Into The Shadows

by Michael Brady

  Into The Shadows - The Fever

  A Spy Novel

  Michael Brady

  Published by Waldorf Publishing

  2140 Hall Johnson Road

  #102-345

  Grapevine, Texas 76051

  www.WaldorfPublishing.com

  Into The Shadows - The Fever, A Spy Novel

  Book 1

  ISBN: 978-1-68419-256-4

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2016957016

  Copyright © 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without express written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please refer all pertinent questions to the publisher. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine or newspaper without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Dedication

  For the men and women who operate in the shadows and those who wonder about them.

  Sira Fortress, Port of Aden, Yemen – October 2, 2014, 9:30 PM

  Into the Shadows he went. The passage leading from the rear office of the Khan Shipping Company was narrow and dimly lit. Dust began rising into the air as his feet struck onto the hard-packed dirt.

  After descending for approximately fifteen meters, Michael Brennan drew his weapon and peered around the corner. Standing at the entrance of the bunker were two guards carrying AK-47 assault rifles. Inside the shelter sat his target along with two other men. Their weapons rested vertically alongside old wooden chairs.

  Imagery from a low earth orbit satellite provided the intelligence necessary to plan his entrance. Traveling by a small boat to the Sira fortress, Michael found a narrow opening in the rocky outcroppings one hundred meters from the remote building. Anchoring the craft, he slipped into the frigid waters and rapidly swam ashore. Al Qaeda in the Arabian Peninsula (AQAP), also known as Ansar al-Sharia, one of the world’s deadliest and most sophisticated terror organizations, was about to lose its chief financial officer, Hossam al-Banna.

  Michael quickly spun around the corner and placed two rounds into the chests of the astonished guards. He sprinted ten more meters, stormed into the bunker and finished off the last two remaining sentries. The audacious act stunned the Al Qaeda leader who never reacted.

  “Hossam, I have been looking for you for a long time,” said Michael.

  He pushed one of the dead men off the chair and now sat across from his target. Michael squarely pointed his weapon at the man.

  “I have been expecting someone like you. MI6, NSA, CIA or something else?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I suppose it does not. May I call my family to say goodbye?”

  “First, I want to know the bank you’re using in Zurich. What is the name and account number?”

  “I cannot give you that. I simply oversee the collection of cash, tax revenues, and other sorts of financial matters. Someone else has that information.”

  “No. You have it. Our drones intercepted a call you made last week. You told Khalid you would transfer funds to Zurich right away. Do you want to speak with your family or not? You have ten seconds to decide.”

  Hossam understood the situation confronting him. The man had lifeless eyes and just killed four of his loyal guards in under ten seconds. Nearly four decades of jihad were ending. He decided to remain quiet and stare into his assassin’s eyes. He had one final act of defiance left in him.

  Hossam’s time expired. Michael anticipated the man would not turn against the organization he co-founded. His file, transmitted over encrypted software by CIA, indicated Hossam’s capture in Afghanistan and subsequent imprisonment from 1983 until 1985. There, military forces from the Soviet Union held the young rebel in horrific conditions ripe with rats, disease, and limited rations. He did not break despite the harsh interrogation techniques employed by his captors.

  Michael squeezed the trigger. The bullet entered Hossam’s forehead, and he slumped forward in his chair. Hossam al-Banna’s jihad was over.

  He quickly returned to the to the boat, fired up the single engine and made his way to the hotel in Aden. A short update to Langley was in order.

  Hossam is dead. Unable to collect financial requirements regarding Zurich. Awaiting guidance.

  The following morning Michael received a message from CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia. They were terminating his mission in Yemen. The National Security Agency (NSA) successfully penetrated Hossam’s computer in downtown Aden. An earned vacation for Michael Brennan awaited the long time non-official cover (NOC) intelligence officer.

  Uwais al-Qarni Mosque, Ar-Raqqa, Syria – October 30, 2014, 4:45 PM

  Inside the executive conference room of the Uwais al-Qarni Mosque, the nearly two dozen individuals filed in and found a chair. Experienced combatants from years of insurgency, they were also violent killers. Their victims included Sunni Muslims, Shiites, and Christians, western aid workers, homosexuals, reporters, and children. These men all knew one thing, death.

  After sharing experiences from recent battles with Syrian and Iraqi armed forces, men of the Islamic State (IS) intelligence and military councils convened and waited for their leader to arrive.

  The silence became ominous.

  Abu Bakr Shirazi arrived as scheduled. He was an imposing figure. Standing at over six feet tall, he walked with a steady purpose while commanding respect from his loyal fighters. He was, after all, battle tested who earned his fierce reputation fighting US soldiers in the streets and deserts of Iraq.

  A loyal follower of Usama Bin Laden, he sought to fill the void missing after Bin Laden’s death in 2011. To do so, he carefully constructed a series of coordinated attacks throughout Iraq that terrorized Iraqi citizens and strained the resources of a young and unpopular Shia government. History had given Shirazi an opportunity.

  Today’s meeting would include recent developments in northern Syria, particularly with the troublesome Kobani issue. Kobani, also known as Ayn-al Arab, a city in the Aleppo government and along the Turkish border, was under siege.

  Though relentlessly pounded with short-range artillery and mortars for months, sections of Kobani held. As a result, countless numbers of refugees were crossing the border into Turkey. This stressed the humanitarian efforts of the Turks and emergency supplies were running low.

  Islamic States’ continuous attack had stalled, jihadi faithful were dying, and Kurdish opposition was holding.

  Their commander wanted to know why.

  “What has happened in Kobani?” asked the group’s leader.

  “We’ve had to withdraw into the surrounding villages and rural areas to escape enemy air strikes,” said a hesitant yet confident young commander.

  Coalition air strikes, conducted mostly by American drones, also known as remotely piloted vehicles (RPVs), were having their desired effect thought one fellow commander. The Americans, and their coalition allies, were achieving tactical success and now forced a major offensive to stall.

  Shirazi sat motionless for a few seconds. His eyes stared at the young commander, clearly disappointed in his response. Yet he knew his young commander’s assessment of the situation was correct.

  Hassan Akbar, only twenty-nine years of age, had nearly captured Kobani just days before. Shirazi thought he made the cogent tactical decision. More personnel losses by precision guid
ed missiles such as the GBU 38 Joint Direct Attack Munition (JDAM) were no longer acceptable, despite the cause.

  “What can we do to support the resumption of operations in Kobani?” asked Shirazi.

  “I need three hundred more fighters from the Aleppo region. Allah willing that should be enough for a victory,” said Akbar.

  Shirazi knew redeploying these fighters would burden strategic efforts near Aleppo. Nidal’s proposal was undesirable.

  Shirazi, and everyone else in the room, recognized the tremendous capabilities of western forces; particularly drones. Not only were these flying “machines of death” capable of destroying his forces on the ground, their intelligence, surveillance, and reconnaissance (ISR) capabilities meant it was nearly impossible to move or communicate without detection.

  However, his forces could disperse within the local population and communicate through couriers. Detection was then nearly impossible assuming support existed.

  “Can we spare three hundred fighters from Aleppo?” asked Shirazi as he turned to one of his top leaders.

  Nidal Qureshy, one of Shirazi’s fiercest and senior commanders, only replied, “We cannot.”

  Nidal’s tone and demeanor angered Hassan who could do nothing but listen. His leader was in charge, and any unwarranted input would simply be ill prudent.

  “If we divide our forces, the Syrian regime will see an opportunity to stage more aggressive counter attacks. We cannot afford to lose the revenue and support within Aleppo,” added Nidal.

  Shirazi knew this was intolerable and turned to Hassan.

  “We need other options. I expect them at the next council meeting.”

  Hassan stared toward Nidal and showed his displeasure. His penetrating eyes said so, and a discussion with the senior commander would come later.

  The council then proceeded to update Shirazi on all sorts of topics including public administration, propaganda operations in Europe and North America, and recruiting efforts. Council participants provided a brief summary due to time considerations.

  The Sahel and Maghreb regions in Africa received particular attention where rampant poverty and lack of government control provided greater opportunities for recruitment. The caliphate needed funding and motivated individuals willing to give their lives in support of the Caliph. Expansion gained from eighteen months of brutal fighting throughout Iraq and Syria could not stall.

  A spectacular attack was necessary, thought Shirazi to himself. His mind wandered for the rest of the meeting.

  Soon after short discussions of oil production, the council concluded its thirty-minute meeting. Meetings such as these were routine but kept to a minimum due to such a gathering of key leaders. Despite meeting mostly in Mosques and other holy places, they were risky to the senior leadership and just one successful precision air strike, gained from real-time intelligence, could wipe out the council completely. The only men remaining in the room were Shirazi, his two personal armed guards, and leader of the intelligence council.

  Shirazi turned to his senior intelligence officer, a wicked and former advisor to the late President of Iraq, Saddam Hussein.

  “A spectacular attack against our enemies must be planned and executed soon.”

  The intelligence officer, who Shirazi trusted implicitly, simply nodded and spoke softly.

  “I will have something for you in a day or two, Caliph. An attack no one has ever attempted nor will anyone expect it. If successful, it will bring our enemies to their knees and crush their will to oppose the Caliphate.”

  The man would not disappoint his commander. Events thousands of miles elsewhere prompted the imagination of the spymaster and ruthless killer.

  Kenema, Sierra Leone – November 1, 11:30 AM

  The smell of death in the air was pervasive. At a nearby remote village, eighty miles north of Kenema, Sierra Leone, another body needed removal. Today’s casualty was a forty-three-year-old farmer infected with the Ebola virus.

  Ebola, also known as Ebola hemorrhagic fever (EHF), first originated in 1976 in Nzara, South Sudan. The first outbreak there killed one hundred and fifty-one people while infecting nearly three hundred others. It took the world health organization (WHO) medical teams six months to end the destruction in Nzara.

  The deadly virus, transmitted from infected wild animals and bats to humans, can kill a person in as little as a week. Without hydrating the patient, death is near certain. Once a human being is infected, he or she can transmit the disease to others through body fluids. Body fluids include mucus, sweat, blood, breast milk and even tears.

  Ebola had found its way to the Kenema district.

  Despite the ongoing efforts of doctors without borders and other leading non-governmental organizations (NGOs), Ebola was ravaging the countryside. Today marked the thirtieth victim near Kenema since the outbreak began just a few months ago.

  Manjo, a well-educated member of the village, was devastated. His father was a tribal elder of the village and a man he aspired to be. Watching him go from a vibrant working farmer to one slowly dying the past few days took its toll on the young son. All he could do was wait for the black SUV used to transport the dead.

  It arrived. Two men, dressed in protective masks, scrubs and latex gloves exited from the rear of the vehicle. The driver, a young woman in her thirties, named Lucee, soon joined them. She knew there would be anxious villagers asking why no one arrived earlier. Nothing could bring the lifeless farmer back to life despite their cries for help.

  “Good morning everyone. I am Lucee Ba with MSF. Where is the man who died?”

  Lucee was a new employee for Doctors Without Borders. Based in New York City, and also known as Medicins Sans Frontieres (MSF), this group was at the forefront of a bitter war between man and nature. MSF was determined to wipe out the disease despite losing several of its leading doctors and nurses in recent weeks.

  The sudden loss of life around the Kenema region, coupled with reports from across West Africa compelled Lucee to join the organization. She could no longer sit by and watch the disease ravage her fellow West Africans.

  “He is inside, over there,” said an elderly man as he pointed to Manjo’s hut.

  “When did he pass?” asked Lucee as her colleagues entered the hut and began carefully removing the corpse.

  “Early this morning, he died in his sleep.”

  “Has anyone touched the body?” asked Lucee.

  “Yes, his wife and daughter-in-law.”

  Lucee’s task now was to convince the villagers that touching the dead, though customary in Sierra Leone, would only place them at further risk. Tradition had to go by the wayside to prevent further contagion.

  “I know the traditions of touching your loved ones who pass. I share the same custom. Many of you know what Ebola is and what its symptoms are. However, touching the dead body of a family member or friend can spread the disease. I urge you to stop doing this until we are sure the virus has passed. Where are the man’s wife and daughter-in-law?”

  “Still inside.”

  Lucee requested they come outside and join her. The two grieving caregivers reluctantly agreed.

  “I am deeply sorry for your loss. Have you been with him for long?”

  “Yes, we both spent several days by his side,” said the distressed widow.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired and sad, of course. Angry too. Why did you not come earlier?”

  “We came as soon as we heard. I am sorry. Are you feeling ill?”

  “No. I just want to sleep.”

  “There is a chance you may have caught the disease. May I take you and your daughter-in-law to the hospital for observation? If you are sick with Ebola, we have treatment and care available.”

  “My home is here, and hers too. We will not leave.”

  Lucee pleaded with the woman.

 
; “Ma’am, if one or both of you have the disease, you risk infecting the entire village. Do you want to take such chances?’

  “We do not have it. Now be gone.”

  Lucee realized the woman had made up her mind.

  “May we disinfect your home?”

  “Yes, but do it quickly.”

  Lucee’s two colleagues returned to the hut and began disinfecting everything inside including the walls, all its contents, and front steps.

  “I am truly sorry for your loss, Ma’am. Please contact us if you or your daughter-in-law begin feeling ill.”

  Lucee soon entered the vehicle and began the slow forty-three-mile trip back to the mortuary. The sheer distances and isolation of many villages, coupled with poor roads and infrastructure, led to many long drives and reflection. Lucee asked herself what more she could do to help these and other villagers. The questions, she thought, kept repeating, but her brain was short of answers.

  This ride back to Barma would be no different.

  As Lucee and her co-workers left, Manjo stood gazing into the distance. He was angry, confused, and frustrated by his fellow West Africans for not arriving sooner. Maybe his father would be alive. Maybe if the disease were contained earlier, he would be alive. Questions, thought Manjo, which needed answering. He needed time to think and the next few days would challenge his values, his father’s legacy, and his soul.

  Langley, VA – November 1, 11:25 PM

  Deep inside the headquarters of the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), computers were processing data at their usual high rates. Megabytes of data were flowing through the facilities using a variety of optical equipment including transceivers, wave-ready network systems, and fiber laser engines.

  Sarah, having arrived a few minutes earlier, sat comfortably in her chair, alongside four other emergency operations officers. Would tonight be any different from previous nights this week, she thought? Probably not.

  After reviewing ongoing and mostly routine reports from the previous shift at the emergency operations center (EOC), Sarah settled in for the evening. Communications checks with various government agencies, utilizing numerous forms of encrypted and secure communications, were complete. Things appeared routine.