Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  The people who had denied him success in Afghanistan, whoever they might be—he figured he owed them one. As they were undoubtedly American, then it would be America that would pay.

  Zelinkow poured himself a final glass from the bottle of the marvelous amarone. Two things seemed apparent to him. One of them was that the people who had hired him hated the United States. They consistently raised the ante with each project he undertook for them. And now that the Americans had established a presence in Iraq, their hatred knew no bounds. If accomplished, the Afghan venture would have done much to destroy American credibility in the region. The second: if this venture now germinating in Africa was seen through, it would destroy America as an economic superpower, and quite possibly as a military superpower. He was quite sure America would retaliate with everything it had. Even a crippled America would be formidable. Zelinkow had never played the Grand Game for these stakes. It both intimidated and exhilarated him. If he was successful, it would leave a huge power vacuum on the world stage. Perhaps Russia, with its emerging economy and vast store of natural resources, could fill that vacuum. Anything was possible.

  He rose from his chair, draining the last of the wine from his glass. High stakes, indeed, he reflected. Zelinkow was a man who could work tirelessly for any length of time, focusing his not-inconsequential intellect and experience on a project. He could also totally segregate that part of his being, and devote his attentions to that which gave him pleasure. Nearly matching his passion for his work was that which he reserved for the arts. A superb string quartet was touring European capitals, and he had box seats for this evening’s performance. Not only that, he had reservations at an exquisite Neapolitan restaurant. He would be joined by a ripe, round, middle-aged widow who enjoyed music and food almost as much as he did. For now, the collapse of the so-called leader of the free world would have to wait. Zelinkow headed for his bath with a subtle spring in his step, collecting a glass of sherry along the way.

  It was now late in the day, several hours after Janet Brisco had held her deployment briefing. She was still in her office reviewing personnel and equipment lists, along with a host of other details that accompany the secret movement of men and material. As was always the case, she had to continually remind herself to concentrate on the immediate concerns of logistics and staging. Naturally, her mind fast-forwarded to the tactical considerations, but she disciplined herself not to get too far ahead—first things first. Experience had taught her that too much tactical thinking early on in an operation restricted flexibility. A good planner knew that tactical decisions made too early in the game were inevitably changed due to better and updated intelligence. In most situations, there were really only so many ways to assault a target. She remembered the old army saying: Amateurs talk about tactics; the professionals talk about logistics. Once her people and equipment were in place, then she could deal with tactical issues. And hopefully, by then they would have a better picture of what they were up against.

  Zambia, Zimbabwe’s neighbor to the northwest, presented its own set of challenges. It was about the size of Texas, and like Zimbabwe, the nation had massive social problems. Zambia had only half the population of Zimbabwe, about eleven million, and only one in five Zambians had AIDS, where in Zimbabwe it ran as high as two in five. The Zambian economy was only slightly better off than their neighbor’s. The nation depended on copper exports, but low copper prices for the past several years had stagnated the economy. Zambia had all the problems of a struggling African state; high inflation, high infant mortality rate, high unemployment—about 50 percent—and a huge national debt. On the positive side, it was a reasonably functioning democracy, and that political stability made Zambia one of southern Africa’s more popular tourist destinations.

  There were two Zambias—rural Zambia and the capital of Lusaka. Lusaka was a modern city of some 1.3 million souls that offered a higher standard of living and more opportunity through an emerging service economy not available to rural Zambians. But it also had big-city problems. Like many black African capitals, it ran the gamut from the modern to the wretched, but at four thousand feet, it enjoyed one of the more temperate climates among African cities. There was also a fully staffed American embassy, including a Peace Corps representative and an officer on loan from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. For Janet Brisco, it was a jumping-off place for her force. It would be a place to hide and to stage equipment. Fortunately, they were well funded and had the Simpson Foundation to use as a cover for their activities.

  In basic terms, Janet Brisco had to get Tomba and his Africans from Kona to Lusaka with all the equipment they would need to conduct an assault on a heavily defended position some hundred and fifty miles east of Lusaka in Zimbabwe. She had to get her command and control element there as well, not only to Lusaka but to a position where it could support the operation. And both the command and assault elements had to be equipped for a number of infiltration and recovery scenarios. Critical decisions had to be made. Too much equipment could raise their profile, and the lack of a critical piece of gear could put the mission at risk. Garrett and AKR continually shuttled in and out of her office to answer questions about what they might or might not need. Except for each man’s individual kit and personal weapons, she made all final decisions.

  As Janet wrestled with these dilemmas, there was a soft rap at the door. On the third series of knocks she finally looked up from her desk, an uninviting scowl on her face.

  “Come!”

  “Excuse me, miss, you wished to see me?”

  She immediately softened. “Yes, Tomba. Please come in.”

  He made his way into the office and stood by the desk. Janet Brisco had worked in a man’s world, a special operations man’s world, for close to two decades. Her work often dictated that she take the measure of a man in short order—could he do the job? Could he cut it, or would he come up short? It was not an issue of battlefield bravery or judgment. Her world was one of command and control of men in the field. A bad decision by a controller could jeopardize a mission or get men killed just as surely as a bad decision in the field. As the senior planner and controller, she had to know about the men she ordered into battle—the warriors in the fight. And Brisco felt that this Turkana warrior was something very special.

  As part of her preparation, she read the dossier of each of the African recruits. They came from all over central and southern Africa. They all had formal military training of some sort. Most of them had served as mercenaries at one time or another. Some were working as security guards when they were recruited, and not a few were game park rangers. All had some connection with Tomba, yet he was the only Turkana among them. The only common thread she could find from her review of their files is that they were all literate, all spoke English, and all seemed to be stateless. Tribalism had a strong influence on most Africans, and it often created problems. She was surprised to see that these men were recruited from such diverse tribal groups.

  “I need a few minutes of your time,” she said. “Can I offer you some coffee? Tea?”

  “Some tea would be nice.”

  The Gurkhas recruited for IFOR had made a tea drinker out of her, but only when she was in camp, and only the tea made by the Gurkhas. She kept a carafe of it on her desk. She carefully poured him a cup and then warmed her own. He accepted the mug and quietly sipped at it. “Thank you,” he said, relishing the strong, dark brew. “It is the first thing our British mentors taught us—how to make good tea. Yet only a few of us have had British training; I need to send some of my men over to the Gurkha camp to learn their method.”

  She watched him carefully. Tomba was lean, with long, hard muscles, a thin waist, narrow hips, and an oversized shoulder girdle. His hands were like heavy work gloves. He was not shy but soft, in his manner and his speech, and very polite. But all her senses told her that this was a very disciplined and capable man. Like many of the men in his unit, he was hardened by years of fighting. In Tomba’s case, dec
ades of living and fighting in the bush.

  “Tomba, we are assembling the needed equipment to support you and your men in the field. I’ll need some help in completing this deployment package, but first, tell me how you selected your men. And how is it that they work so well together? I know some of them come from tribes who have been historical enemies.”

  Tomba took a measured sip from his mug before he answered with a warm smile. “You have to understand, miss, that Africa today is not the Africa of Kitchener or Rhodes or Livingston. The forces of colonialism, Communism, and capitalism have swept through the continent and”—he paused to search for the right word—“rearranged things. This has happened in other societies, but most other societies are more uniform; change settles on a much larger group—a conquered or occupied nation makes the change as a nation. It is not that way in Africa; we are too diverse. Loyalty to one’s tribe is not a bad thing, but it is out of step with the national boundaries set by colonial powers, and out of step with the world today. There is no going back. My men and I love Africa, yet Africa means different things to each of us. Tell me, miss, what did you do when you left the service of your nation? Did you go home?”

  She smiled. “Why, yes, I did. I went back to St. Louis to be with my family.”

  He met her smile with his own. “It is the same with us, although for most of us, home as we knew it from our youth is gone. But we hold these images in our hearts. We are warriors from many different tribes, but for now, we are brothers. And we will fight as brothers from the same tribe. Was it not the same when you left your home to serve in your military? Did you not join a tribe of warriors in uniform? When we finish our service here, we will go home, each of us in our own fashion.” He paused for a long moment, and she waited, knowing he was not finished. “Many in Africa long for the old times and the established order of things. I do not, and neither do my men. We respect the old customs, but you in the West, for all you have taken away, have given us something much more valuable. It is that a man is not bound by the restrictions of his tribe or his station in that tribe. And a tribal chief is no longer free to brutalize his subjects. Now, if a man is clever and brave and works hard, he can advance himself. And that is the biggest change of all. Many in the West think the whites destroyed Africa. In some ways they did. Painful as the transition from the old to the new has been, I believe they have liberated Africa.”

  She was not convinced. “Would you not, had you the chance, want to live in an Africa with none of the influence of the white man?”

  He shrugged. “Possibly. Not all that the white man brought to Africa was good. Smallpox, as an example, devastated many parts of Africa. But the white man did not bring the AIDS virus. Western knowledge and medicine are the only hope of stopping this terrible disease. What if AIDS had come to Africa three hundred years ago? How many Africans would there have been left to exploit in the nineteenth century? The river of life moves on; we can only play our given roles as best we can. I do, however, envy Bijay and his Gurkhas. They come from a small nation in a remote part of the world that has been left alone. There are no diamonds or farmlands or metal ores that draw outsiders to their lands. When they return home, they can live much as their fathers and grandfathers once did.”

  “Where will you go, Tomba? Where is your St. Louis? Is there someone who waits for you?”

  This brought a chuckle. “I have many choices, and in some ways all of southern Africa is my home. There are many men I have trained and fought with who live throughout the area. Some have become successful and wealthy. I will always be welcome at someone’s kraal, if not my own.”

  “So there is no one who waits?”

  A shadow seemed to pass across his rugged features. “No, miss, there is not. I have had two wives, but they are both gone, as are the children from both.” He said this with a certain finality that brooked no response on her part.

  “Tomba, we will probably move to a forward location the day after tomorrow. We have found some airport space at the Lusaka International Airport that is secure. You and your men will be able to stage from there, if and when we receive the order to move on this. Are your men ready to move out?”

  “We are. Their kit is in good order, and our combat support equipment, well, it is of such a quality that we are very well equipped indeed. And the various uniforms are in place. We can dress out as a Zambian Army unit, Zimbabwe Republic Police, or just a roving band of bush fighters. The men can also pass as laborers if required.” He smiled. “The men are very excited—so many uniforms and so many different weapons. They are used to going on a patrol with an assault rifle, six or eight extra magazines, a canteen, and a bag of cornmeal. With that they can stay in the bush for many weeks. Now, we have so much. Have we learned any more about our objective?”

  “No, we haven’t. Perhaps when we get on the ground in Lusaka we will have a better idea of what we’re up against. We have a number of sources providing us with information, but this is a very unusual and remote target.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course!” He had her full attention.

  “Nkosi Akheem says we may be up against a unit that is similar to the old Selous Scouts. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. And I understand you once served with the Selous Scouts.”

  “In another lifetime,” he said easily. “But I have been thinking about this. If that is truly the situation, then these men are recruited mercenaries, and there is only one place where a mercenary force with both whites and blacks can be raised. South Africa. My men are in all respects ready for travel. Perhaps I should leave now and spend a few days in Johannesburg and rejoin you in Lusaka. I have many contacts in Johannesburg. If such a force was recruited, I may be able to learn something of their number and the contract for which they were recruited.”

  Janet considered this. Her first notion was that it was an excellent idea, and the second was, Why hadn’t she thought of it? Or why hadn’t Akheem Kelly-Rogers thought of it? Both of them should have.

  “How do you propose to travel?”

  “I have spoken with Mr. Owens. He recommends a British passport. I can fly from here to Japan, then on to Johannesburg. He can provide documentation that I am a travel agent employee. Getting to Johannesburg is not a problem. As a travel agent representative I will have no problem getting from Johannesburg into Zambia. I shouldn’t be more than a day or so in Johannesburg, and perhaps a day in Pretoria. It will not take long to find out what we need to know.”

  She thought about it a moment and concluded that it made perfect sense, feeling a little embarrassed that they had not thought to make better use of this resource.

  “Yes, go ahead and prepare to leave at once. I will speak with Akheem and Mr. Fagan, but it seems an excellent idea.”

  “And another thing, miss. I would also—”

  “Tomba, I would be most grateful if you would call me Janet. We are colleagues; it is only proper that you do so.”

  He paused and seemed to draw himself more upright, if that were possible. “You honor me, Janet. Thank you. If you will permit me, I have another suggestion. One of my men, Benjamin Sata, grew up in Lusaka and has relatives there. He is both intelligent and an excellent bushman. Would it not be a good idea to send him on ahead to spend a few days with his family? We may need some local assistance there. It will be easier for him to help us if he has been with his family for a short while before we task him with any requirements. As an intelligence officer and planner, miss—I mean, Janet, you understand the value of local knowledge and information.”

  Brisco considered this. Tomba was one thing, but one of his men going home, a man who was probably known to those in his extended family as a soldier of fortune…As if reading her mind, he continued.

  “Benjamin will be discreet about our work and his role in this venture. His father is old, and it is quite natural for a son to visit to pay his respects. I have trusted him with my life many times, and he has never failed me. It
could prove quite valuable to have someone who knows Lusaka and has contacts there.”

  “Again, Tomba, that makes perfect sense. Let me speak with Akheem about it.”

  Judy’s eyes lit up when she saw him. “Steven, thank you for meeting us here at the gate. I’d like you to meet Dr. Elvis Rosenblatt, from the CDC. Elvis, this is Steven Fagan. He will be coordinating this investigation.”

  “Dr. Rosenblatt, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Steven said, extending his hand. If he thought Rosenblatt’s outfit a little strange, he gave not the slightest indication. “I hope you had a pleasant flight.” He chatted amiably as he led them from the gate down the concourse, but he could sense Rosenblatt’s growing anxiety. Steven Fagan was nothing if not a careful observer. Just before they reached the main terminal, he stopped and turned to Rosenblatt. “Doctor, I know you have a thousand questions. No doubt you are wondering just who we are and what we do. One of my jobs is to see that all your questions are answered fully and to your complete satisfaction. We have booked a room for you at the Hyatt, just a few minutes from the airport. I’ve arranged for your bags to be sent over there. There’s a car waiting to take us straight to the hotel. I hope that will be acceptable? And before I forget,” he added politely, “there are any number of people who appreciate your traveling here to help us with this matter. It is the opinion of our government that we may be facing a dangerous and potentially devastating situation. It is imperative that we learn more about it.”