Agency Rules - Never an Easy Day at the Office Page 2

  Colonel Akbar, a veteran of the Afghanistan resistance against the Soviets and a master of guerrilla warfare, stood before his team. Colonel Akbar had trained the Mujahideen to fight the Soviets, who were better armed and better trained than the guerrillas, but unable to fight a resistance force in the mountains and streets. He had been part of the ISI’s counter-insurgency force for decades and an expert on guerrilla warfare for the agency.

  “This operation has two very simple objectives,” the Colonel explained to the group. “First, we want to cut off all their supply lines, revenue sources and organizational structure. Second, we want to inflict extreme pain on those who finance and support these activities in the city. We will have one group that will be responsible for intelligence gathering and target identification. A second group will implement the go orders. A third team will clean up the aftermath of the go order, and lastly, an administrative team will document and report information up the chain of command.

  “Your presence and activities will be unknown to anyone outside of the people in this room, the Corps Commander, Director General ISI and the Chief of Army Staff.” The Colonel paused to let the words sink in. “If you are not willing to follow these rules, stand up and leave the room now,” he continued. Five soldiers hesitantly stood, glanced around the room for other supporters, but finding none, they started for the door before the Colonel called out to them.

  “Take those uniforms off when you leave the room. They are worn by men and you ladies don’t fall into that category.” That single statement froze them in their tracks. Each turned to look at the Colonel, wondering if their military careers had just ended. “There is nothing here for you. I’ll be speaking with your commanding officers before the day is over. Dismissed, ladies.”

  He waited for the door to close and returned to the group before him. “Anyone else? This is your only chance to walk away.”

  Each man shook his head, assenting to their participation, and the Colonel knew he had his wet team. “This army is charged with defending the country from both internal and external threats. This agency is primarily responsible for intelligence and covert actions outside our borders, but there are times when both must work together to restore order.”

  He picked up the glass on the table behind him. “We face an internal threat today that should have been controlled by civilian law enforcement agencies, but they have sold their souls to the devil and the devil is collecting his due.” He motioned to the men to gather round the table. He pulled a thick plastic file forward, and flipped it open, pulling out a number of maps, papers and photographs.

  Over the next three hours, the Colonel broke down the covert action, identified targets, methods and required end results. Having trained the Mujahideen, he had an intimate knowledge of maneuvering within an occupied city and how to extract information from hostiles. “All means at our disposal will be used to neutralize this problem permanently and serve as a warning to anyone who dares to do it again. Ajmal, Amjad and Basit, you are Alpha team. You will serve as the on-ground eyes and ears for the operation, coordinating intelligence with our existing network. Dawood, Aftab and Kamal, Omega team, you will implement. Kamran, Moin and Riaz, Charlie team, support the implementers. You do what they tell you to do,” the Colonel barked out. “The remaining six will be operational support. You keep track of the targets neutralized and report to me. Is everyone clear on their mission?”

  They all spoke, as if someone had pulled a string on their backs, simultaneously. “Yes Sir!”

  “Men, this country turns to us when everyone else fails. The politicians and police have had their chance and choose to stand with the gangs.” The Colonel relaxed his stance slightly, winding up the briefing. “We cannot fail. Karachi needs us.

  “Omega team, I want to speak with you three privately. The rest of you are dismissed. Be ready to travel day after tomorrow.”

  Kamal, Dawood and Aftab waited for their colleagues to click their heels and clear the room before spreading out around the table. Kamal’s military career so far had been spent on battlefields with live target practice, sitting in a sniper perch yards from the action. He was precise and detached from the action in many cases, but his burning passion made him an invaluable member to any team. Taking out hostiles, accurately, quickly, and providing essential cover to his brothers-in-arms was a matter of pride for him.

  This is different though, he thought to himself. There are no uniforms; these are civilians. The possibility of neutralizing an innocent troubled his mind for a split second before he snapped back to attention. The Colonel was speaking.

  “Gentlemen, you have one of the most important responsibilities in this operation. As implementers, your job is not only to get the targets neutralized, but also to strike such fear into the hearts of these gang leaders that they beg to surrender. These people have been allowed to terrorize Pakistanis for too long now.” the Colonel continued. “There will be hostiles on this list that you may have moral issues neutralizing, but these files should help motivate you to do your jobs.”

  The Colonel fanned open several photographs and placed them before the three.

  Kamal recoiled instantly. Dawood gagged slightly, and Aftab turned away.

  They were confronted with photographs of burned, tortured and beaten bodies, each tagged with the names and ages of the victims. Kamal’s stomach churned as he scanned the images, and he could see Dawood and Aftab were struggling as well. What the fuck? This is bloody nauseating.

  “These people were ordinary citizens targeted because they had successful businesses, supported law enforcement or just got in the way of a gang’s expansion,” Colonel Akbar told them. “Show them the same mercy they showed those in their hands. Ruthless is countered with ruthless. Our politicians, police and judges have shown that they are intimidated, or in league with them. We don’t have fear. We create and exploit it.”

  Later, sitting in the canteen with his team members, Kamal found himself recalling the pictures in the file. Each of the pictures had been tagged with names and descriptions of the deceased, and he now had names to go with the faces of the victims. It smoothed away the split second of doubt he had experienced during the briefing, but his stomach continued to churn. Kamal knew that Dawood had actually parted with his breakfast right after the briefing.

  Early next morning, the team gathered at Chaklala Air Base, scheduled to fly to Karachi on a C-130 with their required equipment. Not every military invasion requires hundreds of men and a convoy of military hardware; some are designed to move with deadly precision. This mission was silent and surgical, meant to disrupt all that the criminal mafias held sacred. Karachi would not be the same once they were done.

  Chapter 2

  From his perch on top of a seven-story apartment block, Kamal watched the people below move through their daily lives. There was a fruit seller in the far corner shouting to passersby, trying to draw attention to his wares. Just a few shops down was a lone waiter at a chapli kebab house trying to keep up with the demands of the numerous customers screaming their orders. Small tables crowded the wide pavement at a small chai hotel, partly obscured by the smoke billowing from the giant tawwa placed prominently outside. The faint sound of music, and the raucous yell of vendors and shopkeepers floated up in snatches to where Kamal was hidden. This was the life of the Pathans in Sohrab Goth, located in the north of Karachi; it was the gateway for immigrants to the city. From here, they would set their way and start their lives in the Pakistan’s largest metropolitan center.

  Kamal shifted imperceptibly in his position, careful not to disturb the rifle hidden under foliage beside him. He had found a spot with the sun behind him, to minimize glare off the scope, and he had been out there for hours. It’s a lonely job, Kamal thought to himself. Kamal had learned in the battlefield that his instincts were rarely wrong, but that was a battlefield. There it was clear who the enemy was, but in an urban center, enemies were never clearly marked. The decision to pull the trigge
r on a target was his own, and it meant Kamal had to pay closer attention to where a potential threat could come from and how it would manifest itself.

  This was the tenth day of surveillance, and Kamal’s body was stiff every evening when he descended to the flat they had rented in the building. The operational command, Major Imtiaz, wanted him close to the theatre so response to any untoward incidents could be covert, quick and decisive.

  The flat was a small, dingy affair, barely 800 square feet of prime real estate in an overcrowded city. Residents kept to themselves, which was a huge advantage, but Kamal still preferred to remain in the shadows. The front door opened into a small living area and kitchenette. The room was dark when he entered—not unusual, as his colleagues were still watching the streets below through slits in the blinds.

  Kamal made a small sound to attract their attention. Even though the neighboring flat was empty, they were habitually careful with their movements. In silence, Captains Dawood and Aftab joined Kamal at the counter, and they exchanged notes on their potential targets, and possible persons of interest.

  By the time they were done, Kamal was afraid his bones would creak if he moved too fast. But as soon as he was free, he moved towards the back bedroom. Quickly and efficiently, he stripped off his sweat-stained clothes, and took a silent sponge bath in the tiny en suite bathroom. Barely fifteen minutes later, he lowered himself onto the bed, and finally allowed his mind to wander.

  Just eleven days ago (it already felt like a lifetime), he’d gotten into a jeep with six fellow army officers, driving away from the base where he was stationed. The base shrunk behind them as they drove down a secluded road towards a series of hangers far from any signs of life. It became clear that no one was supposed to know who came in on the flight, as the C-130 was turned around and went racing past them into the air, back to Rawalpindi.

  Pulling closer, Kamal noticed the dilapidated hangers with paint chipping from the exterior walls, and the light over the entrance broken. These hangers were purposely made to look this way. They were sequestered to a far off section of the air base so that they would seem inconspicuous and hide the actual purpose of their usage.

  The doors of the hanger were thrown open as the jeeps pulled closer and were quickly ushered inside with the entry doors slammed behind. Inside stood a man in fatigues smoking a cigar, surrounded by a group of men, tables and bulletin boards. The only light in the entire hanger hung above the man, slightly swaying from the rush of air that entered behind the jeeps.

  Major Imtiaz was a seasoned officer and the commander on the ground in Karachi. He had gained his guerrilla experience under the watchful eye of Colonel Akbar in Bajaur and Kashmir and was one of the top interrogators in the Pakistan Army. Credited with breaking Soviet soldiers and operatives during the Afghan conflict, Indian soldiers in Kashmir and many others that were only known from the intelligence gathered in foreign missions. He had been honored with the title Quizmaster.

  He had delivered the team’s final briefing, updating them on the situation along with the latest intelligence on their targets. His files had included the location of the dingy apartment where the omega team was holed up.

  A rough hand on his shoulder woke Kamal from his sleep, unclear and groggy.

  “Kamal, get to the roof,” hissed Dawood. “We have trucks moving. They’re loaded.”

  “Where’s Aftab?” Kamal asked scanning the room.

  “He’s next door on the radio. We need Major Imtiaz’s authorization before we take any action,” replied a tense Dawood. “Get moving!”

  Kamal hesitated for a moment, then stepped to the wash basin to splash cold water on his face and over his head. Turning towards the door, he grabbed his .308 Lapua and started for the stairs. Climbing quickly, he slipped the comms device into his ear, flipping it on with his thumb. He gave his call-sign, “Omega 1. Check one, two, three. Check one, two, three. Command, do you copy?”

  “Omega 1, this is Alpha 1. Hold for confirmation and authorization,” came the easily recognizable voice of Ajmal. “Repeat, hold for confirmation and authorization.”

  Kamal reached the roof, set his weapon in place and settled into the perch he had created. Adjusting his sight for wind and trajectory, Kamal brought the first truck of the convoy into the crosshairs, moved to the second and finally the third. Working without a spotter, Kamal understood that the possibility for error was strong but another person on the roof could potentially expose their location. He scanned the targets and environment, looking for any hostiles that may be watching, holding his position as he waited for the go order in his ear.

  “Omega 1, order confirmed. Authorization granted for lethal force,” came the voice in his ear. “Repeat, order confirmed. Authorization granted for lethal force. Confirm kill.”

  In sniper training, one of the first things taught was the ability to remove the background and concentrate on the target. Phasing out the background allowed the sniper to hone in on what mattered to him, the target. Kamal’s mind went blank to his surrounding as he settled his body into a familiar drape across the floor. Moving his scope from one to the other and then the last, Kamal weighed his options and made his decision. His finger twitched with anticipation against the trigger, as he slowed his heartbeat. Slowly adjusting his rifle sight, Kamal focused on the fuel tanks and pulled the trigger, releasing two rounds into the quiet of the night, leaving only the faint hiss as they propelled toward the target.

  “Alpha 1, round away, impact in 5 seconds. 4, 3, 2, 1. Command, target 1 down,” Kamal quietly said into the comm unit, as the quiet night filled with the sound of the explosion in the first truck’s gas tank. He had seconds to neutralize the remaining trucks before they would bug out. Turning his sight towards the third truck, Kamal adjusted his sight as the trucks attempted to reverse away from the brightly burning lead truck. Steady, steady, Kamal thought to himself, as his finger hugged the trigger and pulled to propel the round toward its intended target.

  “Alpha 1, round away, impact in 8 seconds. Command target 3 down,” Kamal reported. “Target two attempting to bug out but trapped between initial targets.”

  “Omega 1, confirm third hostile,” came another voice in his ear. “Confirm third hostile down.”

  He watched the last truck of the convoy rocking back and forth, trying to find any escape route from the assault. From the corner of his sight, Kamal saw the men jumping from escort vehicles; weapons raised, looking for the direction of the assault. Like idiots, they moved closer to the last remaining truck, thinking that they were going to be able to save it. Kamal waited. Come on… closer… closer… don’t be afraid. Today you die. With a smirk on his face and a snap, he let loose the final round, hurtling towards the last truck. Kamal pulled away from the rifle sight to watch as the round split the air, leaving a slight tracer behind it. He had always admired the accuracy of his work.

  “Alpha 1, round away. Hostiles in the range. Command target 2 down. Confirmed 10 hostiles neutralized.” Kamal spoke emotionlessly into the comms unit. He heard several smaller explosions from below as the munitions within the trucks detonated. Flames rose up in the air in concert with short bursts of explosions from all three trucks. It had taken three single shots to take out the targets. Like a boxer, Kamal thought to himself, three punches and down for the count.

  “Alpha 1, Omega 1 bugging out,” Kamal said to the voice on the other side. “Targets neutralized. Bonus ten hostiles neutralized. Munitions destroyed. It will be a safer morning in Karachi today.”

  “Omega 1, well done. Return to watcher positions,” said the voice.

  On the battlefield, Kamal was a legend with his Winchester and Lapua, affectionately known as his ladies. He had always taken great satisfaction in the kills that he had registered with a sickening frequency. This kill was different. It was his first urban takedown and it produced a rush of adrenaline that he could not explain. As he slowly descended the stairs to the flat, he could hear the sirens outside. He knew that eve
ry resident in the complex was now awake and watching the show, wondering if terrorists had struck again.

  Miles away in the Garden district, a ringing phone interrupted the screams of pain coming from a makeshift torture chamber. Inside the chamber, a young police officer who recently been transferred to Karachi’s gang violence unit from Lahore was tied to a rickety chair and bleeding profusely. His crime was simple. He had slighted Minto in his own territory. For Minto, there was no such thing as a slight too small and this copper had dared to ask for a bribe from one of Minto’s top lieutenants and revenue generators. Hanif, a graduate of Minto’s academy of mayhem, was masterful in his ability to cause panic with small explosives. When he wasn’t creating mayhem, he ran one of the most efficient drug distribution networks in the city, able to move product to any location in any quantity and on a moment’s notice. His successes were impressive and had earned him his place within Minto’s inner circle.

  Minto pulled the knife out of the police officer’s leg, wiping the blade clean on the copper’s hair, and called for someone to bring him the phone. Minto’s place as the top Don in the city had been earned by killing all those who came before him and anyone who dared to challenge him. He was ruthless in his dispensation of justice to those who crossed him and feared by crime lords and top cops in the city alike. He was Minto sahib to them all; no one dared to call him by any other name.

  By the time the phone reached Minto’s bloody hand, the ringing had stopped. Minto glared at his victim, who made a desperate attempt to stop his groans of pain, and in the ensuing silence, the phone started to ring again. A blood-covered hand picked up the receiver.

  “What?” Minto barked into the phone.

  “Minto gee… we have… lost the trucks,” came the wavering voice of Absar. Delivering bad news to Minto was a dangerous gamble. Messengers invariably suffered a gruesome fate at his hands. “We were hit. The… the weapons are destroyed. Ten of our boys are dead and I have no idea where the shots were fired from.”