusty abandoned timber yard on the side of a steep mountain. ‘But not before more than thirty Americans gave their lives, including, as you’re only too well aware, many of our own Special Forces. The Chinook from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment was shot down here,’ O’Connor said, pointing to an area to the east of the valley. ‘But it was flying near its ceiling, so we suspect the Taliban or al Qaeda, or both, have somehow obtained surface-to-air missiles.’ O’Connor didn’t elaborate. The possible loss of Scorpion missiles was still in a compartment above TOP SECRET.
‘The overall mission of Operation Sassafras is twofold,’ O’Connor continued. ‘First, the 503rd will be operating to the east of us, trying to locate the members of SEAL Team Six and the crew of the Chinook. That’s now a recovery mission, not a rescue. The bodies are likely to be scattered over a wide area, with a centre of mass in this area here,’ O’Connor said, pointing to an area to the east of the Korengal Valley.
‘We’ll be looking for any evidence the Taliban or al Qaeda have acquired missiles, and we’ll be operating in the Korengal Valley itself.’ Several of O’Connor’s team exchanged glances. They were being inserted into an area not far from where eleven Navy SEALs and eight pilots and crew had perished in fierce fighting some years earlier, on the slopes of Sawtalo Sar. Operation Red Wings had seen a total of no fewer than three Navy Crosses awarded, two posthumously and the third to the sole survivor of the operation, Marcus Luttrell. The commander, Lieutenant Michael Murphy, had been awarded a posthumous Medal of Honor, the United States’ highest military award.
‘This mission won’t bring back those we’ve lost,’ O’Connor added soberly, ‘but if we can confirm the Taliban or al Qaeda have missiles, and determine the source, it might help prevent further casualties.’ He turned back to the map. ‘We’ll come in from the east in two Black Hawks, flying low and fast, north above the Kunar River, and then we’ll turn west where the Kunar meets the Pech River. Once we reach this position here, where the Korengal Valley intersects with the Pech, we’ll turn south and head down the valley to an area near the old Korengal Outpost, where we’ll fast-rope to the ground.’ O’Connor pointed to the timber yard. ‘Fire support will be provided from two Apache attack helos. As best we can determine from the intelligence available, the Chinook took fire from this general area here,’ he said, pointing to an isolated village high on a precipitous ridge line. ‘So that will be the first village to get our attention. Any questions?’
‘Any fucking questions,’ Petty Officer Louis Estrada, the short, muscular SEAL team leader muttered. ‘What about the villagers . . . any help from them?’ he asked.
O’Connor shook his head. ‘At best, expect them to be neutral. At worst, expect them to be reporting our every move to the Taliban. The villages in the Korengal are so remote, the occupants don’t take kindly to other Afghans, let alone us. Treat them all as if they’re hostile.’
O’Connor glanced over the pilot’s shoulder at the instruments glowing softly in the dark. The two Sikorsky Special Operations Black Hawks were touching 120 kilometres an hour and, in an effort to evade an attack from Taliban surface-to-air missiles, they were flying at just 100 feet above the Kunar River. The possibility of a direct hit from an RPG, the ubiquitous Soviet rocket-propelled grenade, was the lesser of two evils. Either side of the Black Hawks, two Boeing Apache attack helicopters were covering the mission. Armed with massive 30-millimetre cannon, 70-millimetre air-to-surface rockets, and Hellfire air-to-surface missiles, the Apaches not only packed an impressive array of armaments, they were also designed to absorb small arms fire from the ground. To the north, O’Connor could see the lights of Asadabad, the capital of Kunar Province, twinkling in the distance. Over the years, Asadabad had been the scene of more than one major battle between insurgents and Soviet and Western armies, and the tension mounted as they approached. The door gunners used their helmet-mounted night-vision goggles to penetrate the darkness, and they scanned the fields either side of the riverbank.
O’Connor steadied himself against the door pillar as the pilot banked hard where the Pech River met the Kunar, and they headed west above the Pech River road, toward the villages of Andraser and Watapur. A bare two kilometres further on, O’Connor braced as a line of red tracer pierced the night. He could hear the crack-thump of the rounds as they passed perilously close to the rotors.
‘Gangster One . . . this is Alley Cat Seven,’ O’Connor’s pilot radioed the northern Apache. ‘I’m taking ground fire, estimated 800 metres ahead near the village of Managai . . . could be coming from the suspension bridge, over!’
‘Gangster One, copied, wait out.’ The pilot of the Apache on the north side of the river was flying close to the mountains, and he could see the tracer clearly. ‘Gangster Two,’ he radioed the Apache on the opposite side of the river, ‘a pity, but I’m going to have to take this sucker out.’ All of the pilots were aware of the enormous effort the Coalition had put into improving the roads and bridges in the Pech River valley, as part of a program to try to win the hearts and minds of the locals, and the Malkana Bridge connecting the village of Managai with the other side of the river was no exception. The heavy oiled timbers had not long been restored.
‘Gangster Two, copied.’
The pilot of the northern Apache banked toward the bridge, giving his gunner in the front seat a clear view of the target. The gunner activated the laser rangefinder and locked on to the Taliban insurgent. The terrorist was firing from the middle of the suspension bridge and the gunner’s night-vision system picked him out clearly.
‘Engaging!’ The Hellfire missile left the port stub pylon in a blaze of flame and smoke, its computers reacting to the onboard radar system. Seconds later, the bridge erupted and the firing stopped.
O’Connor looked over the door gunner’s shoulder as they tore past. The middle of the bridge had been completely blown away, and the ends were hanging drunkenly into the water on either side of the river. The engineers who had so recently restored it wouldn’t thank them, but there had been no choice.
Minutes later, O’Connor’s lead Black Hawk banked savagely again, and they headed south into the Korengal Valley, notorious for some of the most ferocious fighting of the war. Here the river was flanked on either side by soaring, forested, snow-capped mountains. The stone huts of remote villages were perched precariously on the ridges.
The pilot of the lead Black Hawk flared the aircraft and brought it to a hover above the old vacated Korengal Outpost. The crew chief flung the thick, coiled rope out the door and watched it tumble to the small clearing ten metres below the chopper. He turned and gave the thumbs up and O’Connor led the way, reaching for the rope with his gloved hands. He flung himself away from the c
hopper and fast-roped to the ground. The rest of the team followed and they quickly spread out from under the Black Hawk’s powerful downdraft and took up defensive positions.
‘Incoming!’ The call was from the furthest edge of the clearing. A Taliban or al Qaeda machine gun, O’Connor wasn’t sure which, opened up from a ridge across the other side of the river. Then a second, and a third. Fiery red tracer arced across the gorge from three different positions. It was going to be an interesting day in the office, O’Connor thought grimly.
17 Kashta Palace, Alexandria
On the last evening of the conference, Sheldon Crowley strolled along a path in the heavily guarded Kashta Palace gardens. Louis Walden, the world’s most powerful media mogul, accompanied him.
‘It’s not a problem to get behind him, Sheldon, but Carter Davis? Is he the best we can do? Somewhere in Montana there’s a village looking for its idiot,’ Walden grumbled.
‘Lobster Davis – million-dollar body, or at least he did have when he was first elected, and a head full of shit,’ Crowley agreed, ‘but unlike the other candidates, we’ve got him on toast. He ran for governor on a platform of pro-family, but that doesn’t stack up. We’ve done a bit of digging on our friend Davis, and he’s got form in more than one bedroom.’
‘I’ve always taken the view that if you’re not in the bed, or under it, you don’t really know what’s going on. How good are your sources?’
‘They’ve been under the bed, electronically speaking. If we can get Davis into the White House, he’s ours.’
‘That’s a big “if”,’ said Walden. ‘Even if you get him through the primaries, how do you think he’s going to stack up in a national debate? The bastard’s all tip and no berg.’
‘We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’m putting my personal assistant, Rachel Bannister, in charge of the Davis campaign. It would be handy if you could assign someone on your side.’
‘Hmm . . .’ Walden fell silent. ‘I’ll get one of my editors to call you,’ he said finally. ‘Joe Humphrey. He’s a complete asshole, and he’s helped to unseat more than one government overseas, which is why I employ him.’ Walden chuckled. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than the power he wielded through his media empire, and given the plans of the Pharos Group, he was about to wield a whole lot more. ‘What’s the campaign theme?’
‘Same theme as he used for the gubernatorial campaign . . . family man, clean living, anti-drugs and the usual guff on jobs and the economy.’
‘Christ – does anyone in the media have a whiff of the real Davis? Because if this stuff’s already out there, he won’t make first base.’
‘We’ve got a list of the women he’s screwing, and we’ll pay them out. Whatever has to be done, will be done . . .’
On the final day, just before lunch, Crowley sought the company of the chairman of Crédit Group, René du Bois.
‘I have it on good authority there will shortly be further instability in the Middle East,’ Crowley began.
‘What do you mean by “further instability”? The place is already going to hell in a hand basket.’
‘Let’s just say I have intelligence there are going to be more attacks . . . major ones. They’re not likely to have a lasting impact on the stock market, but the initial fluctuations will be very significant. We need to be in a position to take advantage of that. In the short term, the price of oil will go through the roof.’
‘If that happens, the market and the super funds will be nervous – there’ll be a corresponding fall in the other stocks,’ Du Bois observed.
‘Precisely, and that will include the banking sector, which is where you and I come in.’ Crowley confirmed the list of key banks Pharos was targeting covertly. Both men knew well that if either Crédit Group or EVRAN reached a 30 per cent holding in those registered on the London Stock Exchange, under the British City Code on Takeovers and Mergers, they would be forced to make a cash offer to the remaining shareholders at the highest price of shares in the preceding twelve months. ‘As long as neither of us go past the 30 per cent mark, when the time comes to move, between us, we’ll have well over fifty per cent of the voting rights.’
Du Bois smiled. UK law had a specific provision to prevent companies ‘acting in concert’, but given the Pharos code of silence, that would be impossible to prove. ‘Pity it wasn’t that easy in the US,’ he said.
Crowley nodded. Under the US Securities Exchange Act of 1934, an acquirer who purchased more than five per cent of the voting shares of any company registered in the US was required by law to file their intentions with the Securities Exchange Commission. To counter this, the Pharos Group had formed myriad front companies, each holding between four and four and a half per cent of the big Wall Street banks. ‘It hasn’t been easy,’ Crowley agreed, ‘but the latest figures are encouraging for us. The big five on Wall Street have had to downgrade their earnings estimates by more than a billion.’
‘I saw those figures,’ said Du Bois. ‘Those bastards are running into some pretty strong headwinds. Some of their legal fees are going through the roof and when the Fed stops printing money, we’ll be in a very strong position to achieve control.’
The Pharos conference was drawing to a close, and it was time for Crowley to address what he considered to be the biggest threat. ‘The latte-sipping left wingers in governments around the world want to cripple us with a carbon tax,’ he said, opening the argument on the last item on the agenda.
‘Having served as this president’s secretary of state in his first term, I think I know him pretty well,’ Bradley Guthrie replied. ‘He’s failed in the Middle East, and there’s precious little to show at home. Healthcare’s bogged down on Capitol Hill, he’s up to his armpits over WikiLeaks and the NSA spying on Americans, not to mention the French and the Germans. Even the Australians are pissed off with him for allowing contractors access to material that should have been much more tightly held. The economy’s still sluggish, and the president will want to take steps on the environment to ensure he leaves a legacy. He’ll go hard on this.’
‘All the more reason we’ve got to stop him,’ Crowley growled. ‘Carbon tax in Europe peaked at US $30 a tonne in 2008, and now it’s down to less than US $4, but they’re still talking about US $20 a tonne in Washington. It will cost us billions.’
‘Part of the problem is one of McGovern’s advisors on energy, Megan Becker,’ offered General Bradshaw, the former chairman of the US Joint Chiefs of Staff. ‘Degrees in environmental science and international relations. McGovern parachuted her into the goddamn CIA when that lost city of the Inca thing with O’Connor and Weizman blew up a couple of years ago.’
‘She did enough damage back then,’ Crowley agreed. ‘Now she’s even more dangerous.’
‘Can we get rid of her?’ pondered Bradshaw.
‘I’m working on that. And don’t worry, if I get who I’m thinking of to refute Becker and McGovern’s crackpot ideas on global warming, we’ll consign climate change to the trashcan. If they can do it in Australia, we can do it in America.’
An hour later, Pharos brought the final session to a close, allowing the staff to wheel in a buffet of Maine lobster, beluga caviar, Périgord truffles, and a host of other delicacies.
Once the staff had departed, Pharos addressed his colleagues. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, looking briefly at the framed quotes on the wall behind him. ‘President Theodore Roosevelt put it this way. Behind the ostensible government sits enthroned an invisible government owing no allegiance and acknowledging no responsibility to the people. The founder of the House of Rothschild, Mayer Rothschild, was well known for his view that whoever issues and controls a nation’s money cares less about who writes the laws. Much of our wealth might come from energy and arms manufacturing, but with Washington hell bent on bowing to the greenies and the loony Left, and their push for taxes on fossil fuels, it’s time for us to put Roosevelt and Rothschild’s observations into practice.’ Pharos raised his gl
ass of Dom Perignon.
‘Join me in a toast. To the New World Order!’
18 Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, Cairo
‘Keep driving toward them,’ Assaf ordered. He checked the silencer on his Czech CZ 75 and put the nine-millimetre pistol back in the side pocket of his trousers.
‘What has happened?’ the police sergeant demanded of Assaf when they reached the gates. The sergeant’s driver, a young, recently graduated constable, looked nervous.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Assaf replied, feigning nonchalance. ‘We had an alarm, but everything is secure.’
‘What do you mean, nothing to worry about?’ the sergeant demanded. ‘There’s a dead guard in the ticket booth! And which unit are you from? Why are you driving a civilian van?’ he asked. Suspicious, he reached for his radio.
Assaf withdrew his CZ 75 and fired twice, hitting the sergeant in the chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. His driver gasped and reached for his weapon, but Assaf fired twice more, and the young policeman collapsed over the wheel. Barely a hundred metres beyond the museum, Cairo’s chaotic traffic continued to stream along Meret Basha toward Tahrir Square, the occupants of the cars, trucks and buses oblivious to the muffled gun shots.
‘Mahmoud! Abdul! Get the bodies into the van. The museum guard too. Quickly!’ Assaf retrieved the sergeant’s radio and both policemen’s identity cards.
‘Mahmoud, get the mask and come with me in the police car. Abdul, you follow in the van. We’ll take the desert road to Alexandria.’
‘What if we’re stopped?’ Kassab asked nervously.
‘Why would a police patrol be stopped? Leave the blue light on top of the van. But if we are stopped, leave the talking to me.’
The Alexandria Connection Page 13