Covert Action (Command and Control Book 5), page 28
When the searcher nodded that Harrison was clean, the second man pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and made a call that lasted only a few seconds. He hung up, pointed to a table, and said, “Sit.”
40
Samarkand, Uzbekistan
The United States delegation to the Jade Spike ceremony at the Samarkand International Commerce Center consisted of Secretary of State Henry Hahn, four members each from the Senate and House Foreign Relations committees, and the U.S. ambassador to Uzbekistan. Including security and staff for the VIPs, the total visiting contingent from the U.S. numbered more than thirty people.
Don Riley was in charge of security.
He hadn’t planned it that way. After he’d accepted Federov’s offer to meet with Orazov, the whole operation nearly went off the rails when the Director forbade Don from taking the meeting himself.
“You’re not a field officer, Don,” the Director had said. “With the knowledge you’ve got in your head, I can’t risk putting you in that kind of situation. Send one of your case officers, or tell the Russians no deal.”
Don was at a loss. He needed to be involved, as close to the center of action as possible. In the end, Federov solved the problem for him when he set the meeting with Orazov to take place at the same time as the Chinese Jade Spike ceremony.
And that gave Don an idea. After all, he hadn’t spent a quarter century in Washington without learning a thing or two about politics. He convinced Secretary of State Hahn that the CIA’s Special Activities Center was the best choice to handle security for the U.S. visit to Samarkand, and Don should supervise the security personally.
Personal was the right word for it, Don thought. If the President insisted on continuing with the kill operation against Akhmet Orazov at the same time as the U.S. delegation was on the ground in Uzbekistan, that was the White House’s call. But Don wasn’t about to sit in the Washington ops center while his people strolled into the lion’s den. He owed them that much.
With everything on the line, Don put his best team on security for the Samarkand visit.
Tom Stellner and Andy Myers were a package deal; they only worked together. Both veterans of the 5th Special Forces Group, then Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta, they were known across the Agency as S&M. They were also two of the most effective operators Don had ever worked with. He would trust them with his life—and had, on several occasions. If things went sideways in Samarkand, Don wanted S&M in his corner.
The United States delegation arrived on two jets. A Boeing C-40 Clipper, the U.S. Air Force’s version of the Boeing-737, could have seated the entire party, but Don had also requisitioned a CIA Gulfstream V for the trip. Flexibility was key. If they needed to depart quickly, Don wanted to have options.
The jets taxied into the newly completed private air terminal at the Samarkand International Airport at a few minutes past ten in the morning. The tarmac was crowded with aircraft carrying visiting dignitaries from all over the world. The U.S. planes parked nose-out and side by side, sandwiched between jets from France and South Africa. The U.S. delegation, led by Secretary Hahn, disembarked into a small fleet of black SUVs, all driven by experienced CIA field operators, handpicked by S&M.
The plan was to keep the delegation together until after the Jade Spike ceremony—and hopefully, the completion of Harrison’s mission. Don did not want members of the group separated until he was sure the kill operation had gone undetected by their Chinese hosts.
Again, Don’s plan was helped by outside forces when Timur Ganiev asked to meet with the US delegation before the official ceremony. With that as his excuse, it was easy to keep the Secretary of State and members of Congress in a group.
The sudden popular rise of Ganiev and his Central Asian Union had blindsided the autocratic leaders in the region. It seemed on any social media site or news outlet the name of Timur was everywhere. The people were demanding change in a way that had not happened in centuries.
Although legally it meant nothing, politically it was a huge issue. One by one, the autocratic leaders met with Ganiev and made noises about breaking down political barriers between the Eurasian republics.
Outside the region, the pressure was mounting as well. In the United Nations, the Secretary-General wasted no time in endorsing the CAU as a “shining light of freedom in Eurasia,” even inviting Ganiev to speak at the next meeting of the General Assembly. The European Union, which saw itself as the model for the CAU, was especially vocal in its support. Only the week before the Jade Spike ceremony, The Economist featured Ganiev’s picture on the cover of the magazine.
The U.S. convoy, led by a pair of Chinese-made Humvee knock-offs flying crimson PRC flags, made their way slowly out of the private air terminal.
“Looks like we’re taking the scenic route,” Stellner said to Don. The exit from the private terminal led onto a highway where it seemed as if their PLA escorts were parading the U.S. vehicles through the city streets.
They passed an electronic billboard and Stellner jerked his chin at the three-story image of Timur Ganiev looming over them. “The guy’s everywhere. You’d think they were crowning him or something.”
It was true. Ganiev’s face was on billboards, newspapers, even a mural on the side of a building. The caption on the mural read in Uzbek, Russian, Mandarin, and English: Unity is not a dream. It’s our future.
“Catchy slogan,” Stellner observed.
“Yeah,” Don checked his phone. Nothing. He’d expected to hear from Harrison by now, or at least an update from Anne Hart. He blew out a breath and counted to ten.
After another few blocks of scenery, the PLA vehicles turned back toward the airport. They entered the brand-new four-lane highway for a few kilometers, then took a long, curving drive toward the grand entrance of the commerce center.
And it was grand. Soaring at least five stories in the air, the sheer cliff of glass looked like a crystal waterfall. On the broad stone sidewalk in front of the entrance, a wide red carpet had been rolled out for visiting dignitaries. On either side of the red carpet, ropes held back members of the press corps. The President of Uzbekistan was on hand to greet the U.S. Secretary of State and members of Congress. Hundreds of cameras and other recording devices waited to capture the moment.
Don cursed. There was no way he was going through that. Stellner was already one step ahead of him, ordering the convoy drivers to separate the vehicles containing dignitaries and staff. Secretary Hahn and the congressmembers pulled up next to the official entrance, while the rest of the U.S. contingent rallied a short way past the red carpet media frenzy.
Over the radio, Myers acknowledged and moved an advance team of U.S. security to meet the U.S. dignitaries on the other side of the red carpet.
Don was breathing heavily when he and Stellner rejoined the group at the security screening area. Immediately he knew something was wrong. The U.S. delegation was off to the side, and Myers was engaged in a heated discussion with a PLA colonel. When he saw Stellner and Don, he waved them over.
He jerked his thumb at the colonel. “Dude says we have to surrender our weapons.”
Don shook his head. There had been careful negotiations with the Chinese prior to agreeing to a visit by a U.S. Cabinet official. “That’s not our agreement,” he said to the PLA officer. “Our security team has approval to carry sidearms.”
The colonel pressed his lips together and shook his head. “Not possible.”
The ambassador joined them, clearly rattled that there was a visible disagreement in full view of the press. “I think our recalcitrance has been noted. Perhaps we can find a compromise, Mr. Riley?”
Don ignored the diplomat, keeping his eyes on the colonel. There were two possibilities: either this guy was out of the loop, or the Chinese were testing his resolve. Well, two could play at that game.
Don crossed his arms. “I want to speak to General Gao. Immediately.”
The officer narrowed his eyes at Don. He shook his head.
Don had counted at least a dozen cameras around him, and he had no doubt that everything they’d said was being monitored. He turned to the ambassador.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Don said briskly. “You need to return to the vehicles until we get this sorted out. We had a security agreement with General Gao. Please go back out the main entrance.”
Apparently, the thought of the U.S. delegation walking back down the red carpet and leaving before the ceremony even started was enough to electrify the Chinese chain of command.
“What is the problem, Colonel?”
Don turned. He’d never met Lieutenant General Gao Yichen in person, but he’d read the man’s dossier multiple times. The chest of his dress uniform was crowded with brightly colored ribbons. As far as Don knew, Gao was among the very few Chinese officers for whom the failed invasion of Taiwan was a boost to his career. In fact, Gao’s meteoric rise from the rank of major to two-star lieutenant general would be a remarkable feat in any military, let alone the PLA.
Don could also see that the picture of Gao in the CIA files was out of date. Although his uniform was carefully tailored, the man before him had gained weight. He had bags under his eyes and his complexion was sallow, making the scar on his chin stand out as a jagged red line.
Don realized the man’s use of English to address the PLA colonel was for his benefit. He extended his hand. “General Gao, I am—”
“I know who you are, Mr. Riley, and I know what you do.” Gao’s English was thick. “Is there a problem?”
“No problem,” Don replied, annoyed that he’d been cut off. “My security team needs to be armed. Those were the terms of our attendance.”
“I can assure you that the highest level of—”
Now it was Don’s turn to be rude. He cut in. “I have the Secretary of State in my delegation. Are you going to abide by our agreement, or do I escort the Secretary back to our aircraft?”
Gao reddened. Clearly, this was a man who did not hear no very often. A female PLA captain stepped forward and placed a hand on his arm. When she whispered in his ear, he leaned toward her.
Don thought the gesture had a hint of intimacy. He watched the two interact. There was definitely something there. He made a mental note to find out more about the female officer.
Gao adopted a strained smile. “Captain Fang has refreshed my memory on the details of our agreement. Your security personnel are free to retain their weapons. She will escort your team through the security process to ensure that you are not late for your meeting with Mr. Ganiev.”
“Excellent,” the ambassador said. He bowed to Gao. “My sincere thanks for your assistance, General.”
Gao’s smile was brittle.
41
CIA Special Activities Center
Langley, Virginia
Anne paused her pacing behind the God’s Eye stack. Raymond, the operator, had longish brown hair that curled at his collar.
“Put the visual on the big screen,” Anne ordered.
The video feed was a combination of sensors: optical, SAR, and infrared. It showed a gas station at a crossroads on the far outskirts of an Uzbek town called Bukhara. She could see that the roads were lightly traveled. Perfect for their operation. Less civilian traffic meant less potential for collateral damage and less chance of immediate discovery once she gave the kill order.
There were three vehicles outside and three IR signatures inside the building. One vehicle belonged to Gandalf, the operational code name for Officer Harrison Kohl. The other two vehicles were linked to the other two men inside the building.
So far, so good, she told herself. The difference between a successful operation and a failure is the prep. You got this.
“Anything from Gandalf?” she asked.
“No, ma’am,” comms reported. “Nothing yet.”
“Someone in the building is making a call,” her comms operator said.
“Track it,” Anne said. “Get audio if you can.”
“It’s gone,” the operator reported. “The call was all of three seconds.”
Anne stared at the screen, willing something to happen. The urge for a cigarette resurfaced. She felt a ripple of doubt surface in her mind.
This is madness, she thought. Less than fifty miles away from that lonely gas station in the middle of nowhere, the General Secretary of the Chinese Communist Party is cutting a ribbon for their latest project. And we’re about to fly armed drones into the country.
Play the hand you're dealt. You got this.
She focused on her next call: moving the Reapers into position.
Since Harrison hadn’t reported an ID yet, she had to assume that either Orazov was coming to the meeting separately or they were going to move Harrison to another site.
If she waited to move the Reapers into position, she might lose her window of opportunity. On the other hand, once she moved them into Uzbek airspace, the likelihood of detection by the Chinese forces went up dramatically.
She blew out a long breath. And made the call.
“Transfer operational control of Hornet One and Two to God’s Eye,” she ordered. “Move them into position. Stay at maximum altitude.”
She got repeat-backs from both operators.
“Hornet One will be in position in forty-eight minutes,” one operator reported.
“Hornet Two is thirty-nine minutes out,” said the second.
The waiting was always the hardest part. Fifteen excruciating minutes passed by in which she had nothing to do except stare at the wall screen and worry.
She narrowed her eyes as if just concentrating hard enough would offer her an answer. Harrison Kohl was in that building with two of Orazov’s men, and so far they showed no signs of leaving. Did that mean Orazov was en route?
Five more minutes dragged by and she fantasized about a cigarette. A Marlboro. No, a Camel.
“Ma’am,” announced the God’s Eye operator, “we have vehicles inbound to Gandalf’s position.”
Without prompting, the operator expanded the field of view on the wall screen.
Two vehicles in close formation approached from the south.
“Twenty klicks out, coming fast,” the operator reported. “I’ve got three men in the lead vehicle and two in the chase car. Three mobile phone signatures between them.”
Anne did the mental math. They’d be at the gas station in less than ten minutes. The Reapers were still inbound, but they’d be within weapons range with time to spare.
It was all coming together—assuming these cars held her target.
“Please let it be Orazov,” she whispered to herself. “Please.”
The minutes ticked by as she watched the moving vehicles on the screen.
“Ma’am . . . ” the God’s Eye operator said. “They’re slowing down. They’re stopping at the gas station.”
Anne let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Let’s look sharp, people,” she said. “We will do this by the numbers. Positive ID from Gandalf, track the outbounds, take the target with the closest Hornet. Any questions?”
There were none.
Anne went to the signals intel stack. She scanned the items the AI had pulled from the infosphere. Nothing caught her eye. Her doubts melted away.
You got this, she told herself. Do the deed and get the assets as far away from the scene of the crime as possible.
By the time the PLA figured out what happened, the drones would be long gone. With any luck, Harrison would be enjoying a well-deserved cocktail on a diplomatic flight out of Samarkand.
Anne went to the communications stack. The comms officer was a young woman with a long blonde ponytail that twisted halfway down her back. She put her hand on the operator’s shoulder.
“Amelia, get me Director Riley on the phone. Tell him I need a final kill authorization.”
42
Samarkand, Uzbekistan
The International Commerce Center was even more impressive inside. The U.S. delegation moved as a group in a vaulted space the size of a football pitch and ringed with stainless steel pillars. Huge flags from all the Central Asian republics and the People’s Republic of China hung down like banners. Sunlight streamed in through skylights, turning the red PRC flag into a river of crimson fire.
A stage occupied the center of the space, with tiered seating for the highest-ranking dignitaries. Two platforms bristling with cameras flanked the stage and a security area rose on scaffolding above the crowd about fifty meters back from the stage.
Tables of food surrounded cooking stations where Uzbek men and women served up plates of plov, the regional rice dish. Waiters in bright traditional garb maneuvered through the attendees with trays of drinks. Teams of uniformed PLA soldiers patrolled the fringes of the crowd, encouraging people to remain in the waiting area.
“Wow,” said Stellner, “these guys know how to throw a party.”
Captain Fang flashed her badge to one of the security patrols and led them past the stage to a conference room. “Mr. Ganiev will be with you shortly,” she said. “In the meantime, please enjoy the refreshments.” She pointed to a table laden with bottles of water, a samovar of hot tea, and coffee service.
Don stepped away to check his phone. He had a strong signal, but there was still no word from either Harrison or Anne. He checked his watch. Harrison should be at the meeting by now. Things should be happening. He fretted that maybe Orazov had switched the meeting venue at the last minute.
He heard a disturbance behind him and turned to see Timur Ganiev enter the room. Except for a blonde woman and a cameraman, he was alone, which Don thought was odd. Where was his security?
Because he’d seen the man’s face so many times, on billboards, newspapers, and murals, Don had an uncanny feeling that he already knew Ganiev. But the images did not do justice to the man’s presence.
