As he rested his thumb on the switch, a voice crackled over his headset.
“Albany. I say again, Albany.”
The mission was a go.
60
October 17, 2003
“Copy, Albany,” Remi said over the microphone. He handed the mic back to his radio operator and reached for his throat mic. “Albany, Albany, Albany.” He counted each one that acknowledged. Everyone was set.
Twenty seconds later, the first few shots sounded. They were suppressed, so the report wasn't as loud as regular rifle fire. Remi looked in the clearing, and three armed men fell. More suppressed shots rang out, and more men fell.
An explosion on the south side shattered the landscape. The orange and yellow fireball laced with gray/black smoke dissipated quickly, and the cloud billowed skyward. Polar had blown up the supply tent.
There was confusion in the enemy camp. They didn’t know who was coming from where. Remi and his team continued pushing westward toward the chow tent, firing into each of the personnel tents they approached.
Three of the vehicles started up and began to roll forward. A .308 pierced the air, and the lead vehicle slowed. Cunningham fired his grenade launcher at the rear vehicle. The grenade broke through the back window and exploded, shattering all the glass windows out of the car. Half a second later, the contents in the back of the SUV erupted, literally blowing the vehicle in half as the secondary explosion stopped the SUV in its tracks.
From his sniper position, Ellis fired on the lead vehicle, and the passenger leaped out, sporadically firing at his unseen enemy. One shot, he was down. Without warning, the lead vehicle blew up.
The middle vehicle swerved back toward the east, driving toward the command tent. On the south side, Polar fired a grenade at the moving SUV, the impact and explosion immediately halting its progress.
Remi and the SEALs on the north side advanced quickly. Shoot and move, shoot and move. The fact the terrorists were waiting for chow, helped. They gathered in one place, most without weapons. As they scrambled to pick up AK-47s, the SEALs lined them up in their holographic sights and let loose three-round bursts.
A long volley of AK-47 fire came from the command tent.
“Get down, get down,” Remi shouted over the radio. His team hit the ground, the sporadic fire striking around them. The deadly 7.62 x 39mm rounds zipped overhead; Remi and his team hugged dirt and returned fire.
The report of Ellis's .308 echoed throughout the battlefield, and the AK fire stopped.
“Moving,” Remi said. His team jumped to their feet and pressed forward. They split in three directions but stayed out of each other’s line of fire. Every time a terrorist reached for a rifle, he was taken out.
"Tango, running out of the tent towards the trucks," Hilts said.
Remi heard the .308 again.
“He’s down,” Ellis confirmed.
“Coming in on the south,” Polar said over the radio. “Two Tangos down in the command tent. There’s one on his knees, hands up.”
“Roger. Secure him and continue to scout the area.”
The north team captured another four from the chow tent. The five prisoners were held just inside the tree line between the chow and command tents. Cunningham stood watch over the prisoners while the other five swept the camp for signs of other terrorists. They checked each of the tents and then each of the remaining vehicles. After a thorough sweep, they met back at the command tent, searching for intel.
A makeshift table sat on one side of the tent, covered with a tattered and dirty tarp. On top lay maps of Bangkok. Remi grabbed the tarp and pulled it off to reveal three Pelican cases underneath.
“Jackpot.” Remi recognized Polar’s voice. It had attitude.
Remi moved in to open the top box.
“Careful, boss,” Cunningham said. “Could be booby-trapped.”
“Good point,” Remi said. Treading cautiously, he ran his hand across the top case. He scanned around the stack and saw nothing that indicated a threat. “Grab the other end. Let’s move it gently.”
Polar moved to the other end, and the two picked up the top case, using great care, ensuring there were no wires attached to somewhere else. The two SEALs moved the case into the clearing, away from everyone else. Remi started to unlatch it when he felt Polar grab his arm.
“I got this, boss,” Polar said. “You need to interrogate the prisoner.”
Remi started to argue, but he knew it was useless. He retreated to the tent and watched Polar study the case, and a few seconds later, open it.
"Clear," Polar yelled. Remi ran back to him and verified the contents. "It's a SA-16, boss. Battery works, too."
Polar checked the other two Pelican cases in the same manner, then loaded all three cases into one of the operable SUVs, while the team found two more vehicles for their egress to the alternate landing zone for their pickup by the Pave Lows.
Damn, Remi thought. Three SA-16’s would be tough for even Air Force One to defeat.
The team lined up the three SUVs. The missiles had been stowed in the lead vehicle. The prisoners—zipped-tied at their hands and feet—were stacked like cordwood in the back of the last two vehicles. Remi climbed aboard the lead SUV and keyed his throat mic. “Guys, let’s pick up Bill and go home.” For the first time since they started this mission, Remi grieved for their fallen comrade.
“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” Hilts replied.
The small caravan pulled out of the clearing and headed for the road. Ellis hopped in as they passed, and the three SUVs lumbered into the jungle.
61
October 18, 2003
Jason and Sugarmann sat at a table in the hotel restaurant; the lunch crowd had left over an hour ago. The Jakals remained at the hotel on alert status. He told Sugarmann as much as he could about yesterday's assault on the terrorist camp. Word of the attack never reached the press because the location had been so isolated. The debate would rage at higher levels if the attack were made public. There was a concern that Thai citizens would be uneasy about Americans attacking terrorists on Thai soil. There was also concern that if news of the attack were not made public, the BIPP and other terrorist groups would continue to operate without fear. Terrorists used fear to achieve their goals, and Jason felt it was time they knew a little fear themselves.
Sugarmann glanced at his watch. “The president’s plane should be landing any minute now.”
“I hope they can do it without Remi’s men.”
“Oh, they’re on site. They flew back to U-Tapao and handed the missiles over to EOD from the USS Independence in the Gulf. The missiles were then flown out to the carrier, and the team flew on the Pave Low to Bangkok International. They were debriefed at the airport.”
A news flash came across the television screen on the other side of the restaurant. A waiter stopped and started yelling across the room.
“He’s saying the police foiled a terrorist attack,” Sugarmann said. They walked to the television and watched for twenty or thirty minutes. A small group of BIPP was apprehended in Bangkok last night, attempting to get near the airport. They were armed with AK-47s and RPGs. Reports were sporadic, anywhere between fifteen and twenty-five men captured. Apparently, the news said, they planned an attack on the president arriving in Air Force One. The men caught had attempted to position themselves near Bangkok Airport late last night.
They walked back to the table and sat.
“That was damn good intel Maison’s girlfriend gave us,” Jason said. “Can you imagine what would have happened if the BIPP had the thirty guys the SEALs killed and three SA-16s?”
"Forty-five to sixty men armed with automatic weapons and RPGs is a small army," Sugarmann said. "And even the old SA-16s would be lethal against Air Force One when it's low and slow on approach to the airport."
Jason peered over Sugarmann’s shoulder and saw Sterling MacIntosh walking toward him. He called his father back in America last night, who confirmed Sterling’s story. His
father e-mailed him a website that had Sterling’s picture on it, proving he was indeed who he said. The only thing was—his father did not know why Sterling came to Bangkok.
“Good afternoon, Jason,” Sterling said. “May I join you?”
“Please.” Jason motioned to the chair across from them. Before Sterling had a chance to sit, Lawan entered the restaurant, her elegance attracting attention from everyone in the restaurant as she walked toward them.
Sterling leered at Lawan. "My, you are quite a beautiful, young lady. My name is Sterling MacIntosh." He took her hand in his and gently kissed it. Lawan blushed slightly at the Southern gentleman's manners and glanced at Jason, who gave a subtle eye roll.
“This is Lawan Suttirat. Her husband was killed in the jewelry store attack last week. She saved my life.” Lawan nodded with a subtle smile at the elderly gentleman and sat next to Jason.
“Well, Mrs. Suttirat, the pleasure is all mine. And you must be Mark Sugarmann. Doctor Mark Sugarmann?”
“Yes.” Sugarmann shook his hand begrudgingly. “How did—?”
“Don’t worry. It’s my job to know who the CIA agents are in my area.”
Sugarmann dropped his hands on the table with a loud plop, causing Lawan to jump. His head swiveled from side to side. The anger on his face evident; the corners of his salt-and-pepper goatee sagged, and he leaned toward the silver-haired man.
“How the hell do you know that?”
Sugarmann noticed over Sterling’s shoulder the two security men who literally appeared out of nowhere following the sound. He waved them off, and the men disappeared. Amazing. An invisible security detail. Quite effective.
“I didn’t. Until now.” Sterling shifted his attention back to Jason. “Well, I hear the operation was a success.”
Jason clenched his teeth and leaned forward. “You can’t talk about those things. That’s classified.”
“I guess you’re right. It’s not in the news. Yet. I can wait. There is an interesting bit of information from the hit. It seems the SEALs recovered, in addition to their primary objective, a substantial amount of gold.”
“How do you—” Sugarmann stammered but was cut off by Sterling.
“Only it wasn’t real gold, now was it?” Sterling’s eyes burned into Jason. This guy had a hell of a lot more information than he ever let on. “No doubt it contained a few real bars, a few drilled-out bars, but the majority, tungsten bars thinly dipped in gold. Correct?”
“Yes.” Sugarmann glared at him.
“Those are the same kind of bars Ben had,” Jason said, looking at Lawan, her head down.
“Who’s Ben?” Sterling asked.
“Ben Harris is a friend of mine from Kadena. We go back to my college days. He had a gambling debt he had to repay in gold. Some of the gold he used to pay his debt turned out to be fake, like the gold found in the camp.”
Everyone turned to Lawan, and she looked up, tears running down her cheeks.
“Lawan?” Jason said.
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I did not realize Deng’s work was going to be used to try and kill the president. You’ve got to believe me.”
Sugarmann now leaned forward. “Wait. So, you’re telling me the BIPP received gold from your husband? He financed them to attack the president?”
“No, he only fabricated the gold bars. We were paid a lot of money by—”
“Maison Andrepont,” Jason said. “The casino owner whom Ben owed money. He’s how Ben got mixed up in this.”
Lawan nodded. “My husband became greedy. He made more fake gold that he kept on the side and sold to Ben Harris. Somehow, Maison found out. That is why he killed my husband and tried to kidnap Ben. Maison needed to find out how much of the fake gold was floating around. That’s why you were captured. His men thought you were him,” she said to Jason.
“How did your husband get mixed up with Maison Andrepont?” Sugarmann said.
Lawan explained that Maison was the father of her daughter. He purchased the largest crucible in Asia and moved it to their facility years ago to start this project.
“That seems like a hell of an operation to fake a few crates of gold,” Sugarmann said.
“No, we made much more than that,” she said. There was a long pause, and the three men turned again to stare at Lawan.
“How much more?” Sugarmann replied.
“I-I don’t know. Thousands of them. The big bars . . . four hundred grams. I’m not sure how many of the smaller bars.”
“They didn’t recover any four-hundred-gram bars from the terrorists,” Sugarmann said.
Jason noticed the troubled look on Sterling’s face. “Are you okay?”
“No. No, I’m not,” Sterling said.
“What’s wrong?”
Sterling looked up at the three of them, his eyes dancing as if his thoughts could not be settled. "Maison Andrepont owns an armored car company in Bangkok."
“So?” Jason said.
“We’re using his armored cars to move our IMF shipment from the airport to the bank.”
“Shipment of what?” Jason said.
“One point five-billion dollars of gold bullion.”
62
October 18, 2003
Two unmarked 747s landed at Bangkok International Airport exactly thirty minutes before Air Force One. They taxied to an isolated area across the airport, away from the pomp and circumstance that accompanied the arrival of a U.S. president.
The two jets parked a hundred meters from the hangar. The airport ground crew and customs officials stood on the ramp as the massive jet engines shut down. Sarathoon joined Maison at the hangar door.
“So, it seems the plan was effective after all.”
Maison smiled. “Oui. Arthit’s men were captured last night before they ever got close to the airport. I don’t know what happened to the rest of them. We should have close to sixty. And there was no mention of the missiles.”
“Has he reported in?”
“No. I’m still waiting to hear if he was one of those caught.”
“And you say all this is good?”
"Yes," Maison said nodding. "It's working out perfectly."
Jason studied Sterling as his words sunk in. Maison Andrepont was at the center of everything.
"So, let me get this straight," he said, turning to Lawan. "Andrepont hired your husband to make fake gold?"
“Yes,” Lawan acknowledged. “A lot of it.”
“And Andrepont used some of that fake gold to pay off the terrorists.”
“Or at least whoever was financing them,” Sugarmann said.
“But a significant amount of his fake gold is still out there,” Jason said. “You’re using his armored cars to move the IMF bullion?”
“Yes,” Sterling said. “I’m afraid that Maison Andrepont might be planning to replace the IMF shipment with his fake gold.” He paused, thinking for a moment. Pulling out his cellphone, he dialed. Frustration pasted across his face as he tucked it back into his pocket. “It appears I’m unable to reach my contacts at the airport.”
“The phones are all jammed at the airport. The president just landed. Security is incredibly tight due to the terrorists they caught last night.”
“The terrorists Maison financed—” Jason snapped his fingers on both hands. “Holy shit! It makes total sense now. Maison isn’t trying to kill the president. He’s trying to steal the gold. The attack on the president is a distraction. Everybody is looking over there while he’s over here stealing the gold in his armored trucks.”
"The question is, why?" Sterling interjected. "He's a superb businessman. He has a successful casino and owns an armored car company."
Lawan looked up, tears still streaming from her eyes. “I think I know.”
The three men turned to her.
“Maison was very rich years ago. He had much real estate in Thailand and many financial investments. When the baht crashed, he lost almost everything. All he had left was the casino in Cambodia
. He always blamed the IMF for his situation and swore that one day he would make them pay. Perhaps this is his goal.”
Sterling had a grim look on his face. “Yes. The Asian Financial Crisis of 1997,” he said. “It started in Thailand. At the time, Thailand had no foreign currency to support the baht-to-dollar ratio. In May of ‘97, the baht was hit with several speculative attacks, and the government was eventually forced to float the baht, and the currency markets took over.”
Jason wasn’t quite sure he understood. He had a bachelor’s degree in business, but he never used it. “I think that’s bad, right?”
“Very much so,” Sterling replied. “Thailand’s economy came to a virtual standstill over the next two months. Hundreds of thousands were out of work. Financial institutions closed; real estate and building projects shut down. Over time, the baht lost over half its value, dropping from around twenty-five baht to the dollar to over fifty-six baht to the dollar.”
“The Asian Contagion,” Sugarmann said.
Sterling nodded. “Precisely.”
“So, how do you factor in this?”
"It's not so much me, but the IMF. You see, the financial collapse didn't only affect Thailand, it affected the entire region. The IMF bailed out the Thai government." He exhaled slowly. "The high-interest rates most likely were the nail in the coffin for our friend, Maison Andrepont, an unfortunate victim of the IMF's benevolence."
“Is he trying to crush the gold market by inserting fake gold into the marketplace?” Sugarmann asked. The question went unanswered.
“Okay, he’s got a motive,” Jason said skeptically. “But what do we do now? We can’t contact anyone at the airport. Where’s the gold supposed to go from there?”
“There’s a special vault at the CSTH Commercial Bank in Bangkok. The gold is to be moved directly from the airport to the vault.”
The Quiet Professional Page 28