Scorpion: A Covert Ops Novel (Second Edition)

by Ross Sidor

  Gurgakov cordially greeted Dagar and embraced him. He eyed Avery with suspicion.

  The fact that he didn’t know how much, if at all, he could trust Dagar and that he was now alone, unarmed, in the sanctuary of a Pamiri warlord and surrounded by armed militants was not lost on Avery. The possibility that Colonel Ghazan was right, and the rebels were complicit with the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan, also occurred to Avery, in which case Dagar had just delivered a third American victim to the terrorists. The IMU hated President Rahmon as much as Gurgakov and this was a region where “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” went a long way toward shaping alliances.

  Gurgakov beckoned for his guests to sit down on knee-high stacks of hay arranged in a semi-circle in the middle of the barn. They did so, and a girl soon appeared with a tray of bread, goat meat, and water. Avery knew he should show respect to Gurgakov’s hospitality, and he was hungry anyway, so he piled some meat between two pieces of bread. He ate in silence while Dagar and Gurgakov continued conversing in rapid fire Pamiri. From their tone and the few words he was able to discern, he presumed Dagar was explaining his American companion and establishing the context of the meeting. Gurgakov frequently glanced at Avery while they spoke, but his face gave nothing away.

  After several minutes, Dagar brought Avery into the conversation.

  He spoke to Gurgakov through Dagar, who acted as interpreter. Without providing his affiliation, he explained why he came here, that he sought those responsible for the actions taken against two of his country’s citizens. He emphasized that he did not believe the official story coming from President Rahmon’s offices and that his quarrel was with Otabek Babayev and the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan. It was important to plant the seed in Gurgakov’s mind that he was not collaborating with GKNB. Plus IMU was a mutual enemy. Or at least he hoped they still were this week.

  Gurgakov seemed placated by this, but Avery sensed that suspicion still hung in the air. But that was understandable. That’s how Gurgakov managed to survive this long in this part of the world. He knew Gurgakov didn’t care for how the Americans operated in Afghanistan, freely purchasing allies and loyalty with suitcases full of cash.

  Gurgakov and Dagar conferred for several more minutes in their native tongue, leaving Avery out of it.

  Avery patiently drank some water and made another sandwich. He never knew when he’d get to eat again, so he always took advantage of food when it was readily available. The bread was a little stale, but the meat was tender and seasoned, and he fit as much as he could down his throat. He noticed Gurgakov watching him closely each time he went to build a new sandwich.

  Finally, Dagar turned away from Gurgakov and spoke to Avery, “He says that he will sell you his Uzbek prisoner for twenty thousand dollars, US, in cash. His prisoner is from the Islamic Movement and was complicit in the murder of the American in Khorugh. His friends are harboring the American’s killer.”

  Gurgakov interrupted Dagar, and they had another quick exchange.

  Dagar added, “This man also knows the location where the other American is being held by the IMU. He is with Babayev.”

  That caught Avery’s attention, but his face gave nothing away, instead taking another bite of his sandwich. He didn’t want to appear too excited or interested in front of either Dagar or Gurgakov. Besides, there was the possibility that it could be a false lead anyway, or Gurgakov simply wanted to scam the dumb American. That type of thing happened all the time.

  “I need access to the prisoner first, say ten minutes, to verify his story and see if he’s worth it,” Avery finally said after thinking it over. “One of Gurgakov’s men can be present.”

  Gurgakov listened to Dagar’s translation and nodded his head once.

  “He said you have a deal.”

  ___

  One of the Pamiri militants showed Avery and Dagar to a locked cellar behind the barn. When the Pamiri flung open the cellar door, the tiny, windowless space immediately filled with sunlight. The Uzbek lay naked on a pile of hay. He immediately jumped up, startled and frightened. He cowered at the sight of the Pamiri militant, as if he anticipated another beating, and squinted against the bright intensity of the sun.

  In the light, Avery noticed burns, bruises, and cuts across the Uzbek’s body. His lip was split open and his nose swollen and crooked. His hands were shackled behind his back. He had a pile of hay to sleep on, a bucket for a toilet, and another bucket filled with clean water. The air was stale and stank of human waste. Evidently, Avery observed, Gurgakov’s people made clear what they thought of Uzbeks.

  The Pamiri gave a wave of his hand toward the Uzbek, indicating to Avery and Dagar that they were free to speak with him and that their ten minutes started now. Then he took a few steps back to give them space and watched silently, keeping his eyes on the prisoner in case he made any threatening moves toward Gurgakov’s guests.

  Avery knew a little of the Uzbek language from his time in Afghanistan. There had been many Uzbeks in the Northern Alliance, but he was out of practice and decided to have the more proficient Dagar translate for him.

  Dagar briefly explained the situation to the Uzbek and presented the man his options. He sounded like he addressed a mongrel animal, Avery thought, stern and domineering.

  The Uzbek looked up at Avery. Avery recognized the absolute hatred and contempt in the man’s eyes. He’d seen the exact look on the faces of countless al-Qaeda terrorists and Iraqi and Taliban insurgents. The look still managed to fill Avery with unease. It was the look of someone capable of maiming and butchering without a second’s hesitation, as natural as breathing.

  The Uzbek was at first uncooperative and resisted. He came upright on his knees, spat at Avery’s feet, and called him CIA scum, the veins in his neck and temples bulging and throbbing. Dagar gave Avery an “I told you so” look, as if again re-affirming that he looked like a goddamn American spy.

  The Pamiri guard quickly stepped in and struck the Uzbek down with a couple hard blows from the stock of his AK-47, opening up fresh cuts on the prisoner’s forehead, and screamed at him in angry Pamiri. Before he was done, the Pamiri picked up the piss bucket, splashed its putrid contents over the Uzbek, and threw the bucket at him. This subdued the Uzbek and returned him to a degraded, submissive state. The guard gave Gurgakov’s guests an apologetic look and shook his head before stepping back again.

  “Tell him that if he answers my questions,” Avery addressed Dagar while holding eye contact with the Uzbek, “I have the authority to secure his release from here into American custody where he will be treated humanely and allowed to keep his life.”

  The Uzbek listened to Dagar’s translation and then laughed out loud, as if astonished at the absurdity of the American’s offer. He shook his head. When he finally spoke, Avery detected the contempt in his voice. The Uzbek cowered in the presence of Gurgakov’s Pamiris, but clearly held no fear for the American. Avery could work with that.

  Dagar started to relay the Uzbek’s response, but Avery cut him off in the interests of saving time. “I think I got the basic idea. Tell him his alternative is to remain here. Emphasize that if he does not answer my questions, then I will have no further use for him, and if I have no further use for him, then neither will Gurgakov. Explain to him in detail what Gurgakov does to Uzbeks, how Gurgakov will have him nailed into the ground and sever his manhood and pour salt in the wound. Then Gurgakov, when he finally becomes bored, will gut him and drape him with raw pig meat, so that his entry into Heaven will be forbidden when Gurgakov finally slits his throat and ends his life. From there, Gurgakov will most likely slaughter his family as well. That’s what he does, so that there will be no offspring or brothers to seek vengeance.”

  Dagar translated again.

  Avery watched as the smirk quickly vanished from the Uzbek’s face.

  “But first, he needs to tell me where the American is being held. He does that for me, and if I can confirm he is not lying, then I will guarantee his safety and
release from Gurgakov. If he’s really helpful, CIA might even be convinced to let him go. But I need his answer right now. If he refuses or plays any games, then I will stand aside and allow Gurgakov to have his way with him. This is his only chance.”

  Avery waited patiently for the translation and then the response from Dagar. “He said that he will cooperate with you, as long as you take him away from this infidel barbarian.”

  “Good. I thought we’d arrive at an understanding.”

  Avery had a litany of follow-up questions, to confirm the Uzbek was indeed telling the truth and put together the missing pieces of how Otabek Babayev’s forces had identified Cramer and lifted him, but he neared the end of his allotted ten minutes. So he used his remaining ninety-seven seconds to get to the most important bit.

  “Ask him where the American is being held.”

  The Uzbek gave Avery a detailed location and drew a map of the village on pencil and paper provided by Avery.

  “I know this pace,” Dagar said. “It is not safe. For the people there, the civil never needed. You shouldn’t go alone.”

  The guard yelled out that their time was up and stepped in to lock the cellar once more.

  Avery stepped several feet away from the cellar, out of earshot of the others. Keeping an eye on Dagar and the Uzbek, he took out his phone and placed a call to Poacher.

  TEN

  Yazgulam

  The target house was located in a village called Yazgulam, approximately forty-five miles northwest of Gurgakov’s farm.

  Avery had told Gurgakov that he needed to make logistical arrangements and would return within the next two days with the $20,000. Dagar remained behind in the village and would take Avery or an American representative to Gurgakov once he returned. Gurgakov appeared wary, but accepted this arrangement. Avery thought that soon as he left, Gurgakov would probably leave, too, and relocate to another hiding spot.

  Avery rendezvoused with Sideshow in Yazgulam at 3:47PM. Poacher and Reaper had reached the village first and already had eyes on the target for over an hour, but had nothing to report when Avery arrived.

  While Dushanbe had its fair share of Westerners, the three Americans definitely stood out here, especially to members of an IMU cell who’d keep their eyes open for anyone who didn’t belong. Just driving in from the outskirts of the city, a group of kids playing soccer in an empty lot had paused their game to watch Avery drive past

  It wouldn’t be too difficult to blend in, though. Most of the people here were Yazgul, an ethnic group indigenous only to Tajikistan. Like Pamiri Tajiks, the Yazgul people were fair skinned and had light, even blond, hair. Avery and the Sideshow operators had already thrown on chapan cloaks or kameez robes that they’d picked up in a marketplace over their clothing. Like most men here, Poacher and Flounder both sported unkempt beards.

  But looking the part was only a small part of blending in. A lot of it came down to having the right attitude and acting like they belonged, which meant moving with confidence and purpose and looking like they knew exactly where they were going.

  The problem was Yazgulam was pretty desolate and near abandoned. There weren’t many people about. Whether they were Tajik or Pamiri travelers passing through, or Americans, any outsiders would stand out and draw scrutiny, and word probably spread quickly around here. The crowded sidewalks and busy streets of Dushanbe would have been preferred.

  Yazgulam was one of the poorest places in the entire country, having been hit especially hard during the Tajik Civil War. The town still never fully recovered and showed heavy battle damage.

  Following Tajikistan’s independence from the Soviet Union, fighting quickly broke out between neo-communist government forces backed by Russian army troops and various opposition militants aided by foreign fighters like the IMU and Afghan mujahedeen. The fight grew in intensity, leaving entire villages burned to the ground, until the factions hit a stalemate.

  In 1997, after six years of fighting, a United Nations armistice ended the war, leaving most of the country’s population dependent entirely on the United Nations and NGOs for food and medicine. The war left some 100,000 dead, over a million more homeless, and most of the country’s infrastructure destroyed and in disarray. The government has done little to rebuild, and fighting still sporadically broke out in remote parts of Gorno-Badakhshan between rival militias and government troops.

  Some buildings in Yazgulam remained bombed-out or were simply collapsed piles of rubble with just the skeletal structures left standing. Craters and potholes were scattered across the streets. Driving to the target house, Avery even spotted the charred husk of a Russian-made T-72 battle tank sitting on broken treads.

  Police presence was non-existent. Fourteen years after the war ended, armed and masked militants freely roamed the streets. Crime was high, Dagar had warned. There was the threat of being recognized as outsiders and ambushed by bandits or detained by the so-called militia or kidnapped for a ransom. President Rahmon’s government had zero control or influence here, making this an ideal spot for IMU to hold and interrogate a prisoner. It was also just seventy miles south of the terrorist strongholds in the Fergana Valley.

  A gunman wearing a balaclava, standing off side of the street, eyed Avery’s car suspiciously as he drove past but made no move to stop him. Avery kept his eyes on the road, stayed calm, and didn’t eye the militant as he passed.

  Avery wasn’t familiar with local politics or what affiliation the militant’s green and red armband signified. Avery just hoped that whatever militia he belonged to didn’t report to the IMU. It was likely the Uzbeks operated here with the consent or at the least the knowledge of whatever warlord ran the city. In this part of the world, encroaching on another tribe’s or group’s territory was asking for a fight. Tribal Afghans, Tajiks, and Pamiris lived by a rigid code of honor that was thousands of years old. They could be your best allies, but if you disrespected them by not sticking to the code, they’d slice your throat.

  The target was a dilapidated single-story, square-shaped house built of thick cement, sturdy and heavily insulated in the winter, but probably stifling hot and uncomfortable in summer. A house this size would probably be a crowded place and home to nearly a dozen people. The only windows were in the front, near the blue door, or in the back, and they were all heavily boarded up. It looked like someone had barricaded the place, but that wasn’t unusual. During the war, the people who couldn’t leave sought shelter inside. Except for a pick-up truck parked over the front lot, the property otherwise appeared abandoned, which it probably had been since the end of the fighting.

  The same could be said for the rest of the neighborhood. The house sat next to a four story apartment building with broken windows and riddled with bullet holes. There were empty storefronts and a few more houses, also in a depressing shit state, across the street. Shops had gone out of business years ago and never re-opened under new management or owners. The street was unpaved and cracked and damaged from heavy tank traffic.

  The team did target reconnaissance of the connecting streets and surrounding neighborhood, to work out potential defensive positions and escape routes. Then they began looking into where to establish an observation post. They had few options. There wasn’t enough time to try to gain access to the neighboring apartment or to scope out a nearby house that might have a line of sight to the target, to determine if it was abandoned or occupied. If any locals stumbled upon them, they’d have to detain them, and that created a whole slew of complications.

  After taking a walk around the block on foot and performing a quick recon, Flounder returned to the van and suggested they break into one of the empty shops across the street. They could gain entry through the back door. Once night fell, they could easily plant audio and video surveillance equipment around the target house with less chance of being seen.

  Avery and Poacher both liked it, so this is what they did.

  First, they broke in through the rear entrance of what, from the looks of i
t, used to be a grocery store and deli. The lock was simple, and Flounder picked it in under thirty seconds. There were no alarms or security systems to overcome. In fact, there wasn’t even electricity here or in most of the city, but that was okay, since they wouldn’t be able to turn on any lights anyway, which would give away their presence. Any of their gear that required power was already fully charged.

  Avery and Flounder then moved the vehicles they came in, so that they would be out of sight from the occupants of the target house and not potentially alert them to the presence of strangers on the block. They left the van near the door behind the old grocery store in case they would need to get away quickly.

  From behind the blinded windows of the darkened, dusty storefront, they observed the target house for the remainder of the day. Other than the occasional lights going on or off, there was no other activity at the house. No one came or went. From this vantage point, they did not have eyes on the target’s back door, but they would still clearly be able to see if someone was coming or going.

  By midnight, the neighboring apartment building and houses were all blacked out. A few blocks had electricity, but most households relied on lanterns or candles. Others, including the target house, utilized portable generators bought in Dushanbe or Kazakhstan.

  Poacher and Flounder waited another two hours, during which time there was absolutely no activity from either the target house or its neighbors, before slipping across the street and planting the surveillance equipment. Avery covered them from the storefront, keeping a close eye on the target and ready to warn them if anyone came their way. Given the lack of functioning street lights, stealth was not a problem for the two seasoned paramilitary operators.

  Thirty-five minutes later, when Poacher and Flounder returned, Avery ventured across the street with his Radar Scope II motion detector.

  Developed by DARPA, this is a handheld device weighing less than two pounds and roughly the size of a brick. The Radar Scope is capable of detecting motion as tiny as a human heartbeat or a person breathing through up to twelve inches of concrete and fifty feet into the selected room. It does this by emitting stepped-frequency radar and then detecting the tiniest alterations of the return signal’s Doppler signature. Additionally, it has a sensor array capable of “seeing” through multiple walls and rendering a 3D image of the room itself. An earlier, less sophisticated model was first introduced to soldiers going house-to-house in Iraq.