RW16 - Domino Theory

by Richard Marcinko

  The Taliban’s military defeat after 9/11 drove many to Karachi, where they renewed old friendships and ended old animosities. Mohammad’s family was never part of the inner circle, but they weren’t total strangers either. By 2005, Mohammad took up the call as a devout believer ready to wage jihad against the devil scum Westerners. He journeyed to the northwest territories and began his education.

  Skip forward a year or two, during which he seems to have had some doubts about what he was doing. He hated India, which he was taught discriminated against Muslims at every turn. At the same time, though, he saw a need for social justice and fairness lacking even in the Islamic societies around him.

  Some of the ideas of Marxism attracted him. But it was an old and discredited philosophy. No one with as much intelligence as Mohammad could really feel comfortable with it.

  A chance meeting with a man on his way to join what became People’s Islam changed Mohammad’s life. Here was a combination of strict religious observance and social justice influenced by Marxism.24 He joined the cause, and began praying for the day when he would find revenge against the nonbelievers who had persecuted his religion.

  Persecution is a theme you hear a lot from people who have come through these camps, whether they’re from Pakistan, Europe, or even the U.S. You can look at any number of statistics or studies or what have you that indicate the society they’ve been part of is among the most tolerant in the world. Doesn’t matter. To a man they feel as if their religion is being persecuted, and that they are, too.

  I’m not saying that there’s no such thing as religious persecution or discrimination in the world. But a psychotic paranoia infuses these camps. It lives in the minds of the people who literally pledge their lives to the cause of death. You could make the world a perfect place, and these folks would still want to blow it up. So while I’m all for improving society, when it comes to dealing with terrorists, it’s beside the point.

  Having adopted the name Mohammad al Jazra — I’m not sure why he was claiming to be from Jazra, and I don’t remember his actual name, assuming he was telling the truth — our friend joined a small cell that was being trained for demolition work. Various adventures followed, most of them almost comically boring. The group was in disarray when its leader died. Then, about a year before our meeting, a new set of leaders emerged. Mohammad never met them. In fact, he hadn’t even seen them, except once from a distance. But his training resumed. His religious commitment was reignited.

  Finally, he was shipped to Belgium, where he was given credentials indicating he was a British national. He then made his way to Great Britain and flew into India from Pakistan via Greece, arriving in Mumbai a few days before the operation at the stadium. He had not specifically trained for the operation, and thought it had been decided on at the last moment, but since he wasn’t involved in planning, he really couldn’t say.

  Aside from his knowledge of wiring explosives, which was fairly extensive, that was the sum total of what he knew. The group’s leaders compartmentalized the operation pretty damn well. Mohammad said he didn’t even know the name of the on-scene commander, claiming to have only met him the night of the operation. He used the Arabic word for “Red,” clearly a temporary nom d’operation.

  Was Mohammad telling the truth?

  I guess that there were lies here and there, but the overall pattern fit. I suspected he knew a little more about the group’s leadership, but he had no reason to lie about not knowing the man who’d led the operation, since he had died next to him. Once you’re dead, they get the word out about you, erecting verbal monuments to your supposed heroism. Mohammad had every reason to be honest about how well he knew him.

  In any event, it was as close to the truth as I was going to get.

  * * *

  I turned Mohammad al Jazra over to the state security forces around noon the next day, literally leaving him on the doorstep. Urdu drove up to the ministry with me and al Jazra in the backseat. I opened the door, kicked him out, and Urdu hit the gas.

  The six men who’d been with Captain Birla at the stadium had been killed. Two were shot from a distance through the head at their posts, probably by snipers; we figure that’s how the tangos got into the stadium.

  Everything beyond that point is a guess. From what I saw and what al Jazra had told me, the terrorists intended to plant explosives around the stadium, wiring them to the alarm system so they would go off when the alarm was pulled. The initial idea was to sneak in through the south entrance, where they believed the guards would be sleeping — something that happened during our exercise, I should note.

  But the guards had been replaced by two Special Squadron Zero members, who resisted, of course. At that point, the operation went to hell. The leader assumed the entire stadium had been alerted, though this proved not to be the case. After taking care of the token Special Squadron force left, they went ahead and wired the place, probably intending to wait to blow it up when the next shift of guards arrived.

  My theory is that the leader was debating whether they should all commit suicide or not, since it would have been the only way to blow up the place. But Mohammad claimed that hadn’t been mentioned.

  Was it just a coincidence that they picked the night Special Squadron Zero was running its exercise?

  I don’t believe in coincidences.

  On the other hand, just because I don’t believe in something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. The yeti, world peace, Santa Claus — you never know.

  * * *

  The way the story officially came out, it looked as if Special Squadron Zero had broken up a major terrorist attempt. Carefully worded accounts and even more carefully crafted leaks made it appear that Special Squadron Zero had arrived during the terrorist takeover, and a gun battle ensued. In this version, the regular security people had been rounded up by the terrorists, then managed to free themselves and turn the tide at the end.

  I suppose it wasn’t that far removed from reality. Or what everyone would have preferred was the reality.

  The story gave people the comfort of seven dead heroes, including Captain Birla, who in death became twice the man he was in life. And I mean that with respect. Stories were written about him that would have made even moi blush. At least his family got a full pension out of it.

  Despite the stories, Special Squadron Zero itself was in shambles. They’d lost their leader and some of their best men. Morale was, to put it delicately, in the shit hamper.

  Sergeant Phurem was now in charge. He had missed the stadium portion of the operation, overseeing the team that had grabbed the two guards for their IDs and posts. So he didn’t know the entire story when I arrived that afternoon.

  His frown grew deeper with every word. Finally, he shook his head.

  “No more details,” he said. “My heart is heavy as it is.”

  Under other circumstances, state funerals would have been held for Captain Birla and the men who had died in the operation. But with the Games now less than a week away, the government was afraid that doing so would add even more attention to the terrorists, upsetting the athletes, and maybe encouraging other groups to try their hand at an attack. I can’t say I fully understood their logic, but the upshot was that the funerals were private affairs.

  Minister Dharma came to Captain Birla’s. She stood so close to the funeral pyre at one point I thought she was going to throw herself on — a custom reserved for Hindu wives, and now officially banned.

  There was absolutely no danger of that. Dharma wasn’t about to sacrifice herself for an underling — or anyone.

  She gave me a strange look at one point in the ceremony, an accusatory, this-is-all-your-fault expression. So what she said afterward wasn’t particularly surprising.

  “Your contract now has been fulfilled,” she told me. “Your duties are no longer required.”

  “My contract has another week to run,” I told her. There was also an option for further engagements, as well as some provisions for
additional training work, though there was no sense mentioning those.

  “Your further efforts are no longer necessary,” she said. “Special Squadron Zero’s tasks are fulfilled. And the unit’s status will be reviewed following the Games. Thank you for your service.”

  And with that, I was dismissed.

  * * *

  That’s gratitude for you, right? Whatever else had transpired, Special Squadron Zero’s press was further enhancing Minister Dharma’s position in the government. I wasn’t exactly plugged into the Indian political scene, but I have no doubt that her name was now being whispered around in connection with a run for prime minister. She was exactly the sort of selfish, self-aggrandizing, opportunistic, cutthroat politician who’d be perfect for the job.

  Minister Dharma’s treatment was downright jubilant compared to Omar’s. He met me at the funeral as well, supposedly by accident — which of course meant that he had moved heaven and earth to make sure he’d run into me.

  To debrief me?

  No. To gloat.

  It’s possible the agency had a vague notion of what had really happened. But it’s also possible that Omar had put two and two together and come up with twenty-two.

  Whatever. He didn’t lose a chance to berate me.

  “Special Squadron Zero, huh? It is a zero,” he said, walking alongside me as I went to my car. “The unit couldn’t fight its way out of a paper bag.”

  “That’s real original, Omar.”

  “You know why it stinks so bad, Marcinko?”

  “All the curry in the food?”

  “It stinks because it’s based on an old idea. Face it — Red Cell is yesterday’s news. You’re tired, Marcinko, and trotting around the city in gray sweats before the sun comes up is never going to change that. Your time’s gone, old man. Go home and cash in your IRAs.”

  He deserved a good punch in the mouth, don’t you think?

  Not that I would do that to anyone.

  I didn’t trip him either as I got into my cab. Or gut punch him as he went down. He slipped on the pavement somehow, mysteriously doubling over before rolling flat on his back.

  Now there’s a coincidence you can believe in.

  * * *

  I had a war council with my people that evening at the Maharaja Express. The question was put to a vote:

  Is native Indian pale ale of the same quality as that brewed in Great Britain?

  The jury was undecided.

  The decision to remain in India for the Games, however, was unanimous. Our contract said we would stay, and that’s what we fully intended to do. No one wanted to miss the chance to see Trace in shorty shorts, stick or no stick in her hands.

  There was also another matter, as Doc put it between his second and third beers:

  “Everybody’s looking at this operation by People’s Islam as if it was a coincidence that it happened the night that Special Squadron Zero took over the stadium. Maybe it was. But I was raised not to believe in long-shot horses that miraculously show life around the last bend. Or coincidences.”

  Sean, calling in from Karachi, pointed out that it wasn’t a neat fit. And there were plenty of elements missing from the picture. We still couldn’t figure out what had happened to the two men we’d snatched in Pakistan at the madrassa. The helicopters seemed to have nothing to do with this attack. If there was a traitor, why hadn’t he done more to destroy Special Squadron Zero itself?

  “You have a theory on that, Mako?” Doc growled.

  “No, that’s my point. I’m not hearing jack about it up here.”

  “You’re not listening well enough, maybe,” said Doc.

  “I’ll gladly trade places with you.”

  “You’re doing all right, Sean,” I said. “Just hang in there.”

  We knew we didn’t have the whole picture. Whether we could get enough pieces to flesh it out was an open question.

  ( IV )

  Junior was missing from our meeting. He wasn’t precisely AWOL, though he had taken a fairly liberal interpretation of his orders.

  Stung by the infamous boxcar caper, he had gone back to work, hacking his way into the records of the railroads that operated on the lines that ran through Delhi. He started with the assumption that the serial numbers of the railroad cars had been switched.

  We all know what happens when you ass-u-me something, but in this case, he had to start somewhere. It was a relatively obvious deduction, and rather than biting him in the butt, it led Junior to discover two other cars that had moved through Delhi in the time period after the theft of the helos.

  The cars had gone to Mumbai. Our satellite service showed they had been sitting at a yard near the water there early that morning. (The latest images available.) He went to investigate on his own, grabbing a flight just about the time I was tossing my firecrackers into the security office at the stadium.

  Yes, he should have checked with me before he did that. I owe him a good swift kick in the seat of his intelligence for that.

  Mumbai is India’s largest city. You may know it as Bombay — yes, the namesake of that glorious liquid refresher and instant cure for all that ails you. The name “Bombay” is associated with the foreigners who once lived in and built much of the city, so it’s generally not used, though for a surprising number of Indians the name has an almost nostalgic ring.

  Mumbai is actually a collection of islands, connected over time by development. The British East India Company leased four of them back in 1668, and things have never been the same since. Over fourteen million people now live in Mumbai, making it the second biggest city in the world. It’s India’s largest, and despite its size, a recent poll found it the second best place in the country to live — after Delhi, by the way. A quarter of the country’s manufacturing happens there; seventy percent of its banking is either done there or related in some way. It’s the Indian heartland and its economic engine at the same time.

  Mumbai represents much of the best of modern India, but it’s also a target for much of the worst, and extremely vulnerable. The attacks of 26/11 were not the first time the city has been struck by terrorists. In fact, more people were killed in a 1993 bombing spree that left the city scarred. Those attacks — thirteen bombs were exploded on the same day, March 12 — followed riots between Hindus and Muslims in the city and the destruction of the Babri Mosque. Mumbai has been victimized by terrorists in major ways at least eight other times since then, most of the attacks occurring in 2002 – 2003.

  Junior landed in the city just before the morning rush. This gave him a lot of time to think — the traffic in Mumbai is about as bad as you can imagine. He eventually got into the city and found a hotel in a slightly seedy area, the sort of place where young Indians on a tight budget might stay. He was the only American in the place. With a tattered backpack slung over his shoulder and iPod headphones sticking out of his pocket, he looked like a student on a shoestring world cruise. It wasn’t a bad cover.

  He went over to a nearby university and talked his way into the computer lab. After running a quick check to make sure there wasn’t a keylogger lurking in the memory somewhere, he pulled out a headset and fired up Skype, placing a call to Shunt. They didn’t actually talk — the call was just a pre-arranged signal for them to connect via another private Internet communications service with much better encryption and anonymous server addresses25 to make it harder for anyone to track the calls.

  The two began speaking geek to each other. Shunt had taken Junior’s search of the train records a little further, and had a line on the bank accounts that had paid for the cars to be transported.

  “A little more work to follow the money,” he told Junior. “In the meantime, the cars are still in the yard by the ocean. The satellite made a pass two hours ago, just after dawn.”

  Junior downloaded a few maps of the city and the water area into his iPod, then went to one of the local student hangouts for breakfast and additional intelligence gathering. He emerged with directions to a che
ap but dependable bicycle renting agency, where he got a heavy framed two-wheeler that was the bicycle equivalent of a tank. He stopped at a store to pick up a tourist guide, a goofy hat, and a cheap camera, then went to do some sightseeing on the waterfront.

  The two boxcars sat at the edge of a jetty bordering a shipyard. The shipyard was surrounded by a twenty-foot fence topped by razor wire, but the siding was wide open. The tracks ran out along a crumbling concrete pier. Half a dozen fishermen sat along the edge, throwing in homemade lines when Junior went out.

  He asked a few annoying tourist questions to establish his bona fides, then pretended to wander aimlessly around the track area, checking to see if the cars were being watched. While he couldn’t see a lookout, Junior realized that any of the fishermen could be watching him surreptitiously, and there were plenty of places in the shipyard and the buildings opposite the track area for someone to perch. So he decided he’d have to wait to check the trains out when it was dark.

  * * *

  If you’ve followed any of my recent adventures, you’re undoubtedly aware that Mongoose has been downright jolly during his time in India, certainly compared to his usual cranky self. It’s not that he lacked material — on the contrary, India was chockful of Mongoose’s top bitches: muggy weather, incessant mosquitoes, and people who would just as soon steal your wallet as give you the time of day.

  But it also had a beautiful woman: Vina.

  Ironically, she was Argentinean, but Mongoose was never much on geography. Or maybe I should say that the only geography he was interested in was of a very personal nature.

  He spent his small amount of free time trying to — well, you know what he was trying to do.

  Mongoose left our staff meeting early to accompany her to a reception for one of the arriving Commonwealth teams. During the course of the evening, he met a few fellow mixed martial arts enthusiasts and wrangled an invitation for the next day to check out the athletic facilities where they were training. It was at a facility we hadn’t checked before, and I agreed it was a good idea for him to take a look at the security arrangements. His only disappointment was that Vina couldn’t go along because of other commitments.