Allies

by Wolf Riedel

  “So what brings you here Chris?” asked Kurt. “Last I heard you were with the JTAC. Are you with your special ops task force now? I thought they were primarily Special Boat Service not SAS.”

  “You’re right, they’re mostly SBS,” he replied. “22 SAS is tied up in Iraq but we do have some reservist operators from 21 and 23 here. The headquarters is a mixed bag though from pretty much all of UKSF. Anyway my job’s not with the task force, I’m here with the advance party for when we take over command of Regional Command-South from the Dutch.”

  When the NATO ISAF had taken over command of southern Afghanistan, the various allied forces there had first been commanded by a Canadian brigadier general. He had been succeeded by a Dutch major general who still commanded but was scheduled to be replaced by a British one as of the 1st of May. A few weeks before that happened the four thousand plus British force in Helmand presently coming from the Royal Marines’ 3 Commando Brigade were scheduled to be replaced by the Brit Army’s 12 Mechanized Brigade.

  “How’s Op ACHILLES going?” Kurt asked. The three month, mostly British, campaign to destroy the Taliban in Helmand before the enemy could launch its summer fighting season had started the week before.

  Chris held up his hands with a resigned look on his face.

  “It’ll be a long slog,” he said. “Last summer you guys handed out an arse-kicking in Panjwayi because the Taliban stood and fought and were totally outclassed. They’ve learned their lesson and aren’t standing to the end anymore. We’ve had some heavy punch-ups like 45 Commando’s at Garmsir in January and 42 Commando at Kajaki Dam in February. They took some heavy casualties but mostly it’s hit and run and dodge and weave stuff. We need better, more mobile, gear and there’s some of that coming with the 12th.

  “One of the big things down here,” he continued, “has been that there’s a bit of a strained relationship between our command and that of RC-South.”

  “That should disappear once your command team takes over,” said Kurt. In his experience Brits could be quite difficult to have as subordinates, especially elite forces like the Paras and Marines who had made up the bulk of the Brits’ first and second rotation in Helmand. When RC-South had been commanded by a Canadian there had been similar issues.

  Chris missed the tone of irony in Kurt’s voice.

  “Yes. I suppose you’re right,” he replied.

  Kurt stood and picked up his tray.

  “Chris it’s been great,” he said. “I’ve got an appointment with commander TF 31 so have to go. After that I’ll be gone over to Zabul for a few days but I’ll look you up when I get back.”

  The walk to TF 31’s area from the DFAC was not a long one. The compound, while already located within the secure area of KAF, had a further and even more stringent perimeter. Kurt had been expected and had been quickly ushered into the commander’s private, albeit, spartan office.

  Lieutenant Colonel Shawn Frape was known to Kurt. He had run into the officer shortly after Frape’s TF had come to Afghanistan the summer before and immediately been thrown into the Canadians’ Operation MEDUSA. The mission for TF 31 had been to seal off the southern boundary of the battle space and thus to block Taliban reinforcements and to prevent their engaged forces from escaping while the Canadians’ mechanized forces attacked them from the east.

  The company assigned to the task, ODB 330 and its three attached ODAs, its Canadian liaison officer and its attached ANA troops, occupied the artificial hillock at Sperwan Ghar, built decades before by the Soviets, and proceeded to give the enemy a serious ass-kicking using every weapon from M4 carbines to bombers and Predator drones. Kurt knew that there was a movement within the Canadian Army’s headquarters to get some type of medal or citation issued to the 1st of the 3rd SFG for their contribution to the fight. Kurt resolved not to mention anything about that. The Canadian honors and awards processes were so scandalously slow and convoluted that they had become more of a dissatisfier than an incentive.

  Kurt greeted Frape warmly. Standing a few inches shorter than Kurt, Frape’s head was closely shorn; almost to the point of being bald. His slight frame was draped in a set of well-weathered ACUs. His eyes sparkled but still reflected the weariness of the battalion’s tour of duty. While special forces’ tours were significantly shorter than those of line units, the pace of operations was higher, more complex and more stress inducing.

  Frape motioned Kurt into a chair and rather than sitting in the chair behind his desk, pulled up another visitor’s chair to face him directly.

  “How was your trip out, Sir?” he asked.

  “Couldn’t have been better, Shawn” said Kurt. He’d taken another hit of Otrivin just before walking into the compound and, for the moment, breathing came easily and the sinus induced fog was gone from his mind.

  “Good,” said Frape and reached over to the desk and picked up a file folder that had been set there.

  “So, you want to know about Tom’s ODA,” he said as he opened the folder. “Not that much to tell. He and his team came up from Fort Campbell and joined us at Bragg a week before we started our deployment last summer. They’d actually filled in at the last moment for an ODA whose leadership element 5th Group considered inadequate. Tom’s team was at that time down to five of its twelve members so it was brought up to strength by seven members of the ODA that had originally been tasked to go. And those seven were a mixed bag as well with three from my battalion and four augmentees that had come from the 2nd Battalion.”

  “Not the best thing that close to a deployment,” observed Kurt.

  “No it wasn’t, but as you well know, we’ve been rotating guys through here like crazy. Tom and his key people had been in-country before on several tours and have always been highly rated.”

  Kurt nodded.

  “Were any of them resentful to deploy on such short notice or in such a mixed hodge-podge?” he asked.

  Frape noticeably winced at the phrase hodge-podge.

  “Not to my knowledge,” he replied. “I interviewed Tom and his warrant officer as soon as they arrived and my Command Sergeant Major did the same with the NCOs. Nothing stood out beyond the usual little stuff.”

  “So they went to PB POWDER in Zabul,” said Kurt. “Did that happen right on deployment?”

  “Yup. They were here in KAF for maybe a week or so getting briefed and doing their battle procedure and as soon as they were good to go, they went. They’d been there before so it was an easy tasking.”

  “I’ve seen the map of the FOBs and the outposts for Zabul. POWDER’s the southernmost. Where do they fit in with border security?”

  “That’s a tough one, Sir,” said Frape. “You’re probably better off to talk to the guys at RC-S or TF ZABUL because they own the battle space and have the more comprehensive picture on security there in general.

  “I guess the overall issue is that Zabul’s got a quarter million desperately poor residents; in fact it’s the poorest of Afghanistan’s provinces. They’re massively Pashtun and closely tied to the old Taliban regime. Lots of their young men head across the border to Pakistan for education and to find work and they usually come back radicalized.

  “We haven’t been getting much action there; the ground’s difficult going from broad dry valleys to rugged hills and mountains. You can easily lose track of folks in the back country. On top of that our force there is weak. The Romanian’s main task is protecting and keeping Highway 1 open. Beyond that, not counting the ANA there’s just a single one of our infantry companies spread out in platoon patrol bases to cover the rest of the province. In a lot of ways it’s really just a conduit of rat lines letting groups go from Pakistan to Uruzgan and Kandahar and from there to Helmand.”

  Kurt nodded, noting to himself that his question hadn’t been answered.

  Frape sensed that.

  “I guess the best way to describe Lesperance’s mission is that he’s a trip wire on his portion of the border. He’s there to get a feel for the ground and the peo
ple and to monitor the activity down there. In that respect his role is to tie in with and win the trust of the locals.”

  “So there’s a priority on unconventional warfare and foreign internal defence,” observed Kurt. “Winning the locals to our side and arming them for their own defence.”

  “You could say that,” said Frape.

  “And how’s that been working out?” asked Kurt.

  Frape shrugged.

  “I guess that depends on who you ask,” he replied. “From my point of view we’re getting the intelligence we expect and the governor’s happy.”

  Kurt noted again that the answer wasn’t close to full or frank.

  “My understanding is that neither the TF ZABUL folks nor the ANA are too happy with them,” he said.

  “Yup,” said Frape. “That’s true enough. I’ve been there a couple of times with my CSM but no one’s given me enough to hang my hat on.”

  He handed Kurt the file folder.

  “I’ve had my folks put this together for you. It’s an extract from our logs filtered to just Lesperance’s team’s reports and transmissions.”

  “Thanks,” said Kurt taking the file.

  “What’s next for you?”

  “A good night’s sleep for starters,” Kurt said. “We’ll spend the morning with the RC-South’s command staff getting an update on the situation in Zabul and then come back in the afternoon to talk to some of your staff. We should be good to head out to Zabul the next day. O’Donnell can work out the details of that with your folks.”

  CHAPTER 30

  Tampa PD HQ, Tampa, Florida

  Tuesday 13 Mar 07 1230 hrs EDT

  Not for the first time had Mark wished that CID Lakeland have a video conferencing system capable of doing secure hookups with the local law enforcement agencies. Sage’s call had requested a face to face meeting and, as usual, that meant someone from Lakeland had to make the trip down the I-4. Thankfully traffic had been light, but still, the round trip’s travel time alone would take two hours out of Mark’s day. For this reason he had left Sal behind to continue his work. At least the trip would kill two birds with one stone; Mabel’s plane was landing at TPA this afternoon and he’d be able to save Kristin the trip into town.

  Mark had given Sage a quick call as he had entered the attached parking structure and Sage had met him in the lobby and quickly whisked him through security and to a meeting room where Platt was already seated, files spread out before him.

  “Oliver,” said Mark in greeting as he took a chair across from the Guns and Gangs detective.

  “Mark,” Platt nodded in reply. “Thanks for coming.”

  “Sage gave me a heads up that you’ve got something new.”

  “Yup. After our last meeting we redoubled hitting all available research that might show a link between the Mexican cartels and their expansion in New Orleans and Tampa.”

  “You found something useful?” said Mark regretting the question almost immediately. If they hadn’t found anything they wouldn’t have asked for a face to face. Dumb question, he chided himself.

  Platt ignored it and continued, “Nothing definite but a probable link.

  “Two months ago the Coast Guard Cutter Heron, operating out of Sabine Pass, Texas, came across a smoking fishing trawler hulk floating about fifty miles south of Marsh Island Louisiana. A boarding party found the ship deserted but with signs of blood and small arms impacts on board.”

  “How big a ship was this?” asked Mark.

  Pratt flipped through the file. “About ninety feet,” he said. “Weighed about a hundred tons and rigged at the time for shrimp trawling but capable of other types of fishing.

  “Because of the evidence of violence on board,” he continued,” the Heron took the trawler in tow and brought her to the Coast Guard’s 8th District Headquarters in New Orleans where she was turned over to the FBI for forensic examination. Those aren’t complete yet—two months, go figure, freakin’ FBI—but the initial reports included the fact that she was identified as coming out of Tampa. The records of her ownership and crew led to the conclusion that they had all been falsified and to date they’re a dead end.

  “What’s of interest to us is that there were a number of false hull storage compartments discovered and, despite the extensive fire damage, trace evidence of cocaine and marijuana were found. Even more interesting is the fact that in a locker in the engine room they discovered a loaded and full auto converted AR-15.”

  Mark’s eyes widened.

  “Thought that might interest you,” said Sage.

  “They haven’t gotten much more than that. The fact that the boat was steel meant that there were no usable bullets found; they had all fragmented on impact. Blood and several fingerprints have been sent for DNA and fingerprint analysis but there was only one hit on that, which led back to a navel reservist last serving out of the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base New Orleans in Plaquemines Parish. That’s just south of New Orleans. He’s been AWOL for the last six months.”

  “If I have it right that base deals primarily with reserve air components of the various services,” remarked Mark. “How do you get from supporting naval air operations to working on a trawler?”

  “No idea,” said Sage. “My guess is you train as a sailor first before you train for the aviation side so he has some background at least.”

  “Do we have a file on him?” asked Mark.

  “Nope,” Platt said. “But since you were going there anyway to get background on Mexico trafficking, we’ve called ahead to add a few more people to the meeting; coast guard, FBI. Maybe we’ll get more from them.”

  “I guess that means you’re coming,” said Mark to Sage.

  “Yeah. I got myself a seat on your flight.”

  “Drugs and converted AR-15s on a boat coming out of Tampa,” Kurt reflected. “Sounds promising.”

  The distance from the Tampa PD headquarters to Tampa International Airport was four miles as the crow flies but unfortunately Mark’s route had to follow the congested Tampa streets and thus the trip took some thirty minutes in stop and go traffic.

  Along the way Mark took the opportunity to contact his superiors at Fort Benning to give them an update. On his initial call Sykes was away from his desk but within five minutes he returned Mark’s call.

  Mark clicked Send on his Blackberry and answered with a curt “Winters.”

  “How they hangin’ Mark?”

  “Lower every day, Bernie,” replied Mark.

  “Then you and Kristin better start working on that second baby before it’s too late,” laughed Sykes. As a proud dad of five children he thought that anyone with three or less just wasn’t doing his part.”

  “Well,” said Mark, “it’s not happening this week. Kristin’s mother’s arriving and I’m pretty damn sure I’m going to be late picking her up at the airport.”

  “What flight’s she on?” asked Sykes.

  Mark told him and was put on hold.

  “You’re fucked, buddy,” said Sykes. “I just checked FlightAware and her flight is scheduled to arrive ten minutes early. The plane’s about five minutes from touchdown.”

  Mark did some quick calculations and figured that with a bit of luck and a slow taxiing to the gate, he might just make it in time before Mabel got her luggage. With luck. If the traffic picked up just a little.

  “What the hell,” Mark said. “She’ll be pissed anyway when she sees me at the airport instead of Kristin and Max.

  “So getting back to business, the reason I called you is to let you know that we’re a go for New Orleans and that Baumgartner is coming with us. She and the TPD int guys have done some homework on this and it looks like there might be a link between a burned out and abandoned fishing trawler from Tampa found off the coast of New Orleans, a missing naval reservist from up there and signs of both drugs and full auto AR-15s on the boat. Tell Marjorie that it looks like we won’t simply be wasting her money on beignets.”

  “Good,�
� said Sykes. “Looks like you might have lucked in there.”

  “Sure hope so. We can use some luck.”

  “How are our boys doing down there?”

  “Good,” Mark replied. “Tony’s got things up and humming with AFOSI and the TPD narcotics guys. We should be seeing some results on this soon.”

  “Hope it’s quick,” said Sykes seriously. “You’re still missing a little girl out there somewhere.”

  Mark sobered up quickly. It was all too easy to lose track of the fact that Megan might still be out there alive. He looked up and watched the traffic lurch forward.

  “Gotta go,” he said.

  Mabel Hill had a severe look about her that always reminded Mark of Marion Post Wolcott’s 1930s depression era photos of the wives of southern sharecroppers and Appalachian miners sitting on the ramshackle porches of their unpainted houses. Feet bare, faded gingham dresses, a baby on their lap and deeply etched crevices on their mahogany faces. Underneath their tightly bound and bunned hair there were frequently eyes that burned with passion. Whether or not it was hatred for the interloper photographer taking their image or that last ray of hope that they might yet, with luck, escape their lot in life, Mark was never sure which. The photos told a story, a powerful story perhaps but, nevertheless, an incomplete one.

  So it was with Mabel. The woman was not tiny but looked diminutive. Today she wore a grey and black print dress; he’d never seen her in jeans or slacks or shorts, always a dress or, when she was feeling particularly casual, a black skirt and white blouse. Her shoes were black, sensible pumps with, perhaps, a one inch heel with a matching black leather handbag of generous proportion. He’d always wanted to rummage through that bag to see if she was carrying a concealed firearm. Notwithstanding her fierce devotion to the Southern Baptist Church, or maybe because of it, she was an avid, if not rabid, NRA member. The thought of her carrying a concealed firearm wasn’t an entirely stupid idea although he expected that since she had just arrived on a commercial flight, it was improbable that there was a gun in there right now.