by J C Ryan
8
Bethesda, MD, June 21, 2014 2:30 a.m.
CARSON HAD A secret. He shared a vice with Hathaway’s pet Senator, and in fact belonged to the same secret club to indulge it. The Senator had been instrumental in getting Carson nominated for the position as Director of the CIA and then pushing his nomination through Congressional confirmation hearings. The senator owned him. Another mutually-assured destruction situation, but Carson preferred to think of it as a mutually beneficial situation.
At precisely 2:30 a.m., Carson’s secured personal cell phone rang. He’d been in bed for about half an hour, having spent too much of the previous evening at his favorite club. He reached for the phone, squinting to see who was calling, and became instantly alert.
“Senator, what is it? How can I help?” He had the idea that he was going to have to go and pull the senile old man out of a dicey situation, though he hadn’t seen him at the club earlier. The nature of the entertainment meant the members often could spend an entire evening without knowing a friend was similarly occupied elsewhere on the premises.
“Call off your dogs, you bastard,” the Senator barked.
“What are you talking about?”
“The Afghanistan mission. Who authorized you to declare war on the opium trade? I thought we had a mutual understanding of what a delicate position we’re in vis-à-vis their government and their source of income?”
Carson was stung. Of course, he knew of the delicate balance. His organization was deeply involved in ensuring it remained balanced. He personally had ordered many studies with the unambiguous instructions that the findings should show how important it was that the Afghan opium industry should not be touched. Therefore, the reports showed that opium was the livelihood, directly and indirectly, of many Afghan people. Taking it away would have dumped them in poverty and desperation, which would make them flee right into the waiting arms of the Taliban, al Qaeda, or ISIS.
Carson steadied his thoughts and remembered that the only CIA sanctioned operation in progress at the moment that had anything to do with the opium trade in Afghanistan was the fact-finding mission outsourced to CRC about a year ago. However, the mission parameters were clear: gather information, send in your reports and do nothing else — no action.
“Senator, I can assure you, I haven’t issued orders to that effect.”
“Then who is it, and why haven’t you reported their actions? Your outfit is supposed to know what’s going on over there at all times.”
Carson had read the reports coming in from the nameless CRC agent. It was clear the man was a bit worked up over there and wanted to see some action, but the directive from his side remained clear. No action. Was it possible that the agent could have…?
“What exactly have you heard? It may be that something’s been brewing and blew up unexpectedly. Maybe its tribal warfare. After all, it’s been their favorite pastime for thousands of years.”
“I doubt it very much. The fact is a large storehouse of heroin was blown up last night. The Afghan government is livid, because they counted on the taxes from the sale of that heroin to fund their army to fight against the Taliban.
“And that’s not all, it seems as if this phantom force has been doing this for a while now. I just can’t believe you don’t even know about it.” The senator continued and rattled off a long list of dates, places, quantities of drugs destroyed, and people killed over the past few months.
“When the President hears about it, he’s going to be pissed. We’re supposed to be de-escalating the war, pulling out of there, but we can’t if they don’t have enough defense to keep their own civilians safe from the insurgents. You know as well as I do they need the opium money to keep their government and military going.”
“I understand,” Carson mumbled.
“Do you? Well, then make this problem go away, pronto.”
“I’ll shake some trees and see what falls out,” Carson answered. “I’ll get back to you as soon as humanly possible,” he added.
When the call ended, Carson took a vial of white powder out of his bedside table drawer. He carefully spilled a little onto the top of the table and used a pocketknife to line it up just so. The same pocketknife sliced an ordinary drinking straw at an angle, and Carson inhaled the powder. The rush was instant, and he felt omnipotent. He was ready to devise a plan and have it in place by sunrise.
CIA headquarters, 3.30 a.m.
CARSON WAS IN his office at the George Bush Center, at the headquarters of the CIA in Langley, Fairfax County, Virginia by 3:30 a.m.
He had pulled up on his computer the mission reports provided by this CRC agent in Afghanistan. He had seen these reports before, but that’s exactly what it was, he saw them, and he filed them away. Now, for the first time he actually read them and paid attention to the contents. It was the first time he noted this agent’s report writing style. It was intriguing, short, to the point, and very informative; names, associates, addresses, GPS coordinates, even military satellite maps. Over time, the agent’s requests for action had become more frequent and more passionate, but then abruptly ended. Reports were still coming in but were now much shorter, repeated known information and didn’t have any requests for action anymore.
Carson had never seen such a comprehensive and, admittedly, honest account of the Afghan opium industry. Detailed information from the producers to the labs, to the warehouses, the distribution routes, distributors, and much more. Even the number of people killed by drug overdoses in the US and Europe. All of it, and much more, was there.
Carson was wondering if this agent was this terrifying ‘Ghost’ Brandt had told him about. He’d thought Brandt had been exaggerating when he talked up this ‘Ghost’ and his abilities. It sounded so James Bond-ish that Carson was certain Brandt had been spinning tall tales. At the time, very entertaining, but impossible to believe it was all true. Now he wasn’t certain.
Whether it was the ‘Ghost’, or not, this agent knew too much. If he was responsible for the havoc caused among the Afghan drug lords, as alleged by the senator, they had a headache, which would soon turn into a crippling migraine.
It was an untenable situation. The agent had to be recalled or eliminated, without delay.
It didn’t take Carson more than a few seconds to discard the recall idea. The information in that agent’s head was just too much for comfort. Apart from being a user of the Afghan product himself, Carson knew it was going to be extremely counterproductive to have an agent with that kind of knowledge arrive in the US and tell anyone the real story about Afghan opium.
The agent had to disappear — permanently.
CARSON CALLED SARAH Brittle and the head of Counter Terrorism to his office and read them in on the details of the reports provided by the CRC agent in Kabul and explained that he thought it was time to do something about the situation.
Brittle and her head of Counter Terrorism were quietly thrilled about the Director’s display of backbone and were more than happy to give their input to his plans. Two hours later they had the first target selected. It was a compound located in a place known as Koh-e Shir Darwaza, a very poor area on one of the highest peaks of Kabul. It was a known trouble area with basically a hundred percent of the residents in this area sympathetic to the Taliban, according to the agent’s informant. The agent had been unable to visit the place yet.
At best, the information was scanty and unverified. However, the location of the target was known and pinpointed on a satellite map. According to the informant, this location was the regional headquarters of the most powerful drug lords. It also served as the venue for their meetings. According to the agent’s mole, it was from this location where they planned and coordinated their business.
Carson’s take on it was that if the informant’s report was correct and this was indeed the HQ, demolishing it would leave the drug lords’ operations in shambles, rendering the warehouses and labs as sitting ducks, which could easily be picked off afterwards.
“Like shooting fish in a barrel,” he said.
Sarah Brittle and the head of Counter Terrorism were pleased that they had brought the Director around to their view of the security problems and how it should be addressed. The Director’s plan made good sense, they were happy with it and told him so.
It was agreed that the Director would personally brief John Brandt at CRC about the new mission.
9
CRC Headquarters, Arizona, June 21, 1:00 a.m.
SINCE THE FORMATION of CRC, years before, John Brandt had gone about recruiting the crème de la crème from all branches of the military’s Special Operations elite. When recruits arrived at his Arizona headquarters, an area so remote that not even rumors leaked out, he always gave them the same message, and it was only the worst part of the story, before demanding that they make the choice to stay or leave, on the spot.
“You will disappear from the lives of your friends and loved ones. They will assume you are dead. Chances are they’ll be right within only a few years. To say that our missions are dangerous is like saying a cougar might eat a bunny. As tough as you are right now, make no mistake – you are the bunny.
“Before we will trust you with any mission, we will do our best to kill you right here. Those of you who learned spycraft will now learn hand-to-hand combat and weapons expertise. And vice-versa. You will be required to learn at least two other languages, and you will learn those that we need, and it might not be the ones you were interested in. When we’re through training you, you will each be a one-man army and intelligence unit.
“Despite the danger, your missions may require months of boredom. They will certainly require moments or hours of sheer terror. If you are not willing to take on all that I’ve just told you and more, you will be returned to your units, but if you decide to leave, take note, any mention of this unit to anyone, even in your sleep, will be your death warrant. My agents will find you and frag you, and your death will be made to look like an accident.
“Now, who wants out?”
In the years he’d been giving that speech, Brandt had never had to return a man to his unit on the first day. One reason was that before recruitment, each man had been discredited prior to graduation from whatever unit they were in at the time. Another was that his selection process involved psychoanalysis from the moment the man entered the military.
At the Arizona location it was all men. There was another division of CRC that trained and employed women, but its very existence was unknown to everyone at the Arizona base except John Brandt. CRC Arizona’s missions were mostly in countries where women were treated horrifically. Just being a woman in those countries would have been such a hindrance it would have placed the mission in jeopardy.
Of all the men he’d recruited over the years, Rex Dalton was the best and arguably the brightest. He wasn’t the biggest, but he’d take on anyone, regardless of size, and he’d win because of his brains and his Krav Maga skills. His natural coloring allowed him to pass for native in most of the countries where CRC operated, and such a camouflage was an asset. His talent with languages bordered on supernatural. And he’d sent the man on the most boring assignment CRC had ever accepted – nothing but intel gathering. He did it on advice of the unit’s resident psychologist who thought it was necessary to give Rex a mission that would be less stressful than his previous ones and allow him to unwind a bit. The shrink was convinced Rex was a walking nuclear weapon, just waiting for a button to be pushed.
So, when Brandt received the call just before turning in for the night, his headaches with his best agent chafing at the assignment suddenly went away.
“Brandt, what kind of support does your man in Kabul have? We have an urgent mission, and it’s too late for us to mobilize a conventional Spec Ops mission. Can he handle it?”
The CIA director sounded completely alert, so Brandt didn’t question the hour of the call. At this time of year, Washington would have been three hours ahead of Arizona, but the fact that it was the wee hours of the morning in DC didn’t cross his mind. Even if it had, the word ‘urgent’ was enough explanation for the lateness of the call.
“The short answer is ‘probably’. Give me more details, and I’ll be able to answer more confidently.”
“We have SIGINT that there’s to be a meeting of the top drug lords and a couple of Taliban leaders at the suspected HQ site your agent reported about. The one at Koh… shit I don’t know how the hell anyone can even pronounce this name. The Director tried again, slower this time, but gave up and spelled it out.
Brandt wrote it down, Koh-e Shir Darwaza. He looked at the map of Afghanistan on the wall and saw the red pin he’d placed there after reading Rex’s report, months ago.
“Does your man have resources he can call on to assist him?”
“Yes, he has.”
“How will he do it?”
“We’ve talked about this before, Carson. My teams’ methods and support resources are secret, and their safety depends on them remaining so. Just trust me. He has support. That’s all you need to know.”
Carson was silent for a minute. Brandt reminded him that he hadn’t given a location or time for the meeting.
“Oh, of course. How silly of me. The meeting is called for 11:00 p.m. Juliet.”
Brandt just grinned at Carson’s self-conscious attempt to sound military-like. The man had never been in military service, so the affectation was ridiculous. He was all business when he replied, “He’ll be in place no later than ten Juliet.”
“Make it nine-thirty,” Carson said. “Just to be sure he’s there before the tangos.”
“Tangos, right. You’ve got it.” Brandt hung up thinking Carson was an idiot, but he didn’t have time to indulge in that for long. His first thought was, what’s got up Carson’s ass? For months he’s been ignoring Dalton’s heartfelt pleas to attack and destroy the warehouses and labs, and now all of a sudden, he can’t get the leaders killed quickly enough. Brandt looked at the array of clocks on the wall, the Afghanistan one showed it was 1:25 p.m. in Kabul. Less than eight hours to plan and execute an operation was cutting it close, even for Dalton.
10
Phoenix Headquarters, Kabul, Afghanistan, 1:30 p.m.
BRANDT HAD NO idea that Rex Dalton was catching up on some much-needed sleep after his most recent predation on the Afghan drug trade had done its damage.
Fortunately for Rex, he always woke fully alert, no matter how little sleep he’d had. Aside from the brief interruption when the truck blew up, he’d had an almost-luxurious five hours’ rest, so when he answered his cell phone and realized he was getting an encrypted call, he assumed his work had paid off. Now his intelligence reports would get some response, the CIA or the military would take over, and he was being recalled.
Instead, Brandt was rapidly telling him about a change in his mission parameters. It took him a few seconds to catch up.
“Wait, back up. I’m supposed to gatecrash and break up this meeting you’re telling me about?”
“Where’s your head, Dalton? I’m telling you the Director of the CIA himself has authorized you to take out the people involved in this meeting. Not just break it up. He wants the drug lords, the Taliban leaders, and any heroin you find onsite blown to Kingdom Come, not just disrupted.”
Rex took the phone from his ear and stared at it. It didn’t tell him anything new. He put it back and said, “Why this sudden change of heart?”
“Ours is not…” Brandt began.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah – not to reason why. Okay, boss, you’ve got it. But I’ve got to say, this is a strange turn of events.” Rex deliberately left the rest of the quote out. Maybe it was superstition not to recite the inaccurate words everyone thought the poem said – ‘Ours is but to do or die’. Rex knew the correct words from the poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson, The Charge of the Light Brigade. It said; Theirs not to make reply/ Theirs not to reason why/ Theirs but to do and die. His emphasis on ‘and’.
“You thin
k you can’t handle it…” Brandt left the end of the sentence hanging. It was his way of challenging Rex to stop questioning the order and get to work.
Rex didn’t bother to respond to the challenge, he just said, “I’ll let you know when it’s done.”
“Break a leg,” Brandt said. Like actors, soldiers never wished each other good luck. They believed it was a sure-fire way to invite the opposite.
REX WASTED NO more time in sleep. He had a lot to do, and not much time to do it. First order of business was to scout the location. He wished he had access to spy drones. That would have made it so much easier and less risky than entering what was practically the warfront. As it was, all he had was his looks, his fluency in the language, and his skills.
Because it was broad daylight, Digger would be a liability. So, Rex had to leave Trevor and Digger to get as much sleep as they needed, and instead approached Frank to talk about the mission first.
By noon, Frank had agreed to put himself, Trevor and Digger, plus five more of his best men at Rex’s disposal. Rex had all intentions to arrive unannounced at this party, but while he was going to be in the neighborhood he would use the opportunity to ask the partygoers a few questions before dispatching them all to a happier place.
Frank assigned one of his men to go with Rex to scout the location. On the way, Rex and his companion would swing by the market and have a quick word with the informant who told him about this place before. Maybe the man could draw a few sketches of the place. That’s if Rex could get hold of him. It turned out that the informant wasn’t at his usual place at the coffee shop. The owner told Rex that the man hadn’t come in yet and heard from a friend of the guy that he had gone to visit some relatives but had no idea where they lived.
