Prelude To War: World War 3 (Steve Case Thriller Book 1)

by Phillip Strang

  Prelude to War

  Phillip Strang

  ALSO BY PHILLIP STRANG

  MURDER IS A TRICKY BUSINESS

  THE HABERMAN VIRUS

  MURDER WITHOUT REASON

  MALIKA’S REVENGE

  HOSTAGE OF ISLAM

  Copyright Page

  Copyright © 2015 Phillip Strang

  Cover Design by Phillip Strang

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed by a newspaper, magazine, or journal.

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved.

  This work is registered with the UK Copyright Service.

  Author’s Website: http://www.phillipstrang.com

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  Dedication

  For Elli and Tais who both had the perseverance to make me sit down and write.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  ‘A war begun for no wise purpose, carried on with a strange mixture of rashness and timidity, brought to a close after suffering and disaster, without much glory attached either to the government which directed, or the great body of troops which waged it. Not one benefit, political or military, has been acquired with this war. Our eventual evacuation of the country resembled the retreat of an army defeated.’

  Rev. G.H. Gleig, army chaplain, Jalalabad, India, 1843 - First Anglo-Afghan War.

  Chapter 1

  Leopold Laterme had been working at the hydroelectric dam near Mahipar when his life was brutally ended. An engineer, he had been checking the water outflow into the Kabul River. It was only thirty kilometres east of the capital of Afghanistan, on the road to Jalalabad, and he thought that security was not an issue; he was wrong.

  ‘We should not stay for too long, it is not safe.’ Aziz, his assistant engineer, was concerned. An Afghan, he had grown up in Kabul, and he was right to be worried, nowhere was safe in the country, and it was only another thirty kilometres down the road to Sarobi, a small dusty town with known sympathies for the Taliban.

  Typically, a cautious man, Laterme had temporarily forgotten that he was in a dangerous and unstable part of the World. He was in the country at the behest of his country’s government, in a joint venture with the Afghanistan Government, to assist in the re-commissioning of the many hydroelectric power stations in the country. Years of neglect and theft had caused the restarting of the generators to be an enormous task. Even with the best intentions, it would take years to complete. Two years in the country now, and he had barely scratched the surface.

  ‘There are some suspicious individuals coming up the road from Sarobi. I don’t like the look of them, they’re carrying guns.’ Five years at a refugee camp in Pakistan had given Aziz a good command of English.

  ‘Everyone carries a gun, Aziz. Just relax, this is important. Five minutes and we’re off.’

  The truck drove to within five metres. An old beat-up Toyota pickup, there were two men in the cab, three on the flat bed at the back.

  ‘Infidel, die. Allahu Akbar.’ The shots from the AK47s were fast and indiscriminate. Aziz took a number of bullets to the chest and another couple to the head. He was dead before he hit the ground.

  Aamir, their driver, died a similar death. A simple man of little education, he did not deserve to die. He was not an infidel, purely a man attempting to feed his wife and three children.

  Leopold, the last to die, received more care from the attackers. To kill an infidel was a memorable occasion, an event to brag around the fire at night with their colleagues. They all ensured to take a shot, and quickly, and in rapid succession his body was riddled with bullets. His face unrecognisable, they had reserved their best aim for the head at close range as he lay dead on the ground. They were well pleased with their work. They left rejoicing in their brutality.

  ***

  ‘There has been a shooting at the old power station on the way to Kabul.’ It had been two hours since the shooting, and most that had seen the events from the road ignored it. Shootings were commonplace, and people tended to mind their own business. Adeeb, a truck driver, passing through from Kabul down over the Khyber Pass into Pakistan was the only one who felt inclined to report the deaths. He thought there might be a reward for informing, he was wrong. It only meant work for Sayed Amin, the local police chief in Sarobi and he wasn’t going to pay.

  ‘It’s a Westerner at the power station. There are two locals, all three are dead. They’ve shot the Westerner repeatedly in the face. Even his mother wouldn’t recognise him.’ The police chief was on the phone to his superiors in Kabul. He had taken a couple of hours to reach the scene, and he did not attend to hang around much longer. It was getting dark, and he didn’t want to experience a return visit from those who had committed the act. Not greatly concerned with what had happened, he felt little emotion.

  ‘It has the hallmark of the Taliban.’ Amin made the assumption purely based on the single fact that killings such as this were always the Taliban. Anyway, it made his paperwork easier if he blamed them.

  ‘Stay there, make a full analysis and then bring the bodies up to Kabul.’ Amin’s boss, Nadeem, was not as intolerant as him, and he would take the responsibility to contact the Western authorities in town.

  Amin would file a report, factual and accurate, but with no definite conclusions. He had deduced that the Western man was from Belgium; there were documents in the car attesting to this, although he had no idea there was such a country.

  Case Number: Sarobi 232.

  Incident: Death of three persons.

  Location: Mahipar Hydroelectric Station, Kabul to Jalalabad Highway, 30 kilometres west of Sarobi.

  Detail: travelled to site on receiving information of a slaying at Mahipar Hydroelectric Power Station. On arrival found three male individuals dead.

  Leopold Laterme – Engineer - Western national.

  Mohammad Aziz – Engineer – Afghan national.

  Aamir – Driver – Afghan national.

  All three have been shot at close range by assailants unknown. Area of incident deemed unsafe by Western and Afghani security personnel.

  Cause of death: Misadventure due to being in a known Taliban area of control without security personnel in place.’

  The short report was precise and to the point. With s
o many violent deaths in Amin’s area of responsibility, he was not willing to waste unnecessary words and time on a lengthy detailing of the situation. A Westerner in an area deemed unsafe was courting death; it was his own fault.

  Amin was used to senseless acts of violence. He had grown up under the Russians, and remembered well their helicopter gunships laden with machine guns strafing the fields near to his village in the east, not far from Jalalabad. He could not remember why they had strafed, he was only young, but the memory remained fresh. Many died that day, including his two brothers. They had been playing, that was all. And now, there was the Taliban with their senseless killing of anyone who was not pious enough, laughed too much, or just upset the local Taliban commander by not showing him the correct deference.

  The Taliban had killed the Westerner as far as he was interested. He was not going to waste any more effort on this irresponsible foreigner, and he was not going to look for those responsible. That would be tantamount to signing his death warrant.

  The Westerners, he had had enough of their decadent alcoholic lifestyle, their new four-wheel drives and their cavorting with the opposite sex, even when they were not married. He was, after all, a good Muslim.

  The Afghan engineer and driver were of small consequence; it was their fault for being with a foreigner in the wrong place at the wrong time. One thing the Taliban disliked more than a foreign infidel was an Afghan who was willing to work for them, to take their heathen money.

  ***

  ‘It looks to be the Taliban,’ Steve Case said at the meeting that he had called in his guest house out near Karte Parwan, a suburb to the west of Kabul, not far from the Intercontinental Hotel.

  Steve Case, from Rock Hill in South Carolina, was tall, well over six feet, in his late thirties, ex-U.S. Special Forces and employed as a civilian communication engineer in the country. Chairing the hastily convened meeting, there was a report to prepare. He had a secondary and more discreet position as a CIA operative.

  ‘Gentlemen, the report from Sayed Amin, the police chief down in Sarobi appears to be complete and accurate, even if lacking in detail.’ Steve was succinct in his statement. It was not the first death of a foreign national at the hands of the Taliban or individuals’ unknown, although, for the last two years, there had been none.

  They were a small group at the meeting. Representing Belgium was Colonel André Peeters, NATO Security Forces and a Belgian citizen. Also present, Abdul Sherzai, an Afghan-American, and in the country as a UN liaison officer to the Afghan government. A moderate and pragmatic man, he had first gone to America at the age of ten. A Pashtun from the East of the country, he was fluent in the main languages– Pashto, Dari, and Persian. A patriotic American, even if its policies did not always align with him on Afghanistan.

  Steve continued. ‘Leopold Laterme – though he was better known as Leo, was not just an engineer. I have recently found out that he was also working for NATO intelligence. His death, we are assuming was Taliban, but given he also had a secondary role in the country, we cannot rule out other persons.’

  He paused to look around at the assembled men before continuing. ‘Our primary investigation is focussed on his death. Principally, who, and why, he was killed.’

  Colonel Peeters spoke. ‘The Belgian government is concerned with the death of one of its nationals. Media coverage in Belgium is pressuring the government to withdraw all Belgians, military and civilian, in Afghanistan immediately.’

  Abdul Sherzai, a pensive man, had said relatively little during the short meeting. ‘It may be possible for me to visit the area where Laterme met his demise, see what I can find out. I can go in traditional clothing, it will be easy for me to blend in. I could leave tomorrow, if that is acceptable. Give me five days, and we will meet for lunch at the Intercontinental Hotel. Let’s say ten o’clock on Sunday morning.’

  Steve wound up the meeting. ‘Sounds fine, let’s do that. Are we all in agreement?’

  The other two nodded, the meeting concluding with some beer that Peeters had brought to the session. All, that is, except Sherzai. He was a good enough Muslim to decline.

  ***

  A brown smoke-laden haze covered the city as Abdul Sherzai left Kabul for Sarobi early on Wednesday. The Toyota Corolla he drove was old and had seen better days, but it was suitable for the roads that he was going to navigate. Abdul Sherzai was an American at heart; the wearing of local clothing still felt a little incongruous, even though he had been back in the country of his birth for ten months.

  He looked the part in a sharwal keemez with waist coat, a pakol – the flat hat commonly known as an Afghan cap, and kabuli sandals. He knew he would blend in perfectly. He had a friend in the area, his visit would cause no concern, and renewing of old friendships was always a worthwhile pursuit.

  It was sixty kilometres east to Sarobi, where his friend lived. They called the road a highway, but it was not. In 1960, the West Germans had sealed it for the first time, but neglect, and destruction by the retreating Russians with their tracked vehicles, nearly thirty years later, had rendered it to become one of the most dangerous stretches of road in the world. The road, as usual, was chaotic, mostly unsealed, and the trucks, mainly Pakistani and right-hand drive on roads where they drove on the right, did not keep to their side. With their visibility severely restricted, they regularly pulled out to the middle to see what was coming. Often, it was another Pakistani truck coming the other way, and also in the middle. Frequently contacting, the remains of their vehicles littered the rough edges of the road.

  Soon, he was heading down Kabul Gorge, one of the most impressive passes to negotiate in a vehicle. Not for the faint-hearted with its hairpin bends, safety barriers that had collapsed or been demolished, and sheer drops off the side. Coupled with the crazy driving of the locals, accidents with many fatalities were commonplace. The locals often congregated at a particularly dangerous spot, to watch the occasional car fly out into open air, and plunge at least a hundred metres to the ground below; there was at least one a week. It made no difference to the driving of the others; everyone continued to drive as they always had, and no one slowed down.

  Mahipar hydroelectric power station where the slayings had occurred, was about half-way into Abdul’s trip. He felt it wiser not to visit, better just to go and see his childhood friend, go to the local teahouse, eateries, visit the mosque. Discretion was the better tactic. There were allegiances with the Taliban in Sarobi, and he considered it not to be a good place to ask too many direct questions.

  If the locals knew or thought he was working with the occupying forces to spy, they would be deeply offended, almost certainly hostile. Afghanis may well have been pragmatic enough to do business with the foreigners, polite and respectful as their custom decreed, but they saw the military of a foreign army as an occupier. Statements such as ‘they were here to protect the people of Afghanistan from the Taliban’ did not hold much weight. They had seen them all from the time of Alexander the Great, through the Russians to recent times. They had all come for their own reasons, not for the people of Afghanistan. They had all bled the country dry, literally and financially, and then left.

  The Russians told their people before their incursion into the country in 1979, that it was at the invitation of the Prime Minister of Afghanistan, Hazifullah Amin. That they were there to support a legitimate government, and to hold at bay the Mujahedeen who were no more than terrorists; it was not true. Hazifullah Amin was attempting to westernise his country and was leaning more towards America. The first item on the Russian invader's agenda was to assassinate him and replace with Babrak Kamal, an Afghan politician with Marxist ideologies.

  While in occupation, they became aware of the wealth of natural resources in the country that had never been fully exploited. The Afghans were never of any interest to the Russians. They had come; ten years later they were gone. The current American military occupation would last about the same. At least, that was how the Afghans saw it.


  ***

  Sarobi, a dusty town of about twenty thousand inhabitants, located half-way between Kabul and Jalalabad, was not a place for non-Afghanis to spend any length of time. It was here where Sherzai was planning to spend the next few days with his friend, Ezatullah. He had not seen his friend in a long time, and as was the custom, he knew that calling on him unannounced, would not cause offence or raise suspicion. He would be assured of a warm welcome with sincere hospitality.

  ‘Salamu Alaykum.’ It was the customary greeting, and with it, Sherzai kissed his friend Ezatullah on both cheeks. He only had the one name which was not uncommon. ‘Waalaikum as-salaam,’ his friend replied, shocked at seeing Sherzai, but also pleased as well.

  ‘It is good to see you, please come in and make yourself at home.’ Ezatullah was a hospitable man who only spoke in the local language of Pashto. They had grown up as children on the same street in Char Qala, a neighbourhood in the east of Kabul. They had lost contact when Sherzai’s family had moved across the border into Pakistan, during one of the interminable periods of instability in the country.

  All his friend knew was that Sherzai had spent some years in Pakistan as a refugee; he was not aware of his time in America, or his affection for his adopted home. It was best for all concerned that this remained unknown. Sherzai certainly did not intend to tell him his reason for coming to Sarobi; visiting an old friend was good enough.

  Ezatullah was a local businessman in Sarobi. Relatively successful, with a couple of local eateries serving local dishes, mainly lamb-grilled kebab known locally as seekh kabab, palao – a rice and meat combination with salad – and tandoori chicken with mantu dumplings. All of the meals were served with freshly-baked naan bread.