Treasonable Intent
C. Shaw Hilton
Copyright © 2019 C. Shaw Hilton
KINDLE Edition
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored, in any form or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.
PublishNation
www.publishnation.co.uk
Contents
Prelude
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, April 2014
Chapter One
London, United Kingdom, Present Day.
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Epilogue
The Author
Prelude
Helmand Province, Afghanistan, April 2014
Fawzia felt her watch vibrate silently on her wrist. It was enough to rouse her from a light sleep. Slowly she swung her legs over the edge of the wooden bench she had made her bed for the night. As she dropped her feet onto the cold earth floor, instinctively her toes curled up inside her socks and she quickly fumbled underneath for her boots. It was cold and her breath spilt out as a fine mist. The small stone shelter smelled of goats and the half-light of dawn was still to penetrate the thick cloth that covered an opening in the far wall. She shivered as she dressed. Her combat fatigues felt damp and were stained and dusty from the exertions of the previous few days. She threw on a long coat and tidied her headdress before opening the door. In the poor light she looked like a local tribeswoman carrying a small bundle of cloth hung from her shoulder. Only the purposeful erect stride would have given her away as anything else. She headed out down the thin, snaking mountain trail towards her rendezvous.
Helmand Province had been a nightmare. Whilst her first two months were largely spent in the relative comfort of a command centre, undertaking analysis of signals intelligence; the last six weeks on the front line had been a shock. The attrition, the level of intensity of combat and the fragmentation of the tribal social structures, made her job almost impossible. In her reconnaissance missions she struggled to decipher friend from foe. Tasked with understanding how the Taliban drew their support and organised their supply lines amongst the local tribal groups the whole place felt as unreal as it was hostile.
Twice she had narrowly avoided being blown up by improvised explosive devices. Then a fortnight ago she had been working with a team behind enemy lines, taking photographs of an insurgent training camp. By chance, their position was discovered by a local shepherd, resulting in the mother of all fire fights and a brutal helicopter extraction in which two soldiers were killed. This morning she was reporting back on three days of covert observation hiding in the animal pens and rocky countryside around a small herding village. Military Intelligence Corps thought it was used as a weapons distribution centre but had wanted a closer look. Fawzia had now seen enough to know their suspicions were correct.
Now in her middle thirties she was a rarity amongst the British army. Of Somali heritage and with a good command of languages she would be a useful asset anyway but her real expertise lay in the analysis of intelligence and her grasp of logistics. Added to that she had proved to be very adept at covert observation and had shown her mental and emotional strength in combat experience. Fit and agile she moved swiftly across the rocky countryside.
The trail led into a small hanging valley overshadowed by a jagged saw-tooth range of towering mountains. The sun began to slowly break through, casting long shadows across the rough valley floor. Carefully she picked her way amongst the boulders and headed for a distinctive beehive shaped rock. It perched above the narrow letter box entrance to a natural cave. As she approached a light flickered briefly inside giving three long and two short flashes. She reached into her cloth bag and pulled out a small flashlight. Two long flashes, five seconds and one short one. The signal was reciprocated and she moved ahead swiftly.
As she stooped into the cave entrance she could make out four figures in the half light. A male voice echoed in the gloom: “Good morning Captain Wilkins.”
Fawzia could just about stand up under the rocky roof and gave a formal salute. “Good morning sir.” She replied breathlessly. It was the MI6 mission lead, Olsson. He wore civilian clothes but she knew he had the technical rank of a Colonel. He was accompanied by a young lieutenant and two sergeants from the Special Reconnaissance Regiment. She recognised them from her time at the command centre. They smiled and stepped forward to embrace her. “You look rough and smell worse” joked the lieutenant. She laughed, as much from relief at ending her mission, as at the banter.
Olsson pulled a Toughbook from a steel case on the floor and flipped it open: “Tablet please,” he asked. Fawzia pulled the encrypted tablet from her cloth bag. It contained all her voice recorded reports, photographs, sketches and GPS maps. Within seconds she entered the synchronisation codes and the transfer of information began. He nodded at her: “I take it this establishes that our suspicions were well founded?”
She took a deep breath. “I’m afraid so. Albeit from a distance, I observed weapons arrive by various transport routes over the last three days. I think they are checked and sorted before being dispatched to the front line. There appear to be secret cellars under some of the buildings, probably where opium is refined and stored. That is certainly how they are paying for their hardware. Using the micro drone I saw everything from handguns to anti-tank rocket launchers, mostly contemporary designs.”
Olsson was checking the upload and let out a slow whistle. “Good work. This looks like a bigger part of the picture than we thought. You’ve intercepted enough traffic from their communications to demonstrate how they are operating, so job done. Well, almost.” He paused, looking at her thoughtfully. “I don’t think we can simply extract. The place needs razing to the ground, ideally now
while it is full of weapons and drugs. I’m going to ask you to go back with the lieutenant here and take up a position overlooking the village. You are to wait until nightfall and then make a damage assessment after we hit it with an airstrike.”
Fawzia froze. Her mind hadn’t even contemplated an airstrike. The original brief was supposed to see if the target justified intensive drone observation to track the distribution routes and depots. At some point she imagined the village might be stormed but an indiscriminate bombing was something else. “I’m sorry sir but that isn’t possible. The place is full of unarmed civilians including children. They are kept there as cover under duress.”
Olsson closed his Toughbook and placed it back in his case. He looked at her directly. His voice was firm and dispassionate. “Then you will have to think of a way of getting them out of there without warning the Taliban, but believe me Captain, it is going to be turned into a fireball.” He turned to the two sergeants and with a slight gesture beckoned them to follow him. At the entrance he paused and turned back to face her. His tone softened. “We will go back to the command centre and keep in contact from there. Believe me, if there is a way you can devise to limit or avoid collateral casualties I will be the first to support it. However these weapons could turn this war against us and I am not prepared to allow that; nor ask men and women in the service of our country to face an enemy I could have destroyed.” Without a further word he headed out into the strengthening daylight followed by his two escorts.
“I guess he has a point” said the lieutenant, closing up a backpack which contained his radio and checking his rifle. Fawzia watched as the figures disappeared down the valley.
“I’m not convinced” she replied. “If we want the village we could storm it with little risk of casualties. This is a sledgehammer to crack a nut. He knows perfectly well I will have little chance to get the non-combatants out of there without compromising any airstrike.”
The lieutenant simply nodded. It felt purposeless to continue the discussion so he focussed on his preparations. He struggled into a long black coat and turban hat over his lightweight combat fatigues. “Let’s head out” he muttered when finished. She looked at him awkwardly as though contemplating refusing to move but after a few seconds, slung her bag over her shoulder and exited the cave. The sun was already climbing above the mountains and whilst it was possible to hide in the animal shelters at night, the chance of discovery meant that the village had to be observed from the overlooking hilltops during daylight. This left both of them exposed to the heat, flies and risk of being spotted by herders. It would be a long and unpleasant day.
Over the next twelve hours there was little movement in the village. Then as darkness began to fall, a battered old truck slowly climbed the gravel road from the west. It had a flat load platform covered in a brown tarpaulin, under which Fawzia could make out several crates. Two of the larger houses suddenly became a hive of activity with men carrying rifles appearing from nowhere and taking up positions along the single street and on roof tops. The lieutenant peered through night vision binoculars. “That looks like some heavy stuff. The crates are too big for rifles.”
Fawzia looked through the night scope on top of her carbine rifle as the truck pulled to a halt by the first large house and the driver leapt out to be greeted by the reception committee. “I agree. They are different sizes as well. Could be a mixed shipment. I’m going to try to get closer. You alert Command Centre.” With that she slithered away from the rock face and, keeping low, began to scamper across the rocky landscape using whatever she could as cover in the enshrouding darkness.
An hour later she was back, breathless but elated. “It’s an anti-aircraft rocket battery complete with radar and control unit. All boxed and ready to go. The good news is that I managed to put an explosive charge on the grain barn just outside the village, next to the water tower and a fuel tank. I can detonate it remotely ahead of an airstrike. It should flush the villagers out to try and save it from burning down. It will also illuminate the target for our aircraft.”
The lieutenant was sceptical. “It’s not a good idea, you know. The Taliban could ship out at the first sign of trouble and what’s to say the villagers just won’t stay put in their homes when the barn goes up?”
“It’s taken them an hour to unload that truck so it isn’t going anywhere in a hurry. That barn is the villager’s food supply for winter so they will try to save it,” she replied emphatically.
The lieutenant looked unconvinced but concentrated on relaying the information on his radio. After a few moments he turned to her. “They aren’t waiting. I think the idea of an AA battery spooked them. The strike is in 40 minutes.” Fawzia looked up at the quarter moon and clear skies. “Yes”, she thought to herself, “and minutes before I am going to start that barn fire and give those villagers a fighting chance.”
Half an hour before the attack she moved out. In the corner of her eye she saw a figure following her across the dry landscape. “I’m right behind you,” came the voice of the young lieutenant. She smiled to herself. There was more to him than his reticence about her plan had suggested. She turned and nodded and then simply resumed her fast paced approach to the village perimeter.
The range of the electronic trigger for the explosive charge was between 300 and 250 metres. They found a gulley behind a rocky outcrop just 200 metres from the barn and hunkered down. The waiting was the most difficult part but for once the time didn’t seem to drag out. With five minutes to go before the strike she moved out of the small gulley and pressed the remote trigger. Nothing happened. Again she pressed the button. Again nothing. Her mind raced. She could cover the ground to the barn in under a minute. Without hesitating she sprinted forwards. To her left she saw the lieutenant flanking her with his rifle raised to the shoulder in a classic assault stance. Then all hell broke loose. From the far edge of the barn a muzzle flash followed by several others from the darkness to her left. More flashes from around the base of the water tower to her right. Fawzia threw herself to the ground and returned fire, more to deflect her assailants than with any real prospect of hitting them. The lieutenant’s SA80 shook the night air with three second bursts at the dark figures around the water tower. Bullets spattered the rocks around their position. The intensity of the fire halted their forward progress. With momentum and surprise lost they had no choice but to slowly withdraw. Working backwards they saw that they were heavily outnumbered and already being outflanked. Their exit route would soon be closed off by cross fire. In a last desperate move Fawzia aimed her rifle at the explosives on the side of the barn and emptied the rest of her magazine. Nothing happened.
“Let’s go!” shouted the lieutenant as he laid down a barrage of covering fire. They ran backwards reloading and firing as they went but the third set of magazines was their last. They turned to race away from the continuing onslaught. At that moment the ground heaved like a mighty earthquake had rent it apart and within half a second a brilliant white light filled the air. The airstrike was early.
The blast wave and heat swept out from the epicentre around the two main houses and the parked truck. Everything within the first fifty metres was shattered and incinerated. Thousands of pieces of broken wood, stone and metal were thrown across the village like a hail storm. In the space of a few seconds those unfortunate enough to be in its path were ripped apart and killed. Fawzia felt herself lifted off the floor and a crushing hand on her torso followed by the searing sensation of heat across her back. Those chasing her were engulfed in flame.
In the following minutes she lay crumpled on the hard ground, curled up in a foetal position, covered in earth and sobbing for breath. Her back and neck felt raw and she could smell burnt flesh. Her ears were ringing but otherwise she could hear nothing. Gradually the dust began to clear. Illuminated by the furnace the village had become, she could make out the motionless silhouette of the young lieutenant splayed awkwardly against a stone wall. Even half -conscious she knew he was de
ad. Her survival instinct kicked in. She dug herself out of the earth and rubble and began to crawl into the darkness away from the catastrophic damage behind her. Then everything went black.
Fawzia remembered the helicopter and the pain. Then brief flashes of a field hospital at Camp Bastion. Later she was revived from an induced coma and recognised her foster parents at the bedside in Birmingham. There was relief through the pain that all her limbs had been saved. She was aware that she had been badly burned and that the scars of blast injuries would remain with her. Nevertheless even in those early half-conscious days she had a growing feeling that she would survive this and return to defend her country and its way of life. In amongst all of the physical injury was a thread of emotional pain, a sense of failing to protect those villagers and a resentment about the callous nature of the airstrike. Such emotion became a contributory driver over the following months to fuel her ambition to return to duty and restore her battered and burned body.
It was to be a long haul and in the process she had to fight many mental demons as well as master her physical challenges. After two years, she was sent for advanced skin graft treatments in a private clinic abroad as part of a special arrangement for military personnel contracted through the Ministry of Defence. In May 2016 she returned to active duty in Military Intelligence, promoted to the rank of Major and assigned to support the Joint Cyber Warfare Unit. It was to be the closure of one chapter of her life and the start of another that would prove even more of a test for her.
Chapter One
London, United Kingdom, Present Day.
It was that strange dawn twilight hour and London was already awake. The olive green land rover sped along Whitehall, as it could at 5am, with the highway almost deserted. Approaching the Ministry of Defence building, it pulled a sharp right and drew up to the kerb with a squeal of brakes. The door was cast open and the tall figure of Major Fawzia Wilkins sprang out clutching a small rucksack. “Thanks for the ride” she shouted without a backwards glance and raced up the steps and into the impressive portico before pushing open the heavy wooden door.
Treasonable Intent Page 1
