Allies: The Bay

By Wolf Riedel

Introducing Chief Warrant Officer 2 Mark Winters of the US Army Criminal Investigation Command (CID) in Lakeland Florida.
Murder and special operations go hand in hand when Winters is called in by the Tampa Police Homicide Squad to assist in the investigation of the brutal murder of two individuals, one an army officer and the second an unknown who has been fiendishly tortured.
To unravel the mystery, Winters investigation takes him from Florida to Kentucky to Austria and finally Canada and has him facing two different and dangerous foes.
The story unfolds in the background of Phil Sambrook’s promotion to the rank of general and command of the US Special Operations Command Central and ODA 053’s participation in Operation MEDUSA in Afghanistan.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wolf Riedel
• Release date: Mar 4, 2015
• ISBN: 9780988076693

Wolf Riedel

WOLF RIEDEL is a lawyer and retired army officer with service in the artillery, infantry and with the Judge Advocate General. He and his wife live on the shores of Lake Erie and in Florida.

Book preview

By Wolf Riedel

Allies: Anaconda – A Novella

Allies: The Inquiry

Allies: The Trial

Allies: The Rivers

Allies: The Bay

Allies: The Gulf (Coming 2015)

Dawn Flight (Coming 2015)

— § —

Allies: The Bay is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is coincidental.

Text, cover, cover photo, maps, Copyright © 2014 by Wolf Riedel – All rights reserved.

Excerpt from Allies: The Gulf Copyright © 2014 by Wolf Riedel – All rights reserved.

Excerpt from Dawn Flight Copyright © 2014 by Wolf Riedel – All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law.

eBook Smashwords Edition ISBN 978-0-9880766-9-3

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— § —

For Kurt and Gerda

CONTENTS

Map 1 - Tampa Bay

Map 2 - Panjwayi and Zhari Districts

Map 3 - Operation MEDUSA 4 Sep 06

Map 4 - Operation MEDUSA 9 Sep 06

Glossary

Prologue

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Epilogue

Author's Notes

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Other Books by Wolf Riedel

Extract from Allies: The Gulf

Extract from Dawn Flight

MAP 1 - Tampa Bay Area

MAP 2 - Panjwayi and Zhari Districts

MAP 3 - Operation MEDUSA 4 Sep 06

MAP 4 - Operation MEDUSA 9 Sep 06

GLOSSARY

AFOSI – Air Force Office of Special Investigations

ANA - Afghan National Army

ANP - Afghan National Police

AO - Area of Operations

AQ - al-Qaeda - Islamist terrorist organization

CENTCOM - Central Command (aka USCENTCOM)

CFSOCC - Combined Forces Special Operations Component Command - forward deployed sub-headquarters of SOCCENT (aka SOCCENT FWD)

CG - Commanding General

CJSOTF-A - Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Afghanistan

CJSOTF-AP – Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force – Arabian Peninsula

CO - Commanding Officer

Delta - 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta

ETT - Embedded Training Team

FOB - Forward Operating Base

Fobbit - derogatory term for personnel who spend their tour inside the wire of an FOB (aka TOCroach)

GMV - Ground Mobility Vehicle (SOF version of HMMWV)

HLZ - Helicopter Landing Zone

HMMWV - High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicle

IED – Improvised Explosive Device

Intel - intelligence (aka int)

ISAF - International Security Assistance Force

ISI - Inter-Service Intelligence - Pakistani intelligence services

ISTAR - Intelligence, Surveillance, Target Acquisition, and Reconnaisance

JAG - Judge Advocate General

JTF 2 - Joint Task Force 2

JSOC- Joint Special Operations Command

KAF - Kandahar Air Field

Kandak - Afghan term for battalion

LAV or LAV III - Light Armored Vehicle (aka Stryker in US)

MBITR - AN/PRC 148 Multiband Inter/Intra Team Radio

Masjid - mosque

NDHQ - National Defence Headquarters

ODA - Operational Detachment Alpha – 12 man Special Forces Team

ODB - Operational Detachment Bravo – Special Forces Company Headquarters

ODC - Operational Detachment Charlie – Special Forces Battalion Headquarters (when deployed termed FOB and/or TF)

PB - Patrol Base

PPCLI - Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry (aka Patricias)

RPG - Rocket Propelled Grenade

Ranger – member or element of U.S. Army 75th Ranger Regiment

SF - Special Forces – members and elements belonging to a SFG(A) – not to be confused with the term SOF – special operations forces which refers to the wider community to which the SF and other units such as Delta, SEALs, JTF 2 etc belong

SFG(A) - Special Forces Group (Airborne) (aka Green Berets)

SOT-A - Special Operations Team Alpha - low-level signals intelligence intercept teams within a SFG(A)

TAC - Tactical command post

TOC - Tactical Operations Center

Taliban - armed Islamist militants (aka Tims, Timmies)

TF - Task Force - a military element or unit specifically configured for a given task

TF 3-06 - battle group based on the 3rd Battalion, Royal Canadian Regiment

TF 31 - 1st Battalion, 3rd SFG(A) (aka FOB 31, SOTF 31)

TF 373 - JSOC black ops TF in Afghanistan

TF AEGIS - multi-national brigade headquarters based on 1st Canadian Mechanized Brigade Group HQ

TF COMANCHE - Company C, 2nd Battalion, 87th Infantry

TF GRIZZLY - ad hoc force based on various components of US National Command Element - Kandahar

TF MOHAWK - Company A, 1st Battalion, 4th Infantry

TF ORION - battle group based on 1st Battalion, Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry

TIC - troops in contact

UAV - Unmanned Aerial Vehicle

USACIC – United States Army Criminal Investigation Command (aka CID)

SOCCENT - Special Operations Command Central

SOCOM - US Special Operations Command (aka USSOCOM)

THE BAY

AN ALLIES NOVEL

— § —

PROLOGUE

— § —

Bayshore Blvd, Tampa, Florida

Friday 18 Aug 06 0015 hrs EDT

The piece-of-shit car had fortunately managed to last the forty odd mile trip from Lakeland, down the I-4 and then the Selmon Expressway, to the Bayshore Beautiful neighborhood of Tampa’s southern end. Mark Winters had tried to get the old 1998 Ford Police Interceptor traded in for a new car but their office wasn’t high on the list for upgrading equipment. Why they had an Interceptor had always been a mystery to Mark. It’s not like we do high speed chases or PIT maneuvers with these things. All we do is drive from Point A to B. Today’s problem with the POS, as Mark had dubbed it, was that its air conditioner had crapped out again and that it took at least three cranks of the starter before the damn thing had fired up. The air conditioner had not been an issue tonight; the lack of any cloud cover had already allowed the temperature to drop down to the predicted overnight low of seventy degrees so that, with the windows open, the trip had been tolerable. Assuming they were still here tomorrow it would be a different story with the daytime high expecting to flirt with one hundred.

They had been driving south on Bayshore Boulevard, a long four-lane roadway with a broad, tree-lined median. To their left, beyond the sidewalk and ornate concrete railing lay the dark mass of Hillsborough Bay, empty of any boat traffic but with a clear view of the twinkling lights of Davis Island on the opposite shore. The sidewalk was a jogger’s dream but at this time of night had been deserted. To their right was a procession of stately homes interspersed with multi-storey condominiums fronted by equally stately trees, manicured lawns and the impressive flower beds and ornate plantings that can only thrive in Florida’s perpetually warm sunshine and humidity; well maybe Hawaii too. Ahead, on their side of the road, sat a cluster of flashing purple lights. As they approached nearer to the scene, they could distinguish that the purple came from the multiple red and blue bulbs on the light bars of three squad cars from Tampa PD’s District One which were parked on the narrow grass strip and sidewalk in front of a substantial two-storey house.

See if you can park us off the boulevard around the corner, Sal, Mark said to the POS’s driver.

On this stretch of Bayshore, the residential side streets ran to the west; inland, away from the bay. There was a side street for every two residential lots on Bayshore. As they made the turn, Mark could see yet more cars parked on the side street adjacent to the house: two unmarked cars with their four-way lights flashing, a Hillsborough County Coroner’s van and two Tampa PD Crime Scene Technicians’ vans. Parking was at a premium.

Hail, hail, the gang’s all here, chimed Sal as he steered the POS up over the low curb on the opposite side of the street bringing the car to rest on a lawn in front of a short low brick wall and under a leafy elm.

Mark exited the vehicle and nodded to the scowling neighbors whose front lawn they had just appropriated. It wasn’t enough that the police had to visit in the middle of the night with their flashing lights but now they were also parking on their lawns. Better that than blocking the narrow street, he thought.

Sal walked around the car and the two of them crossed the street and approached the house which seemed to fill the entire lot. When they had first seen it as they passed the squad cars, Mark had thought that the building had its broad front facing the bay but now as he stood to the home’s side he could see that as broad as the house had looked, it was even deeper. On top of that a two-car garage added to its length extending inland and facing onto the side-street. A one-foot brick wall with an equally high wrought iron fence surrounded the whole property. Two iron gates provided vehicular access on this side of the street: one in front of the garage, the other closer to the intersection. Behind the wall and connecting the two gates was a brick driveway which extended the full length of the house and tucked under a covered portico.

All the activity seemed centered at the open garage gates where a patrolman with a clipboard kept watch. As Mark got close he could read the man’s name-tag; Hogue.

He walked up to the patrolman and flipped back the corner of his suit coat to expose the badge clipped to his belt. Sal did the same.

Good evening officer Hogue, said Mark. We’re here to see Detective Baumgartner.

You’re the CID guys? the cop asked.

Mark nodded.

She’s expecting you inside. I need your names for the log.

Chief Warrant Officer Two Mark Winters and Staff Sergeant Salvadore Watt. They both held out their credential-packs so that the patrolman could copy their particulars to the crime scene’s access log.

Thanks, said the cop.

While waiting for him to finish scribbling their names into the log, Mark took a closer look at the house. Two storeys of yellow stucco with white cornerstones and trim. The building was not a full rectangle. Instead the southeast corner was set back; it was more like two shoeboxes set corner-to-corner with only a partial overlap. Within the corner’s set back stood an ornate concrete fountain and a mass of palmettos, yuccas and rhododendrons. The second storey had a balcony that covered most, but not all, of the east—bay facing—side of the house. White railings and a pinkish Spanish-tile roof gave the whole thing a gingerbread appearance. Not too ornate though; stylish without being ostentatious.

Here you guys go, said Hogue handing them back their creds. We’re using that doorway there. He pointed at an open double door under the portico.

Sal and Mark made their way to the door where they paused to slip paper booties over their shoes and latex gloves onto their hands.

The home’s interior matched that of its exterior. Clean lines in muted colors; whites and yellows with touches of blue. A two storey foyer with white marble tiles indicated that this was the home’s main entrance rather than the doorway that led to the front yard. To their right a large double arch led to a living room replete with modern but comfortable-looking white sofas and armchairs. Pillows with a hint of blue added to the color palate. Two tall and narrow white porcelain urns stood as sentinels beside the arches. To their left stood yet another arch beyond which another couch could be seen. Mark presumed this led to a family room and probably an open concept kitchen with access to what would have to be a limited backyard; probably one that was mostly taken up by a pool with a screened enclosure. Directly to their front was a broad, curved stairway leading upstairs and guarded by another patrolman. He’d watched them casually as they put on their booties and gloves and let them finish before addressing them.

You’re the army guys, are you? he asked.

Mark nodded and wondered yet again why some people would make a statement and ask a question in the same sentence.

Everyone’s upstairs. On your left once you’re at the top.

Thanks, said Mark.

They ascended the stairs and could immediately sense the activity even before they saw anyone. Low voices and the sounds of movement intruded from the poolside end of the house along the otherwise silent upper landing to the stairs. Funny thought Mark. I haven’t even seen the backyard yet I’m positive there will be a pool there. God it’s nice to have money.

The back end of the house consisted of a stylish master bedroom suite with an attached den/office combination. Here was pandemonium. Pandemonium was perhaps too strong a word for the purposeful, professional activity happening in what Mark expected was at all other times an area of quiet contemplation and rest. Again, white predominated the decor of the suite: white bookcases, a white marble desk, bleached white wood floors, a California-king bed with white sheets and duvet, two white easy chairs and a couch. An open set of French doors led to a balcony overlooking—I knew it—a brightly lit pool enclosure below.

At a glance, Mark estimated the crew working the scene to be roughly a dozen. Four crime scene techs in their white paper coveralls were working on different parts of the room which was already starting to be discolored by the black fingerprint powder being liberally spread around. He’d glimpsed another two coveralled people working the backyard downstairs. Three suit and bootie clad individuals stood in the center of the room conversing in low tones. Behind the couch two more heads bobbed up and down occasionally.

Mark focused his attention on the three in the middle of the room. One he knew. A tall man with a lanky frame and no hair whatsoever on his head. In a state that never lacked for sunshine, Homicide Sergeant, Bill Sexton’s perpetual pale pink skin stood out as an anomaly. How he kept from being ravaged by chronic sunburn had been a question playing in the back of Mark’s mind since he had first met the man on his initial liaison visit to the Tampa PD two years ago. At that time he had been newly transferred in to take up the role of Special Agent in Charge of the US Army’s Criminal Investigation Command’s Lakeland office. The original name for the command had been the Criminal Investigation Division, hence the acronym CID. When the division had become a command it had nonetheless retained the CID moniker for all purposes.

Mark’s command was a small one operating out of the James West Army Reserve Center alongside the headquarters for a Florida National Guard artillery battalion and the 383rd MP Detachment (CID) of the Army Reserve. His own chain of command stretched back to the Fort Benning CID Battalion and from there to the 3rd MP Group (CID) stationed at Fort Hunter in Georgia. While small, his detachment was responsible for all of the Army’s felony investigations in the Florida peninsula. Another CID office at Eglin Air Force base covered the state’s panhandle. Key amongst Lakeland’s responsibilities was CID support for US Central Command; CENTCOM, and its subordinate, US Special Operations Command Central; SOCCENT. It was that last role that had brought him here today.

While Bill Sexton was the senior Tampa PD Homicide officer here, Mark knew that he was here merely in a supervisory role and not as the lead investigator. Accordingly, while he nodded to him and said Hi’ya, Bill, good manners made him hold out his hand and introduce himself to the smallest member of the group. Detective. I’m Mark Winters and this is Sal Watt. We spoke on the phone.

Glad you could get here so quickly, she said. Sage Baumgartner. This is Detective Benjamin Whitlock. She gestured to the third member of the group. I take it you know Sergeant Sexton already. It was a straightforward statement and not a question, which got her off to an immediate good start in Mark’s books.

Call me Ben, said Whitlock holding out his hand.

They shook hands all around and Mark quickly took stock of his new acquaintances.

Sage looked to be in her late thirties. Average height for a woman but significantly shorter than her two companions and himself. The only one close to her height was Sal whose nickname Pitbull came from his small stature which was more than compensated for by his heavy musculature and tenacious aggression during unarmed combat training and with uncooperative detainees. Baumgartner had that same look about her. Her firm handshake had hinted of the fact that underneath that rumpled grey pantsuit was a woman who could bring more power to bear than the average perp would ever give her credit for. Her brown hair was cut into a short bob and there was only a hint of make-up about her face leaving her green eyes as its most striking component.

Whitlock was a typical cop. Tall and robust. Probably early thirties. Unlike Sexton, he came with a full head of hair, albeit cut very short, and sported a healthy tan that made his already sparkling white teeth appear brighter than they actually were. Bright blue eyes and a firm handshake left a positive first impression that he was probably a very likeable guy.

Want to see your guy first or the other one? asked Baumgartner.

Might as well start with ours, responded Mark.

He’s in the bedroom, she said and led the way through a broad arch.

Other than the smudges from the fingerprint powder which had already liberally covered every hard surface, the bedroom was immaculate. White with tasteful yellow and blue accents. On the left were two doorways: one led to a white marble bathroom suite while the other to an equally impressive walk-in closet. Most of my house would fit in this bedroom suite alone, thought Mark. To the right the wall was mostly glass, two large floor to ceiling windows flanking a sliding glass patio door which led out to the balcony. It was between the doors and the bed that the object of their visit lay stretched out.

Mark gave a careful overview of the area letting his eyes take in the scene in a long practiced pattern that started in the near left and moved back and forth, left to right and then back again extending ever further out away from him.

Before him lay a face-down Caucasian male, average height and build dressed in blue jeans and a blue, probably cotton, short-sleeved shirt. Brown leather shoes and belt. Hands tied behind his back with a white plastic zip tie. The hands were already encased in plastic bags to preserve evidence. There was little sign of blood but for a small mass of matted bloody hair on the back of the skull.

Mark moved into position in the narrow space available between the body’s right side and the doors. He looked at that part of the face that was visible. Youngish. Late twenties early thirties. Clean shaven but with a hint of five-o’clock shadow. Lips pulled back in a grimace. Eyes open and dried out, having lost all shine; the dull, unseeing eyes of the dead. No sign of any insect activity. Only a faint odor of decomposition. He noted that the shirt had been partially pulled out at the side of the pants—liver temperature probe? Probably.

Any indication as to the time of death.? he asked.

ME puts it between seven and eight this evening, Baumgartner replied.

Any other injuries beyond the head wounds?

No apparent ones. ME says we probably got one small caliber bullet to the skull. Went in and stayed there. Neat, clean, no fuss. They’ll need to confirm that at the autopsy.

The body been searched?

Yup. ME’s cleared him but there was nothing there but a handkerchief. No wallet, no keys. Nothing.

How’d you find out he was ours? Sal asked.

From the owner, she said. "We got a 911 call asking us to check out the property. The owner is on an extended holiday in China and had arranged to have an acquaintance house sit the place while he was gone. He’d called in to the house phone this evening; just to check in. He got a signal that the phone was dead. Called the sitter’s cell phone and got an out of service message. It was the dead house phone that really got him worried so he called us.

"District One sent a couple of squad cars around to check it out. They found the lights on and the bedroom garden doors open so they went in to check things out. This is what they found.

We checked back with the owner who told us who the sitter was and gave us a physical description of him. We’re pretty sure this is him. The other guy doesn’t look anything like the description we got. We still need to verify your guy’s ID but we think it’s almost certainly him.

Watson.

Yup. Major Carl Watson from one of the Special Operations Commands at MacDill.

Anything on the other one?

Nope, said Baumgartner. The owner has no idea who he might be. There was no ID either. But whoever did all of this wasn’t as nice with Vic Two as he was with your guy. There’s a hell of a mess behind that couch.

— § —

PART 1

CHAPTER 1

MacDill AFB, Tampa, Florida

Friday 18 Aug 06 0915 hrs EDT

The heat shimmers were already starting to rise from the pavement; whatever dew there might have been on the ground had already evaporated to mingle with the humid air blowing in from the bays. With the exception of a narrow stretch of land to the north, MacDill was surrounded by water; Hillsborough Bay to the east and northeast, Old Tampa Bay to the west and northwest and Tampa Bay to the south. A few miles beyond, the Gulf of Mexico added its portion of moisture that wafted in on the prevailing westerly breezes. When the breezes were strong enough, they provided enough air movement to help evaporate the sweat from the troopers’ Army Combat Uniforms. Some genius in his infinite wisdom had decreed that ACUs, unlike the older BDUs, would always be worn with their sleeves down depriving the troops of at least a small fraction of bare skin to help cool them. When the breeze stopped, the humidity merely added to their misery. This is why one rarely had formations in dress uniforms here; ACUs with neither weapons nor load-bearing equipment were the order of the day.

It had been a short formation. Phil Sambrook’s predecessor and his Command Sergeant Major had been responsible for planning it and neither one of them was a stickler for long drawn out protocols. Rather, each of them was a man of action more interested with getting the job done. The whole affair had in fact been a rush job from beginning to end. Barely a week had passed since the announcement that Phil had been confirmed in the rank of Brigadier General and that he would be taking command of Special Operations Command-Central. SOCCENT’s current commander was being promoted to the rank of Major General and moving into the job of Deputy Commander of US Special Operations Command.

Today was their official change of command parade. It was one of those situations that administrative officers loved; a double, zero-cost move as SOCCENT and SOCOM were located within a kilometer of each other at MacDill. Phil had quickly wound up his work at the J2-Intelligence directorate of SOCOM and had spent the majority of his time since the announcement doing a right seat-left seat exchange at SOCCENT.

The formation was not a large one; some two hundred troops—most of them officers and senior non-commissioned officers—were on parade. While SOCCENT currently commanded thousands of special forces personnel in Afghanistan, Iraq, the Horn of Africa and other places, only personnel from the headquarters at MacDill were in attendance; of those, many had been left at their desks tending to their duties of monitoring current operations.

Before him the troops stood in serried ranks formed up as a battalion in mass; while the ACUs predominated there was a sprinkling of airmen wearing older army tan and green BDUs, marines in MARPAT and sailors in working uniforms as well as several foreigners in their own distinctive combat uniforms. To their front stood the command’s Color party with the Command Sergeant Major and the principal officers of the commander’s personal staff.

Change of command parades were seen by some as a luxury but were, in fact, a necessity. They gave the opportunity for the old boss to say goodbye and for the new one to show his face. That portion of the formation was already behind them, a short speech by the old commander about how much the team had meant to him and how he had cherished his time working with everyone there. A slightly longer speech by the commander of US Central Command about the excellent job that the outgoing commander and SOCCENT, as a whole, had accomplished in support of CENTCOM’s mission and operations. A brief overview was given of Phil’s career with the 10th Mountain Division, the 101st Airborne Division, the 5th Special Forces Group, the 1st Special Operations Detachment-Delta and with SOCOM headquarters. This parade, however, was all about the outgoing guy and if he wanted to keep things simple, it wasn’t Phil’s place to argue; even if he had wanted to. There would be time in the weeks ahead for Phil to make his mark and let his team know where he stood.

They had finished signing the transfer papers and had now left the dais and positioned themselves four paces away from the command’s Color party, the outgoing commander in the center, Phil to his left and the commander of CENTCOM to the right. As the Command Sergeant Major removed the Command’s Color from the Color bearer’s sling Phil and the outgoing commander turned to face each other while the CENTCOM commander placed himself between them and slightly back. On the dais, the parade’s adjutant read out the assumption-of-command order. The CSM approached the outgoing commander and passed him the Color. In turn he passed it to the CENTCOM commander who then passed it on to Phil who in his turn returned it the the CSM. Then and only then did the CSM allow himself a faint smile.

I presume that there won’t be any jokes about a black man carrying the Color, will there, Sir? he said in a voice too low for either of the other two officers to hear.

Phil also allowed himself a faint smile. CSM Devon Jackson and Phil were old friends having served together with Delta in 1998. Phil had last worked with Jackson almost a year before in Afghanistan during a hostage rescue operation. After that operation, Jackson had returned to his job at the headquarters for Joint Special Operations Command at Fort Bragg until his promotion and appointment as CSM for SOCCENT the previous May. JSOC’s loss had been Phil’s gain. Not only was he pleased to have Jackson as his CSM but he valued the fact that with three months in the job, he’d be an excellent and candid source of institutional memory.

With the passing of the color, SOCCENT was officially Phil’s. A few sentences expressing his appreciation for the job done by his predecessor and a few as to how pleased he was to be taking command of such a fine organization and then it was on to dismissing the command and his staff to their duties and to a small reception for the principal officers, NCOs and invited guests.

Phil had slowly worked himself out of the crowded reception room at the Bayshore Officers’ Club and onto the patio where he now stood swirling a glass of club soda and ice. From here he could see the swimming pool and beyond that the shore of Hillsborough Bay. Palms and oaks and scrub bushes screened the area.

The club’s air conditioning had dried his clothing over the last hour as, one after another, members of the command’s staff had come to introduce themselves and their spouses to him. Making their manners, so to speak.

Phil was not averse to social functions but he had his limits. If not for the fact that this was more a goodbye for the other guy than a hello for himself he would have been gone by now. As it was he’d just have to tough it out a while longer.

So how’s the first day on the job feel, Phil? said a voice behind him. Phil recognized the gravelly voice of his former boss at SOCOM, General Clint Peters, even before he turned to look at him.

So far it’s been remarkably non-challenging, Sir, he replied. I plan to change that right after lunch though.

Command briefing?

No. We did that this morning at zero six thirty, before the change of command. Nothing noteworthy. This was not the time to discuss specific operations. Peters would have had his own briefings this morning, including SOCCENT’s major events, and wouldn’t expect or appreciate further details unless he asked for them. No. What we’re doing is starting a working group to review lessons learned on unity of command and of effort. We’ve got a sea-change coming in October when RC-East transitions to ISAF and we have a long way to go to integrate our special forces with NATO’s.

You mean we need to help ISAF start up a capability to control special forces without them or us screwing it up utterly, said Peters.

The lack of special forces command and control structures within the NATO alliance was infamous. Every country had at least some troops assigned special operations tasks but there was no integration nor any common basis for employment. The challenge that was facing SOCOM to create a NATO-wide structure was enormous. That’s mostly Peters’ job though, thought Phil. He’s responsible for the big NATO picture, mine is just to make the ad-hoc arrangements that had been put into place in Afghanistan into something more robust and effective.

We have a little time and we’ve finally got all our special ops resources in Afghanistan back under OPCON. That’s giving us a big advantage.

Special operations had undergone a period of dark ages in Afghanistan. The initial, and wildly successful attack into Afghanistan in 2001 had been a special forces operation planned and executed by SOCCENT. The next year, however, as conventional forces there grew in number, the commander of all land force there had demanded that all special forces in theater come under his operational control rather than merely his tactical control. The relationship was contrary to established doctrine but by that time, SOCCENT had already been tasked with the planning for the invasion of Iraq. Perhaps the commander of SOCCENT at the time had thought that operations in Afghanistan were over. Perhaps he felt there were insufficient command and control resources to look after two separate theaters of operation at the same time. Regardless, he and his superiors all bought into the idea—much to the regret of subsequent commanders and, to a large extent, the leaders in the field. The command relationship had lasted several years but bit-by-bit SOCCENT had regained operational control of what for some time now was called Combined Joint Special Operations Task Force-Afghanistan, CJSOTF-A.

Is CENTCOM in the loop on this? asked Peters.

Yes, Sir, said Phil. We’re already engaging with a number of their people from their Coalition Village. Incidentally, thanks again for arranging to have Richter attached to us. He should be here next week and will take a lead role in this.

Richter was Colonel Kurt Richter, a longtime friend of Phil’s and a Canadian with service in the infantry, with Joint Task Force 2 and the Special Air Service. The last two being Canada’s and Britain’s respective Tier 1 special operations units. Exchange postings to 10th Mountain Division, 10th Special Forces Group and attendance on the US Army’s Command and General Staff Course made Kurt eminently qualified for a staff position with SOCCENT.

No problem with that, said Peters. He gave a short laugh. Their CDS, General Mah figured that by the end of this tour, Kurt will have spent more time serving with foreign armies than with the Canadian one.

Peters glanced over Phil’s shoulder. Looks like your CSM wants to see you, Phil.

Phil turned and looked in the direction of the patio doors, where CSM Jackson was purposefully striding towards them.

Sergeant Major, said Peters. Fine parade today. The troops looked good.

Thank you, Sir. Can I steal General Sambrook away for a minute?

By all means, I need to go and make nice with a few more guests anyway. He turned to Phil and held out his hand. Good luck to you, Phil. What you’ve got here is our toughest job, but I know you’ll do us all proud.

Phil took the hand and nodded. Thank you, Sir.

Jackson waited a few seconds to let the General leave and then turned to Phil. We’ve had an incident in town. One of our officers has been murdered.

CHAPTER 2

Laurier Ave. East, Ottawa, Ontario

Friday 18 August 2006 0930 hrs EDT

What do you plan to do with the apartment? asked Tara.

It was a fair question.

Kurt Richter had lived in this apartment since being posted to the Directorate of Transnational Intelligence at National Defence Headquarters several years ago. The two of them were sitting in the living room finishing off breakfast and enjoying the last few days of her summer vacation. The fifteenth floor apartment was literally kitty-corner across the street from the South Tower of NDHQ, where he worked, and had a marvellous view across the Ottawa River that formed the province’s border with Quebec and of the Gatineau Hills in the distance. Below, the long ribbon of parkland that was the Rideau Canal ran immediately adjacent to the building.

The apartment had always been a temporary convenience. His home base had always been in the Kingston area where the headquarters for Richter’s family business was located and where his daughter Tara and his ex-wife Toni still lived full time; Toni teaching at Queen’s University and Tara attending high school. The Richter family’s cottage at Horse Thief Bay, a few dozen miles downstream of Kingston on the St. Lawrence River, remained his primary residence. Cottage was a bit of an understatement for what was a six-bedroom, five and one half-bathroom house with detached boathouse where he spent many of his weekends and quite a bit of his annual leave every year.

The posting to SOCCENT in Tampa had come on very short notice. Very short indeed. It had literally been just a few days since he’d received word from Sambrook that he’d been given command of SOCCENT and that he wanted Kurt on his staff. A second, ten-minute phone call between two four-star generals, eight minutes of which was simply an exchange of pleasantries, and the deal had been done.

As far as Kurt was concerned this new job was going to be much more interesting than the one he had been working at in NDHQ. But for the secondary duties he’d had as a quick reaction troubleshooter for the Chief of Defence Staff, he might very well have packed in the uniform and gone to the family business full-time. It had become abundantly clear to him that his career was dead-ending at the rank of Colonel. After numerous years of extensive experience in special operations, serious wounds sustained in Afghanistan had put him on hold for months of recovery and rehabilitation. The fact that he had almost fully recovered, however, was overshadowed by an unspoken stigma that had come with being wounded. It didn’t help that, even now, the Career Medical Review Board had not yet come to a final resolution on his case. In the meantime he’d seen at least three brigade commands go to other, less experienced officers. The writing on the wall was clear; he’d be doing staff work until his retirement. Unfortunately there were entirely too many rinky-dink staff postings for Colonels in the Canadian Forces; postings with little responsibility, little authority and even less chance to make a difference. Tampa could be different. Tampa would be a better job but would probably drive the last nail into the coffin that was fast becoming his career.

On the down-side was the fact that he’d be further away from Tara who, three days before, had celebrated her sixteenth birthday.

Tara had never outgrown her tomboy phase although now she was more coltish than tomboyish. Hunting and fishing trips with her father as a small girl had developed into a love of the outdoors and firearms. Helping with renovations around the family’s cottage had developed a talent with tools which was later augmented by an interest in computers and robotics. A short venture with the Army Cadets was about to come to an end, not because she disliked the military but because she had found that cadets did not provide a sufficient challenge for her. As a result, with her father’s consent and, surprisingly with her mother’s, she walked into the recruiting office of the army reserve’s local infantry battalion and had joined up. Kurt’s only concern with this was that he knew, and had warned Tara, that the Forces’ recruiting system was dysfunctional to the extreme, and that it might be many months before her enrolment would be completed.

Kurt had been very fortunate in his choice of ex-wives. Toni had been mostly unhappy in her last few years of being an officer’s wife, but was quite content to be an ex-wife. Their relationship had gotten better after the divorce and in one way in particular, their relationship was excellent; they both wanted the best for Tara and went out of their way to be co-operative and civil to each other. The result was that Kurt and Tara spent much time together; weekends at the cottage or the apartment in Ottawa and four or more weeks each summer. Kingston and Ottawa were only a few hours apart by road; Tampa would be different. He’d have to work hard to get back and forth but at the same time, it was becoming obvious that Tara too had less time to spend with Kurt. Friends and activities had already been getting in the way and he expected many of her winter weekends would be spent taking her Basic Military Qualification course.

I’ve given the landlord notice, he said. This posting came mid-month so I have to keep and pay for the place until the end of September. If you and your mom want to come and stay here for shopping or the theater you’re welcome to do so.

I’ll let her know, she said. "I think the Arts Centre has a few things on we’d like to see. Mamma Mia is coming, I think. . . . What about the furniture?"

It can stay here. I may need some when I get down to Tampa but I’ll probably just buy new stuff there. Whatever I don’t need I’ll have packed up and moved to the cottage. There’ll be everything you need here except food.

Tara nodded, stood up and walked over to the window.

That’s good, her voice was becoming more distant. I’m think I’m going to miss this place.

No promises, pumpkin, but I’m sure I’ll be posted back to Ottawa when this one’s done and when I am, I’ll get an apartment in this building again. He would too. The place had been a great convenience sitting in the middle of the city’s downtown district, with an indoor pool and exercise room and easy access to dozens of restaurants, theaters and cultural facilities.

She came back to the couch and sat down; toyed with the last piece of toast on her plate when the doorbell rang.

That’ll be mom.

Toni Richter’s life had changed since the divorce. Now a full professor of abnormal psychology at Queen’s University with a specialty in terrorism she, like Kurt, remained single. There was no lack of interest in the trim, immaculately turned out blonde—a trait passed on to her daughter—but so far there had been no one that Toni had found interesting enough to get serious about. Her daughter and her job, in that order, absorbed all of her devotion at this time.

They exchanged affectionate hugs in the foyer. He placed her carry-on into the master bedroom and then moved on to the living room.

I’ve put you and Tara into the master; I’ll take the small one for the weekend.

Almost ready to go? she asked as she sat down.

Yeah. I’ve got all my clothes packed. It will just take a few minutes to load the car. I’m sure I’ve forgotten something but I’ve got until the end of next month to come back and get anything else I might need. Anyway I’ll be ready to go first thing Monday morning.

Dad says we have the apartment until the end of next month so we can stay here if we want, said Tara.

Toni smiled. That long?

Had to give a full month’s notice, said Kurt.

Toni nodded her understanding. Do you have any coffee? she asked. "I grabbed a Timmies when I left Kingston but could use another."

I’ll get it for you, mom, said the teen. Do you want some breakfast, too? We had toast and eggs.

She’s gotten quite good doing poached eggs, said Kurt.

Really? Sure I’ll have one and a piece of toast if you don’t mind.

No problem, said Tara and started banging around the small kitchenette at the far end of the living room.

So, said Toni. What’s this new job that you’ve got? I know it’s in Tampa with Phil but I’ve got no idea what you’ll be doing or what Phil’s doing.

Kurt picked up his coffee cup and sat back. I guess to understand the job you have to know how the Yanks are running things right now. You up for a short lecture?

Sure. Why not.

In short, he said, "each of the services, the army, navy, air force and marines, is responsible for organizing and training their people for operations but they don’t lead them in combat.

"Separate from the services are what are called unified combatant commands. Each UCC is basically a large headquarters, led by a four-star general, responsible for planning and commanding operations for specific parts of the world or for specific functions. When the President decides a military operation is required somewhere then the Secretary of Defence directs each of the services to allocate whatever of their forces are required to the appropriate geographical UCC. The UCC then deploys the force with whatever command structure is appropriate. In the case of the Middle East, North Africa and Central Asia, CENTCOM, which is headquartered at