Covert Action

by Dick Couch

  “Okay, jokes over. I got no money, and you’d have to be crazy to harm a United States federal agent. I’d suggest that you might rethink this whole thing and just let me go. We’ll forget that it ever happened.” She raised her head and saw the glow of a cigarette in the shadows behind the light. “Really, I’m not worth the effort. C’mon, talk to me.”

  Vadim Karpukhin was from the old school, the old First Directorate to be exact, and he was feeling uneasy about this woman. Karpukhin had been a specialist in foreign operations and foreign internal security affairs. Retired for more than a decade, he now headed a thriving semi-legal corporate security business. On occasion he was contacted by Boris Zhirinon with a special request. Karpukhin was a busy man, and rapidly becoming a wealthy one, but he would never say no to Boris Zhirinon. KBG operatives are often portrayed in the West as thugs or ideologues, but in reality most are principled professionals. Karpukhin took no money for these special requests; it was a matter of honor and respect for what had once been—that and the fact that he occasionally called on Zhirinon for a favor of his own. He had initially been sent to Harare with the ambiguous instructions to look for evidence regarding some kind of Western interventionist force in Zimbabwe. After a few inquiries he had concluded that something was going on in the province of Tonga, but since he was not able to travel there, little more could be learned in Zimbabwe. On his own, he decided to fly to Lusaka and do some probing in the Zambian capital. He found that little was to be gained from the Russian legation. The KGB was gone. None of the old guard, like Karpukhin, trusted the new spies of the Foreign Intelligence Service. And if one of the old KGB hands had in fact been assigned to the Lusaka residence, how good could he be, to have been posted to Lusaka? A little leg-work on his own, a few bribes, and the fact that Vadim Karpukhin was a true pro from the old school quickly produced some results. He soon learned that there had been a brief flurry of activity at hangar B-5 at the airport. Then a hotel clerk tipped him off that there was a female registered at the Intercontinental Hotel with a red official U.S. passport. He had asked himself, Are the two connected? Karpukhin knew that you could no longer just grab a U.S. federal agent off the street, even in some neutral third-world capital, without good reason or as some kind of retaliation. And there really was no cause for such retaliation, since the CIA and KGB called it quits in 1991. The only excuse for such an action was that Vadim Karpukhin didn’t want to disappoint Boris Zhirinon.

  “Miss Burks. I’m sorry it was necessary to abduct you like this, but I must have some information. A large transport aircraft and two helicopters arrived and left a deserted hangar at the Lusaka general aviation terminal a few nights ago. It was about the same time you arrived. I believe that these two events are somehow connected. I would like you to enlighten me on this matter.”

  Judy Burks’s mind was racing. She could see nothing beyond the white beacon at the foot of the bed except a cloud of cigarette smoke that lazily drifted through the light. She was reasonably sure that she was in some kind of a bedroom; it was air-conditioned, and that meant Western comforts, but she sensed it was not a hotel room. Her interlocutor’s English was practiced, and she could detect an accent that was probably German or Slavic. She was reasonably sure it wasn’t Middle Eastern. The voice wanted information, not money, so it wasn’t ransom. She was still dressed in her nightgown, so it wasn’t sexual, at least not yet. What to do? She could scream, but since he hadn’t gagged her, it probably wouldn’t do any good. Maybe she could get very emotional and break down crying. Not a whole lot of options.

  What the hell, she thought. “Eat shit and die, you pervert,” she yelled in a loud voice, proud of herself that it didn’t crack. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. So get these restraints off me and let me the hell out of here. Do you hear me, you asshole?”

  Holy Mother of Russia, Vadim Karpukhin said to himself, shaking his head. So she’s not going to make this so easy. He had done the arithmetic; it would take a day for anyone to miss her, and another day for the embassy staff to go on the hunt for her. Bribes in the right place might put them on his trail by the third day. He figured he had a safe forty-eight hours. He had hoped she might turn out to be one of those whiny Western bitches that fall apart when they break a fingernail. So far, that didn’t appear to be the case.

  Tomba and AKR watched the systematic dismantling of the Makondo Hotel. All of the known and fixed RPD emplacements were rocketed and raked with well-aimed fire. In a few instances some unfortunate guard managed to shoot back, to be immediately met with lethal counter-fire. After about five minutes, the firing died away, as the men on the perimeter were finding no more targets.

  “Dodds, this is AKR. See anything?”

  LeMaster had brought Cheetah down to some ten thousand feet over the target—about a mile and a half overhead. Cheetah flew figure eights over the complex, crossing and recrossing, looking for any sign of movement. Now that the firing had stopped, the thermal sensors had began to sort out the picture on the ground.

  “Nothing that would…hold on, I have something near grid G-6, over. I’m marking it now.”

  “Roger, grid G-6. Wait, out.”

  On his notebook display, AKR saw the cursor on his screen float to a single thermal image near a small storage shed behind the hotel. Probably someone walking perimeter patrol at the time of the attack was now trying to slip back into the compound. AKR pointed it out to Tomba, who immediately keyed his radio.

  “Joshua, we have a man moving on the south side of the storage shed that is in front of you and to your left. You may have to move to get a shot at him.”

  “I understand. I am moving now to a position where I can see him.” Tomba let all know that one of theirs was moving inside the perimeter of the complex. Cheetah zoomed on the drama, and they watched one thermal image move in relation to the other. Then Joshua stopped, and a brief bloom on the scope marked his muzzle flash. He made the shot from about thirty yards, and in a few seconds it was followed by a burst of heat on the scope. They heard the report of an explosion.

  “He was carrying a grenade with the pin pulled,” Tomba observed to AKR. “We often do that when close fighting is at hand.” Then on the radio, “Are you all right, Joshua?”

  “I am well. I have a piece of shrapnel in my thigh, but it is not deep. I will hold here until the final assault.”

  Joshua moved to the modest cover of the storage shed and waited. AKR, with Tomba on his shoulder, watched Cheetah’s view of the complex. Occasionally they looked up, snapping on their nightvision goggles for a ground-level look. Both of them had led raids and assaults; neither had done this with the tools IFOR had placed at their disposal. The technology had given them a great advantage, and as always, surprise is everything, but clearing and securing the facility would be low-tech, basic infantry work.

  “What do you think, Akheem?” It was Janet Brisco. She could recommend they move in, but as ground commander, it would be his decision. He glanced at Tomba, who nodded his consent. Once more AKR slowly swept the area with the image intensifiers. There was nothing. But he knew, as well as Tomba, that any guard force remaining who still wanted to fight would have gone to ground and be waiting. Any more delay would not necessarily make moving in any less risky.

  “Okay, Janet, we move now. It’s Tomba’s show. Silence on the net unless it’s tactical and it’s critical. AKR out.” Then he turned to Tomba and put a hand on his shoulder. “Awusipe namhla isinkwa, my brother.”

  “Victory or death, my brother,” Tomba replied. Then he keyed his radio. “Assault teams, move out. If you leave your assigned corridors as you approach the target, I must know.” He paused while the four team leaders acknowledged the order; then, clutching his rifle, he turned and melted into the bush, moving down and toward the hotel.

  It was with some sense of relief that Tomba crept toward the objective. He was back in his element. He eased the earpiece slightly off his ear so as to better listen for enemy movement
. Tomba and the four two-man teams began to clear the outlying buildings and guard posts as they closed on the hotel. Twice Dodds LeMaster alerted a team of potential danger, one of them leading to a kill. For the teams with the use of night vision devices, it was like flushing game birds from low grass. If they moved, they were dead. The Africans moved steadily and professionally, calling their shots. Then tragedy struck. An RPD machine gun in the back of a canvas-covered truck had remained hidden from Cheetah and from the attackers until it was too late. As one team moved across the last stretch of ground toward the entrance of the hotel, the RPD caught them in the open.

  The truck and the two men manning the machine gun became an instant magnet for automatic-weapons fire and 40mm grenades. Then a rocket slammed into the vehicle and turned it into a burning pyre. In the glow of the fired truck, the complex fell silent. Tomba directed the three remaining teams to security positions around the downed men and went to them. One was dead and the other mortally wounded. Tomba dragged him to safety, checked his wounds, then plunged a morphine syringe into his thigh. The man, a Masai, had taken three of the AK-47–type rounds in his bowel and stomach, and another in the chest. He was in terrible pain, but he did not cry out. It took only a moment for the man’s features to relax from the drug, and he was gone. Tomba took a moment to lightly touch the Masai’s bloodstained face and close his eyes. He then quickly directed his attention to the remaining teams, directing them to close and secure the doors to the hotel. He himself covered the entrance.

  “We are in position,” he radioed to AKR. “The hotel is secure. Two men dead, no others wounded.”

  “Understood. I will be there in a moment.” AKR wanted to ask which of his men were killed, but this was not the time. “Janet, are you there?”

  “Right here, Akheem.”

  “Hotel and complex secure for now. We’re ready for Garrett. Two men KIA.”

  “Understand two KIA. Stand by for an ETA on the helo.” Her voice was neutral and controlled; this was not the first time she had lost men in an engagement under her tactical control. A moment later she was back to him. “Akheem, Brisco, over.”

  “Right here, Janet.”

  “The helo will be there in about four minutes. Do you want the helo to remain in air while you check out the hotel?”

  AKR thought for a moment. The ambush by the RPD had been a surprise, and there could be others. Even one man with a rifle could wreak havoc on a stationary helo and crew. And they had no seriously wounded men, only dead.

  “Negative. Have the helo drop Garrett and the doctor and clear off. Have them return to their refueling site. We’ll call them back when we need them.”

  “Understood. They will drop their passengers and wait off-site. Brisco, out.”

  They didn’t hear the helo until it was on top of them. The pilots did their military flying with the 1st Special Operations Wing and knew how to fly a tactical approach. They made a downwind approach, flying close to the hardwood canopy and flaring only for the landing at the last moment. The Jet Ranger paused at the helo pad, a small piece of level ground fifty yards from the hotel. They stayed only long enough for the two men in the back to scramble from the cargo bay and pull off their equipment bundles. Garrett and Elvis moved as quickly as possible, limited somewhat by their protection suits and gear. The helo jerked into the air, paused a moment as if to regain its bearings, and rolled away into the safety of the night sky.

  Back at the Jeki airstrip Steven Fagan had followed the action from a console in one of the vans. They were air-conditioned for the sake of the equipment, yet he found that a rivulet of sweat was making its way down his temple. It had been a while since he had been this close to a ground action. As a young Special Forces sergeant, he had led a contingent of Montenyard tribesmen on the Plain de Jarres in Laos toward the end of the Vietnam War. That experience had left him with an appreciation of the desperate, fast-moving, life-in-the-balance struggle that is a firefight, even a one-sided one. For Steven, the thermal images and computer-enhanced presentations conveyed emotion. Even without the audio play-by-play, this was much more than a video game. So intently was his focus on the scope that he almost failed to notice the vibration of the sat phone vying for attention in his pocket. Once he became aware of it, he stripped off his headset and flipped open the phone. The caller ID was blank, and that in itself puzzled him. “Yes?” he said, holding the phone to his ear.

  “Steven, this is Jim Watson.”

  “Sir, what can I do for you?”

  “Steven, I can only guess that you are very busy right now, but something has come up in Lusaka that you need to be aware of. I want you to call this number there in Lusaka; are you ready to copy?”

  The connection was excellent, but Steven read the number back to him to be sure he had it right. “And who am I to ask for?”

  “Only one person will answer,” Watson said. “It will be Ambassador Donald Conrad.”

  “AKR, Garrett. We’re on the ground and at the helo pad, over.”

  “AKR here. Stay where you are, and I’ll send a couple of the men to bring you down.”

  AKR was now with Tomba near the entrance to the hotel. Tomba detailed one of his snipers and one of his rocketeers to bring the two spacemen down. Both Garrett and Rosenblatt carried their helmets. The two Africans who escorted them to the entrance flanked them to either side and kept them well in the shadows. Each shouldered one of Rosenblatt’s packs. Garrett carried an M-4 assault rifle.

  “Everything all right?” Garrett asked as he dropped to one knee beside AKR.

  “We lost a team—two men. Otherwise it’s gone well.”

  “Tough break. Any movement inside?”

  “None. If you’re ready, let’s move. I don’t want to give them time to recover.”

  AKR nodded to Tomba, who called up one of his men, a Zulu they called Wilson because his tribal name was too difficult for westerners, even Garrett, to pronounce. The two astronauts put on their helmets—they were now ready to battle microbes. AKR and Wilson pulled on gas masks and gauntlet-type gloves that they had brought with them for this purpose. They hadn’t the protection of Garrett or Rosenblatt, but they were there primarily for security support. The four men moved into the foyer and lobby in a diamond formation, Garrett in the lead, flanked by AKR and Wilson. Rosenblatt brought up the rear. Tomba remained outside for external security with the rest of the force. The nine remaining Africans stayed in static positions at observation points around the hotel, all with good fields of fire. Their objective now was to hold and protect the main hotel building and the helo pad just long enough for the men inside to do their job. Above, Cheetah remained on the prowl. The ever-vigilant Dodds LeMaster reported what she saw to Tomba.

  Per his instructions, Rosenblatt stepped to one side while the other three men moved quickly through the lobby area and cleared it. They were about to take the stairs to the basement when a disheveled man entered the lobby. His hands were thrust into his bathrobe pockets, and he had obviously been drinking.

  “May I ask what you are doing here? This a medical research facility, and—”

  Three rifles swung on him, but only AKR spoke. “On the floor, now! Do as you are told or we will shoot to kill!” Helmut Klan went to his knees and eased himself to the floor. “Cross your ankles! Look to your left! Hands behind your back!” Klan did as he was told. Wilson pounced on the prone man, cuffed him, quickly searched him, and jerked him to his feet. Garrett and AKR kept their eyes moving around the room. Wilson unceremoniously dumped Klan into a lobby armchair and took a security position across the lobby. Garrett dropped to one knee in front of Klan, whose eyes were wide with fear even though he had nearly drained a bottle of schnapps while the battle had raged outside. Rosenblatt approached and squatted beside Garrett. He had been briefed to keep his head down when possible, at least no higher than those around him. Garrett put the muzzle of his rifle under Klan’s chin, raising his jaw, but not so high that Garrett couldn’t look at him thr
ough the Plexiglas shield of his helmet.

  “Who are you, and what is your job here?” Garrett asked in a low voice. He assumed the man was doped up, dazed, or drunk. He pushed on the rifle a little harder; he wanted to see if the man could be controlled by pain. He accomplished that and more. Klan was immediately convinced that the man behind the Plexiglas shield would end his life if provoked or if it pleased him. Yet he had one gambit that he hoped would save his life.

  “I—I am the director here or, what I mean to say, I was the director here. Our project is finished. We—we were about to leave.”

  Garrett glanced at Rosenblatt, who had taken up a station on the other side of Klan. “You were developing a bio-weapon here,” Rosenblatt said. “Where is it?”

  “No, no—you have it wrong, please. We came to develop a drug for AIDS, that is all,” Klan managed, spouting his much-rehearsed story. “And we were successful; we developed a vaccine that has great promise.” Then he played his last card. “We shipped the vaccine out just last night; we were about to close the lab down. I admit that we were using HIV-positive members in the local population for testing. That is why we had a security force here. It—it was not right, but it was in the interest of science. You have to believe that!”

  Rosenblatt was now within a few inches of Klan’s face, his heated voice partially fogging the faceplate. “Just another German obeying orders—doing what he was told, is that it?”

  “Yes, yes. It was medical research.”

  “You’re just another Nazi shit,” Rosenblatt spat. “Your father was probably one of those bastards that made soap out of my relatives.”