The Alexandria Connection

by Adrian D'hagé

  ‘Stinger?’ The ubiquitous shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile had been the mainstay of US ground troops for over three decades. In 1979, when the Soviets invaded Afghanistan, the United States decided to send the missiles to Osama bin Laden and the Mujahideen, the Islamic freedom fighters, to help them drive the Soviets out. O’Connor and McNamara both knew that over 500 of the state-of-the-art missiles had been supplied across the border with Pakistan. Travelling at nearly 2500 kilometres an hour, the deadly accurate Stinger used an infrared system to lock on to the heat from an aircraft’s exhaust, and it could bring down any aircraft flying below 10 000 feet, including a commercial jetliner. Like so many armies before them, the Soviets had been defeated in the rugged, unforgiving terrain of Afghanistan, and when the Soviet army withdrew, the CIA desperately tried to buy the missiles back, but many of them had found their way into the hands of bin Laden’s al Qaeda.

  ‘It could be, but we’re not sure. A lot of those Stingers would be unserviceable now. Have a look at this.’ McNamara opened a file at a flagged XKeyscore intercept from the NSA, and pushed it across the coffee table. The intercept read ‘Scorpions en route. Artifact acquisition in train.’

  O’Connor frowned. ‘Is that all there is?’

  ‘It’s not much,’ McNamara agreed, ‘and we’re still unsure who sent that text, but it was received by the ex-head of the Pakistani ISI, General Farid Khan.’ McNamara wasn’t the only one who thought the ISI, notorious for their support of the Taliban, were a law unto themselves. ‘He forwarded the information on to a satellite phone located in the Hindu Kush, and it wasn’t one of ours.’

  ‘Careless of him.’

  ‘He probably thought a short text would go unnoticed.’

  ‘So even though he’s been sacked, this General Khan still wields some influence in the ISI?’

  ‘We think he still wields a lot of influence. He was one of the most powerful generals in the Pakistani Army, and he was sacked by the Pakistani president at our behest. I’ve been talking to our station chief in Islamabad, and he tells me the ISI are furious with their president . . . and ours for that matter.’

  ‘And you think that text’s a reference to the Scorpion missile system?’ The successor to the General Dynamics Stinger, the Scorpion had been manufactured by EVRAN, and the missile’s guidance systems and power plant were so highly classified that Congress and the president had issued an edict preventing EVRAN from making the missile available to any military outside the United States, even to allies like Israel and Australia.

  ‘It’s looking that way,’ said McNamara, ‘although the artifact acquisition reference remains a mystery. Not long after that text was sent we received some satellite imagery on a shipment of timber, ostensibly bound for Kabul,’ McNamara continued, pulling out a series of satellite photographs. ‘You can see the convoy there quite clearly, moving through the Khyber Pass, and on across the Pakistan–Afghanistan border; but the shipment never made it . . . at least not to Kabul.’

  ‘Attacked by the Taliban?’

  ‘It was made to look that way, but there were no casualties, and when the convoy reached Jalalabad, just across the border, instead of continuing west to Kabul, it turned north along the Kunar Bajaur link road through Asadabad and on to Asmar.’ McNamara spread a map of the Pakistan–Afghanistan border area across the coffee table. ‘When they got to Hajiabad,’ McNamara continued, pointing to a small town north of Asmar in the foothills of the soaring Hindu Kush, ‘they transferred the timber to a pack of mules.’

  ‘An awful lot of trouble to get timber into the Hindu Kush. You think there was more than timber on those mules.’

  ‘Exactly, particularly since there’s Indian cedar around . . . not a lot of it, but it’s a darn sight closer than what they can get from Pakistan. And on the lower slopes of the Hindu Kush, they’d have access to holly oaks. And to add to the puzzle, even though Pakistan has extensive forests, over 75 per cent of their soft wood and a good deal of their hard wood is imported, so Pakistan’s a fairly unlikely exporter.’

  ‘If that timber’s just a cover, we need to find out where it came from, because that might lead us to whoever’s supplying the missiles,’ McNamara concluded, leaning back on the couch.

  ‘And how do you propose we do that?’ O’Connor asked, already suspecting the answer.

  ‘Not me . . . you.’ McNamara’s smile was broader now. ‘One of our jets is standing by to take you to Afghanistan, to Bagram Airfield, where a SEAL team is waiting for you to join them. Their dossiers are in this folder, although I suspect you’ll know most of them.’

  ‘Have I done something to piss you off lately?’

  ‘No, but you undoubtedly will, so I’ll hold this one on account,’ said McNamara, looking pleased with himself. ‘I’ve just come from briefing Rebel,’ he continued, more seriously, ‘and he’s pretty pissed.’ Ever since Franklin D. Roosevelt, the White House Communications Agency had assigned code names to presidents, first ladies and other VIPs and installations. Kennedy had been known as Lancer, while Jacqueline had gone by the code word Lace. President McGovern was known as Rebel, while the first lady, very much her own woman, had been assigned Reformer.

  ‘Rebel wants us to confirm whether or not the Taliban have Scorpions, and if they do, who’s supplying them. I don’t need to tell you, but at the moment, this thing is burning my ass,’ McNamara said. ‘How’s Aleta?’ he asked, moving back behind his desk.

  ‘Enjoying Alexandria, or was. So other than not talking to you, she’s in good shape.’ O’Connor kept to himself his misgivings about leaving her alone in an Egypt still troubled after the military coup.

  ‘Tell her I’ll make it up to her,’ McNamara responded, his smile returning. Weizman was well known inside the CIA, although not always with affection. The archaeologist’s exposure of the CIA’s dark involvement in the deaths of 200 000 civilians in the Guatemalan civil war had not gone down well in some quarters. It was an involvement that prompted then president Bill Clinton to apologise to the people of the desperately poor Latin American country during his visit to Guatemala City in 1999. But there was also unflagging respect from the more honourable men and women in ‘the Company’, as the CIA was known to insiders. Weizman had proven herself more than once under fire, as she and O’Connor had fought their way in and out of ancient tombs in the jungles of Guatemala and Peru.

  Deep in thought, O’Connor headed back to collect his bag from the office he’d been temporarily assigned in the old headquarters building. He had a deep foreboding . . . a sixth sense that Aleta was in danger.

  14 Creech Air Force Base, Nevada

  The lanky crewcut ex-F15 pilot walked toward the unmanned aerial vehicle ground control station. Just eighty kilometres to the south of the base, the staff of some of the world’s largest hotels and casinos were coming to the end of another night on the famed Las Vegas strip, but for Captain Trent Rogers, that might as well have been in another world. Once the sun rose out here, the heat haze shimmered off the desert, drifting toward craggy brown mountains almost devoid of vegetation and etched by myriad small ravines. In this godforsaken place, the top secret 432nd Wing of the US Air Force operated MQ-9 Reaper and MQ-1 Predator drones. When terrorists were on the move, no matter where they were in the world, pilots like Captain Rogers supported allied forces by flying remote reconnaissance, surveillance and attack missions. Rogers wasn’t sure why, but the commander of the Wing had rung him personally to tell him his leave was cancelled, ordering him to report for the early morning briefing.

  Captain Rogers took his place in the briefing room and the nuggety commander of the 432nd, Colonel Joe Stillwell, another ex-fighter pilot, took the podium. A normal shift would have been briefed by one of the duty mission commanders. Something out of the ordinary was clearly afoot.

  ‘We’ve recently received intelligence of increased terrorist activity to the north-west of the Khyber Pass in the Hindu Kush,’ Stillwell began, flashing up a map of the area marked �
��TOP SECRET’. ‘As part of Operation Sassafras, an element of SEAL team six was sent in to investigate but their aircraft, a Chinook from the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, was shot down here,’ he said, indicating with the red dot of his laser pointer, ‘twenty kilometres west of the Pakistan–Afghan border, to the north of the town of Asadabad.’

  Stillwell flicked up more satellite imagery, which gave a close-up of the foothills of the towering, snow-capped Hindu Kush. ‘At the time, the aircraft was flying at altitude, and the wreckage is scattered over a wide area, so we suspect a SAM . . . and a surface-to-air missile has serious implications for our own operations,’ he continued.

  ‘Another patrol, call sign Mohegan One Zero, has been inserted into this area here,’ Stillwell said, circling with the red dot of his laser an area of steep, almost impassible terrain. ‘The CIA is also sending in one of their most experienced field teams, call sign Hopi One Four. They’ll be landing at Bagram shortly, where they’ll marry up with another fire team from SEAL team six for an insertion to the north of where Mohegan One Zero is searching for the bodies from the downed Chinook, and Hopi One Four will take over the original task of surveillance. You’ll be given an update as soon as we have Hopi One Four’s flight plan and coordinates for their insertion.’ Colonel Stillwell turned away from the map to face his pilots.

  ‘The task list today is like four pounds of sugar into a two-pound bag,’ he observed wryly, flashing up a top secret tasking pane. ‘There are twice as many missions as we have aircraft, but the top priority goes to Operation Sassafras, and as the most experienced pilot, Trent, you’re first cab off the rank.’

  Rogers nodded, allowing himself a sardonic grin. Stillwell’s compliments were as rare as rocking horse shit.

  As the sun was coming up over the Nevada desert, it was setting behind the Hindu Kush and Bagram Airfield, one of the busiest airports in Afghanistan. No fewer than nine different parking areas housed different types of aircraft. The Special Forces ramp housed some of the most highly classified aircraft; the ISR or intelligence, surveillance and reconnaissance ramp contained Beechcraft MC and RC-12s, bristling with surveillance equipment; the big C-130 cargo planes were on the tactical ramp, alongside the transient ramp for aircraft passing through; and further down, scores of Black Hawk helicopters and twin-rotored CH-47 Chinooks were parked on the Army ramp. Across the runway, there were bays for dozens more OH-58 and AH-64 Apache attack helicopters, bays for the squadrons of F-15E and F-16 fighters, and a ramp for the Predator and Reaper drones. The Russians had built the base in 1976 during their invasion, and the base was still littered with the remains of rusted Soviet equipment. A new runway, 21-03, had been added, allowing the original Russian runway to be turned into Taxiway Zulu, but it was so bumpy that the fighters were unable to use it, making things even more complicated for the hard-worked air traffic controllers with fighters needing to taxi on runway 21-03.

  The lights around the Bagram hangars were already blazing, and under the watchful eye of a master sergeant, the Predator and Reaper ground crews were scrambling to prepare the drones for night flying. Satellite time delays could pose problems for the flight crews in distant Nevada, particularly where instant responses were required in take-offs and landings, so the ground crews at Bagram would launch and land the unmanned aerial vehicles, or UAVs. Once the UAVs were airborne, the ground crews would alert the crews at Creech. Using internet optical fibre to Europe, the pilot and the sensor operator would grab the required data via a KU-band satellite in geosynchronous orbit, log in to the plane, and assume control.

  A crewman finished fuelling the second of two fifty-gallon tanks on the Predator assigned to Captain Rogers. Powered by a four-cylinder, hundred-horsepower engine, the same engine used on snowmobiles, the aircraft could reach speeds of 120 knots, and altitudes of up to 25 000 feet. The Reapers were even more impressive.

  Another crewman checked the nose of the aircraft, which contained the Hellfire targeting system, the electro-optical infrared systems, and the laser designators and illuminators. Yet another checked the Hellfire missiles loaded on the pods under the wings. Once the crew chief was satisfied, an umbilical cord from a start cart was plugged into the starter-connector in the aircraft’s ground panel. The controller held the aircraft stationary, waiting for the control tower at Bagram to give permission for take-off.

  Captain Rogers eased himself into the left-hand seat of the pilot’s console at Creech. His weapons controller, Sergeant Michelle Brady, her blonde hair tied back in a bun, was already logging into her systems, and in the third seat behind sat Major Ryan Crowe, a dour, experienced intelligence analyst from Langley who was there to assist with interpreting the images and gaining approval for a strike. The cockpit looked more like something from a financial trading floor than a fighter or 747 cockpit. The joysticks were akin to those found on a video game, and instead of gauges, switches and avionics, the pilot and weapons operator were surrounded by video and computer screens, a keyboard and throttle levers. The view screen, directly in front of Rogers, gave him live video of what the Predator’s cameras could see. Unable to see left or right, unless the cameras were panned, it was like flying an aircraft through a straw. The Heads-up Display, or HUD, provided numerical data on airspeed, angle of attack, vertical speed, bank angle and altitude, all of which was superimposed over the camera readout. Above the HUD, the map display gave the aircraft’s position, and a digital readout panel on the right showed the heading, wind speed, fuel status and ground elevation, not dissimilar to the information found on GPS units. Yet another monitor screen provided information on communications frequencies. Suddenly, Roger’s headphones crackled:

  ‘Night Thruster Two, this is Bagram Lima Romeo, how do you read me, over?’

  ‘Night Thruster Two, fife by fife.’

  ‘Lima Romeo, aircraft is straight and level, holding at six thousand feet, three nautical miles to the north of Bagram field. Traffic includes Nine Three Zero Heavy – a C-5 Galaxy on late finals, Arson One Seven and One Eight – two F-15s on finals, and Hopi One Four, a Gulfstream IV on approach, flight level 190. Are you ready to assume control, over?’

  The CIA weren’t stuffing around, Rogers mused. Hopi One Four, he knew, was carrying the CIA ground team, and they were already inbound. The foothills of the Hindu Kush came into focus on the cockpit screens. ‘Night Thruster Two, I have control. Thank you and have a nice evening, out.’

  O’Connor strapped into the Gulfstream jump seat for the landing and put on a set of headphones. From past experience, he knew the descent would be a wild ride. Bagram Airfield was still subject to both mortar and machine gun attacks, and aircraft on long, low approaches were sitting ducks for a Taliban armed with machine guns mounted in their ubiquitous Toyota pick-up trucks. To avoid this, even the big transport aircraft would dive on the airfield from altitude.

  The co-pilot, ex-Marine Corps major Brad Spalding, depressed the transmit button. ‘Bagram, good evening, this is Hopi One Four, flight level 190, heading 240, request runway 030, rapid descent.’

  ‘Hopi One Four, runway 030, cleared to six thousand, traffic is two F-15Es on late finals, maintain heading and report when visual.’

  ‘Hopi One Four.’

  O’Connor grinned to himself as the pilot, another ex-Marine Corps major Chuck Moran, switched out the cabin lights and threw the Gulfstream jet into a spiralling dive. He’d flown with these guys before. Both ex-fighter pilots, they knew what they were doing.

  ‘Hopi One Four, field in sight, request visual.’ Spalding handled the comms while Moran pulled the aircraft out of the dive and levelled out.

  ‘Hopi One Four, you are cleared visual, contact tower on one two zero decimal one.’

  ‘Thank you and good evening.’ Even in war-torn Afghanistan, the niceties on an air traffic control net usually prevailed.

  ‘Bagram Tower, good evening, this is Hopi One Four, four miles to run, visual 030.’

  ‘Hopi One Four, altimeter i
s 30.05, you’re cleared to land runway 030, winds three two zero at ten to fifteen knots.’

  Moran rolled the Gulfstream into another dive and pulled out at 1200 feet and lined up on the runway lights. Suddenly, the cockpit was hit with a blinding laser light, and the aircraft shook as a burst of heavy machine gun fire raked the fuselage. Moran slumped over the controls while Spalding, blood streaming from bullet wounds to his wrists, battled to get the aircraft back on an even attitude.

  O’Connor undid Moran’s harness, grabbed him under both armpits and hauled him back into the main cabin, but even as he laid him on the cabin floor, he knew the pilot was dead. The plane shuddered again, and O’Connor deftly vaulted into the bloodied left hand seat, crammed the headset on and pressed the intercom.

  ‘You okay, Brad?’ he asked. Spalding’s face was ashen. He turned toward O’Connor and then slumped back in his seat.

  A fire warning sounded for the port engine. O’Connor struggled to control the stricken aircraft.

  15 Cairo

  A short distance from the director’s office, Abdul Assaf pretended to be a mature-age student sketching Pharaoh Khafre’s statue; a cruel and despotic pharaoh, he had ruled Egypt with an iron fist around 2500 BC. He had built the second largest of the Pyramids at Giza, and some academics credited him with building the Sphinx. Assaf’s sketch could have been that of a four-year-old child, and Assaf was neither aware of the history behind the extraordinary statue, nor did he care. His was an entirely different focus. The museum was strangely deserted and the guards, bored with their low-paying jobs, took no notice. The Arab Spring might have rid the Egyptians of the dictatorial President Mubarak, but the violent protests that had erupted after the removal of his successor, President Morsi, had reduced a once vibrant intake of tourists, and lifeblood of the economy, to a trickle.