The Mercenary Option Page 19

  “Excuse me,” Simpson interrupted, “but why don’t we have a—what did you call it—a kill house at our camp?”

  “Well, there are only two companies in the nation with the expertise to construct these facilities, and they are very expensive. Each room has to be fitted with antiballistic sheeting, and to make it effective, the walls have to be movable to configure the rooms for different kinds of training scenarios. Like I said, it can be expensive.”

  Simpson simply said, “If cost is the only objection, then have one built. What else?”

  Steven knew price was no object, but he had run black operations on a budget for so long he found it hard to spend money freely. He pulled a wheelbook from his rear trouser pocket and flipped through a few pages, then began to brief Simpson on camp activity. Most of the needed equipment—field gear, GPSs, night optics, laser gun sights—was available on the open market. The radios they would need for training on Hawaii and forward deployed in an operational posture were among the most expensive items. And they would have to rent satellite time. Steven had hired a retired Navy chief storekeeper to tend to the day-to-day needs of the camp. He was going to hire a cook for the galley, but the Gurkhas preferred to do their own cooking. Bijay and Garrett normally ate with them, and on occasion so did he, but more often than not, Lon had dinner waiting for him when he got home. As the operation expanded, they would be needing a cook, but that was in the future. Right now, the camp operated with the storekeeper, local contract labor, Bijay, Garrett, and Steven.

  “It won’t be too long until we can declare ourselves open for business. It’s probably not too early to begin assembling an operations staff and some support personnel. At a minimum we will need an operations planner who can double as a security officer, a communications specialist, and an air operations/resupply type. I will also need someone who can falsify documents and travel overseas for advance work. I have just the man in mind. Garrett also has a list of names from which to select the others. For now, I’d like to have one or the other of us at the camp or nearby in the islands. That will free the other to travel as needed to conduct interviews. We need to get started on this as soon as we can. These people have to be trained as well and integrated with the operators. My question for you, sir, is about our air assets?”

  Simpson rolled a cracker basted with caviar into his mouth and munched silently for a moment. “I can have an extended-range Gulfstream G550 here from L.A. within six hours of when you say it’s needed. I could keep it at the Kona airport from time to time if we need to be in a high state of readiness, but it would be a little conspicuous if it were there for an extended period of time. We have a number of these planes, and while they are not troop transports, they can move small numbers of people and equipment very fast and very efficiently.”

  That was a $50 million aircraft, Steven mused, and I was concerned over the price of an expensive shooting facility.

  “The foundation owns six modified C-130 transports,” Simpson continued, “and we’ve tried to recruit crews from the First Special Operations Wing at Hurlburt Field in Florida. The word is out that we pay top dollar for experienced ex-military combat pilots. And it makes sense. We’ve been shot at more than once delivering food and medicine in Africa. We keep them based in Germany. Considering the humanitarian work we do, the U.S. Air Force has given us basing privileges at Ramstein Air Base in Frankfurt. We also have ten, soon to be twelve, H-60 helicopters. As with the C-130s, they have most of the modifications associated with military special-operations aircraft. They are scattered about because of range restrictions, and we keep them on the move a great deal—Africa, India, Malaysia, for the most part. Again, we’ve had no problem finding capable ex-military pilots. The extensive electronics and extra fuel tanks on our aircraft have raised a few eyebrows among our pilots, but for the most part, they’re glad to be flying well-equipped and well-maintained equipment. From what I’m told, a few of them suspect that there may be more to the job than flying humanitarian missions, but that doesn’t seem to bother them. At some point in time, you or your staff will have to brief them about what may be a special mission, one in which they will be carrying something other than food. I’ll leave that to you and Garrett.” He paused, rubbing his hands together. “This is all very exciting, and I’d love to make another visit sometime, but it may be best if I stay away for a while. Too many people know me, and I’d like to protect our cover story for as long as possible. Speaking of cover, are we doing any of that?”

  “Guardian Systems International is brokering Gurkhas for private security work around the world, and through Bijay’s contacts, we get the best of the best. And since Gurkhas are almost a commodity when it comes to loyalty and service, no one has questioned that the Gurkhas we broker are from Nepal or Singapore rather than the ones we train on the Big Island. Still, it helps our cover of training men for corporate security work and executive protection. We have a retired Gurkha sergeant major in Kathmandu on the payroll who looks after our interests there. From that standpoint, it looks like GSI will turn a modest profit in its first year of operation.” Steven paused a moment before continuing. “As you know, I’ve had some experience running secret organizations. We have the best of all worlds here, providing a real product while actually doing something different. If someone looks a little closer at us, we have a fallback position; we provide executive protection services and paramilitary training cadres to foreign governments. This works well, as it is a venture where discretion and secrecy are part of normal business practice. And there are competitors like Global Options and O’Gara Security Services. But a good government investigator, or even the commercial competition, can cut through all this. They can find out about you if they’re persistent. It will take them some time to peel back the onion, but they can do it. I can build a fire-wall on most commercial inquiries, but not a dedicated federal investigator. Somewhere along the line, it may be in our interest to let someone in the government, at some level, know what we’re up to.” Steven shrugged. “It may never happen, but I’d like not to leave it up to chance. We perhaps don’t have to think about this right now, but somewhere down the line we should.”

  “So what are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’m saying we should consider how our government may react if they learn of our venture. And we should do this before we employ this force we’re training. We are not asking for funding, sanction, or approval, but if we have a contact, some communications with someone at a high level, then they can kill any official investigation before it gets started. There is also the matter of black support, and even a quid pro quo. An exchange at some level with Washington on what our government may feel needs to be done, but cannot do, might be very helpful.”

  Simpson was silent for some time. “Let me give that some thought. I will naturally consult you on any measures along this line, but I see what you’re getting at—fair enough?”

  “Fair enough, sir.” Steven still found it difficult to call him Joe, and Simpson had grown weary of reminding him.

  “And now,” Simpson continued, “I understand that they have some very fine ahi here. Shall we indulge?”

  Steven nodded, and they took up their menus for study.

  Monday evening, November 18,

  Manzai, Pakistan

  Manzai was little more than a poor agriculture village in northwestern Pakistan. At least, that’s what it seemed—a village whose only visible means of income were substance farmers who lived in the area. Like so many who lived in the foothills of the Sulaiman Range, the people of Manzai made their living in a number of ways—smuggling, banditry, and even an occasional slave. There was still a market for slaves, usually young boys, even in the twenty-first century. And now that the Taliban had been effectively removed from Afghanistan, the opium trade was booming. It was a poor community where revenue was dear and services without question, cheap. They were sixty miles from the Afghan border and three hundred miles by car from the capital. Those in Islamabad
and the Punjab couldn’t care less what the people here did. And those who lived in and around Manzai couldn’t care less about the government in Islamabad. They could be roused by Hindus in Kashmir and by infidels in Afghanistan, but the laws passed in Islamabad or the influence of the central government existed in name only. Tribal and ethnic considerations were all that mattered. The men of the village, whose fathers and grandfathers had fought for a Muslim nation, still talked about the days when the Raj ruled India and they were a part of Hindustan. In 1947 Pakistan had become an independent state. That the provinces of Punjab and Bengal were cut in half, and Kashmir still in dispute, was proof of the injustice of the West and the treachery of the Indians. If that were not enough, in 1972 East Pakistan became Bangladesh, further example of manipulation by the Indians and the West. Because of this, no recent government in Islamabad had been able to stay in power without external threats to the nation. Kashmir was a Muslim point of honor. Only the Indian troops massed along the Line of Control in Kashmir had allowed the Musharraf government a free hand to help the Americans in Afghanistan. In Manzai, contempt for Americans was only slightly less than that for Hindus.

  Per their instructions, Moshe Abramin and Mirza Riaz had driven the Toyota pickup from Kahuta to Manzai. The truck had magically appeared in front of Moshe’s apartment only the previous evening. The keys, truck papers, and a thick wad of 500-rupee notes were in the glove box. The truck was battered, and there was a long crack in the windshield, but the tires were new and the engine ran perfectly. Moshe and Mirza’s personal documents afforded them the highest security clearance and complete freedom of movement. Any army or ISI roadblock they encountered leaving the capital would pass them through, without questions or inspection, with these credentials. As it was, they were stopped only once, and passed through the checkpoint with a wave of a sergeant’s hand. It had taken them almost eleven hours to make the drive. The road as far as Peshawar was paved, but when they turned south toward Kohat, they were dodging oxcarts in the dust rooster tails from other trucks like their own. When they arrived in Manzai late in the day, Moshe and Mirza no longer looked like laboratory engineers but dirty young men in a pickup trying to make some money. In the back, they had a crate of shoes, some shovels and picks, a bushel of oranges, and several new TVs, still in their boxes. All would be welcome in the marketplace in Manzai. They also had the components for two nuclear weapons nestled in a box of blankets and bound with duct tape. Along with the main nuclear and explosive components were the neutron generators and beryllium reflectors necessary to stimulate the nuclear reaction. It was all there, save for the weapon outer casings, waiting assembly into fully functioning nuclear bombs. They came to a crossroads that was the center of town. As instructed, Moshe parked near a café on the road that led from Manzai to Daraban and waited. Within ten minutes, a man in tattered trousers and a sweater approached. He appraised the truck and turned to the driver.

  “From the looks of your vehicle, it seems that you have traveled far. Perhaps you should come inside for some refreshments. And do not worry about your truck or its contents. They will not be harmed.” Moshe and Mirza got out and followed Khalib into the café. Once they were seated at a table in the corner, the proprietor brought them tea. “It appears you have done well,” he continued. “Let us first get you something to eat, then you can tell me about your journey.”

  The small café served an excellent fare of lamb and vegetables. Moshe and Mirza were ravenous, and both accepted an additional portion. The food revived them considerably, but Moshe’s spirit was boosted more by the manner in which Khalib treated him. He was not deferential, but there was a courtesy and a respect that had not been there before. When they had finished, more tea was served and Khalib poured.

  “Now, tell me what you have brought us and exactly how you came by it,” Khalib said. There was now a firmness to his voice. “Spare no detail; I need to know everything.”

  Moshe recounted the taking of the weapon components and the successful replacement of the fake materials. On the latter, Khalib questioned him closely, as he had been instructed to do by Imad Mugniyah. Moshe was impressed by Khalib’s knowledge of the bomb components and the security arrangements that would attend them. Moshe made it clear that they were able to bring away from Kahuta the nuclear and nonnuclear components for two weapons, one plutonium bomb and one uranium bomb.

  “And of the other two who helped you?”

  “They are back at work, as we shall be in a few days. We are on authorized holiday leave from the laboratory.”

  “How long do you think the deception will last?”

  “Anything is possible—there could be a random inspection or a military exercise where the components are mated and fitted to a warhead at any time. But there are no maintenance requirements or system checks scheduled for several weeks.”

  Khalib was silent for several moments. “Do you believe that what we are doing is right and just?” he asked Moshe.

  “It is God’s will,” Moshe blurted.

  “And you?” he said to Mirza.

  “Without doubt. God is with us!”

  “Brothers,” he replied, “you have done well. You both have acted courageously, and your names will be repeated with honor among all true believers when we achieve the final victory. Humble servants like myself stand in your shadow. I salute you.” He lowered his head as a measure of respect. Both Moshe and Mirza were stunned that a warrior of such presence would defer to them in this way.

  “Tonight you will rest, and tomorrow you will return to Islamabad. I want you to return to your work as if nothing has happened. There are hundreds of scientists and technicians at Kahuta who have access to the weapons, and when the two bombs are found missing, many beside yourselves will come under suspicion. Trust me when I tell you that we have in place a plan that will throw blame away from you. My instructions are that you are to be protected at all costs. Again, by your courage and daring, you have helped to strike a blow that will be talked of for generations.” Moshe and Mirza sat there in flattered silence. “In the not-too-distance future, you will be called to join us. Be ready. Then you will live with us and become acknowledged freedom fighters in the service of God.”

  Both of the young scientists nodded vigorously.

  Khalib made sure that they had comfortable accommodations and an excellent meal before their return journey. Only the oranges and a single TV remained in the truck. Khalib saw to it that the weapons were moved with great care, for they had to travel the length of Pakistan and into Iran. Their trek was slow, as agents of the ISI were everywhere. For the most part, Khalib and his precious cargo traveled through sympathetic territory, but among the border tribes, everything was for sale. Ten days later, they crossed into Iran. Well inside Iran, they were met by two Ford Explorers and driven to Khalabad. There the two weapons were securely stored under the control of Imad Mugniyah; their absence had yet to be discovered at Kahuta. Moshe Abramin and his three co-conspirators had had an anxious time of it, but with each passing day of routine at the lab, they began to breathe a little easier. On Monday, November 25, fourteen days from the date of the theft, none of the four would report for work. An investigation was quickly mounted, but all had disappeared without a trace. Three days later a wrecked van was found in Kashmir, not far from the Line of Control. Inside were two bodies later identified as employees missing from the A. Q. Khan Research Lab. The other two were never found. In the residences of three of the four, propaganda and leaflets were found that advocated the forceful recovery of Kashmir. The subsequent inventory of nuclear weapons at the facility produced some startling results. The unthinkable had happened, and the trail appeared to lead toward the heavily armed border between India and Pakistan in the contested province of Kashmir.

  Wednesday, November 20,

  the Big Island, Hawaii

  Garrett Walker stepped up to the firing line. Downrange some fifteen meters were eight pie-plate-sized targets perched on a stand. Five mete
rs to his left, Duhan stood facing his eight targets. Both of them had M-4 rifles held at the ready. Both of them were totally focused on the eight targets. For Garrett, nothing else existed; not the soft breeze blowing up from the ocean, not the twenty-seven Gurkhas murmuring quietly behind him, and not the very accomplished shooter standing next to him. Just the targets.

  “Standby…targets!” Bijay called in his proper British accent.

  Garrett brought his M-4 rifle up to a firing position and looked over the top of his sights.

  BANG, ping! BANG, ping! BANG, BANG, ping! BANG, ping!

  It took him five shots to clear the first four targets. He was aware by some sixth sense that Duhan had cleared his four with only four shots. Garrett safed his M-4 and swung it down to his side, and as if with the same motion drew the Glock 9mm pistol from the holster on his hip. Garrett was up to a firing position a fraction of a second behind Duhan.

  BANG, BANG, ping, ping!

  Or that’s what it sounded like. He had fired two rounds almost before his first round got to his first target. Both metal plates fell back as one. Now there were only two targets remaining. Garrett knew his competitor was better than he with an M-4, but he was not yet as proficient with the pistol, nor in the transition between weapons. He was very good, but not quite in Garrett’s league. In one smooth motion, Garrett dropped the hammer to safe the Glock, reholstered it, and reshouldered his M-4. He knew he could not miss if he were to win.

  BANG, ping! BANG, ping!

  He brought his rifle down just a fraction ahead of Duhan. Behind him, there was a roar of approval from the Gurkhas watching the contest. They were clearly pulling for their fellow Gurkha, but all applauded the closeness of the duel. Garrett turned and bowed respectfully to his shooting partner. Duhan returned the gesture.

  “You have come a long way in such a short time, Corporal. I am afraid that this old warrior may soon take instruction from you.”