The CIA Air Branch Gulfstream descended
from the sky over Camp Lemonnier, home of the US military’s Combined Joint Task
Force-Horn of Africa (CJTF-HOA), in the tiny Republic of Djibouti.
Looking out
through the cabin porthole, Avery spotted F-15E Strike Eagles, a C-130
transport, and CH-53 helicopters lined up on the tarmac. Concrete sidewalks and
gravel roads weaved through the rows of identical Quonset huts and
containerized housing units (CHU), where the Marines, SEALs, pilots, technical
specialists, and spies were billeted. Surrounding the 500-acre base was flat,
tan desert, except on the east side, where the land receded into the cerulean
waters of the Gulf of Aden, which was patrolled daily by over half-a-dozen of
the world’s navies.
CJTF-HOA’s mandate
was counterterrorism and counterpiracy. Regional threats included al-Qaeda,
al-Shabab, Somali pirates, and anti-ship missiles launched from Houthi-held
coastal territory in western Yemen. From this remote outpost, the US launched
drone strikes, hostage rescue missions, and direct action in Yemen, Somalia,
and elsewhere.
Without warning,
the pilot executed a corkscrew landing, putting the jet in high altitude over
Lemonnier, then descending in a rapid spiral. This made it harder for someone
on the ground to track them with a shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile. More
than a couple shots have been made against aircraft landing and taking off
here, and the Chinese, who have a base at the Port of Doraleh, have taken to
flashing blinding lasers at American pilots.
Though he hated
the jarring, gut-wrenching maneuver, like being on the world’s fastest and
highest rollercoaster, Avery didn’t show his discomfort in front of the other
three contractors with whom he shared the cabin. One of them, a former Marine
named Gomez, sat silently in his seat, clinging to the ends of his armrests,
looking like he was focusing solely on not upchucking all over the cabin.
The ordeal ended
quickly. The Gulfstream’s wheels soon bounced against the tarmac, giving its
passengers a little jolt, and taxied to the hangar.
A crew member
appeared and popped the hatch on the Gulfstream’s cabin. The sweltering 95°
desert instantly sucked the cool air out of the plane. In addition to the heat,
Djibouti was notorious for its humidity, now pushing eighty percent.
By the time he
ambled down the airstairs with his rucksack slung over one shoulder, the first
beads of perspiration were already seeping from Avery’s pores and trickling
down his face into his beard, which already felt grimy and crusty after Iraq.
He hadn’t even time to shower before boarding the first plane in Baghdad
fourteen hours ago.
He averted his
gaze downward, away from the burning glare of the sun. No matter how much time
he’d spent in Middle Eastern deserts, there was no getting used to that initial
shock when you first stepped off the plane in the middle of the afternoon heat.
Sam and Hix were
right behind him, their boots clanging against the metal steps. The former
muttered an obscenity in Arabic, clearly sharing Avery’s sentiment.
Sam was short for
Samir, the son of Egyptian immigrants, sometimes a practicing Muslim, former army
Special Forces and former Intelligence Support Activity, a classified special
mission unit that collected human and signals intelligence and conducted direct
action.
Sam spoke flawless
Arabic and could easily pass himself off as a native almost anywhere in the
Middle East. Once, he spent six nerve-wracking months undercover as a jihadist
in Egypt, producing actionable intelligence on an Iranian-sponsored false flag
terrorist plot against the US Embassy. Consequently, his mates bestowed the
call sign “Wahabi” upon him, which, to an outsider, might seem rather
ignominious, but Sam wore it with pride, as it spoke volumes of his abilities.
Hix was former
Fifth Special Forces Group, former Delta. Green Berets, as SF soldiers are
commonly referred to by outsiders but by no one in the community, are required
to pick up a second language. Most took on even more than that. Hix had good
Arabic, specifically the southern Arabic dialects spoken across southern Saudi
Arabia, Oman, Yemen, Djibouti, and Somalia. His last assignment with the army
placed him in Syria and Iraq as a translator with a specialized DIA
interrogation unit targeting ISIS’s foreign fighters.
Avery didn’t know
much about Gomez. The Salvadoran was former MARSOC Raider Regiment, former
scout sniper. Like Hix, he also had prior experience in the region from his
time in the Corps—Djibouti, Ethiopia, Somalia, on top of a deployment to
Afghanistan. But Avery had never worked with the man before, had just met him
on the tarmac at Baghdad before they took off.
At least Avery had
worked with Sam before, the previous year, escorting case officers through war
torn eastern Syria. He also knew people who knew Hix, which put him at ease
with the former SF master sergeant.
Like Avery, they
were all independent/private contractors working under CIA Global Response
Staff’s Scorpion Unit. This was their first time working together, and no one
had been told anything about why they were here.
At least Sam and
Hix’s presence on the element, and Camp Lemonnier’s proximity to Yemen and
Somalia, gave Avery some clue as to what this op was about and where they were
headed.
Avery had worked
Yemen in the past, when the US still had an embassy in Sanaa and special ops
units and drones stationed at al-Anad Air Base. Hix had been there even more
recently, after the current outbreak of fighting between Iranian-backed Houthi
rebels, named after their fallen leader, and the Saudi-backed government of
exiled President Abdrabbuh Hadi.
The country was a
mess. On the flight over, Hix shared plenty of horror stories about the
godawful place. Famine, drought, disease, mass civilian casualties. These days,
by comparison, Yemen made Iraq or Syria look like first class vacation spots.
Throw in the fact
that the fifth man on the team had come down with a brutal fever and was pulled
off the op last minute, with Langley failing to find a qualified replacement in
time, and they were already off to a less than stellar start.
Avery wasn’t
regretting taking the job, though. At least not yet.
The reason he’d
felt compelled—no, obligated—to take this job was because Carolyn Streib was
mission controller. She was one of the case officers he’d escorted through Iraq
last year. He’d fought and bled beside her in combat, during one brutal close
call with ISIS in Fallujah. He’d also seen the way veteran Ground Branch and
JSOC operators at Forward Operating Base Tampa, near Mosul, treated her as a
rare equal rather than as someone to try to fuck
Streib was now a
GS-11, something of a rising star in Near East Division, having gone from running
agents to now running ops.
The
thirty-seven-year-old woman who met them on the tarmac had shortly cut light,
reddish hair, fair skin, and a lithe, athletic physique that was shaped by
hours of indoor rock climbing, running, and tennis each week. She wore tan
cargo pants, hiking boots, a drab T-shirt, polarized Oakley sunglasses, and a
blue badge that hung around her neck, identifying her as OGA, or Other
Government Agency, the CIA’s preferred cover name when operating out of
military facilities.
“Welcome to
Lemonnier, gentlemen,” Streib greeted them. “Thank you for coming on such short
notice. Avery, a pleasure to work with you again. I’m really glad you’re here.
I was told it might take some convincing to bring you onboard.”
“Not at all. After
Fallujah, I told you I’d be there be if you needed me. Anywhere, anytime.”
Fact was, he might
not have even made out of Fallujah if it hadn’t been for Streib’s quick
thinking and sharp reflexes.
“You might come to
regret that.” Her tone suggested that she wasn’t completely joking.
“I don’t doubt
it,” said Avery. “That’s Gomez. That’s Samir. And that’s Hix.” The former
Marine nodded blankly, looking impatient. Sam gave a little wave with his free
hand. Hix loaded a wad of chew tobacco inside his lip.
Streib said, “You
all come highly recommended. A pleasure to make your acquaintances, no doubt,
but I’m sure you’d like to know what we’re doing here, and we’re running short
on time since Air Branch decided to drag ass getting you guys here, so let’s go
somewhere we can talk.”
Fifteen minutes
later, she showed them to a plywood hut set behind a chain-linked fence topped
with barbed wire. Tattooed, bearded men, armed with MP5s, stood guard at the
gates. Nearby were other huts and a larger barracks-type compound, plus a
couple Humvees and blacked-out, up-armored SUVs. This was the little corner of
Lemonnier where the intel officers from the three-letter agencies plotted their
spookery.
They sat down in
old, dingy metal folding chairs at a table. Streib set up her laptop, spread
out satellite overheads, and set down a platter of assorted mini-sandwiches
with chips and Coke from the base’s dining facility, where there was a Subway
restaurant, a rare amenity afforded to the men and women stationed here.
Not knowing when
his next meal would come, and by nature not a picky eater, Avery grabbed a plate,
going for the turkey and bacon. He always horded calories and carbs before he
launched, never knowing when the next opportunity might come. Plus, he carried
little fast on his frame as it was.
“What’s the job?”
asked Hix.
“Recovery and
extraction.”
“Guess we’re not
going hunting after all.” Hix had guessed that they were going after a
terrorist HVT—high value target.
“Is it an asset?”
Avery asked Streib.
“Not exactly.”
“What, then?”
“This is where it
gets complicated.”
“How so?”
“Gamal Nasri is a
Saudi opposition journalist. He’s actually the son of Palestinian refugees who
made their way to Saudi Arabia many years ago We have in fact approached him in
the past with a recruitment pitch, after we’d positively identified him from
the numerous articles that he has anonymous written, but he shot us down cold.
Although he despises the House of Saud, he’s by no means a fan of the US
Government, mostly over Washington’s support for Israel. His political leanings
seem to align with non-violent Islamism. Regardless, we still like to keep tabs
on him.”
“What does that
mean?” Avery asked.
“NSA monitors his
phone, financial, and Internet activity. That alone has led to a couple juicy
bits of intel over the past year.”
Streib laid down a
photo of the man in question and slid it across the table.
Avery studied the
face closely. He was looking at a light-skinned Arab with short, dark hair, an
angular, almost gaunt face, glasses, and a beard. He looked to be in his
mid-thirties.
Avery handed the
photo to Sam and asked, “So why are we giving him a free ticket out of Yemen?”
“The details are
classified, but NSA believes that Gamal Nasri is in possession of politically
sensitive information. Information that the Saudis are willing to kill to
suppress, as evidenced by the high priority termination sanction MBS placed on
Nasri last week.”
By MBS, Streib
referred to the initials and common nickname of the controversial young man who
served as crown prince and deputy prime minister, the heir to the throne of the
House of Saud.
MBS was known for
his hardline positions against Iran. After kidnapping the Lebanese prime
minister and extorting the man of his personal fortune, plotting a failed a
coup in Qatar, overseeing war crimes in Yemen, and ordering the murder of a
journalist in the Saudi consulate in Istanbul, MBS has increasingly tried
Washington’s patience.
Recently, the US
Senate passed a resolution condemning MBS, which in turn infuriated the Saudis.
Avery knew State,
Langley, and Congress would be relieved if King Salman kicked MBS to the curb
and selected his brother as his successor. MBS’s increasingly brazen actions
made it difficult for the politicians to justify taking Saudi money and not
impose punitive sanctions on the Kingdom
It wasn’t
difficult to read between the lines.
Avery said, “You
think Nasri has something that can bring down MBS?”
Streib pursed her
lips, making it clear she couldn’t answer that question while at the same time
telling Avery all he needed to know. “Whatever it is, it’s important enough
that MBS’s Tiger Squad chased him out of the Kingdom last week. We believe it’s
related to the recent arrest of Badr Rahman, a deputy defense minister whom we
long believed to be a part of silent cabal opposed to MBS’s impending rule.”
The Tiger Squad was
the crown prince’s personal security force and death squad.
“So, where do we
find this guy?” Gomez asked, reaching over the table to grab another sandwich.
“Geo-tracking
places Nasri in Yemen,” Streib said.
“Yemen?” asked
Hix. “Sure as shit wouldn’t be my first choice of spots to run to if the Saudis
were after me.”
“His options were
limited since his passport was flagged. Plus, he’s spent a lot of time in Yemen
covering the war. He has contacts there and knows the lay of the land. Probably
thought he could go to ground there or reach the coast and buy a ticket out
aboard a smuggler’s trawler. Regardless, we know the Saudis and their local
allies are looking for him, and they will find him sooner than later. I want
you to get to him first and bring him out.”
“Oh, is that all?”
asked Sam sarcastically. “Sure thing. Piece of cake.”
“Where in Yemen?”
Avery asked Streib. He didn’t like the sound of this op either, but he was
already committed.
“A place called
Dartun, between Tarim and Qasm, in central Hadramawt Governate.”
Avery glanced over
to Hix, who visibly tensed and said, “Hadramawt is infested with AQAP.”
Al-Qaeda in the
Arabian Peninsula was the largest and most dangerous al-Qaeda branch. Numbering
several thousand fighters, plus allied Yemeni factions, AQAP controlled vast
swaths of territory in parts of central and southern Yemen, where many of the
biggest terrorist plots against the US and Europe over the past several years
have originated, like the 2010 plot to explode American cargo planes in the
sky, the 2015 Charlie Hebdo shooting
in Paris, or the attempted assassination of Saudi Arabia’s intelligence chief
by way of a double agent suicide bomber who had a wad of plastic explosives
hidden in his rectum.
“You have a rendezvous and contact procedures
in place with Nasri?” Sam asked.
“We have not been
in contact with him. In fact, he doesn’t know we’re coming for him.”
Avery exchanged
uneasy looks with Sam.
“Sounds more like
a snatch-and-grab than an extraction,” Hix observed.
“Also gives us a
boatload of problems if he doesn’t want to come with us,” Avery added. “Maybe
he’s happy hiding out in Hadramawt.”
“That’s not an
option, whether he realized it or not,” Streib said. “Under the circumstances,
though, I think you can convince him to come along.’
“What makes you so
confident about that?”
“Nasri’s prospects
of escaping Yemen on his own are bleak, and it’s certainly not safe for him to
stay in Hadramawt. The Saudis will reach him eventually, or AQAP will. We’ve
reached out to the Turks. Istanbul is willing to offer him a passport and
asylum, to stick it to the Saudis, so you do have a bargaining chip to work
with. We’re waiting to hear back from the Qataris about a similar offer.
Additionally, Langley’s willing to pay good money him for his information.”
“He doesn’t sound
like the type willing to sellout to the Americans,” Avery said.
“He doesn’t need
to know you’re Americans, does he?” Streib replied. “But if he thinks you’re
mercs sent by one of his influential benefactors in the Saudi exile community…”
“Nice.”
“Devious,” Sam
said, nodding approval. “That just may work. I like it.”
“Does us no good
if we can’t pinpoint his location,” Hix pointed out. “Yemen’s a big place.”
“Of course.”
Streib smiled. “No Such Agency has triangulated his phone to this location,
where the phone has remained stationary for the past forty-eight hours.
Specifically, somewhere in the northeast corner of this building. Nasri, or at
least his phone, has not moved more a than a hundred feet during that time.”
She sorted through
the contents of a file folder, selected a satellite overhead, and laid it out
on the table. The sat photo depicted a centuries-old, walled, fortress-like
compound, or maybe a prison. Two technicals sat outside the main
building—civilian pickup trucks converted into fighting vehicles with the
addition of metal plates welded to the panels for armor and a heavy machinegun
mounted to the bed. Armed guards stood outside the gates.
Additional
overheads in the stack captured the surrounding area. Residents covered in
robes and turbans were visible on the narrow, twisty streets, along with goats,
donkeys, and cars. The area was comprised of mud-brick structures and dwellings
that appeared to be stacked on top of one another.
“Who’s running
this compound?” asked Avery. “How do we know Nasri isn’t being held captive
there?”
“The town is under
the control of tribal militia whom Nasri worked with when he was covering the
Yemeni war,” Streib said. “Maybe they are holding him prisoner, to work a deal
with the Saudis, but more likely they’re protecting him. Don’t worry. I’m
providing you with plenty of spending money.”
“This might be a
dumb question,” Gomez said, “but has anyone considered just calling this guy? I
know you spooks always get off on hatching up some brilliant, complex scheme.
The simplest solution is usually the best, know what I’m saying?”
“Spoken like a
true jarhead,” Hix muttered.
“Regardless of
what Avery may have told you,” Streib said, “not everyone in the Clandestine
Service is quite that dense. Nasri’s phone has been powered off since he
arrived in Yemen, maybe to save battery, maybe because he’s hoping no one will
be able to track him that way, which is a common misconception. Lucky for us,
Nasri didn’t remove the battery, which isn’t always possible to do with most
smartphone models these days. A while back NSA remotely installed a nifty little
Trojan on his phone. Dubbed ‘The Find,’ NSA’s app forces the handset, even if
it’s turned off, to continue emitting signals every fifteen minutes, making it
trackable at all times.”
“Who would have
thought?” Sam quipped. “Maybe No Such Agency is good for something, after
all.”
Streib handed over
an electronic device the size of a tablet. “You’ll be able to track the signal
with this GPS device.”
“Why us, though?”
asked Sam. “Sounds like a routine job for Ground Branch.”
“Or those Special
Forces A-Teams Washington pretends we don’t have embedded with Yemeni militias,
“Avery added.
“Trust me, I
tried. I couldn’t get authorization from the Seventh Floor, and Special
Activities Division wouldn’t take this op anyway.”
This also was to
be expected, Avery thought, understanding full well what they were doing here.
The situation was politically sensitive, as the suits and diplomats liked to
say. Washington didn’t want any fingerprints on this, and they sure as hell
didn’t want to risk upsetting the Saudis. That meant using outsiders. Private
contractors.
Contractors had
the enticing appeal of being deniable. Expendable. Exposable.
Deniability was
the reason the Saudis and Emiratis hired foreign mercenaries to fight in Yemen,
like those forty Blackwater contractors who were killed when a Houthi ballistic
missile struck their desert base. Deniability was the reason neither the White
House nor the Kremlin gave a damn when American bombs and artillery pulverized
over five hundred Russian military contractors and pro-Assad Alawite militiamen
who were caught advancing against an American forward operating base in eastern
Syria’s Deir ez-Zor region.
Of course, such
arrangements carried certain benefits for the contractor, too, not the least of
which was often a decent paycheck. Since everything was deniable anyway,
independent operators like Avery weren’t bound by the same oversight and restrictions
imposed on Ground Branch.
In the past, Avery
had found it necessary to push that operational freedom to the max to fulfill
his objectives, like last year, when he infiltrated rebel-held Donetsk in
eastern Ukraine to have an off-the-books chat with a high-ranking FSB
spymaster.
“Okay,” Sam said.
“Cover for status? Method of insertion? Yemen’s not an easy place to get into
these days.”
“No, it certainly
is not,” Streib agreed. “With the Arab naval and air blockade in full effect,
and the land borders with Oman and Saudi locked down, Yemen is one of the most
isolated pieces of real estate in the world. It’s nearly impossible for
foreigners to enter the country, unless they have diplomatic passports or
special clearance—reporters, aid workers, UN officials, most of whom are then
confined to Sanaa or Aden. Only specially approved charter flights or
government flights are permitted in. Additionally, a special travel permit is
then required to leave Sanaa and clear military checkpoints.”
“Fuck,” Gomez muttered.
“And I thought dealing with the jihadis would be the worst of our problems.”
“No, the jihadis
will be the least of our problems there,” said Hix. “I’m far more worried about
the Arab coalition.”
Streib said, “We’re lucky if we can get a case
officer in Sanaa or Aden once a month or two, and most of the time the Arabs
already have them pegged as CIA. For all intents and purposes, we’re blind and
deaf in Yemen.”
“We’re obviously
not getting diplomatic cover,” said Avery, “so I take it we’re going in as
journos, or sneaking in aboard a humanitarian flight?”
But Streib shook
her head. “Not feasible on such short notice. Visas are required thirty days in
advance to enter Yemen. Also, once in country, journalists and aid workers’
freedom of movement is tightly restricted. All foreigners have government
escorts who stay on them the entire time and report to the National Security
Bureau and the Central Security Force. You wouldn’t get very far.”
The State
Department and groups like Amnesty International have extensively documented
the Yemeni security services’ numerous human rights violations. Paramilitary
raids, repression of political opposition, arrests and detentions without
charges or trial, secret prisons, torture, and extrajudicial executions were
all standard operating procedure. And it had only gotten worse since the
outbreak of civil war.
“You’ve partly
been selected for this op due to your collective experience and skillsets,”
said Streib, looking from one man to the other. “You’ll need to blend in and pass
yourselves off amongst the local populace, stay off the Arab coalition’s radar,
and go unnoticed by the aforementioned security forces and their allied
militias, whom you will need to view as hostile actors. Beir Ahmed is not a place you want to end up.”
Avery knew Streib
was referring to the UAE-run prison in Aden, where torture, rape, and
mutilation were part of the daily regimen for inmates.
Gomez shook his
head. “No fucking wonder Special Activities didn’t want to touch this.”
Unfazed, Streib
said, “I can provide you access to an old Ground Branch safe house in
Hadramawt. It will be stocked with MREs, bottled water, medical kits, fuel,
weapons, ammo, and encrypted satellite communications.”
“We’ll take it,”
said Avery. “It’s better than nothing.”
“If it hasn’t been
compromised yet,” said Sam.
“You still haven’t
told us how you plan to get us in-country on such short notice,” Gomez told
Streib.
“Doesn’t look like
we’ll have enough time to insert by sea,” Avery noted. Disguised as a civilian
trawler or something, he supposed it wouldn’t be too difficult to slip past the
Saudi blockade, though. Hell, the Iranians managed to smuggle disassembled
anti-ship missiles plus Kalashnikovs and RPGs by the hundreds past the
blockade.
Studying the
satellite overheads of the terrain surrounding Dartun, recalling all the planes
he’d spotted outside on the tarmac, Avery started to develop an unpleasant
feeling in his gut. If inserting by land or sea wasn’t an option, given the
time constraints and lack of official cover, that really left only one option.
“Shit,” he thought
out loud.
“What is it?”
asked Gomez.
Streib told them,
confirming Avery’s suspicion. Then she checked the time and said, “I’ve already
arranged for the equipment you’ll need from the local SOCOM detachment. You
launch in eight hours.” In response to Avery’s visible unease, she told him,
“After this, you can consider all debts paid for Fallujah.”
“Damn right I
can.”
