13E DEMI-BRIGADE DE LÉGION ÉTRANGÈRE BASE
DJIBOUTI
HORN OF AFRICA
Primo peered out of the right door's porthole as the plane taxied to the open hangar doors.
"It hasn't changed, Laurent. The base, I mean. Are you still training American Marines here?"
The younger Sergent-Chef pointed to the Humvees parked by the side of one of the base buildings. "The Americans are starting to pay attention to the Dark Continent. I think they've started to understand its importance since the Chinese and Indians have been locking up all the key resources vital to any new technologies." He pointed out the right side of the cockpit at several helicopters in a hangar. "They also launch some of their Somali raids from here, but of course it's all hush-hush."
Primo grinned as he shook his head. "They keep chasing Al-Qaeda in Pakistan and Afghanistan and the entire movement grows like a hydra on the east coast here, Indonesia, Philippines and all over the damned globe. It's going to take a shit load more than a few companies of marines or a few drones to stop their growth. It'll take a whole new strategy and set of tactics."
"We have to move the cargo to that plane," Laurent shouted as he throttled the engine before shutting it down. "It was seized from some drug smugglers and is clean for our purposes. Have you contacted Colonel Nobriega to find out where he wants us to deliver these weapons?"
"That lovely place that stirs our nightmares – Kandahar Province, Afghanistan." Primo started untying the cargo net as Laurent shut down the engines and completed his checklist.
"I thought he was in Quetta, Sergeant Major." Laurent squirmed between two seats as Primo opened the door. "We have to move loads in the hangar so that our friends in the sky can't see what we are doing. The major has ensured that this hangar is secured from curious eyes – including the Americans."
Primo jumped down from the craft and ran to a nearby forklift. He started the machine and carefully guided it to the aircraft's door.
"Call it out, Laurent." He inched the machine forward as he raised the lift.
"Left, left. Steady. Three meters. Slow. Stop."
Primo braked the machine and slowly elevated the lift.
"Up. Stop. Down. Stop. Perfect."
The two men quickly moved the canisters of weapons and munitions onto the forklift.
**
An hour later, with their cargo safely stowed in the new unmarked plane, both men waited for the Foreign Legion guards before beginning the long journey to the NCOs mess.
"Christ, I needed that run after sitting in that plane for five hours." Primo turned to the warming trays to see what had been left out by the chefs for the duty NCOs. "Nothing like a good beef bourguignon to prepare me for another four hours in the air."
Neither man noticed that they were being observed by a security contractor at one of the tables.
12 CHARLES STREET
LONDON
"Ronan, it makes no sense. Why would anyone follow us?" Sir William grumbled as he deposited his overcoat into the closet. "Hello, boy." He greeted the Newfoundland dog. "Ronan will take you for a walk so you can attack the big, bad men who were following us."
"William, they are monitoring us to see who we contact and where we are. They certainly don't think we're combatants at our advanced ages. They're just hoping that we're stupid enough to give away something."
"As if we had something to give away!" He turned to address his ever-patient manservant. "I'll have some lunch, Edmond. They didn't feed us at Colchester. What are you doing, Ronan?"
"My job. Iron Hammer here," Ronan spoke into the phone received as he collapsed into his desk chair. "What's the latest on Captain Al-Mezroui?" He held his hand up to silence Sir William.
The controller on the other end of the phone responded in a typical monotone. "We have additional information on Captain Al-Mezroui, sir. He was a part of the UAE force that was originally assigned to Afghanistan. His tour of duty was from 2005 to 2007. In late 2007, it appears he was turned over to the Americans as suspected Al-Qaeda. Seems one of the warlords in the Karzai government told the Americans he was an Al-Qaeda sympathizer. He collected quite a substantial reward from the CIA apparently. That would explain his brain contusions, except that Americans are not known to use that Israeli method of torture."
"Any possibility that there is an American contractor that was at Bagram who was Israeli trained or ex Israeli military?" Ronan interrupted.
"We are in the process of running that search on our databases, sir. However, I must caution that there have been over 300,000 security contractors in Afghanistan and we have not yet cross referenced all of them within our databases. I don't even think the Americans have reached that milestone as yet. Should we request their assistance, sir?"
"Definitely not! They've got too many damned contractors in their intelligence organizations. Christ! There'll be a leak within twenty-four hours to some bloody news channel. No American contact - and make sure we assign our best analysts on this. Continue."
Sir William stared at his friend in surprise.
The controller continued in his monotone. "The captain's family emigrated from Jordan, sir. He and the murder victim were both members of the same tribe of Negev Bedouins."
Ronan swiveled his chair and stared at the fireplace. "Were any of their relatives a member of the Israeli Defence Force?"
"Yes, sir. I was just about to advise you that Miss Hussein, your murder victim had a brother who had been a member of the IDF, he resigned his commission in protest in 2000 and moved to Jordan."
"Where is he now?"
"We think he's moved to Lebanon, sir. The last sighting was eighteen months ago by Mossad. Wait one, sir," the controller interrupted his response.
Ronan listened to the clicking sounds of the controller using a keyboard.
"Sir, our search for links between IDF and security contractors has turned up thirty names. We're in the process of tracking those men down."
"Assign Blue Team to this immediately." Ronan stood up and stretched in front of the raging fireplace. "Where is Miriam Hussein's brother?"
"We think he is operating with a splinter group of Palestinians in Beirut, sir. I'm waiting for confirmation from the French, sir."
"Get back to me when you have either confirmation. Iron Hammer out."
**
"Well? Don't keep me in bloody suspense!" Sir William finally exploded.
"Your murder victim and the accused were linked. She had a brother who left the Israeli forces and is now free lancing in Lebanon. We have potentially thirty men who are experts in the shaking torture method that the Israelis utilize in their interrogations. We're trying to determine which of them are presently employed by American Security contractors."
"And?" Sir William encouraged with several hand gestures.
"After that, we'll correlate which of them could have tortured the captain at Bagram, William. It will take us a few hours. Try to be patient, William." Ronan strode into the dining room.
Kitten immediately abandoned Sir William as he followed Ronan into the dining room.
"Patience, indeed." Sir William retrieved the satellite phone and carefully dialed.
QUETTA
"Time to go," Christopher whispered as he grasped Alexandra's shoulder. "Time to wake up."
"I wasn't sleeping!"
Alexandra's irritable pronouncement brought a grin to his face. "Sure."
"What are you doing?" She stared as he carefully removed the reflective blanket and the camouflage over their hiding spot.
"Take a moment and allow yourself to wake up." He retrieved his radio headset. "Hooker zero. Caliph One. Sit rep."
"Caliph One. Hooker Zero. Clear. Eyes on meet. Repeat. Eyes on meet."
"Hooker zero. Caliph One. Acknowledge eyes on meet. Returning to nest."
"Caliph One. Hooker Zero. Understood."
"Hooker zero. Out."
"If you have to go to the bathroom, this is the time." He continued policing their hide back to its natural condition.
Alexandra modestly adjusted her outer garments as she moved to the bush designated by Christopher.
"Don't you ever have to answer the call of nature?" She grumbled as she moved to the designated spot.
"While you were asleep, Sleeping Beauty."
**
An hour later, Christopher halted and gestured for Alexandra to join him on a stone ledge overlooking the refugee slums.
"Why are we stopping?" she whispered as a young boy led several donkeys, loaded with empty jerry cans, past them.
"Piss Poor Planning Predicts Pitiful Performance, Inspector. The six Ps are drilled into every cadet during training and, because of that, I like planning before I go into the lion's den." He paused and nodded to the west. "I'm going in there in an hour to meet with our supposed enemy. And I like keeping my ass intact, so I'll sit here and plan."
Alexandra joined him on the ledge.
They sat quietly as the sun slowly continued its journey to the horizon in a black orange glow.
She pointed to the refugee camp. "And you're going to tell them about the drone attack, aren't you?"
"Why wouldn't I tell you what I'm going to do, Inspector? You're the Mission Commander and I always tell my Mission Commanders what I'm going to do." He continued to focus on the campfires as their numbers increased in the west.
"You realize that if you do anything like that or even if I suspect that you're doing it, I am duty bound to stop you. And to report you," Alexandra whispered as she studied the white scar on his unshaven face.
His answering grin surprised her.
"I know that, Inspector."
"So what are you going to do?"
"My duty as I see fit." He returned the wave of the boy leading the jerry can laden donkeys. "Do you know what he's doing? He's earning a few paltry coins by fetching water for about six or seven families. And he's only eight or nine."
"We can't save everyone, Christopher..."
He pointed to the child and his four donkeys. "To his mother, his name is most likely Abdul, but to the rest of the world his name is Collateral Damage, did you know that? Him and ten or a hundred thousand eight-year-olds like him." He picked up several pebbles at his feet and started selecting several. "Twenty years ago, you might have convinced me that he was born evil, but that was until I was holding a six-year-old that I had gut shot in error and he was whimpering like any other child." He shook his head to clear the haunting image. "Do you think he will grow up to be a terrorist? Or is a genetic thing, Inspector?"
"You realize what you are about to do will be considered treason by some. If you tell the Taliban about the drone attack, I mean. Even if you tell only the Pakistani Army and they seize that base – it will be considered a court martial offence." She watched as he started to toss the pebbles into a shallow decline. "And I'm sorry about the six-year-old."
"Theoretically, you're correct, Inspector. If I was to do what you're thinking, I will be court martialed, but I won't watch women and children killed for some bizarre political or economic gain. Or do you belong to the camp that believes these people are just savages and anything we do to them is justified? Or do we save the odd one and place them in an orphanage to act as a salve for our consciences?"
"You can't save them all..."
"...listen to yourself. Who the hell gives us the right to play God? Do we have some moral right because 3,000 people died on 9/11? Or a hundred died on 7/7? Do we kill another 300,000 or 400,000 of these people to assuage our anger? Maim a few hundred thousand or a million? Create a three more million refugees? Is that what it takes to salve our fear or our need for revenge? Anyway, this is just a theoretical discussion, isn't it?"
Alexandra shook her head. "I am coming with you to that meeting."
He stood up and brushed his clothing. "The men I am meeting with would think that was hysterically funny. Anyway, as you said, you are duty bound to contact Sir William, Ronan and Lady Catherine, aren't you?" He began the journey without waiting for her.
"Wait! What makes you think that you're so right? How do you know the men you will be meeting don't have the blood of British servicemen on their hands?" She stumbled and regained her footing, but not before grabbing his shoulder to regain her balance. "You planned it this way since Lebanon, didn't you?"
"It was obvious that this mission was a false trail, Inspector. And as to your question about whether they have the blood of British servicemen on their hands - I don't know that, but I understand what they're fighting for. They think they're expelling an invader..."
"...and they deny women their human rights ..."
"...then we should bloody declare war on every country that does that!" He turned to face her. "Do you really imagine that every Afghan beats his wife? Do you always hate in the plural, Inspector? Do you understand anything about combat? Or are you so bloody accustomed to the push button, sanitized war you see on TV?"
Alexandra recoiled from the vehement response.
He shook his head to clear his emotions. "I am a paratrooper –not some asshole in a tank or a plane or in some camp far away from the fighting. That means I see, hear and smell the man I am hunting or fighting. I hear him die. I smell his shit and his blood. I hear his screams and whimpers. I hear the same from my men when they die. I hear them scream for their mothers and their Gods. It's bloody personal – not some antiseptic image on cable news with bloody repatriation ceremonies and political speeches." He turned and continued his downhill journey.
"Wait!"
He turned to face her. "What?"
"I won't see you after this, will I?"
A nod was her only response.
"Where are you going?" She stumbled after him on the rocky path.
"Back to my original mission. I am going to save a man I hung out to dry in an insane attempt to make peace. You're going to have to whip out that MP5 and shoot me if you want to stop me, Inspector."
She reached forward to grab the scarf on his shoulder. "I'm coming with you!"
His sudden halt caused her to run into his back. She collapsed in a bundle at his feet.
"Are you stupid, woman? This is a suicide mission! Assuming I can get him and his wife away from the Taliban, we have to thread our way through NATO and Taliban forces safely. My camel thieves know the danger, but you don't have to do this. Go back to London and study all those images on your CCTV and try to catch the nuts who call themselves jihadists and the thieves who run the politics that create these messes. This is the real world!" He held a hand out to help her to her feet. "I'll get you back to the airbase before I leave."
"I'm coming with you. And that's final!" She pushed his hand away.
"Don't be stupid. This is not some bloody movie where the good guys win."
"I'm coming because it will give you an advantage. No one is going to expect a woman to accompany a strike team – and that's final!" She stood up and began her downhill journey. Over her shoulder, she continued, "Besides which, you need an extra expert marksman and somewhere safe to hide your weapons."
"What?"
"You were the one who suggested that I could hide weapons under my breasts in a chadri, or did you forget, Colonel?"
An open-mouthed Christopher stared as she continued her descent to the valley floor.