TARGET BRITAIN: a political thriller

by Owen Bennett-Jones

  They were approaching the checkpoint now and the guards there were watching them arrive. Jaz reached up towards his camel’s neck hoping he could pretend to busy himself with the animals and drop the camera in the process. But one of the guards took the rope from him and pointed to where he wanted Jaz to stand.

  The checkpoint consisted of little more than a line of stones stretched across the road into Fort Sandeman. At one side was a metal pole on which fluttered the shiny black ribbons of tape ripped from countless cassettes confiscated from passing drivers. So they are Taliban, Jaz thought. The campaign against music was one of their hallmarks.

  One of the men used a black radio handset to call their commander who, Jaz thought, must still be asleep. And then they waited, the guards sitting around in silence, looking at Jaz as he stood. The commander arrived 10 minutes later with the crumpled look of a man who had just woken up, his eyes not fully open. Seeing the commander approach, one of the guards started to frisk Jaz to make sure he was not armed.

  It was then he felt the GSM.

  “Show me.” He pointed at Jaz’s pocket.

  “It’s a camera,” Jaz said passing it over.

  The guard took it and examined the casing. He’s never bloody seen a camera thought Jaz. He doesn’t even know what they look like.

  “You know. For taking pictures.” Like it was obvious.

  The guard watched as Jaz mimicked a man holding something to his eye taking a picture.

  The guard copied Jaz’s movements, put the camera to his eye and pressed the shutter.

  “No!” said Jaz. And then unsure what to say: “No memory left. All full.”

  The guard, picking up on Jaz’s agitation, took a renewed interest in the device and again held it to his eye, watching Jaz to see how he would react. It was then he pressed the shutter for a second time.

  *****

  They were six hours into their shift and watching Fox News. Nothing was happening and Tate had managed to divert the TV satellite feed onto their Reaper screens and piped the sound through their headsets. Having signed up five of the leading Republican Party nominees for the presidency as contracted commentators, Fox News was making the most of them both to boost ratings and to drive their politics further to the right. Bill O Reilly was interviewing a panel with all five of them on the topic of whether the US Border Patrol should be able to shoot migrants coming from Mexico on sight. The candidates competed to use a form of words that would allow them simultaneously to appear the toughest whilst leaving enough wiggle room to be more moderate in the event that they actually won the election.

  “First one to say they’ll use Reapers has my vote,” Nielson said. “We could have the border cleared in a week.”

  Palmer laughed. “Bomb Mexico! That’ll be the day.”

  “Me and Charlene went for a pizza last night and every single waiter was an Hispanic,” Tate said. “I asked them for a tortilla. But they didn’t see …”

  Before he could complete the sentence an alarm in their headsets drowned out Fox News.

  “We have a customer goddamit!” Nielson was excited. “Tate remove the good Mr O Reilly and let’s take a look at Afghanistan.”

  “Pakistan,” Palmer said as he punched in the coordinates of where the camera shutter button had been pressed. “Way inside.”

  “Then get onto the CIA and offer it to them. But don’t forget if they can’t do it then it’s ours.”

  After months of campaigning the Pentagon had persuaded the White House to dent the CIA’s control of operations inside Pakistan.

  “Well how about that! It’s the same guy who gave us those sand niggers a couple of months ago,” said Tate.

  Nielson looked non-plussed.

  “You know, the towel heads in the fort and the runner who was right on the border who injured one of the Grims.”

  “Oh right!” said Nielson. “Well that was one good tip.”

  “So how much would he make for that? The guy who tips us off? What’s the reward?” Palmer asked.

  “An extra wife courtesy of Uncle Sam!” Nielson said.

  “An extra goat you mean!” Tate replied.

  “Cut it out.” Nielson looked left and right. “Concentrate.”

  He was moving the joystick up and down waiting to see if the CIA would take over the operation. “There you go!” Palmer said looking at his screen and making a short jabbing movement with his clenched right fist. “CIA has no assets in the area – it’s all ours. Looks like the target is near Fort Sandman.” He said the words with a mock British accent.

  “Fort Sandman?” Tate said. “That’ll be a sand castle.”

  “Sandeman,” Nielson said emphasising the middle syllable. “As in the port.”

  Palmer: “No. It’s way inland.”

  Nielsen: “I mean port as in … oh never mind.”

  Palmer now had a more detailed image of the target and pasted it on all three screens.

  “Looks like a checkpoint. Just outside Fort Port,” he said in his British accent again, making Tate giggle.

  “Cut it out and get the Grims airborne – it could take them a while to go that deep into Pakistan. Tate, check the weapons. Palmer get authorisation. This looks like a real one to me.”

  “We don’t need to sir. Remember. The lawyers have now said if we have a tip from the ground that’s ‘intelligence-led’ so we are good to go.”

  *****

  The moment the commander saw the camera Jaz knew he was in serious trouble.

  “Where did you get that?” he asked the guard.

  The man pointed at Jaz.

  “You little fucker.”

  The commander holding his Kalashnikov by the barrel approached Jaz and swinging the gun over his head like an axe, brought it down on Jaz’s neck. It impacted with a dull crunch and Jaz fell to the floor so fast he failed to put out his arms to break his fall. As his face hit the dirt, one of his cheeks was ripped by the gravelly sand. There was a huge commotion all around him as the Taliban fighters rained blows upon him. The commander who was watching did not stop them but spat in Jaz’s direction.

  It was then through his bloodied, puffed up eye, Jaz realised he had a chance of not choking on his own testicles. Because, immaculately dressed as ever, the major was approaching the checkpoint. Like the commander and his guards, he also had a radio handset. Even in his beaten state, Jaz realised the major must have heard the men call the commander.

  “Stop,” the major said barely raising his voice. “I can vouch for this man.”

  The commander, bridling at such a brazen challenge to his authority, turned to the major and said, also in a voice laced with as much disdain and menace as he could manage: “And who are you?”

  The men stopped beating Jaz so they could hear the exchange.

  “I am with the ISI. I can vouch for this man. You don’t need to introduce yourselves, I know who you are.”

  The commander paused, uncertain what to do. And eventually he said: “Tie them up.”

  The major put out his hands offering them to one of the guards. “Be careful. I have powerful friends.”

  There was a flicker of uncertainty in the commander’s eyes but it only lasted an instant.

  The guards, having bound their wrists, dragged Jaz and the major towards one of the four-wheel drives and roughly pushed them on the back seat. They shut the door, pressed the remote lock and went back to their commander.

  Able to speak without the guards hearing, the major said: “Taliban. But we’ll be fine Jaz. Don’t worry. The ISI has friends. We’ll soon straighten things out.”

  “But there is a problem,” said Jaz.

  “Clearly. But as I say …”

  “One of the guards pressed the camera button.” The major eyes widened as he looked at Jaz. “He pressed it twice.”

  “When?”

  “10 minutes maybe.”

  The major took control. “Take my phone out of my pocket.”

  As the major looked throug
h the windows he saw the Taliban fighters gathered around the commander’s satellite phone. They must be asking for further instructions he thought. So much the better.

  “Don’t move too suddenly Jaz – this is our only chance.”

  Jaz had slipped the phone out of the major’s pocket and, even with his wrist tied, was able to manipulate it with his fingers.

  “Green button. Last number dialled. Menu button. Scroll down to ‘send SMS’”

  “Got it.”

  “No spaces. Type HELDBYTALIB,” the major paused to let Jaz find the buttons, “FORTSDRONEDUE.”

  He wanted to give more detail but there was no time.

  “Send!” the major said.

  With the message gone the major resorted to repeatedly knocking his head against the window trying to attract the commander’s attention. But the commander just looked over and ignored him.

  *****

  Lieutenant Colonel Ahmed Rizvi, as was his immutable habit, was starting his day by eating mango, drinking tea and reading the right wing Pakistani press replete with anti-American diatribes and thinly veiled hints of support for the Taliban. Seconded to the ISI from the army proper, he had only been in the organisation for a little under a year. But he liked what he saw: a group of men who understood Pakistan’s national interest and were not afraid to advance it. In the 11 months he had been with the ISI he had provided funds to young Punjabis who wanted to fight in Kashmir, handed over weapons to those elements of the Taliban judged to be pro-Pakistani and, most satisfyingly of all, had helped implement an order from the army chief himself to put a bomb outside the Indian embassy in Kabul.

  Unlike most of his ISI colleagues who clung onto the traditional method of human messengers who learnt messages by rote, the lieutenant colonel embraced technology. Arranged in front of him on his breakfast table was a radio set which enabled him to hear what was going on back at his army unit, three ISI-issued mobile phones with graded levels of security and the TV remote control – he generally had a local news channel, Geo, on mute watching the strap line for breaking news.

  The major had telephoned for a briefing on what was happening in the Fort Sandeman area the night before and the lieutenant colonel, as ever, had obliged him. Since the major was retired there was no formal obligation for him to do so. But that was one of the things the lieutenant colonel liked about the ISI. The men who worked there created ties for life. And anyway it was of mutual benefit. When you needed to go off piste, the retired officers always gave you a layer of deniability.

  He had told the major that Abu al Saifullah’s men were in and around Fort Sandeman to help move some senior Taliban leaders out of Afghanistan and down to Karachi for a meeting with their ISI handlers. With that conversation so recent, he was surprised to see the major contacting him again.

  He read the text.

  With no expression other than a raised eyebrow, he picked up the most secure phone and put it on hands free. Just as he did so his wife walked in with her breakfast. He waved her away and as she retreated back into the kitchen said: “Three minutes.”

  He could hear the ringing tone now.

  “Sir,” a voice said.

  “Give me Muzzafarabad. Urgent.”

  Within five seconds he could hear ringing again this time in the ISI office in the capital of Pakistani-controlled Kashmir. Before the man there could talk the lieutenant colonel was speaking.

  “Is Abu al Saifullah in town?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Put me through.” His tone conveyed the urgency.

  Aware of the threat to his life posed by the Indians, the Americans and rival militant groups, Abu al Saifullah never stayed more than two consecutive nights in the same bed. But the ISI office in Muzzafarabad always had his location and the phone he was using that day.

  The lieutenant colonel heard a ring tone again.

  “Yes.” He recognised al Saifullah’s voice.

  “Your checkpoint in Fort Sandeman. A drone is on its way. Right now.”

  The phone went dead and the lieutenant colonel called out to his wife.

  “All done. Come on in.”

  *****

  Nervous about a target so near a civilian population centre, Nielson had referred it up the chain of command. He was speaking in his headset to the first available ranking officer, a brigadier.

  “Seems there’s a Pak military base at Fort Sandeman,” Nielson said. “Garrison of some sort. I guess there could be Americans there.”

  As Nielson spoke, Palmer sent some satellite images with superimposed maps showing national boundaries and contours to the brigadier’s computer. Then listening to the two men’s conversation he gave them a wide shot. He’d seen it himself earlier and it made Fort Sandeman look like it was in the middle of nowhere. Palmer figured that would clinch it.

  “That’s right in the middle of the desert isn’t it?”

  Nielson: “Yes sir. One road in, same road out.”

  “And the Talban have a checkpoint on that road? With the army right by?”

  “No, the checkpoint is located on the other side of town – seems to be checking traffic from the desert. But still, it’s difficult to believe the army doesn’t know about it.”

  “Why does that sound so familiar? Well if they can’t clear up their own mess we better do it for them. Go ahead.”

  “Yes sir.” Nielson started the final preparations for the attack.

  “Where the Grims?”

  “Near enough,” Palmer said, “It wasn’t so far. They’ll be there in time.”

  “What we got on board, Tate?”

  “Just the hellfires sir. All four”

  “I’ll only need one.”

  “Copy that.”

  Nielson had manual control of the Reaper and moved the cross hairs over the group of men he could now make out just under a mile out of town. He saw the four-wheel drive and, aware that people often looked for cover beside cars, decided to drop the hellfire on that. There was an added benefit: the shrapnel from the vehicle would help take out a wider area.

  By the time Nielson pressed the two buttons on his console the Grims and the Marines were already starting their descent.

  *****

  Al Saifullah got through to the checkpoint when the missile was still three minutes away. The commander yelled to his men to leave the cars and run and as he too moved away he glanced at the major and Jaz still locked inside one of the cars. Serve the bastards right, he thought, and disappeared out of sight.

  “Go!” said the major. “Out! Now!”

  They moved in unison. Jaz threw his body across the major’s knees and reached for the door lock. Simultaneously the major twisted left and grasped the door handle opening it the moment Jaz raised the lock. As the door opened Jaz wriggled out with the major pushing him along. Both men tumbled out and started to run.

  “Over there,” the major yelled. “In that shed.” Ahead there was a low line of breezeblocks, the foundation stones for a new house. At one corner the builders had constructed a small, square breezeblock shed with a corrugated iron roof for keeping their tools. Jumping forward and rolling over, the two men, their wrists still tied, rolled into the squat structure and picking their way through spades and a cement mixer lay on the ground flat against the bricks. For 15 seconds nothing happened. Then the explosion came.

  A wave of pressure and heat washed over them carrying dust, stones and car parts. The corrugated iron was torn off the brickwork and flew away, meaning the shed was suddenly filled with light. One of the four-wheel drive’s gearboxes smashed into the breezeblocks. Chips of stone flew up into the air and landed on them but the wall held. Jaz and the major were deafened by the blast and when Jaz started to move he could not hear the major telling him to stay still.

  *****

  Flight Lieutenant Enriquez was banking the Blackhawk over the Fort Sandeman military base as Major Biagio looked out of the porthole and wondered whether it had any air defence. Even if it did, the ch
ances were the Grims could be in and out before the Pakistanis knew what was happening. But it was as well to be aware - and with deteriorating relations between Islamabad and Washington they now had to look out for enemies in uniform as well as the freelance militants. Anyway, it was the Marines’ job to worry about that.

  Biagio looked at Stein and the new sergeant, Mitchell, who had replaced Scott. He hadn’t really fitted in. Biagio reckoned that was not only because he was too competitive at the poker, but also because he had had to join an already tight-knit group. “Keep a low profile till they accept you,” Biagio had advised. But Mitchell was too noisy for that. Too brash. And, in the heat of battle, prone to making poor decisions.

  Biagio could see the Marines’ Chinook ahead, flying slightly lower than their Blackhawk. With the base so close he knew they’d be anxious. He switched on his microphone.

  “Just remember this one is all about speed,” he said. Even though he knew the microphone cut out the din of the helicopter he still shouted. “Under three minutes on the ground.”

  Stein gave him a thumbs up while Mitchell looked ahead impassive. Biagio figured he had heard, but was just preparing himself. But, just to be sure, he gave another command: “Helmet cams on.” Both Stein and Mitchell reached for the control on their helmet and, satisfied, Biagio turned back to the porthole.

  Enriquez had already started to drop the smoke flares and sound charges. Then he was in all their ears “Go! Go! Go!” The door was already open and Biagio, Stein and Mitchell jumped out scanning the area for movement.

  “A runner at nine o clock,” Stein yelled pointing to his left. Biagio and Mitchell followed the direction of his arm and wondered whether the Marines would pick up the man ducking and weaving about 300 yards away. But the Marines were all focused on the buildings on the edge of Fort Sandeman, waiting for a Pakistani response to their sudden arrival. Stein had taken in the whole situation now and realised that Taliban fighters manning the checkpoint must have been warned off. “No bodies,” he yelled. “Someone knew we were coming!”