Rogue Forces

by Dale Brown

  “Ozek! I thought he was in serious condition!” Hirsiz exclaimed. “Yes, yes, get him in here immediately, and bring a corpsman to monitor him at all times.”

  It was almost painful to look at the man when he stepped into the office. His right shoulder and the right side of his head were heavily bandaged, several fingers on both hands were taped together, he walked with a limp, his eyes were puffy, and the parts of his face and neck that were visible were covered in cuts, burns, and bruises—but he was upright, and he refused any assistance from the Çancaya corpsman who arrived for him. Ozek stood at wobbly attention at the doorway and saluted. “Permission to speak to the president, sir,” he said, his voice hoarse from breathing burning jet fuel and aluminum.

  “Of course, of course, General. Get off your feet and sit, man!” Hirsiz exclaimed.

  The president led Ozek over to the sofa, but the Jandarma commander held up a hand. “I’m sorry, sir, but I must stand. I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to get up again,” Ozek said.

  “What are you doing here, General?” Prime Minister Akas asked.

  “I felt it necessary to show the people of Turkey that I was alive and doing my duties,” Ozek said, “and I wanted the national security staff to know that I have formulated a plan for a retaliatory strike at the PKK leadership. Now is the time to act. We must not delay.”

  “I am impressed by your dedication to our country and your mission, General,” the prime minister said, “but first we must—”

  “I have a full brigade of ozel tim loaded and ready to deploy immediately.” Ozel tim, or Special Teams, was the unconventional warfare branch of the Jandarma’s intelligence department, specially trained to operate close to or in many cases within Kurdish towns and villages to identify and neutralize insurgent leaders. They were some of the best-trained commandos in the world—and they had an equally notorious reputation for brutality.

  “Very good, General,” Hirsiz said, “but have you discovered who is behind the attack? Who is the leader? Who pulled the trigger? Who ordered this attack?”

  “Sir, that hardly matters,” Ozek said, his eyes widening in surprise that he had to answer such a question. His intense eyes and rather wild-looking features, along with his wounds, made him look anxious and excitable, almost savage, especially compared to the other politicians around him. “We have a long list of known PKK insurgents, bomb makers, smugglers, financiers, recruiters, and sympathizers. Internal security and the Border Defense Forces can pick up the usual suspects and conduct interrogations—let me and ozel tim go after the ringleaders.”

  President Hirsiz averted his eyes from the fiery general. “Another attack inside Iraq…I don’t know, General,” he said, shaking his head. “This is something that needs to be discussed with the American and Iraqi governments. They must—”

  “Pardon me for saying so, sir, but both governments are ineffectual and care nothing for Turkish security,” General Ozek said angrily. “Baghdad is perfectly willing to let the Kurds do whatever they please as long as the oil revenues flow south. The Americans are pulling out of Iraq as fast as they can. Besides, they have never lifted a finger to stop the PKK. Even though they rail on and on about the global war on terror and have labeled the PKK a terrorist outfit, except for occasionally tossing us a few photos or phone intercepts, they haven’t done a damn thing to help us.”

  Hirsiz fell silent, worriedly puffing on his cigarette. “Besir is right, sir,” Guzlev, the military chief of staff, said. “This is the time we have been waiting for. Baghdad is clinging by its fingernails to keep its government intact; they don’t have the power to secure their own capital, much less the Kurdish frontier. America has stopped replacing combat brigades in Iraq. There are just three brigades in the north of Iraq, centered on Irbil and Mosul—almost no one on the border.”

  Guzlev paused, noting no opposition to his comments, then added, “But I suggest more than just Special Teams involvement, sir.” He looked at the defense minister, Hasan Cizek, and National Security Council secretary-general Sahin. “I propose a full-scale invasion of northern Iraq.”

  “What?” President Hirsiz exclaimed. “Are you joking, General?”

  “Out of the question, General,” Prime Minister Akas immediately added. “We would be condemned by our friends and the entire world!”

  “To what end, General?” Foreign Minister Hamarat asked. “We send in thousands of troops to root out a few thousand PKK rebels? Do you propose we occupy Iraqi territory?”

  “I propose a buffer zone, sir,” Guzlev said. “The Americans helped Israel set up a buffer zone in southern Lebanon that was effective in keeping Hezbollah fighters out of Israel. We should do the same.”

  Hirsiz looked at his defense minister, silently hoping for another voice of opposition. “Hasan?”

  “It’s possible, Mr. President,” the defense minister said, “but it would not be a secret and it would be hugely expensive. The operation would take a fourth of our entire military force, perhaps up to a third, and it would certainly entail calling up the reserve forces. It would take months. Our actions would be seen by all—first of all by the Americans. Whether we are successful depends on how the Americans react.”

  “General Sahin?”

  “The Americans are in the process of an extended drawdown of forces throughout Iraq,” the secretary-general of the Turkish National Security Council said. “Because it is relatively quiet and the Kurdish autonomous government is better organized than the central government in Baghdad, northern Iraq has perhaps twenty thousand American troops still in the region, assisting in guarding oil pipelines and facilities. They are scheduled to go down to just two combat brigades within a year.”

  “Two combat brigades—for all of northern Iraq? That doesn’t seem realistic.”

  “The Stryker brigades are very potent weapon systems, sir, very fast and agile—they should not be underestimated,” Sahin warned. “However, sir, we expect the Americans to employ private contractors to supply most of the surveillance, security, and support services. This falls in line with President Joseph Gardner’s new policy of resting and restoring ground forces while he increases the size and power of their Navy.”

  “Then it is possible, sir,” Defense Minister Cizek said. “The Iraqi Kurds’ peshmerga forces have the equivalent of two infantry divisions and one mechanized division, centered on Mosul, Irbil, and the Kirkuk oil fields—a third of the size of our forces that are within marching distance of the border. Even if the PKK has the equivalent of a full infantry division, and the United States throws their entire ground forces against us, we are still at parity—and, as Suntzu wrote, if your forces are of equal strength: attack. We can do this, Mr. President.”

  “We can mobilize our forces within three months, with ozel tim scouting enemy positions and preparing to disrupt the private contractors performing surveillance on the border region,” General Ozek added. “The mercenaries hired by the Americans are there only to earn money. If a fight is brewing, they will run for cover and hide behind regular military forces.”

  “And what if the Americans stand and fight to help the Kurds?”

  “We push south and crush the rebel camps and Kurdish opposition forces until the Americans threaten action, then pull back in contact and set up our buffer zone,” Ozek said. “We have no desire to fight the Americans, but we will not allow them to dictate the terms of our sovereignty and security.” He turned to Foreign Minister Hamarat. “We convince them a no-fly, no-drive buffer zone, patrolled by the United Nations, will enhance security for all parties. Gardner doesn’t want a ground war, and he certainly doesn’t care about the Kurds. He’ll agree to anything as long as it stops the fighting.”

  “That may be true, but Gardner will never admit that publicly,” Hamarat said. “He will openly condemn us and demand a full withdrawal from Iraq.”

  “Then we stall for time while we root out all the PKK rat’s nests and wire the border region for sound,” Ozek said. “With s
ix divisions in northern Iraq, we can scour the place clean in just a few months while we promise to leave. We can decimate the PKK enough so they’ll be ineffectual for a generation.”

  “And we look like butchers.”

  “I don’t care what others may call me as long as I don’t have to worry about my innocent sons or daughters being killed in a damned playground by an aircraft downed by the PKK,” Defense Minister Cizak said bitterly. “It is time to act.”

  “It is not just the PKK we need to address, sir, but the security situation with the Kirkuk-Ceyhan pipeline,” military chief of staff Guzlev added. “The Iraqi peshmerga are still not trained or equipped well enough to protect the pipeline on their side of the border. We invested billions of lira on that pipeline, and the Iraqis still can’t adequately protect their portion, and won’t allow any outside forces except the Americans to assist. We can earn three times the amount we receive in flowage fees if we can convince the oil producers in northern Iraq—including our own companies—to increase production, but they won’t do it because the pipeline is too vulnerable to attack.”

  President Hirsiz stabbed out his cigarette in the ornate ashtray on his desk, then returned to his seat. He was quiet for a few long moments, lost in thought. It was rare that the national security staff was so divided, especially when it came to the PKK and their brutal insurgent attacks. The unexpected appearance of Besir Ozek in his office just hours after surviving the crash should have united their determination to stamp out the PKK once and for all.

  But the national security staff—and he himself, Hirsiz had to admit—were conflicted and divided, with the civilian military leadership desiring a peaceful, diplomatic solution as opposed to a call for direct action by the uniformed commanders. Opposing the Americans and world public opinion with a divided council was not a smart move.

  Kurzat Hirsiz got to his feet again and stood straight, almost at attention. “General Ozek, thank you for coming here and addressing me and the national security staff,” he said formally. “We will discuss these options very carefully.”

  “Sir…” Ozek lurched forward from shock, forgetting his injuries and wincing in pain as he struggled for balance. “Sir, respectfully, you must act swiftly and decisively. The PKK—no, the world—must know that this government takes these attacks seriously. Every moment we delay only shows that we are not committed to our internal security.”

  “I agree, General,” Hirsiz said, “but we must act deliberately and carefully, and in close consultation with our international allies. I will instruct General Sahin to put together a plan for the Special Teams to hunt down and capture or kill the PKK operatives who might have planned and led this attack, and to aggressively investigate the possibility of spies in the Jandarma.

  “I will further instruct Foreign Minister Hamarat to consult with his American, NATO, and European counterparts and inform them of this council’s outrage at this attack and a demand for cooperation and assistance in tracking down the perpetrators.” He inwardly winced at General Ozek’s incredulous expression, which only served to accentuate his weak, shaky stance. “We will act, General,” Hirsiz quickly added, “but we will do it wisely and as a member of the world community. This will further isolate and marginalize the PKK. If we act rashly, we will be seen as no better than the terrorists.”

  “The…world…community?” Ozek murmured bitterly.

  “What did you say, General?” Hirsiz snapped. “Do you have something you would like to tell me?”

  The wounded Jandarma officer briefly yet openly scowled at the president of the Republic of Turkey, but quickly straightened himself as best he could, assumed a stern but neutral expression, and said, “No, sir.”

  “Then you are dismissed, General, with the national security council’s and the Turkish people’s sincere thanks and relief that you are alive following this treacherous and dastardly attack,” Hirsiz said, his acidic tone definitely not matching his words.

  “Permission to accompany the general to transient quarters, sir,” armed-forces chief of staff Guzlev said.

  Hirsiz looked at his military chief of staff questioningly, finding no answers. He glanced at Ozek, inwardly wincing again at his horrific wounds but finding himself wondering when the best time would be to dismiss the wild raging bull before him. The sooner the better, but not before he had taken every propaganda advantage of his incredible survival.

  “We shall reconvene the national security staff in twenty minutes in the Council of Ministers’ conference center to map out a response, General Guzlev,” the president said warily. “Please be back by then. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir,” Guzlev said. He and Ozek stood at attention momentarily, then headed for the door, with Guzlev carefully holding Ozek’s less-wounded arm for support.

  “What in the world possessed Ozek to come all the way to Ankara after barely surviving a plane crash?” Foreign Minister Hamarat asked incredulously. “My God, the pain must be excruiating! I was once in a minor fender bender and I hurt for weeks afterward! That man was pulled from the burning wreckage of a downed aircraft just a few hours ago!”

  “He’s angry and he’s out for blood, Mustafa,” Prime Minister Akas said. She stepped over to Hirsiz, who still appeared to be standing at attention as if placed in a brace by Ozek. “Don’t pay attention to Guzlev and Ozek,” she added in a whisper. “They’re out for blood. We’ve spoken about an invasion many times before and dismissed it every time.”

  “Maybe this is the right time, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz whispered back. “Guzlev, Cizek, Ozek, and even Sahin are for it.”

  “You’re not seriously considering it, are you, Mr. President?” Akas whispered back with an incredulous hiss. “The United States would never agree. We’d be pariahs in the world’s eyes…”

  “I’m beginning to not care what the world thinks of us, Ays¸e,” Hirsiz said. “How many more funerals do we have to attend before the world lets us do something about the rebel Kurds out there?”

  ALLIED AIR BASE NAHLA, TALL KAYF, NEAR MOSUL, IRAQ

  TWO DAYS LATER

  “Nahla Tower, Scion One-Seven, nine miles out, requesting visual approach to runway two-niner.”

  “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are number one, cleared to land,” the supervising Iraqi army controller responded in very good but heavily accented English. “Recommend Nahla enhanced arrival procedure three, the base is at Force Protection Condition Bravo, cleared for enhanced arrival procedure three, acknowledge.”

  “Negative, Nahla, Scion One-Seven wants clearance for the visual to two-niner.”

  The supervisor was unaccustomed to anyone not following his instructions to the letter, and he stabbed at his mike button and shot back: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, a visual approach is not authorized in FPCON Bravo conditions.” FPCON, or Force Protection Condition (formerly called “Threat Condition” or THREATCON), Bravo was the third highest level, indicating that actionable intelligence had been received that an attack was possible. “You will execute procedure three. Do you understand? Acknowledge.”

  A phone rang in the background, and the deputy tower controller picked it up. A moment later he handed the receiver to the supervisor: “Sir? The deputy base commander for you.”

  The supervisor, further annoyed by being interrupted while he was working an inbound flight, snatched the receiver away from his deputy. “Captain Saad. I’ve got an arriving flight, sir, can I call you back?”

  “Captain, let that inbound flight do the visual pattern,” he heard the familiar voice of the American colonel say. The deputy base commander was obviously listening in on the tower frequency awaiting this flight. “It’s his funeral.”

  “Yes, Colonel.” Why an American special mission aircraft would risk getting shot at by not performing the high-performance arrival procedure was unclear, but orders were orders. He gave his deputy the receiver, sighed, and touched the mike button again: “Scion One-Seven, Nahla Tower, you are cleared for the visual approach and
overhead pattern to runway two-niner, winds two-seven zero at twenty-five knots gusting to forty, RVR four thousand, FPCON Bravo in effect, cleared to land.”

  “Scion One-Seven, cleared for the visual and overhead to two-niner, cleared to land.”

  The supervisor picked up the crash phone: “Station One, this is the tower,” he said in Arabic. “I have a flight on final approach to land, and I’ve cleared him for a visual approach and pattern.”

  “Say again?” the dispatcher at the airport fire station queried. “But we’re at FPCON Bravo.”

  “The American colonel’s orders. I wanted to put you guys on notice.”

  “Thanks for the call. The captain will probably move us out to our ‘hot spots’ on taxiway Delta.”

  “You’re cleared to preposition on Delta.” The supervisor hung up the phone. He then made a similar call to base security and to the hospital. If there was going to be an attack—and this was the perfect opportunity for one—the more alerts he could issue, the better.

  Through his binoculars, the tower supervisor searched for the aircraft. He could see it on his tower radar display, but not yet visually. It was about six miles out, coming straight in but offset to the west, appearing to line up for the downwind leg for Runway 29—and he was ridiculously slow, as if configured for landing while still several minutes from touchdown. Did this guy have some sort of death wish? He relayed the aircraft position to security and crash responders so they could move to a better position…

  …or get out of the way of the wreckage, in case the worst happened.

  Finally, at three miles he saw it—or rather, saw part of it. It had a broad, bulbous fuselage, but he could not make out the wings or tail. It had no visible passenger windows and a weird paint color—sort of a medium bluish gray, but the shading seemed to change depending on background clouds and lighting levels. It was unusually hard to maintain a visual on it.

  He checked the BRITE tower radar display, a repeater of Mosul Approach Control’s local radar, and sure enough the plane was flying only ninety-eight knots—about fifty knots slower than normal approach speed! Not only was the pilot making himself an easy target for snipers, but he was going to stall the plane and crash. In these winds, a sudden errant gust could flip that guy upside down fast.