Unsung Warrior Box Set, page 10
part #1 of Unsung Warrior Series
Shortly after that a troop of soldiers returned from an extended period of bush bashing. Maric shook his head. Going cross-country in this sort of terrain was brutal.
The men were greasy with mud, spotted with leaf litter, and festooned with trailings of moss. The captain must have led them on a right royal dance.
The sorriest-looking soldier of all formed them up into lines and dismissed them. Maric felt a grudging respect. The man obviously led from the front.
“Davies,” said Cal, who’d appeared beside him.
He indicated the captain. “Very average as far as height and weight goes, but the toughest mental attitude I’ve ever seen on a soldier. Be glad he’s on our side.”
Maric was dutifully glad. You wanted someone reliable watching your back in SAS work.
Those sitting down for the evening meal were a revelation. Maric counted 27 men in the mess hall, which was an unlikely number. It would make up several squads, but less than half a company. They were all ages, all ranks, and all types. It was more evidence the operation Cal had planned was going to be a highly unorthodox one.
He wondered what his boss was up to. Maric hadn’t seen any training camp like this before. And certainly not in New Zealand. Was this op even officially sanctioned? He didn’t have anything against off the radar operations. Sometimes they were the quickest way to topple some self-absorbed dictator who was making his people’s lives hell. He had his misgivings about mercenary companies though. They were too loosely organized for Maric’s taste.
It didn’t take long for his questions to be answered. Cal’s briefing began as soon as the men had eaten.
CHAPTER 10
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When the men had finished their meal, Cal had them clear away the tables. Then he turned the hall into a briefing room. The soldiers lined up seats while he set up a projector and screen next to one remaining table. When he’d finished he rapped on the table for order.
“This is a provisional deployment. Provisional deployments are rare, and some of you may not even know what those words mean. What they mean for you is basically two things. You’re already on the payroll – and you’ll never know whose payroll you’re on, so don’t ask – and the deployment may not actually go ahead.
However, what you learn in this camp, and at all other times while provisionally or actually deployed, goes no further than you. Any hint of what we’re planning here would embarrass our government. And likely cause an international incident with serious consequences. It would also lead to dishonorable discharges for us all, whether currently SAS or not.”
He paused at this last statement.
“Do you understand what this means?” he continued.
There was a muted nodding of heads.
“I said are you stupid enough to destroy your own future, and the futures of the men serving with you!” roared Cal, thumping on the table as he stood in one abrupt motion, his chair clattering across the floor behind him.
“Sir! No, Sir!” bellowed the men in reply.
“Good!” said Cal forcefully, and stepped across to pick up his chair. Once he had recovered it he sat back at the table.
“Any man who doesn’t accept these conditions should leave the camp now. Once you know what the job is likely to be, you can turn it down no questions asked. However, you carry your knowledge of this op to your grave. If any soldier breaks these conditions, I will personally track him down and destroy his life. Is that clear!”
“Sir! Yes, Sir!” came the reply.
Cal waited a full minute, giving the men time to make the decision he had asked of them. A few of them looked around, but no one broke ranks and left the room. It looked like Cal had chosen his men wisely.
“An undercover NATO group, working through Interpol as part of the war on terror, has recently made some information available to our government. That information sheds light on disturbing events in our part of the world,” said Cal.
A map of the world and its countries appeared on the overhead, studded with badges and emblems. Maric recognized most of them. It looked like every government security agency and elite force in the world was represented.
“The operations branch of Operation Enduring Freedom, basically the Euro-Atlantic Partnership Council (EAPC), has asked us to pick this one up, since it’s in our backyard. Their first choice was the Australian SAS, because they’re closer to the insertion point. However, their labor government is currently unpopular with its own people. So much so they’d lose an election if they held one at the moment.
“It pains me to say the politicians turned it down. The job needs to be done, but they’re too scared of getting caned at the next election to take it on.”
“Bloody Aussies,” said a voice with feeling.
“Yeah, especially since they’re so expendable,” said another.
There were a few chuckles, and a morose, “hey, watch it,” in an Aussie accent.
“They’ve turned to us,” said Cal. “But in an unofficial capacity, considering New Zealand has been a somewhat reluctant member of ANZUS lately.”
He looked around the room, making sure the men were paying attention.
“If we took the job we would be going in as ‘grays’,” he told them. These were insertion forces born of the new partnerships between deniable government agencies and private funding.
The war on terror had taken an interesting turn in the last few years. Wealthy individuals were now prepared to back organizations taking the fight to the terrorists. Governments had been less willing to act, their hands tied by constitutions and political considerations.
In a way it had been a natural leveling of the playing field. Terrorist groups had first made headlines when funded by wealthy individuals with fundamentalist religious ideologies. Now wealthy people backing capitalist ideologies – wanting trade to continue uninterrupted – were financing groups committed to stopping the terrorists.
“So,” he said, pressing his hands down on the table, fingers splayed, “why should we risk our lives? Other than the pay’s good, and we’d be stopping innocent people from being killed and maimed?”
Cal looked around the room.
“The truth is, gentlemen, we’re down two soldiers, maybe three. A particularly nasty piece of work has been coming after ex-members of the New Zealand SAS.”
That got their attention.
“Ryall Peters and Ihaka Cole did double tours of duty in Afghanistan in 2002 and 2003. Ryall was discharged in 2006 and took a position teaching English in Japan, then married a local woman. Ihaka was discharged in 2009 and put his technical skills to work as a share trader in Singapore. He never married.
“Ryall was found dead, poisoned, eight months ago. Ihaka was found with his throat cut in his garage, six months ago. The authorities in both countries haven’t found a motive for the killings. Or enough evidence to put anyone in the frame.
“I took an interest as soon as Ryall was found. The SAS always tracks its own DSCs – Deaths in Suspicious Circumstances. And that can be up to five years later, if a death may have been due to something that happened while on duty.
“One of the things I turned up was the death of an SAS soldier who’d moved on to a training role in the Afghan army.
“He was recently stabbed and killed in Kabul. Nothing could be proved, but our men on the ground thought the killing was suspicious. No real motive, and not the usual Taliban style. I think we have three murders on our hands.”
Three red dots appeared on the map of the world. One each in Japan, Singapore and Afghanistan. There was an undercurrent of muttering as the men digested the news.
One thing about the SAS, like every other elite force, was that they looked after their own. No one sent the police or the justice system after forces trained to a level that could take down SAS soldiers.
“It took the SIS three months to unearth a motive,” continued Cal.
“All three men were part of a squad that did the groundwork on a Taliban commander in Afghanistan. Coalition forces bombed the compound, but it was an SAS squad that gathered the intel and set it up.
“The same squad also went through the place after the strike, gathering up anything that might provide useful information.
“Once the Coalition spooks had been through it, we stored the information at our New Zealand base. We now think those papers and hard drives contain something we missed. Something important enough to cause deaths in the squad that found it.”
“There are two members of that squad currently outside New Zealand. One is in a high-security area and willing to take the risk. The other has cut short his contract and brought his family home.
“Most of the squad are back in New Zealand,” said Davies, the nuggety captain Maric had seen in action earlier in the day. “Where they’re safe. Whoever’s behind this can’t seriously expect to wipe out all the men involved.”
“Agreed,” said Cal. “It’s also relevant to ask why someone would wait so many years – from 2003 until now – to take action.
“If we go with the ‘missed evidence’ theory, then recent successes using the Enigma algorithms could have spooked our villains into action.”
Most of the men present knew what he meant. It wasn’t spoken of much outside top-level Eurocom circles – American forces in Europe. Less than a year ago they’d started feeding data on all terrorist activities around the word into a modified super-computer.
Breakthroughs had begun when they started running a new type of AI program. The super-computer was now seeing trends, and making predictions, that the best human operatives hadn’t been able to match.
“So it’s likely our villains want to tie up our resources chasing down assassins,” said Cal. “That would keep us too busy to go searching through our Afghanistan records. However, it hasn’t worked.”
Yes, thought Maric. It hasn’t. But only due to Cal’s careful examination of the facts. He listened as Cal started speaking again.
“We’ve already pieced together much of the picture we weren’t meant to see.
“There are a lot of cryptic references in the Taliban records. Most of then are to ‘shipments’ that passed through on a regular basis.
“It appears the Taliban commander was a mule, bringing goods up from somewhere further south and delivering them to Eastern Europe. He may have been funded as a Taliban warlord just to provide this link in a smuggling chain.
“The records were careful to avoid details, but over hundreds of transactions someone always gets sloppy. The SIS found a few ship codes and some short hops by parcel post in South-east Asia. It’s been the devil’s own job to track them down, but we now know the goods are originating in Indonesia. That’s why EAPC wanted either us or the Australian SAS to deal with the problem.”
The destroyed Taliban compound in Afghanistan appeared as a graphic on the overhead. It was linked one way by a dotted line to Eastern Europe, and back to Indonesia by routes the SIS considered most likely for smuggled goods.
“The SIS has since got back to NATO and asked a few questions that should help our own lines of inquiry. It was hard going – none of these spook groups want to share information. Once we waved what we’d figured out under their noses, they became a lot more helpful. Especially when we told them the New Zealand SAS might take on the job the Aussie government declined.
“They’ve made one condition,” continued Cal, “and I have to say I don’t like it.
“If the op goes ahead, we’ll have a liaison group traveling with us. They’ll have access to more intel and better satellite communications than we have. But none of us likes to have an untried soldier guarding our back.
“There would be six of them, all trained to European special attack forces level or higher. It would be a mixed-country contingent.”
Cal looked around. There were no objections. Apparently the men were prepared to accept the problems that would come with the liaison group, if it were absolutely necessary. He turned back to his notes.
“We’ve put the final pieces of the puzzle together in the last few days. As far as we can tell, this is what you’ll be up against.”
The atmosphere in the room sharpened.
“The Taliban commander in Afghanistan didn’t trade drugs or guns. He was being funded by just one individual in Eastern Europe. Part of the deal, if not all of it, was for the commander to pass along smuggled goods.
“It appears this European individual has been very busy. He’s discreet, but NATO has tracked him to a number of operations around the world. They’re a mix of fundamentalist organizations, third world groups, and extreme views of the left and right.
“There’s no particular pattern to who he funds. Surprisingly, he’s now working with the Russian Mafia. We don’t yet know why he’s taken that risk. It’s the only reason NATO has this much information on him. There must be something he needs badly from the Russians for him to come out of the shadows.
“The NATO spooks want this guy bad. The trouble is they haven’t got a name yet, or even a specific location. They think he’s part of a landed dynasty in the Dalmatian area. That’s along the coast of modern-day Croatia. They’ve intercepted coded references to ‘the Count’.”
The dotted line showing the smuggling route, previously ending in a question mark somewhere in Romania, now diverting left at Turkey and ending in a red circle in Dalmatia.
Maric’s ears went up. He was no genealogist, but his uncle sometimes talked about the family’s Dalmatian roots. His uncle claimed they were descended from the Roman occupation centuries before. A Roman Province named Dalmatia, much larger than the present region, had been in existence for some time by the 4th century AD.
What Cal was saying made sense. The educated and affluent lived in the coastal cities of Dalmatia. The old feudal systems still existed in the barren mountain ranges of the hinterland. Feudal systems like this had produced warlords in the past – and caused civilized countries no end of headaches.
There was, however, a problem in that. The area was dirt poor. It seemed inconceivable the mysterious Count would be able to fund a Taliban warlord, or have the influence he was supposed to have.
The Serbo-Croation war in the early 1990s would have been a useful time for the Count to expand his operations, deliberated Maric. And make new contacts, like the Russian Mafia. There was a lot a person could do under the smokescreen of a civil war. But it didn’t address the main problem. Where was this guy getting his money from?
“It’s the same problem the SAS had with the Taliban commander,” Cal was saying. “The Count doesn’t appear to be running drugs, guns, or human traffic. So NATO can’t put pressure on him by cutting off his money supply.
“The good news is we think that’s about to change. With the information we’re getting from NATO, and the records we took out of Afghanistan, we’re not far from finding out the source of his cash.
“Sorry to leave you hanging, but we still need to confirm where and how the Count is operating in Indonesia. As they say, ‘watch this space’.”
Cal stood up. He walked round in front of the table, so he could address the men more personally.
“In the meantime we have some decisions to make. In a few days we should know when and where the EAPC liaison group would join us. Shortly after that you’ll be individually assessed for mental and physical battle readiness.
“Those who pass the assessment will have to decide whether this op is for them or not.
“That’s a lot for you to think about.”
He drew the silence out for a number of pregnant, thought-provoking seconds.
“Company dismissed.”
He caught Maric’s eye as the men disbursed, and beckoned him over.
“You might want to start brushing up on your Dayak,” he said quietly. “In case you decide to join us. We can hire interpreters, but I’d rather get the trust of locals. It’s better if they volunteer to help us. For that we need someone who knows Dayak ways.”
Maric nodded. He’d spent his down time from his Afghanistan tours in the center of Borneo. It was just the sort of out-of-the-way place where the Count could be running something clandestine.
His friend Dick Chambers had been a Ranger in the New Zealand Forest Service. From there he’d branched out to manage plantations in Borneo, or Kalimantan as the locals called it. The coastal areas of the island were a polyglot of Chinese, Indonesian, Malay and European, but the interior had remained almost exclusively Dayak.
His friend had married into a high-ranking Dayak family, and spoke the language fluently. Maric had picked up a smattering of it in his time there. The family were based in Pontianak, on the Kapuas River in West Kalimantan. Dick was something of an overlord himself now, looking out for the interests of his people.
“You think this op is going ahead, don’t you?” said Maric quietly. He’d almost added ‘Sir’, but decided against it. Cal’s strict attitude with new SAS members had eased once Maric had his own command. As if there were fewer distinctions between leaders. Maric also had to remind himself he was a civilian now. Unless he took on this mission, when that would change.
Cal hesitated at the question.
“Yes, I do,” he said after a moment. “There’s little to stop us. With the backing we’ve got now, we can be as independent as we want. We don’t have to worry about the political machinations of governments, or other people’s agendas.
“We need to send a message about killing members of the SAS, and we need to do that our way. We also need to do our part on the world stage, and this ‘Count’ has to be stopped. If we cut off his money supply, NATO can do the rest.”
Maric nodded. He hadn’t examined his own feelings about the mission yet. He would need a few more days. But so far it appeared the attack team had the moral right on its side.
CHAPTER 11
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Maric joined the others in training. His intermittent farm work over the past few years stood him in good stead. Still, he was hard pressed to stay ahead of the younger men. They were no fitter perhaps, but they were eager to make a name for themselves.
