Covert Action (Command and Control Book 5), page 1
COVERT ACTION
DAVID BRUNS
J.R. OLSON
Copyright © 2024 by David Bruns and J.R. Olson.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Severn River Publishing
www.SevernRiverBooks.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-1-64875-582-8 (Paperback)
ISBN: 978-1-64875-617-7 (Hardcover)
CONTENTS
Also by Bruns and Olson
Map
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Also by Bruns and Olson
Acknowledgments
About the Authors
ALSO BY BRUNS AND OLSON
The Command and Control Series
Command and Control
Counter Strike
Order of Battle
Threat Axis
Covert Action
Proxy War
Also by the Authors
Weapons of Mass Deception
Jihadi Apprentice
Rules of Engagement
The Pandora Deception
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To Richard “Dick” David Bruns, Sr.
1940–2023
Lifelong reader
Beloved father
Central Asia
PROLOGUE
United States Code
Title 50 - WAR AND NATIONAL DEFENSE
Chapter 44 - NATIONAL SECURITY
Subchapter III - ACCOUNTABILITY FOR INTELLIGENCE ACTIVITIES
Sec. 3093 - Presidential approval and reporting of covert actions
50 USC § 3093 (e) - “Covert Action” defined
. . . the term “covert action” means an activity or activities of the United States Government to influence political, economic, or military conditions abroad, where it is intended that the role of the United States Government will not be apparent or acknowledged publicly . . .
1
Tashkent, Uzbekistan
Tim Trujillo clenched his eyes shut, then opened them again. The words on the laptop screen still ran together. He pulled off his reading glasses and rubbed his face with a callused hand. Tired and long past hungry, right now he was feeling every bit of his fifty years.
Tim checked his Tissot Seastar diver’s watch, a gift from his wife on his retirement from the Army. When Jenny gave Tim the expensive timepiece, she made him promise to take her scuba diving. It was a promise he had yet to fulfill.
He focused on the dial. Five minutes after one in the morning.
Where in the hell was the shuttle? Tim got to his feet and stretched his arms skyward, feeling the vertebrae pop along his spine.
The temporary waiting room for the private air terminal of the Islam Karimov Tashkent International Airport was deserted. Ongoing construction at the growing public airport had forced yet another relocation of the exclusive terminal, this time to a remote corner of the property. There was nothing out here but a concrete apron for the planes to park, a single hangar, and the maintenance shed that had been repurposed as a waiting room. The holding area for passengers was two rows of low-slung, tattered vinyl chairs, a single desk with a heavy black phone, and a coffee pot.
Tim strode to the window facing the main terminal, a soaring modern structure of glass and steel looming in the distance across a pair of concrete runways. The design mirrored the mountain range hidden in the darkness beyond the terminal, making it seem as if the building was growing from the landscape.
Grand infrastructure projects like this were springing up all over Central Asia as part of the Belt and Road Initiative, the Chinese government’s thirty-year plan to create a modern Silk Road reconnecting Asia and Europe. It seemed everywhere Tim went in this part of the world, China was building something new. And not just slapdash, get-it-done projects. These were massive ventures built for growth fifty years in the future. Four-lane highways, airports with a hundred gates, high-speed rail lines connecting regional cities.
Billions of dollars were being invested in sweetheart financing that the host countries would probably never be able to repay. And while he’d read dozens of articles lamenting this robber baron activity, Tim knew that nine out of ten Americans couldn’t even find Uzbekistan on a map—if they’d ever even heard of it. He shook his head. Had he not seen this level of Chinese economic activity firsthand, he probably wouldn’t believe it either.
His involvement in this part of the world changed nine months ago when Grand Surfan Oil and Gas, majority-owned by Chinese shareholders, hired him as a security consultant. With his background in Army intelligence and a career’s worth of experience fighting non-state terrorist groups, he was just what the doctor ordered for the kinds of risk Grand Surfan was trying to protect against.
Tim went back to his laptop and tried to focus on the report he was writing.
The terrorist group known as the Seljuk Islamic Front, commonly abbreviated as SIF, is a regional insurgency that has gained rapid prominence in Central Asia over the last nine months. Although rumored to have ties to Uighur independence groups in western China, the SIF appears to limit its offensive activities to Chinese state-sponsored infrastructure projects in Central Asia. That said, just because Grand Surfan has not suffered any attacks yet does not mean the company is safe from future attacks. It is my recommendation that Grand Surfan effect an advanced security posture immediately. . .
He blinked again to clear his vision and ran his gaze down the list of recommended improvements to harden the company’s field installations. The list was not short, or cheap. Oil fields were sprawling affairs, and in the vast spaces of the Central Asian steppes, every site was wide open to attack from all sides.
His report advocated for tripling the security forces, including a regional QRF with dedicated air transport capability. Specialized hardware to detect and defuse improvised explosive devices was a must. Surveillance camera networks needed to be upgraded at every facility. Tim wondered if he could ask for the latest Chinese government facial recognition software. He’d heard it was the best in the world, and the former intel officer in him wanted to see if it lived up to the hype.
Everything would be tied together on the brand-new Huawei 10G network. This part of the world welcomed the advanced telecommunications capability with open arms, even if the United States and much of Europe rejected the Huawei technology for security reasons. Tim had to admit the network was impressive. Nearly anywhere he went in the region, if he was able to access the Huawei network, he had blazingly fast internet. Mobile phone coverage in the mountainous region was spotty, but getting better all the time as the Chinese continued to build out the network. He knew more than a few of his former Army colleagues with cyber backgrounds who would love to see the inside of the latest Chinese communications network.
Tim grinned to himself. You can take the boy out of the Army, but you can’t take the Army out of the boy.
He edited the list to spell out quick reaction force in place of the acronym QRF. That recommendation was probably overkill, but he decided to leave it. He was a consultant, after all. It was his job to make the best possible recommendations. His boss could figure out whether or not his proposal was worth the price tag. Hell, the company was pumping so much oil out of the region, they could afford everything on his wish list twice over.
He slapped the laptop lid shut and heaved a sigh.
This was his tenth day of visiting field installations for an on-the-ground security assessment. His whirlwind tour had taken him through Kazakhstan, Tajikistan, Kyrgyzstan, and Uzbekistan. His last stop before flying to Beijing to deliver his report in person was Ashgabat, Turkmenistan. One final series of inspections and his report would be complete.
Tim glared out the window at the empty tarmac. That assumed the damned shuttle ever showed up.
He rolled his shoulders. Every muscle ached and he smelled like he’d been on army field maneuvers for a week. The steppes were high desert country. Dusty and hot during the day and cold at night. He could feel grit in every crevice of his body, and he longed for a hot shower and a cold beer. His stomach rumbled. Maybe some barbecue, too.
He scratched at his stubbled chin. He’d quit shaving a week ago and his beard had reached the itchy stage of growth. Jenny hated him with a beard and always made him shave it off as soon as he got home.
A wave of homesickness swept over him at the thought of his wife. He did the mental math on the time zone difference between Tashkent and northern Virginia. One a.m. here, which meant it was three in the afternoon at home. Too early to call. Jenny would still be at work, and he knew she turned her cell phone off in the classroom.
He cradled his phone in his palm. Maybe just call anyway and leave her a message. A quick I love you. Tim smiled to himself as he pictured her listening to the voicemail. Her chestnut hair lit by the sun, the curve of her cheek, that secret smile she reserved only for him . . .
“Twenty-eight years and counting,” he said out loud. Even his voice sounded dusty.
Call her, you idiot. Tell her you love her.
Facial recognition opened his phone to the home screen, a picture of him and Jenny flanked by their two kids. Emma, tall and slender with a mane of chestnut hair that rivaled her mother’s, was on Tim’s arm. Mark, a senior in high school and two years younger than his sister, took after his father. In the upper right of the screen, the icon for the Ironclad app he’d installed a few weeks ago pulsed three times, signaling that his secure backup was up to date.
He navigated to the list of recent calls. With his thumb poised over the line labeled Sweet Jenny, he heard the roar of a jet engine. He sat up just in time to see a small aircraft touch down on the runway and flash by the window.
Finally. He got to his feet and stowed the phone in the pocket of his cargo pants. From the window, Tim made out the form of a sleek Gulfstream G500 making the turn at the end of the runway and taxiing toward the private airfield apron.
A Gulfstream? That was new. Every Surfan shuttle he’d been on so far had been King Air 350 turboprops that had seen better days. This plane looked brand-new, but the tail number indicated it was a Chinese aircraft.
Across the concrete apron, the doors on the hangar slid open, spilling bright yellow light into the night. The jet made a ninety-degree turn and entered the hangar. The doors rolled closed behind it, but not before Tim spied a black Mercedes parked inside the building.
What the hell? Tim’s eyes clocked to the whiteboard that served as the temporary flight schedule. Grand Surfan shuttle was listed for nine p.m., and he’d been waiting here since eight-thirty. There were no other flights listed. That plane had to be the Grand Surfan shuttle.
It’s so late, he thought with a flash of irritation, they must assume there’s no passengers waiting.
Tim headed for the door. He was not about to abandon his carefully planned itinerary without at least a discussion with the pilot.
The outside air was crisp and dry. Brilliant stars speckled the sky. He felt the skin of his bare forearms prickle with cold and realized he'd left his jacket back in the waiting room, along with his laptop and duffel.
He jogged across the dark tarmac to the passenger door at the corner of the hangar. The exterior lights on the building were out, which rankled the security consultant part of his brain. With all the construction going on, it was likely some contractor had messed up the wiring when they moved the private air terminal.
There was a one-foot square window set in the door at eye level. With one hand on the handle of the door, Tim peered into the window.
He froze. Then he moved away and flattened his back against the cold steel of the hangar wall. When Tim had his breathing under control, he slowly reapproached the window and looked into the hangar.
A Chinese man, slight of build with angular facial features, stood in full profile ten meters away. He held out his left hand parallel to the floor and slapped a closed fist into the open palm as if making a point.
A row of shelves crammed with spare parts and boxes blocked Tim’s view of the person the Chinese man was speaking to with such vigor.
Tim returned to the wall, feeling the cold metal chill the sweat on his back. He swallowed.
Chinese Minister of State Security Yan Tao had flown into Tashkent in the middle of the night to have a clandestine meeting . . . but who was the other person?
Walk away, Tim. You’re not an intelligence officer anymore. Report the meeting and get on with your life. Not your problem, dude.
But another part of his brain would not let it go. Who is Yan talking to? At least find out that much.
Tim went back to the window and tried to angle his line of sight so he could see who the Chinese spymaster was talking to, but it was no use. The storage shelves were in the way.
He pushed down gently on the door handle. It was unlocked. He eased the door open and slipped inside, allowing a full ten seconds for the door to close silently behind him.
Voices drifted toward him, speaking in English. The skin on the back of Tim’s neck prickled. First data point: If the Minister had been meeting with another Chinese person, they’d be speaking Mandarin.
Three shelves ran parallel to the wall. Tim took two quick steps forward and slid into the space between the second and third shelves. He sidestepped gingerly along the aisle, trying to find a gap among the crowded shelves where he could see both men clearly.
“I need more resources,” said the second voice. He spoke excellent English. The voice sounded vaguely familiar to Tim.
Minister Yan’s flat response cracked like a whip. “You will get what you were promised. Nothing more.”
In the gap between a cardboard box and an avionics rack, Tim finally found a clear view. The two men stood in the open, with the jet in the background. Minister Yan faced Tim, his posture rigid, his face twisted with annoyance.
The second man faced away from Tim. He was taller than the Minister and had thick, dark hair touched with gray. A tailored suit covered his broad shoulders.
“Do you understand?” Yan pressed.
“I am the one taking the risk here.” The second man turned, and Tim saw his face for the first time.
Tim’s mouth went dry. Of course he knew the voice. He’d heard it a hundred times on the radio and on TV. The question was, why was he here, and why was he meeting secretly with the head of Chinese clandestine services? Whatever Tim had stumbled into, this was explosive—and dangerous.
Get out now, you fool. Alarm bells clanged in his brain.
But he was here. He couldn’t just ignore what he was seeing.
Tim removed his phone from his pocket and turned it on, cupping his hand over the glaring screen. He navigated to the video setting and extended the camera lens into the narrow opening. He tried to control his own breathing.
The Chinese man raised his voice, slashing his hand down again for emphasis. The second man’s bearded face twisted in anger as he responded in kind.
“Without me, you have nothing!” he shouted.
Tim stopped the recording. That was enough. He put the phone back in his pocket and turned to retreat down the aisle. A wire hanging loose from the avionics box snagged on his shirt sleeve, emitting a scritch sound as it scraped along the edge of the metal rack.
The two men stopped speaking. Tim froze, holding his breath. A wave of sweaty nausea swept up his torso.
The figure of a man appeared at the end of the aisle, blocking his exit.
Tim charged. Lowering his shoulder, he plowed into the man, driving him back against the wall of the hangar. The guard was solidly built and quick on his feet. Even as Tim pistoned his fists into the man’s midsection, he felt his opponent grappling him, swinging his body into the wall and using Tim’s momentum against him.
