by Jack Terral
"Britain's contribution of inflight refueling must remain unknown as well," the President reminded her. He glanced over at Turnbull. "What about those SEALs? How did their part in the operation go?"
"Faultless, sir," Turnbull replied. "In and out nice and quick. I suppose you heard they got an EPW, right?"
"I'm surprised they were able to find one from the way that place was flattened," the President said. "Do you think the fellow will be of any value?"
"He's their equivalent of a brigadier general," Turnbull answered. "We're not sure of his exact position right now, but I would venture the opinion that he was probably the camp commander. And I wouldn't be surprised to learn that he was going to spearhead the invasion of Afghanistan."
"Is he being held at Barri Prison in Bahrain?" Joplin asked.
"Negative," Turnbull said with a shake of his head. "He's been ensconced deep in the bowels of the USS Combs. General Leroux and the intelligence boys are having at him even as we speak." He chuckled. "I almost feel sorry for the poor bastard."
"I suppose I do too," the President said. "It must be a frightening experience to be in the complete control of your enemies and isolated from your own people."
"He's worse off than that, Mr. President," Turnbull said. "General Leroux has been in a bad mood ever since he was assigned to that floating SFOB. He'll take out all his anger and frustration during interrogation on the guy. I'm afraid our prisoner could get a healthy slapping around."
"What?" Joplin said. "No instant rapport between two brigadier generals?"
"Not in this case," Turnbull said.
The FBI man Bentley said, "I've been instructed to look deep into this situation.
We'd like to have a go at the guy too. We're very interested in building up a good file on any Iranian terrorist cells in this country."
"Don't worry, Liam," the President responded. "The Bureau will get their turn along with everybody else."
A knock on the door startled everyone. No interruption of presidential conferences was allowed unless something of the greatest and/or gravest of importance occurred. When the door opened, it was a communications clerk. He walked wordlessly to the Chief Executive and dropped a message form on his desk, then just as quickly departed the office.
The President unfolded the paper and read it. "Well, I'll be damned!"
"What's going on, sir?" Arlene asked.
"We have Aladdin!"
CHAPTER 24
CUSTIS FARM, VIRGINIA
20 SEPTEMBER 1210 HOURS
"SO you're Aladdin, are you?" Carl Joplin asked the man sitting across from him in the dining room during the luncheon meal.
Brigadier Shahruz Khohollah nodded as he spooned some of the vegetable soup into his mouth. "I, of course, was not aware I had been assigned a code name. I made my transmissions from my own headquarters when the opportunity presented itself. Naturally, there were long periods of time when I could do nothing because of my communications center being occupied. I was obliged to wait until none of the radio operators was present.
This occurred irregularly."
Edgar Watson of the CIA had arrived with Khohollah from the Middle East the day before. He occupied a seat at the head of the table. "Every single bit of intelligence you sent us was timely and accurate. Without it we could well have failed to stop Iran from moving forward in attaining its goals."
"Actually I was never aware of whether you received my transmissions or not," Khohollah said. "However, when I perceived actions that could have resulted from the information I passed over to you, I would be encouraged to continue."
"May I inquire as to your motivation?" Joplin asked.
"It was patriotism for my native country that drove me to betray the government," Khohollah said. "You may note that I said I betrayed the government, not Iran, the nation of my birth."
"We understand perfectly, General Khohollah," Joplin assured him. "Now that your request for political asylum in America has been approved, you'll be staying here on the Farm for a while."
"And for that I am most grateful," the Iranian said.
"I trust you will be patient with us," Joplin said. "Certain very secret and sensitive arrangements must be seen to."
"I have no trouble with that, sir."
"Does that mean you have no intention of ever returning to Iran?" Watson asked.
"My fondest dream is to return to my homeland," Khohollah said. "But only if it is free and democratic. The young people there today yearn for that. I plan to use my contacts and influence to nurture that desire, and when appropriate to direct a popular uprising. I must tell you that Islamic insurrections, suicide bombings, and all that will go on until they are brought to a halt by more enlightened mullahs. But these gentlemen can do nothing until the right circumstances are arranged for them."
"It sounds as if you wish to set up a government-in-exile," Watson said.
"That is exactly what I plan to do," Khohollah said. "That, of course, will include a military branch. And I humbly recognize that this cannot be done with the moral and financial help of the United States government."
"We at the CIA are working with Iranian dissidents on a regular basis," Watson said. "It is hoped to bring all of you together under our sponsorship. As of now we will see that you are made head of the movement."
"I am honored by your faith in me,"
Khohollah said. "I promise to do my best to build a solid organization with the funding and facilities furnished for us."
"But aren't you afraid of what might become of your family back in Iran?" Watson wanted to know.
"I have no family there," the Iranian replied. "I am an old widower without even close friends to worry about."
"I am curious about a few things," Joplin said. "Do you have any bad feelings about some of the things that happened through your transmissions? I'm thinking of that ambush in which reinforcements were wiped out."
"They were young Arab extremists and terrorists."
"And the secret entrance to the mountain fortress," Joplin said. "Why did you not tell us of that?"
"I was wrestling with that dilemma," Khohollah confessed. "It would have led to a slaughter on both sides. And it did, as you are aware. If that cease-fire had not been offered, probably everybody fighting within the complex would have been killed." He took a sip of coffee. "I still do not know how you learned about it. But I have my suspicions."
"I'm afraid that is something that cannot be revealed to you under the circumstances," Joplin said.
"I understand."
Further conversation was interrupted when the main course of the lunch was brought in on a serving cart. The three men sat in silence as the waiter put the plates of lamb chops, stewed tomatoes, and green beans in front of them.
The rest of the meal was continued in silence.
.
GREEN EMERALD RESORT AND SPA
SINGAPORE
21 SEPTEMBER
HARRY Turpin had settled his protege, Archie Sikes, into his beach bungalow to prepare him for entry into the complicated environment of high-class international dealings in arms. But before the actual lessons were begun, the two took a quick flight to Harry's tailor in Hong Kong to obtain a new wardrobe for the younger man. Business suits, casual attire, shoes, socks, ties, jackets, overcoats, raincoats--the whole nine yards in haberdashery--were prepared for the new assistant. Like any other sales agent, the future dealer in death had to make a good impression on the clientele.
With the attire taken care of, it was time for grooming. Archie had kept his hair clipped short to the scalp during his soldiering in Iran and Afghanistan, and his beard had simply grown any way it wanted to. A tonsorial treatment was in order, and the lad from Manchester was turned into a regular Beau Brummel with styled hair, a neatly clipped goatee, and manicured fingernails. With that taken care of, Harry turned to the commercial side of their partnership.
This was nothing less than a combination apprenticeship and business course.
Archie had the proper background in military hardware, but he had to learn the current prices, sources, and outlets for everything from platoon-size orders of T-72 tanks to the going rate for a single rocket-propelled grenade. All these transactions were extremely complicated. Most of the time the acquisition of the merchandise involved desperately crooked military officers from the old Soviet bloc. They were underpaid and resentful, driven to perform paperwork miracles in which they hid away whole inventories of the most destructive weaponry in the world. They drove hard bargains, and it took just the right combination of toughness and diplomacy to make a profit in these cloak-and-dagger dealings.
Archie Sikes turned out to be an enthusiastic student, and within a short time he was well into his studies, learning fast, and anxious to get out and make some money. The international arms industry now had another member in their ranks, more than willing to turn a profit off the blood and cruelty of others.
.
USS DALY
PERSIAN GULF
21 SEPTEMBER
THE Brigands were back into their shipboard routine with one exception. The ship's skipper, Captain Jackson Fletcher, issued specific orders that the BVBL--Brigand Volleyball League--was to be dissolved and that under no circumstances would the SEALs participate in that or any other type of athletic competition aboard the vessel. This message was delivered rather forcefully to Lieutenant William Brannigan, with a stern warning that disobedience would lead to his OER looking like a criminal rap sheet in the civilian world.
Thus the Brigands returned to a more conventional training schedule, which included a vigorous PT program featuring innumerable laps around the deck; classroom--"skull sessions" in which Ensign Orlando Taylor taught and reviewed small-unit tactics; weapons and equipment maintenance under the stern supervision of Lieutenant JG Jim Cruiser; and other housekeeping details necessary to keep them in a state of readiness for the next operation.
It wasn't long before SCPO Buford Dawkins was worried about his guys. The predictable routine was beginning to sap their morale and enthusiasm, and he realized that if something invigorating wasn't done, they'd begin to lose that fighting edge that had to be kept honed at all times. Then he had a great idea. The ACV Battlecraft, which they had used in their seaborne operations against the al-Mimkhalif terrorist group, was berthed in the docking well of the Daly. He made some inquiries within the naval administration aboard, and the captain made the craft available for their use in training. Better to have them whipping around on the ocean than trying to kill each other in the vicinity of a volleyball net.
The next day the detachment took the Battlecraft out to sharpen their boat-handling skills and also to employ it as a platform for SCUBA diving. From that point on, many hot afternoons were spent deploying and recovering CRRCs under the blazing Arabian sun, as old skills were brought back up to a high degree of professionalism.
Jim Cruiser wrote to his wife, Veronica, back in San Diego about once again being aboard the Battlecraft. She had served in the Navy as an electronic weapons officer, and designed the armament system for the ACV. Veronica had even gone on combat operations with the detachment and was an honorary member of Brannigan's Brigands.
It was during this time that the romance between her and Cruiser blossomed, ending in marriage before she left the Navy to work in a local electronics manufacturing firm.
Even though the SEALs enjoyed the recreative aspects of these latest activities, a collective restlessness began to emerge among the group. No matter what was going on, there would always be anxious glances toward the horizon in the direction of the USS Combs. That was where Commander Tom Carey and Lieutenant Ernest Berringer would appear from someday, sitting in a Seahawk chopper with another WARNO in their briefcases.
Then it would be isolation, briefback, and an insertion back into hell.
.
MANCHESTER, ENGLAND
SEPTEMBER 1430 HOURS
CHARLIE Sikes had gotten the sack.
This was the reason he sat in front of his telly, dully watching a BBC sports broadcast in the middle of the afternoon. Because of his son's desertion from the Army in Iraq, the union representing the workers at the warehouse where he had been employed was disinclined to contest his firing. Now he was watched by the police, unemployed, and unlikely to find another job. There was every possibility that he would be on the dole for the rest of his life.
His wife, Nancy, sat across the room on the sofa, also gazing at the screen without really noting what was on. Both parents were bitterly disappointed in Archie's conduct and what it had brought on the household.
"He bluddy thinks only of himself, and he's always been that way," Charlie suddenly said aloud.
"You're right, love," Nancy said. "He's all but destroyed us. It was horrible what he done, and I'm his mum and I'll say that to anybody."
"If I had anything worth anything, I'd damn well disown the rotter," Charlie said bitterly. "He's chucked out o' me life, Nancy. There's no room in me heart for him no more. He's come to being no more than a criminal and a disgrace."
"I feel the same," Nancy said. "Who woulda thought--"
The sound of the doorbell broke over the scene.
"Oh, bluddy shit!" Charlie said. "It's the coppers again."
"I'll tell 'em you ain't home, love," Nancy said, getting up.
"It won't do no good," Charlie said as she walked from the room.
When the woman answered the door, it wasn't a policeman. Instead it was a messenger boy from the telegraph office. "Wire for Mr. and or Mrs. Charles Sikes," he announced. He thrust a pad at her. "Sign for it here, if you please, madam."
Nancy signed and took the envelope back to the living room, handing the envelope to Charlie. He opened it with a great deal of hesitation and slowly pulled the message out of the envelope. After a disheartened sigh, he began to read. Five seconds later, he was on his feet, shouting, "Blimey! Blimey! Blimey!"
"Oh, Gawd!" Nancy wailed. "Wot is it, Charlie?"
"It's a bluddy money wire, that's what it is!" Charlie exclaimed. "For fifteen thousand bleeding quid!"
"Who's it from then?"
"It's from Archie, and he says there's more on the way!" Charlie yelled. He sat down and handed the wire over to Nancy. "It's from Hong Kong."
She trembled as she looked at it, then smiled sweetly. "Oh, that Archie!"
"Y'know, something?" Charlie said, smiling and reaching for his pipe. "I always knew that lad would amount to something big."
EPILOGUE
NORTHEASTERN AFGHANISTAN
THE PRANISTAY STEPPES
30 SEPTEMBER 1400 HOURS
TWELVE-YEAR-OLD Reshteen stood on the rooftop with his wool serapelike pukhoor hanging loosely over his shoulders. It was still a couple of months before the onset of winter, yet a rare preliminary coolness was in the air. After the heat of summer, it was a refreshing change. The steppes were much warmer and fifteen hundred meters lower than the Kangal Mountains, to the east across the Tajikistan border. Up in that frigid high country, hundreds of glaciers had been carving through the depthless rockbeds for aeons. These deep slabs of ice, some more than five kilometers wide, eased across the mountaintops in a steady progression that was so slow the human eye could not perceive the movement.
Reshteen, like all boys his age, took his turn on lookout duty, and that's what he was doing on top of old Mohambar's house, which was the tallest in the village. This was a vital necessity in the living routine of those particular Pashtuns. Fierce bandits roved unchecked through the area, and raids happened once or twice a year. Mostly, however, the attacks by the murdering robbers occurred when people, alone or in small groups, were traveling across the steppes to other settlements.
The boy guards such as Reshteen kept part of their attention focused on the distant horizons to the south and west. When they turned to the north and east, they took extra time to study the view. That was where the rugged, boulder-strewn foothills of the Kangals joined the flat country, and it wa
s much more difficult to discern anyone approaching from that direction.
Reshteen took off his rolltop cap and scratched his head as he gazed out across the steppes in boredom. There was nothing there but the dancing blur on the horizon that distorted distant view. Sometimes, when he tried very hard, his mind could conjure phantom donkeys or goats in the haze. This time his eyes could make up nothing to amuse him, and he swung his attention toward the mountains.
"Awrede!" he hollered, loudly enough for the whole village to hear. "Two horsemen to the east!"
VALENTIN Surov and Yakob Putnovski reined in as the village came into view. Both horsemen were in the same attire in that it was a mixture of native costume and Russian Army uniforms. Their boots were definitely military-issue, and the open-collar camouflage jackets were the type used by the KGB border guards. The rest of their clothing was the traditional type found in Afghanistan and Tajikistan. The cartridge pouches across their shoulders were the leather type available in the bazaars of the larger towns. These were handmade, and exhibited the craftsmanship of the saddlers who designed, cut, and stitched them together.
Putnovski took his binoculars and studied the small community. "Is this the place we're looking for?"
"Just a minute," Surov said. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a map, unfolding it carefully.
Putnovski glared at him. "Fucking officer!"
Surov sneered. Both of them were veterans of the Russian Army, and the practice of not instructing enlisted men in map reading was a Soviet tradition. The reason behind the practice was to keep any discontented soldier with itchy feet from finding someplace to flee from the Peasants' and Workers' Paradise. Surov studied the terrain around them, then traced his finger along an elevation line. "Da! This is it. Come on!"
THE fact that Rasheen had sighted only two riders did not alarm the villagers, but they fetched their weapons just the same. The pair could be scouting for a larger bandit gang lurking somewhere else nearby. Most of the men stayed inside their huts, ready for trouble. The women and children went about their normal activities, whether it was indoors or out, while half a dozen men with their AK-47s concealed under their pukhoors lounged on benches in the village square.
