“Nothing turns me on like an Amazon.”
“What the fuck do you want, pigface?” she snapped with the same apparent fearlessness she had just displayed. In fact, she had used every fiber of conviction to squelch an urge to throw up.
The man’s eyes threatened, fiery embers of coal. He stuck out his hand, smiled.
“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Grigol Boyko, Grigol Rakhmonov Boyko.”
Amber looked straight at him. Recognition formed. A cloud of uncommon fear enveloped her.
“Russian?”
“Georgian. Tbilisi—but, I like to remember my Russian ancestry.”
“I know who you are. Strategic Solutions International.”
He smiled, an attack dog sizing up fresh meat.
“You’ve done your homework.”
“The U.N. is onto you.”
“Hah!” he laughed. “That is the joke. My partners? Whom do you think supplies the U.N. in West Africa? You forget, as trade attaché to Angola, the DRC, and Yemen, I have multiple passports, total diplomatic immunity. The International Criminal Court in Holland can indict all they want. They can send out their Interpol agents. I’m untouchable. They know it. Bad publicity? Window-dressing. Good for business.”
The ICC investigation had identified Boyko as an escaped rogue agent from Russia’s military spy agency who had been promoted up the line and transferred to STASI, East Germany’s Ministry for State Security years earlier. The indictment charged that he now ran a band of rebel fighters under the corporate veil provided by Strategic Solutions International. Amber had read the ICC report. According to that report: “Boyko’s Strategic Solutions is known to employ a terrorist net, the Ninja Crocodile Cult, to dominate illegal activity throughout the region.”
“They say nothing gets into or out of Africa, not a single smuggled diamond that you don’t own a piece of,” she said. “They say you also run the Ninjas.”
“Enough!” Boyko barked. “What happened to your hand?” He pointed to her left hand. Only a thumb and forefinger remained.
“My hand? Wrong place. Wrong time,” Amber answered. “They said they’d take off the rest if I wasn’t careful. Anyway, they chose the wrong hand. It’s my right hand I use to look at diamonds.”
“Smart. I myself am a pragmatist. That’s why I’m interested in you. Your many contacts. It appears that you’ve broken my friend’s arm.” He gestured to a group of men clustered around a vehicle. The truck was marked with a large red cross. It was duplicated on armbands the men wore. Boyko directed the medics to take the injured disciple to a hospital.
Amber watched as he spoke with the diamond dealer. The dealer nodded. Boyko shoveled the diamonds on the table into his hand, filled an envelope he took from the dealer and handed it to Amber.
“They’re yours,” he said.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Amber asked the Animal.
“The pleasure, as you say, is all mine. You are coming with me. Just as soon as we pick up your son, Tony. He will come along as well.”
His words struck her like a blast of sudden reality. They stirred a torrent of hate. He took her arm and forced her into his waiting vehicle. Resigned, helpless, she entered the Humvee.
NINE
Fort Bragg, Special Operations Command
Maran sat at the defense table in the courtroom at the Army’s Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. It was just a week since his release from the hospital.
In his hand, he held his Airborne maroon beret adorned with the SOCOM crest. The Army had wasted no time. They charged him with multiple violations against the Uniform Code of Military Justice. His lawyer, an expert on the fraternal code of the military tribunal system had succeeded in getting the hearing classified to a top secret level. No one at the Pentagon wanted to risk their futures by embarrassing the White House with such a mission failure, worse than President Carter’s 1979 Iran hostage crisis. The attorney also rescued Maran from a negligent homicide charge and a possible death sentence that would have exposed the case to public scrutiny, including closely-held TTP, classified Techniques, Tactics, and Procedures methods training.
The hearing was held by a military tribunal comprised of three general grade warfighters.
Maran’s unit, the Special Action Warfighter Command, or SAWC, was known officially as the “Center for Information Control—Army Signals Systems.” Its acronym—CIC-ASS—was a big joke for the SAWs, as the unit members called themselves secretly. For years, it had been clear that the military needed its own special action force. The Pentagon was tired of relying on the CIA. They had botched too many rescue missions. SAWC was the Army’s own black ops element, secret from everyone outside the tightly controlled “Need to Know” loop. Command, control, communications and intel—C3I—all took place from the isolated, self-contained 1200-acre subdivision at Fort Bragg. The area was cordoned off with access-controlled signals equipment, CCTV, and electrified razor wire, off-limits to all but the SAWs.
The arrangement satisfied White House demands for “plausible deniability,” which meant that Maran was on his own. He knew it and he knew he would prepare for it, adjust his plans, adapt—Victoriae!
A court officer read the charges.
“In that Lieutenant Colonel Mack Maran, while commanding a mission code-named Taxi Home under Task Force 9909, Special Action Warfare Command of the Special Operations Command Forces, did order the men under his command to advance on enemy positions in a point one-hundred-twenty miles East of Cabinda, Angola, in territory owned by the sovereign nation of the Democratic Republic of Congo on or about December 23rd, in violation of a lawful order from Major General Randy Baltimore, to wit: Abort the mission and withdraw your men to be evacuated on the beach below the oil installations at Cabinda.
“Also that Colonel Maran responded to that order in that locale on that day in a manner unbecoming an officer, to wit: he willfully and with criminal negligence terminated the call thereby countermanding a direct order under combat conditions. Furthermore, Major General Baltimore, Director of Counterterrorism at the OPP will testify that Colonel Maran, apparently unaware that the line was still open responded to his direct order: ‘You can go and fuck yourself. We won’t need choppers until we rescue those hostages.’”
I thought the radio was off, Maran thought to himself.
Maran gripped the wooden rail, stood as tall as he could. It was clear that the effort took all his strength. Outside, through a dirty wall-to-ceiling window on the south side of the security compound, he could see a fine drizzle of rain just beginning to drift down from a graying sky.
Panel Chief General Fahnestock sat at the center of the board. He looked to Maran like a giant redwood that could withstand a tornado. His tailored Class A Blues tunic displayed the Congressional Medal of Honor and he ruled the Army’s European Command as the four-star Commander in Chief. The White House, because of the political sensitivity of the case, insisted on his taking charge, skirting protocol that called for a lower-ranking general in the role.
Maran’s lawyer had hammered out the agreement that resulted in this three-man panel of warfighters or operators like himself, which is the way members of the most elite units of the Joint Special Operations Command referred to themselves. The last thing Maran wanted was to pin his fate on a decision by a military judge from JAG, someone who would, in all likelihood, never have seen a battleground. His training had taught him that the strength behind the military code of justice came from the bond shared, the complete and utter loyalty developed, between combatants in fighting units and their fellow soldiers. He knew men fought better because of the respect built on the battlefield, a bonding that could not be equalled. He expected his combat peers to be tough but fair.
General Fahnestock addressed the prosecutor.
“Colonel Maran was listed on the manifest as being with the Center for Information Operations-Army Combat Applications Group out of JSOC, the Joint
Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg. But in fact, he was a commander with SAWC and led Task Force 9909, assigned by Brigadier General Luster to carry out this hostage recovery mission, code-named Taxi Home, with total autonomy. Is that correct, Major—The Special Action Warfare Command is not even listed on the units manifest at Bragg—or anywhere else?”
“Correct, sir,” prosecutor Major Andy Rojas snapped.
Maran glared at the man whose watery, pale yellow eyes squinted over a long, pinched nose. He looked like a weasel.
“Who is privy to the existence of Task Force 9909?” Fahnestock asked.
“No one outside of the direct order of command is aware of this TF’s existence. Plausible deniability. Part of the Special Action Warfare Command, sir. Not a regular Army unit. Special Access Program, SAP, Decibel 20-Top Echelon, the highest secrecy level in the United States government. They are authorized to employ private military companies, known as PMCs. Mercenaries. Task Force 9909 was one of those, a phantom unit, stitched together from a quilt of native South African, Angolan, and Congolese soldiers of fortune.”
“In the black?”
“That’s correct, sir. Non-existent. Known only to Brigadier General Luster, a few members of his staff, and General Baltimore’s Counterterrorism group at the Office of Plans and Operations in the Pentagon.” If the title of the group sounded innocuous, it was a deception. Its name was changed from the “Forty Committee” after a movie of Robert Ludlum’s novel “The Bourne Identity” featured a renegade from that group, making its title sound too sinister.
Rojas approached the bench and submitted a bound document.
Fahnestock read it and passed it to his colleagues.
“Homeland Security Presidential Directive: Memorandum No. SPO 2012-001. The Special Action Warfighter Command is hereby authorized, under the direction of Brigadier General Hank Luster, commanding officer of the unit at Fort Bragg, to enter the sovereign territory of Angola in the area 25 miles southeast of the exclave of Cabinda to achieve the rescue and release of an unknown number of American hostages understood to have been taken and imprisoned under the direction of illegal criminal elements of the terrorist organization known in the region as the Progressive Front for the Liberation of the Exclave of Cabinda a/k/a PFLEC.”
Rojas continued. “As you know, the Office of Plans and Operations was established in 2011 under a Presidential Directive charging it with collecting, vetting, and acting operationally on intelligence completely outside of the normal intelligence apparatus. Such intel, according to the President’s directive, is not to be shared with anyone outside the OPO, including the Director of Central Intelligence and the Director of National Intelligence. Major General Baltimore is Director of the National Counterterrorism Center’s Action Division there.”
“Continue with your questioning, Major Rojas,” Fahnestock said.
The prosecutor turned back to Maran. “In your own words, Colonel Maran, what you were doing in Cabinda, Angola, between the 20th and the 22nd of April?” Rojas asked.
Other than his attorney, Maran sat alone in the courtroom.
“Sir, I had been called for Temporary Duty to lead Task Force 9909 in its covert hostage recovery, code-named Taxi Home.”
“You are airborne- and Ranger-qualified, Delta, Special Action Teams?”
“Correct, sir. Qualified Airborne-Ranger; served with the ‘75’ Ranger Regiment prior to joining Special Forces. From there, I was recruited into 1st SFOD-D Delta—then Special Action with SAWC.”
“You have had training in languages, correct, sir?”
Is this question a joke?
Maran was conversant in a number of languages. It was clear, however, that his basic skill set was that of a killer, someone trained to track down and kill terrorists like the Animal of Angola.
Rojas stepped up to the table and handed Fahnestock pages from Maran’s Military Personnel Records highlighting his foreign origins.
“As a result of my overseas background—”
“And what was that, Colonel?” Rojas cut Maran off.
“…Helped, I suppose, that I was born half Nigerian, in Lagos, already learned at least the rudiments of several languages, including Yoruba, from my father and Swahili from an uncle in Uganda.”
Rojas raised his hand to cut in again, sneered dismissively.
Maran continued. “The Army sent me to Stanford for a Master’s in international relations, African affairs, and I put in a year in at the Army’s Monterey language school, learning Lingala and Portuguese.”
Fahnestock stepped in. “Colonel Maran, give us a brief on the physical expectations riding on a SAWC officer.”
“Sir, they are simple. Basically, you have to be a U.S. citizen, at least a Captain with a one-year command behind you, a volunteer male with a secret clearance, and the ability to do 55 pushups in two minutes, 62 sit-ups in the same period of time, and make a two-mile run in 15 minutes in full gear.”
“And what does full gear weigh?” Fahnestock asked.
“Sir. Sixty-five pounds, including fifteen pounds of ammunition.”
Inside, Maran felt better with Fahnestock’s questions.
“Since you are an elite Army officer with sophisticated training, we can assume you know the gravity of disobeying an order in combat. What else can you tell us about your training with SAWC that you believe would warrant your actions?” Fahnestock finished.
“That information is included in a Special Action Program and I cannot discuss it. I will swear that I am not guilty of these charges or any other violations of the United States Military Code of Justice.”
MARAN LIVED BY HIS word and he wasn’t about to dishonor himself by breaking his SAWC oath. He knew it would only come down to his word against those of his accusers. No one else could testify to the facts on his behalf.
They were all dead.
“How do you plead to these charges?” General Fahnestock asked.
“Not guilty on all charges, sir. My guys never saw the hidden enemy force. They had been warned of our location in advance. They were waiting for us over the hill in front and on our left flank. We were doomed coming or going. But we had an obligation to those U.S. hostages. And we were prepared for anything but an ambush. Sir, when I left on this mission, Brigadier General Luster was in command. I have the utmost respect for him as a soldier and as a man. I don’t know what happened. The terrorist force had been tipped off. They knew our position. They knew our plan. They were armed with American weapons. We went in after my recon patrol saw that the rebel camp was under-defended.”
“That decision wasn’t yours to make, soldier,” Fahnestock said.
“Sir, we were charged—ambushed—by American tanks and armored personnel carriers; it was like Custer’s Last Stand.”
“Did you or did you not disobey a direct order?”
A sharp pain hit Maran in the chest. His muscles tightened like cable on a winch. The room spun. His hands clamped the rail. He reached deep inside to hold onto the frayed ends of his resolve. A pause hung over the room. Maran toppled over the rim. Two MPs leaped the rail to catch him just in time before his head hit the floor.
It took Maran two glasses of water and fifteen minutes to regain his composure. The incident impressed on him the wisdom of the doctor’s suggestion that he take some medication to alleviate the condition.
He hated drugs.
When they resumed the prosecutor opened.
“You have entered a plea of not guilty. You deny the charges?”
“No, sir. The charges themselves are true.” Maran’s voice shook.
“Then—on what grounds do you plead ‘not guilty?’”
Maran struggled.
“No evidence. Just logic. We were about to free those hostages; then we received the order to pull out. It made no sense. The time was past for that. We had committed to the assault. We were betrayed.”
The prosecution called Major General Randy Baltim
ore, Director of Counter-Terrorist Action for the entire United States military, provided with access to SCI, Sensitive Compartmented Information, and selected SAPs. His security clearance was TS/SSBI, TOP SECRET/SINGLE SCOPE BACKGROUND INVESTIGATION.
BALTIMORE ADDRESSED THE TRIBUNAL.
Maran glared at him. His stomach turned as he listened.
Baltimore, fair-skinned, about fifty, looked to him like a cross between a clean-cut quarterback and a public television pundit. Like Maran, he wore dress blues. Except for the eyeglasses, he looked like a poster boy for the recruitment highway billboards sprinkled through the poorer communities throughout the South, plugging the Army as a way up and out of poverty, which, in Maran’s experience, it was. The eyeglasses were not thick; they were just set in heavy, square, black frames. His blond hair was cut high and tight.
He spoke.
“Though I have the highest regard for Colonel Maran’s record as a combat veteran, based on our SatIntel, Colonel Maran’s mission was doomed to failure. That’s why he was directed to pull back to a designated landing zone, two clicks from the Congo River. Right here. Above these hills south of Landana, there,” Baltimore said, using a laser stick to point to the thin blue ribbon that meandered, snakelike, on the wall map set up at the front of the room. The ribbon flowed down from a large blue belly, the lake-like bulge just at Kinshasa, where the river muscled through the wild region at its widest point.
Maran’s jaw tightened. The remembrance shook him.
Sandbagged, like a green recruit, a Cub Scout.
Recall flashed through his damaged brain. It threatened to ignite a new blast of memory. He gritted his teeth, refused to relive the horror. Rage boiled in his stomach, rose to the spitting point.
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