by P Gaseaux
Chapter Six
Pre-deployment, that’s what the troops called it. Nobody said much, they stood around before being stuffed into a minivan that shuttled them to a barracks. Entered a military compound somewhere. This time Colonel Hirsch was the only one in uniform. The running man and the rider met for the first time with the operatives sent down from Special Forces. Two of them at the briefing and the others already on-site, ‘observing’. Specialists were easy to pick out -- they were on first name basis with each other. Casual about things.
More paperwork. Medicals, the yellow booklet, checks and shots. Without incident until Lowenstein passed out after the last injection; he’d skipped breakfast. Caused the medic to panic, the running man was valuable. By the time they were done with the physicals it was mid-morning.
They filed into a conference center, and sat. The specialist officer glanced several times in the direction of the unkempt female captain who was chewing gum energetically. He counted the calluses over her hands and veins in her forearms. He leaned toward her.
“Too many press-ups?” he asked.
She sniffed at the comment. Said nothing.
Colonel Hirsch began his introductions. “If I may present the field coordinators and next is our second in charge, kindly on loan to us from the regulars. The officer seated next to her has a team currently embedded.”
Hirsch paused and the nameless civilian passed out scraps of paper to the group. On each one a unique name: a color. Call signs, to be used at all times.
“In my capacity I will be the point of contact from home base and hence not travelling into the field with you,” said Hirsch. “All of you will answer to the coordinator. If you would, please refer to one another by your coded identities from this point on, they are simple and straightforward. Under no circumstances are you to refer to one another by name, at any time, particularly over the airwaves.” He took out some files with red covers as the civilian adjusted his Power Point presentation. “Be aware of the status of this task is designated top secret in line with your clearance levels.”
The civilian handed out pocket notebooks to each person in the room along with a list of all involved in the operation. “Do feel free to jot down any pointers should you feel necessary, however I would appreciate it that all parties commit as much information to memory as possible. Before we conclude today, I will vet your notes and if necessary remove anything that may be of compromise, okay? And I will need all of these back…”
Hirsch cut in. “This organizational-chart details all personnel along with their code names who are involved, along with their location and task details, specialties they have, and so-forth. Be aware the coordinator, Major Lowenstein, in his position is granted full control at any stage of the operation. Chain of command appears complex but in practice not so.”
The running man scanned the personnel chart and was surprised so many of the operatives were already placed. Unbelievable.
“How long has all this been going on?”
“We’ll cover all that but I can tell you this was set up in its entirety, several months ago,” Hirsch answered. “I was personally running it from here, filing Intel and so on. The sudden urgency is due to an event which caught all of us by surprise in the Republic of the Philippines a few days ago. An assassination. With no further ado I shall hand over to my colleague from the Center. Both he and I shall coordinate this exercise from here.” The colonel turned toward the civilian and invited him to continue. The civilian rose and spoke. He cradled a red-covered file.
“All of you, I thank you for being here today. Please do bear with me; I am not an enlisted soldier so there will be things you may have questions and feedback regarding all points covered. In any case don’t hesitate to interrupt should any of you have questions or anything to clarify.” He paused and looked at the three seated before continuing with his preliminary. “I believe all of you would be familiar with the helicopter incidents which occurred recently. The first on the coast near the border, and secondly on the outskirts of Sderot, in May of this year.”
All in the room looked up and at each other. Familiar all right.
The civilian started a series of PowerPoint slides. He stopped after the fifth slide and all in the room studied an image of nearly unrecognizable and nondescript parts. Metal goods.
“What none of you have been aware of until now is that the chopper in question was not lost as a result of mechanical failure, despite all reports you may have seen. We can reveal to you today that these aircraft were brought down by a guided missile and what is of most concern, a homemade device at that, manufactured and launched by militants from over the border.”
The running man had suspected foul play all along. The worst place to keep a secret was within the intelligence community and rumors had flown thick and fast following the incident.
“When the choppers went down we all thought it was a one-in-a-million shot; some maniac with an RPG. Even the experts conceded this after the first one that put down offshore. Once we got to the scene of the second crash, forensics proved otherwise.” The suit leaned closer to the image on the screen and pointed at some things. “From the wreckage pictured here it is apparent the device did not even contain a warhead, only a basic yet effective guidance system attached to a servo operating the front stabilizer fins which we recovered. This rocket hit with such force it did not require any explosive, only the capability to reach its target.”
“How good was the guidance system?” asked Lowenstein.
The civilian swapped looks with the colonel. “Accurate…in fact pinpoint accuracy. Defense Industries are dissecting the parts to see if there’s anything we may learn from it.”
‘…anything we may learn from it…’
“We located an entire rocket some distance from the most recent crash,” said Hirsch. “The terrorists have what is effectively a SAM missile, fully self-contained. With the remains, that’s how we found out. There is no fly-by-wire or anything like that. Our scientific people believe it to be a silhouette recognition program which means these rockets, when fitted, may be set and fired giving those responsible time to flee the scene.”
“So the group that did this as you say; are they likely to strike again?” asked the running man.
“Not this lot,” replied Hirsch. “The militants keep sprouting up like toadstools, though. Another cell will replace them soon enough.”
The suit worked the overhead display. Passed around the report which they all read. Subsequent plates and close-ups revealed circuitry, some wire clusters and grey metal servo arms attached to what appeared to be tiny plastic tubing, all in a state of damage; twisted to being unrecognizable. Components of the device had been painstakingly assembled. The heart of the system, no larger than a person’s hand, was most likely was assembled somewhere from Chinese-made components and then wired to a shock resistant autofocus eye-cam, possibly from Taiwan. Add to that a lithium cell battery from Japan and a cluster of wires and connections obtained from any electronics store. All attached to a web of high tensile lightweight arms and servos powered by compressed air. These parts had been crafted and packaged. Then affixed by rivets and screws into a crude metal tube filled with propellant.
The barrage of homemade rockets had unleashed terror upon residents in the south as they fell upon public areas, schools, gas stations and apartment blocks. ‘Qassam’ Rockets, they called them, named for the groups that started launching them. The introduction of a high quality yet simple guidance system had transformed such things into a pinpoint military threat, capable of grounding sections of the air force. The ramifications were vast.
Following the helicopter incident the services had received Intel from an undisclosed source. Acting upon this, a unit had carried out a bag job on a warehouse in Cairo resulting in the seizure of documents, hard drives, addresses and a goldmine of other evidence. The warehouse was torched and the owners
dealt with. Analysts had pieced together a paper trail leading to one location: a tiny freight agency based in Asia; a hole-in-the-wall operation that nobody would have noticed.
The civilian continued: “In a nutshell one thing came to our attention -- a company, an airfreight franchise, located in the Philippines. This company is registered as Aseancon Air Freight Incorporated, located at the above address very close to the international airport. As my colleague mentioned previously, we have had them tagged for about five or six months, during which time very little has taken place, although I will explain to you why we are acting now.”
The running man spoke. “The Philippines seems to be a wild card in all this; how come these items are going through there, if they are at all? Wouldn’t it make more sense for the supply chain to be going direct from, say the People’s Republic of China? Assuming you’re so sure of the source of the offending parts…”
“Good point. Due to the nature of this material we do believe those involved have set up office there in as a red herring. The Chinese wouldn’t dare openly involve itself in such a trade. And believe me, we’re about ninety nine percent certain the origin of it -- they resemble the circuitry of computer gaming software. We believe the components were flown either whole or separately, possibly stored in Manila and then forwarded as airfreight to Cairo.”
“Have you tried diplomatic pressure or inroads with official channels?” asked the running man.
“If only we knew where to put any official pressure,” the civilian replied. He then screened a map of South East Asia on the board. “It’s the point of export prior we’re really interested in. That’s what the second stage of your task will be. The first stage of the mission is something of far greater urgency. I suggest we take a break and get some air. Colonel, shall we?”
They returned exactly half an hour later. The civilian stood for his last address. “Okay, please pay close attention.” He projected a new slide on the screen. “Exactly three days ago, in the capital of the Philippines the remains of this man were located.” More slides, news footage and media reports. The sources didn’t have time to lift police reports, only public information was available. But the message was clear, whomever it was had been left there for all to see.
“We know the deceased by the name of William Robert Hatfield, United States nationality and single. Survived by next of kin in the USA, we believe. Date of birth was January 7th, 1980,” said the civilian. “This killing is a wake-up call; it implies we need to get in there, like now. We have had the deceased under surveillance as well as another business partner in the company Aseancon Air Freight.”
Another series of slides. This time a female…Asian. A maroon colored passport and golden figurine with wings on the cover. The mug shot insignificant, black hair, not pretty; not plain. No expression whatsoever. They all looked the same.
“This is our person of interest and why we believe there is a connection beyond such a small freight operation. She is of Thai nationality, never married and surprisingly, no next of kin by birth that we are aware of. Her date of birth is January 31st, 1975. We do know she is successful, well-educated and fluent in English as well as her own language. And it would figure she has some knowledge of Mandarin. We have designated her ‘The Cat’ because so far she has been rather difficult to catch.”
It was the colonel’s turn to speak. “We hope some of this makes sense. If I may summarize, the objective is to locate the female subject. We know she survived the attempt on her life. It is likely this person is still alive and hiding somewhere in or around Manila. We have a watch on all ports. Determine whether or not she is likely to be sympathetic, neutral or hostile. At this stage she is the primary person of interest and given recent events an urgent priority. We simply must find out the scope of this company’s operations. At the moment we have identified a pipeline, if you will call it, from Manila to Cairo, which for now has been shut down. Once we locate this woman we should have some hope of tracing this agency, and its links back to our possible source.”
“And if this person does indeed turn out to be hostile?” The running man spoke up. “Who tried to kill her, anyhow?”
“Just locate her then extract her. There are aspects to this mission that will become clarified once you meet her, things we do not know right now.” Hirsch paused and looked carefully at the faces of the four before him. “Just find her first. Then we can learn more.”
This was to be a cleaning mission. No loose ends. Need to be managed somewhat differently to the Dubai job.
Everyone stood. There would be one more session to follow. The group was now officially isolated -- no outside contact and no socializing with friends or family -- part of the agreement they’d all signed. Forty-eight hours they’d be in the air.
“Thank you for your time. Welcome to Operation Arcana. We wish you every success and safe passage.”
They filed out. The rider paused as they were leaving the room; she faced the running man who would be her new boss.
“Arcana?” she whispered. “A Greek goddess, wasn’t it?”
Lowenstein chuckled. “I thought you had all these language skills, Miss Blue…it’s a Latin word. Go look it up.”
She huffed…no internet access at all from now on; they were quarantined. The running man had the language skills: his own tongue, Asian languages, English, German. Latin and Italian he knew; it made up the operas he so loved.
The rider tossed her head like a thoroughbred. Still, she would need to get along with him. He was the field controller. Her career hinged on it.
The last briefing they got was the cultural induction. ‘Nameless Civilian’ dumped a pile of passports on the table; genuine, well-thumbed booklets issued by Ireland, South Africa and Brazil. Extended local visas and valid stamps, all the documents issued legit to their own embassy people in various far-flung capital cities. If any of them got pulled up by customs in a friendly country they could make a single call, get bailed out. That was the general idea, anyhow. They had to be careful.
One light moment there…the rider was a rugby fanatic, a sport unheard of here. The civilian was lecturing her about the best teams and the top match winners. She kept on correcting him. Typical spook; had no idea what he was talking about. Captain van de Meuwe was a typical Voortrekker, used to play in a women’s team in the old country. She kept thinking though…this was no friendly game, winner takes all. The stakes were sky-high.
“Sit with us, Major Lowenstein? A coffee?”
The rider and the Special Forces officer, they’d been paired up -- cover was newlyweds from Cape Town. They got along well, wouldn’t need to act the part. Suited each other.
“Mister Gold, to you Miss Blue…you heard the colonel.”
The running man gave them a stern look; they in turn looked guilty.
“Pardon me,” said the rider.
They were silent a while, uncomfortable. Drained their cups. It was the specialist officer who attempted some conversation, break the ice.
“They’re sending us business class, a nice change.”
“Mister Red, keep your hands still,” said the running man. “You’re a Saffer, now. Only time they use their hands is to knock a man out. Afrikaners…talk with their fists. Once is usually enough. Hard bastards…”
The rider giggled. “Know all about it, sir?”
“I know enough,” replied the running man. “I was there in ‘83. The good old days-- or bad, whichever side you see it from.”
“Really?” The rider frowned…memories.
“I was an instructor…jumps and insertion.” He nodded. “They were good, too.” The running man drummed the table, picked up his cup and saucer. “Anyhow, I’ll be turning in. Don’t get too cute with each other. Wait till it’s over, if you can control yourselves.”
They laughed. He stood.
“Have a safe trip. See you in Manila.”
