by Ted Halstead
That changed once CL-20 production began at the High Energy Materials Research Laboratory (HEMRL) in Pune, India. A substantial research and production facility established in 1960 with over a thousand scientists on staff, HEMRL didn’t stop with simple CL-20 production.
Instead, scientists at HEMRL took advantage of research first published in 2012, showing that a cocrystal of two parts CL-20 and one part HMX kept most of CL-20’s explosive power while gaining HMX’s stability. HEMRL became the first facility in the world to produce the new explosive in quantity.
Akshay Roshan was one of the senior scientists at HEMRL. He had expensive tastes, ones that even a salary generous by Indian standards were unable to meet. It took him several years to smuggle out a quantity of HEMRL sufficient to meet his needs and to locate a buyer.
That second part had been especially time-consuming, and it led to Akshay having even more of the CL-20 compound to sell than he’d initially planned. Akshay was determined to sell only to a buyer who would not use the explosive in India.
This determination was in part because Akshay didn’t want to see his countrymen hurt. But only in part. The more important reason was that he thought outside India its use was much less likely to be traced back to HEMRL—and to him.
Akshay had many clever ideas for verifying the identity and motives behind potential buyers. In the end, though, it was just dumb luck that the buyer for the explosives was neither an undercover government agent nor a member of one of India’s plentiful domestic terrorist groups.
The Taliban agent who made the purchase was clean-shaven, slender, and had light brown, curly hair. Akshay thought he looked Arab, which made sense. The man said the explosives would be used to attack Syrian government offices in Damascus.
That was better than fine for Akshay since if true, that would put the explosion over four thousand kilometers away. Even if it was a lie, Akshay was certain the buyer wasn’t Indian.
And Akshay was right. He wasn’t. And in the days after the sale, the explosives were, in fact, not traced back to him.
Unfortunately, that generous payday whetted his appetite for more. Just months later, he had another batch of CL-20 compound ready for sale.
By now, though, Akshay’s superiors had finally noticed missing quantities of controlled materials and notified the Central Bureau of Investigation. Akshay knew nothing about money laundering and had simply deposited the money from his last sale in his bank account.
That made it easy for the special unit within the CBI that dealt with threats to national security to focus on Akshay without delay. He was the sole scientist with access to the missing controlled materials to have a sizeable unexplained bank deposit.
Akshay had just concluded an expensive but delightful evening at an exclusive club with many attractive women on its staff. He was reflecting on one woman in particular, and how she had genuinely seemed to like him, as he walked to his car well after midnight.
A black van pulled up next to him, and Akshay found himself pulled inside before he knew what was happening. As the vehicle sped forward, the CBI agents inside identified themselves.
Terrified, at first, Akshay tried to insist on speaking to a lawyer.
The CBI agents handcuffed Akshay and told him that since he was being charged under national security statutes for providing material aid to terrorists, he had no right to speak to anyone.
Except, of course, them.
The CBI agents told Akshay that his only chance for leniency was to tell them everything he knew before the explosives he had sold could be used.
At first, Akshay attempted to be indignant, saying he knew nothing about any sale of explosives.
Then one of the CBI agents mutely handed Akshay a printout of his bank account, with the huge deposit from the explosives sale highlighted.
Akshay was taken to a secret facility near Mumbai used solely for the detention and questioning of individuals who had been determined to be a threat to national security. Thanks to the late hour, there was relatively little traffic. An excellent toll road connected Pune with Mumbai, so it took less than four hours to place Akshay in his cell.
Akshay had told everything he knew long before then.
In fact, not only had he already given up the location of the storage locker where he was keeping the CL-20 compound for his next sale. CBI agents were already there with bomb disposal experts to collect it.
Without his cooperation locating the CL-20 compound would have been quite difficult since the locker was part of a strictly cash-only operation that asked no questions about identity. Akshay had learned about it from another patron of the exclusive club he frequented when the man had consumed one drink too many.
That person, as well as many others, were due for a rude surprise once the CBI agents assigned to Akshay’s case had time to pass the storage operation’s location on to other agents in the CBI.
Akshay had given a detailed description of the man who bought the CL-20 compound, and even worked with a CBI agent qualified as a sketch artist to produce a likeness Akshay called, “as good as a photograph.”
Unfortunately, it didn’t matter much. The CBI agents correctly believed it was likely that the buyer and the CL-20 compound were no longer in the country.
Akshay eagerly repeated the story the buyer had told about his intended use of the explosives and asked whether the fact that they would not be used against India or its allies would help reduce the charges against him.
This was a question none of the CBI agents considered worthy of a response, since by then they were both near the secret detention facility, and were convinced Akshay had told all he knew.
Of course, that didn’t mean the dedicated staff at Akshay’s new home weren’t going to do their very best to make sure there was no detail he had forgotten to mention.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Kandahar, Afghanistan
Khaled Tanha had been fighting with the Taliban since he was old enough to hold a rifle. Wounded twice, once seriously, he had never once thought about any other life. American, British or other NATO soldiers- they were all the same to him. Just like the Afghan Army men who fought beside them.
Targets.
Like any Taliban fighter who had been in the war as long as he had, several times, he had thought he would not survive.
Today was different, though. Today Khaled knew he wouldn’t.
Khaled grinned fiercely. That didn’t mean he would sell his life cheaply. Far from it.
He and three other experienced Taliban leaders had been recruited by Mullah Abdul Zahed months before for a mission that he promised would help free Afghanistan of foreign invaders once and for all. To help achieve that goal, he had promised them a new and extraordinarily powerful explosive.
Abdul had been plain and direct. They and the men they would recruit for this mission had practically no chance of survival.
As a religious leader with the title of Mullah, Abdul had always despised others who motivated fighters by promising them Paradise if they fell in battle. Fighting the enemy did not excuse all past sins, and only God knew who he would decide to have join him after death.
But Abdul didn’t have to make any elaborate promises to Khaled. They had the chance to return Afghanistan to Taliban rule, expel the foreign invaders, and end the fighting that had lasted as long as anyone alive could remember.
If that didn’t get Khaled into Paradise, he couldn’t imagine what would.
Craig Joint Theater Hospital, Bagram Airfield, Afghanistan
Neda opened her eyes and immediately realized she was in a hospital, though she had no idea where. A slim female doctor with her blond hair pulled back in a severe bun was looking at a chart Neda assumed was hers, and quickly saw she was awake.
“Ms. Rhahbar! Good to see you awake! How are you feeling?” the doctor asked.
Neda paused before answering. She experimentally moved her arms and legs, which appeared to be intact and working. No pain that she was awa
re of…
“As far as I can tell, I’m fine. Though I don’t know whether there are painkillers in there that might account for that feeling,” Neda said, nodding towards the IV line leading to her arm, connected to a clear plastic bag.
“Also, please call me Neda,” she added.
The doctor smiled and said, “I am Doctor Holt, and this is Craig Joint Theater Hospital at Bagram Airfield. There’s nothing in that bag but saline. You took a blow to the head, but we’ve done a CT scan, and there’s no sign of either internal bleeding or swelling. The fact that you’re not feeling any pain is another excellent indicator. We’re going to keep you overnight for observation, but I expect to discharge you tomorrow morning.”
“How are…”. Neda’s question was cut off by the familiar faces of Anatoly Grishkov and Mikhail Vasilyev. But their hair!
Pointing at each of their bald heads, Neda asked, “What happened to…”
Vasilyev finished for her. “Our hair. Well, though we were the closest to the explosion, the vehicle’s air filtration system protected us from most of what was a very nasty radioactive mix inside that truck. But to be extra sure, the doctors here recommended that we discard not only our clothes but everything else we could.”
Grishkov made a face. “Arisha keeps telling me she wants another child. Not my preference, but I didn’t want the choice being made for me.”
Vasilyev smiled. “And though I’m not married, I agree with our friend that it’s best to leave one’s options open.”
Neda’s hand flew to her head, which she felt with relief still had hair on it.
Looking at Dr. Holt, Neda asked, “So in my case why did you…”
The doctor nodded and said, “You were wearing a scarf. It was made of tightly woven silk, which served as an excellent shield against radioactive particles. We’ve also washed your hair and body twice with a special decontamination soap. Once we’ve finished talking, I’ll ask you to take a shower with it to be safe. But we’ve checked you thoroughly, and your readings show no trace of radioactivity.”
Vasilyev asked, “Doctor, is this soap something you normally have on hand?”
Doctor Holt shook her head. “Good question. No, we don’t. You have Captain Rogoff to thank for that. He had a friend of his at Ramstein send us a case of the stuff. I didn’t understand why at the time, but it sure came in handy.”
Neda asked quietly, “And how are Captain Rogoff and his men?”
Dr. Holt smiled. “They’ve all been treated and discharged. He asked me to notify him when you woke up, so I expect you’ll see him later today. Now, if you have no other questions, you need to get in the shower and then back to bed. We’ll be running a few more tests before evening.”
Then Dr. Holt turned to Vasilyev and Grishkov. “As for you two, you’re both supposed to still be in bed. Let’s give this lady her privacy.”
Seconds later, the doctor and Neda were alone. Frowning, Neda said, “You were a little harsh. I think they were just worried about me.”
Dr. Holt grinned and shook her head. “Worried about you? That’s what we call an ‘understatement.’ So, Grishkov is a good friend who deeply respects you, and Vasilyev is your boyfriend, right?”
Neda’s eyebrows flew up. “What in the world makes you think that about Vasilyev?” she asked.
Dr. Holt cocked her head and took a moment before replying. “I’ve been on shift for over twelve hours, so I guess I let my mouth run away from me. Not the first time it’s happened.”
Then she looked at Neda and sighed. “But look, woman to woman, if you’d been awake like I was when Vasilyev was looking at you when we weren’t yet sure about your condition- well, you would have known how he feels about you. I’d have guessed he was your husband, but I didn’t see rings on your fingers, so that’s why I thought boyfriend. Now, I will apologize and butt out of your personal life.”
Pointing at a door on the other side of the room, Dr. Holt said, “Time to hit the shower. I’ll stay here while you take it, in case you need help or feel dizzy. Take it slow, getting out of bed.”
Neda had no trouble, and with her hand on the shower’s door turned and said, “Thank you for your honesty, Doctor. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
Chapter Thirty
Kandahar, Afghanistan
People were creatures of habit. Khaled Tanha had consulted weeks before with the Taliban leaders who were about to assault the other girl’s high schools in three other cities, and they had all agreed. The best use of the new explosives would be to use them to approach the schools in sedans.
Guards were trained to be on the lookout for trucks because the quantity of ordinary explosives needed to level a building usually required one. That didn’t mean they were supposed to ignore cars. But, habits formed over time, and people could only stay on their guard for so long.
There had been a time when, even so, this plan would have never worked. American troops used to guard all the girl’s high schools. Then, when their numbers dropped, they were replaced with Afghan Army soldiers. Finally, private security contractors took their place. Armed, to be sure, but without much in the way of training or motivation.
This lack of training showed in the defense plan for all four schools, which all had the same security contractor. A wall surrounded each school with a single entry point, a vehicle gate next to a pedestrian gate. There was a guard inside who controlled the operation of both entrances.
So far, so good.
But, there was also a guard outside the gate. The thinking was, let’s have a man on the outside who can see a truck bomb coming. All of the schools were on side streets in residential areas where ordinarily few large vehicles would go. If a truck was spotted headed for the school, the outside guard could duck inside and provide a warning. If the vehicle was approaching at high speed, the inside guard could call for backup.
The guard deployment wasn’t totally without merit. But it depended on the idea that only a truck could carry a bomb big enough to threaten the school.
Khaled was about to show them that wasn’t true.
Everything depended on a coordinated attack since once one school was attacked the others were sure to be warned. Khaled was in contact with the other Taliban assault team leaders through group texts.
No one was to text until a goal was being attempted. Using the standard Taliban security method, they had a simple prearranged code that would ensure they all moved at the same time. Each step had a number.
The first step was to get rid of the guards and enter the schools.
Khaled texted the number one and waited for each of the other team leaders to check-in before his sedan turned the corner and began moving towards the school. Khaled was in the passenger seat, so he could roll down the window and talk to the guard.
Khaled smiled to himself as he saw the school guard’s reaction to his approach. They had stolen government license plates weeks before and placed them on the sedans they would use that morning. Because of their distinctive color, the plates were identifiable from a distance and worked as Khaled had intended.
The guard visibly relaxed.
Khaled’s sedan moved at average, slow speed down the quiet residential street towards the school and the guard standing in front of its gate. Early in the morning, when the staff and girls arrived and again later in the afternoon when they left, the street was full of cars. Now, though, theirs was the only vehicle in motion.
Khaled and the other Taliban fighters with him had all shaved off their beards weeks before and had their hair trimmed to the short length required by police standards. Shaving every day was a genuine nuisance, but it was critical to making the guard at the gate believe they were plainclothes police officers.
As the sedan reached the school and its guard, Khaled lowered his passenger side window and gestured for the guard to move closer.
“We are a special security unit,” Khaled said, injecting what he hoped was the right tone of authority and impatie
nce to his voice.
Pointing at an SUV parked about a hundred meters away and on the other side of the street, Khaled asked, “Have you seen that vehicle before, and if so, do you know its owner?”
Immediately hit with a question, the guard didn’t think to ask Khaled for identification. That was good since Khaled had none.
Khaled also knew the guard’s answer to his questions before he spoke, since his men had placed the SUV where it was now the previous night.
“No, sir,” the guard said with a shrug.
“Very well,” Khaled said. “Come with us to inspect the vehicle. We have been told it may contain explosives timed to detonate when parents come to pick up their girls this afternoon.”
The guard wanted to refuse, but Khaled had struck precisely the right tone of command. Besides, if he said no, he’d look like a coward, and he couldn’t have that.
“Very well,” the guard said and trotted along beside them as the sedan moved slowly towards the SUV.
When they were alongside it, Khaled exited the sedan holding a small bag. The guard looked at it, puzzled.
“My tools,” Khaled said, knowing he’d really explained nothing. “Come over to the other side of the SUV with me while I check to see if the doors are booby-trapped.”
Nodding doubtfully, the guard did as Khaled told him. Now they were both out of view of the school’s gate, and any camera that might be there.
“Now, listen very carefully,” Khaled said, as he pulled first a pistol and then a small grayish cube from his bag. “Smell this,” he said, lifting the cube to the guard’s face.
Confused, the guard did as he was told. Though he said nothing, Khaled could see that the guard could smell the plastic explosive’s distinctive odor.
“This is a new and very powerful plastic explosive,” Khaled said calmly.
