The Brotherhood of Enemies

By Charles Palgrave

Even after the defeat of the Republican Guard and the eviction of Iraq’s forces from Kuwait, Saddam Hussein still reigns terror over a cowering population. He is still playing the game of brinkmanship with his old friend and new enemy, the United States of America. Frustrated, the American President and the CIA were eager for a final resolution to Iraq. In 1991 Western allies expected America to go to Baghdad and overthrow Saddam. America proved to be weak – someone will have to do it again. Australian, Major Pat Grady, ex-SAS hostile terrain warfare expert, veteran of Rwanda and the 1991 Gulf War is not prepared for the events about to overtake him. Diagnosed with Leukaemia, Grady is the final piece of a CIA strategy required to bring about the fall of a tyrant and establish a final accord between Western and Middle Eastern protagonists. Grady’s experience and his life-threatening medical condition present the American Administration with an acceptable risk opportunity...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Sep 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781483455457

Book preview

Thirty-Three

CHAPTER ONE

C IA Director of Intelligence, Seymore Lewis, cast concerned eyes from the president’s chief political advisor back to the incumbent Commander-in-Chief, President Jack Wyden.

Four men and one woman, silent and sombre, sat on the comfortable sofas of the Oval Office. The president paced across the carpet, his eyes scanning the pages of a thin report recently authored by the Middle East Desk of British Intelligence. Present that morning at the early CIA brief to the president was the CIA Director of Intelligence, Seymore Lewis, his understudy, Deputy Director of Intelligence, Greg Conlan, CIA Director Hugh Moorehouse and a three star general. The only female in the room was Political Advisor, Janet Long, a woman of immense energy, but obdurate character.

Seymore Lewis could see in the eyes of the political advisor distinct unrest. Approval numbers for the upcoming primaries to re-elect Jack Wyden as the Democrat’s nominee would never hold if the president took America back to the Middle East.

The president held a glossy photograph to the light to better interpret its contents. Tracks in the sand and some scattered trucks. He looked closely at the photograph taken only a few days before by a CIA spy satellite. Red circles highlighted four mounds in the sand, just undulations, barely discernable. The president rested his frame against his desk and selected another sheet of paper and began to read the short resume of the Iraqi industrial chemist defector that had gone across to the British, by way of Kuwait. Jack Wyden spent a few moments on the history of a man, who until recently, was in the employ of the Iraqi leader. He closed the file and looked across at the seated group in his office, expectant, and waiting. ‘Do we have proof, other than Dr. Hamil’s word, that milling machines actually arrived in Iraq?’ asked the president.

Seymore Lewis nodded slowly. ‘We tracked the consignment from Germany to Turkey, to an agent there, Mr. President. Local Turkish authorities were cooperative, and they advise that six milling machines were sold on to a company in Syria. But that’s as far as we got. What happened to them after that…?’ Seymore shrugged his wide shoulders.

The president’s brow creased slightly, ‘These milling machines, they’re important?’

One thing that could be said about President Wyden was the fact that he seldom accepted intelligence on face value. The man asked questions. Some might say too many questions, but Seymore Lewis admired the president’s probing. It illustrated to him the man’s confidence, not shy to show limited knowledge of matters unfamiliar. A lesson perhaps others might do well to learn.

‘Vital, Mr. President,’ he began. ‘As we understand, the process is fairly simple. Toxins are brewed in a vat, and then freeze-dried into a solid form. The difficulty is milling the concentrated mixture into powder form. It’s important that the mixture is milled to a measure between 3 to 5 microns, which then makes it a lethal formula when inhaled into the lungs. It’s the actual particle size that’s important for the toxin to work.’

The president shook his head. ‘And, Dr. Hamil; is he genuine?’

‘The British are taking him very seriously, Mr. President,’ Seymore continued. ‘He has demonstrated his knowledge of the process, and he divulged the location of the plant you see before you. He has also confirmed that the milling machines arrived a week before his departure. He wanted nothing to do with it. We agree with the British, Mr. President. We think he’s genuine.’

Jack Wyden was quiet for a few moments, absorbing the information that again this rogue dictator was stockpiling lethal toxins and pathogens. He turned to the CIA men. ‘What capability does he have to deliver these chemicals? What’s he got?’ Jack Wyden saw their uneasy glances, and knew it was worse than he expected.

Seymore Lewis deferred tacitly to the only man in the room wearing a military uniform. ‘Well, Mr. President,’ began General Drew Owen slowly. ‘It’s not a matter of weapons delivery systems, sir. Anthrax can be dispersed by almost any means, rockets, bombs, shells. If the spoors are of the correct size, and stored at a cool temperature, they can be released by simply opening a canister.’

Jack Wyden’s eyes narrowed and his usually urbane features grew hard. ‘Go on, General.’

‘Sir, I could deliver a lethal dose with a thermos flask and a gas mask, just by opening it into an air conditioning duct, or by releasing the spoors into a subway tunnel. Thousands of people, during rush hour, could be contaminated in any city. It’s that simple, sir.’

‘Jesus!’ Frustration etched on the president’s face. ‘What’s the UN doing here, aren’t they still meant to be monitoring this lunatic?’ It was a pointless question, for the United States President knew that without the force of UNSCOM, the monitoring of nuclear, biological and chemical weapons development in Iraq was dead, thanks to certain self-interested nations hoping to ameliorate their domestic economies with lucrative Iraqi contracts.

President Jack Wyden folded his arms. ‘Ok, General. What are our options here? What can we do about it, legitimately?’

The answer from the general was immediate and immutable. ‘Two options! War! Or we do nothing, Mr. President!’

For the first time during the presidential briefing that morning, Greg Conlan, Deputy Director of Intelligence, (DDI) had something to say. He coughed politely and looked directly at Seymore Lewis for liberty to speak.

The aging director nodded. ‘Mr. President, my DDI, Mr. Conlan, has for some time been compiling data on a number of covert, non-involvement solutions to the Iraqi problem.’

Jack Wyden ran his eyes over the immaculately dressed CIA senior agent. He took in the clean-cut man with strong, broad shoulders and determined, handsome features. He reminded the president of himself, but without the strain of eons of political battle.

Greg Conlan was not about to make an enemy of the military, so he began cautiously. ‘What General Owen says is true, Mr. President. If some lunatic got hold of a canister of Iraqi Anthrax and opened it, in let’s say, Tel Aviv, the Middle East would be at war in days.’

General Owen’s features relaxed perceptibly, happy that the CIA had not undermined him.

‘Nothing can be done immediately, unless we agree to the British solution, Mr. President.’ He produced a sympathetic but patronising smile. ‘The British prefer the direct approach, sir. They wish to employ an SAS incursion team to destroy the plant identified by Dr. Hamil.’ Greg Conlan leaned forward, glancing around the group seated in the Oval Office. ‘A direct attack on the plant would only ensure the elimination of one installation. There may be more, as yet unidentified. Mr. President we can’t take that risk.’

Janet Long nodded her approval towards the president, and Hugh Moorehouse, Director of the CIA, tipped his head in agreement.

‘My opinion, sir, is we must once and for all remove the source of the threat.’

President Wyden eyed the Deputy Director Conlan with some scepticism, and his eyebrows rose in amused question. ‘And now you can provide us with the means that might overthrow the Iraqi leadership?’

Greg Conlan, unlike most, was not intimidated by the man, or the Office of the President of the United States. ‘Mr. President,’ he said blandly, ‘I believe we can now motivate others to take him out.’

The president raised his brows again, but this time in surprise.

Greg Conlan looked down at the open folder on his lap, the work of almost two years. ‘Mr. President we are close. We only require one more element, sir - The right man.’ Greg Conlan was about to present to the leader of the free world his plan.

Sensing danger for the president, Janet Long intervened. ‘Mr. Conlan, the president is not interested in scenarios; we should confine ourselves to what is possible now. Find your missing element, Mr. Conlan, then I feel sure, President Wyden will listen.’

Jack Wyden nodded, thankful of Janet Long’s quick mind. He did not want to be included in knowledge that might be dangerous to the administration, or learn information that he might regret, and later want to deny. Jack Wyden threw the senior agent a career assurance, backed with all the weight of his supreme office. ‘Greg, if you can bring him down and increase the popularity of this administration, I can promise you will not be forgotten.’

CHAPTER TWO

C lawing madly at the humid, thin night air, the S70-A Black Hawk slowed to a hover in a reverberating howling thrash above the dark Queensland bush. Leaves ripped from the cringing gum trees swirled in a whirlpool vortex blizzard from the powerful down wash thrust. Beyond the windscreen the powder fine dust of the parched earth rose up in a billowing cloud to meet the heavy drab green and brown machine. The pilot called into his headphones, ‘Major, we’re on station.’

The pilot pressed lightly on the yaw control pedals and the thundering machine rotated and slid sideways over the tree line to a black opening in the bush. He wore large opera glass binocular night scope goggles that afforded him only forty percent vision.

Grady heard him call over the radio to the second machine, only two rotors distance and to their left: ‘Red Two this is Red One, come in!’

‘Red Two, I have you, Red One, coming down!’

The second Black Hawk dropped like an evil massive mosquito into view through the square sliding door windows of the main cabin.

Grady looked along the bench seat at the men in the head to toe black hooded suits that only revealed their eyes, and allowed them to speak through a tightly sewn slit at the mouth. Grady had to shout, ‘Get ready Sergeant!’

The SAS Sergeant gave an exaggerated nod and put up one gloved thumb. Each man gripped a short, Steyr, rifle with its fixed optical sight.

A crewman made his way down the helicopter to the rear compartment where additional arms and shoulder radio packs were stowed. He reappeared with two handheld ground-to-air missile launchers and placed them on the cabin deck at the feet of a thickset SAS sergeant. He gave a nod with his full helmet and slid open the cabin door to the night. Immediately the cabin filled with dust and loose flying leaves and the noise of the engines consumed them.

Grady raised a thumb and slapped the sergeant on the shoulder. He peered down to the treetops and the open blackness that was the landing site. Grady unlatched his safety harness and stood in the small noisy cabin.

The pilot turned from the eerie green control panels of the flight deck and held a fist over his head, ‘Stand by!’ He looked like an alien being in the night goggles and round helmet with pull down sun visor.

The second crew member from the Black Hawk slid open the port door and the air of the hot night rushed through the cabin plucking and flapping at their clothing in real earnest.

The six SAS soldiers hooked on their repel lines and stood ready as the buffeting, swaying Black Hawk hovered over a black hole in the separated tree landscape of bush.

Then through the aircraft microphone system, Grady heard the pilot in his helmet, his voice shuddering with the machine: ‘Team one, stand by!’ he called. There was a moment of electric static in his ears, then the pilot again: ‘Team two! Go!’

Grady held to the central bench seat of the Black Hawk as his team of six men moved hand over hand backwards on the ropes to the edge of the blackness beyond the door and the hundred foot drop to earth. Three men each side of the Black Hawk leant into the down draft against the taught ropes, with packs, slung rifles and missile launchers, and waited for the pilot to order them spinning into the uncertain night.

Across the treetops the second Black Hawk team of SAS men leaped with practiced speed into the void beneath the whacking circle of the helicopter’s blades. And in the green glow of ambient light, Grady could see through his night goggles the dappled green, brown, and olive camouflage patching of the second team. Their own pilot was now hands-free, gauging the blade distance between the two helicopters. The co-pilot held the machine on station with coordinated subtle movements of collective, pitch, and rotor speed. Then the pilot turned again, his fist still aloft. Grady heard his quavering voice over the intercom. ‘Team one! Go! Go! Go!’

The aircraft sagged as the six SAS men cast themselves into the night and swung, dropping into the blackness. Grady could see the ropes twitch and rub with strain against the deck of the aircraft as the men in his designed suits, abseiled towards the ground. Then the two crewmen hauled in the ropes as soon as the men on the ground called: clear, over the walkie-talkies.

Immediately the engine tone rose dramatically and the Black Hawk shook violently as the pilot leader ordered them away. The nose bowed to the earth gently as the helicopter began to thrust forward. Before the aircraft the high intensity infrared searchlight swept an eerie green light over the trees and bush. Scrub and branches and black trunks filled the three large windscreens as the rotors increased their thudding beat and pulled them forward and up to the safety of height.

They angled away over the trees in a climbing ninety degree turn to the right. Grady moved forward to stand between the pilot and his co-pilot. He gave the pilot the thumbs up signal as they flew over a wide clearing in the bush. Below them, a large derelict homestead with gaping holes in the roof and sagging unsupported veranda awnings slid into the infrared searchlight. Grady watched it slide past the cockpit windows and gave a silent nod of approval.

‘That’s the dead ground,’ he said into his microphone, pointing out of the window. He pictured the two, six man SAS teams joining forces at the dilapidated house.

The pilot steadied on two-seven-zero degrees on the gyrocompass. The altimeter showed them at five hundred feet, airspeed one hundred and ten knots. The shadowy landscape drifted below under a bright moon. A few minutes later they could see a high intensity strobe light blinking, marking the cleared oval safe landing site in the bush. The pilot changed from infrared to the bright conventional arc searchlight fitted in the nose of the chopper. They made a sweeping turn from the south, reducing height in a banking one-eighty degree turn. Again dust billowed as the big machines rested to the hover then made a gentle touch on the earth with the slung wheels. And the engines whistled a sigh of relief as the motors were cut and the four blades spun to idle then stopped and drooped far beyond the craft.

The stillness and silence of the Black Hawk was a welcome respite from the juddering, vibrating flight. Grady slid open the door and was hit by the outside, thirty degree heat as he jumped thankfully to the firm steady crunch of earth under his boots.

Running across the bare ground was an SAS sergeant with a portable strobe lamp. ‘How’d it go, Major? Any problems?’ he asked as he came to a stop.

Although still regarded by SAS veterans as Major, Pat Grady received his pay from the Australian Department of Foreign Affairs. His time with the crack regiment as a serving officer was over. But the three hundred strong members of the elite SAS still honoured him with his former rank. His deeds of the past ten years and that of his late brother were almost folklore at Swanbourne, the regiment’s Western Australia barracks.

‘No problems, Sergeant! Not for us, anyway,’ Grady smiled a wry smile, and his blue-green eyes twinkled with just a suggestion of mischief. Grady flicked open the leather watch face cover to his old Rolex, 02:15. He felt for a packet of cigarettes in his leaf patch battledress jacket. He offered his pack to the SAS man. ‘We’ve got a few minutes before the fun starts, Sergeant.’

‘Not for me Major. Gave them up when I was accepted in the regiment.’

A few minutes later a crewman poked his helmet through the cabin window behind the flight deck. ‘Major,’ he called, ‘they’re on their way. We’ve picked ‘em up on the horn!’

‘Here we go, Sergeant, better get aboard!’ Grady grabbed his helmet from the cabin deck, ground out the cigarette under his boot and climbed into the Black Hawk. He plugged in the intercom jack and heard the co-pilot speaking to the pilot officer.

‘Ok, Jerry, put me through!’

Grady pulled the plastic covered terrain map from his tunic, plucked his small torch from a pocket and flicked on the pencil thin beam. He heard the clicks in his ear as the co-pilot selected the correct, secured channel. ‘This is Nighthawk Red One! Nighthawk Red One, calling Seeker One! Come in!’

‘Seeker One, over!’

Grady looked at the two pilots on the flight deck, a green sheen on their helmets from the dim control panel lighting them. They were tuned to listen to the American leading the two Apache rapid deployment attack helicopters flying at treetop height, employing their sophisticated radar and laser guidance systems. The Apache boasted an array of intelligent gadgetry. Slung beneath the stub wing stabilizers on each side were four Hellfire laser-homing missiles and two 2.75mm FFAR rocket packs. But it was the menacingly dangerous, thirty mm, chain driven cannon hanging beneath the cockpit that was to be used in the test exercise for the next two hours.

‘Seeker One to Nighthawk Red One, we are in the ballpark!’ came the quavering American captain from the lead Apache.

Grady had to admit he enjoyed the rolled easy accent of American flyers, with their off the wall call signs. Grady responded. ‘Seeker One, this is Nighthawk, your coordinates as follows: Forty miles - fourteen minutes on heading 355; Speed, 167, over!’ Grady tapped his pen torch on the map on his knee and waited for the response.

‘Seeker One to Nighthawk. Forty at fourteen, head 355, at 167, I copy!’

This vital information was repeated with all the concern of a man choosing scrambled eggs, over boiled. Grady held the laugh in his voice. ‘Seeker One. Expect on your radar, two Nighthawk Observers at - coordinates, 16584 on your scan. Call at entry to killing ground, twenty, repeat, twenty miles south of your target. Time remaining, thirteen! Confirm, over!’

Again the stuttered accent filled his headphones and repeated the coordinates in the same disinterested manner. Grady whirled a finger in front of his face, and the two Black Hawk pilots started to wind up the still warm engines.

Grady called his team of twelve at the farmhouse as the Black Hawk helicopters rose from the earth amidst a choking cloud of red dust, ‘Team one and two, Seekers at the outer marker, copy!’

Grady received two short radio messages,’ ‘Team One – acknowledge.’ A few seconds later, ‘Team two - copy, Major.’

They banked in graceful unison with rotor blades biting desperately at the thin night air.

At the farmhouse the two teams of SAS men moved like shadows in the night across the open ground beyond the old homestead. They deployed themselves into two arrowhead formations, each covering the other team as they made fast overlapping progress over the bushland scrub to a line of trees half a kilometre away. With hand signals only, seen through the night vision goggles, they split into two definite groups.

Team one, with the new full cover suits edged into the tree line to the right, while five hundred metres across the open ground, team two, dressed with the conventional battledress fatigues slid like chameleons into the broken tree scape cover. The leader, a sergeant, with the hand held launchers gave silent instructions to two of his team, handed over the short barrel launchers and they spread to a hundred metres, making sure each member of the team of six was in eyeshot. The sergeant commanded them by hand signals only and they sank behind the low scrub and fitted themselves to the earth as if consumed by the ground itself.

In the Black Hawk, Grady received the short message from the men on the ground: ‘All set here, Major,’ that confirmed his men ready at the far tree line. Grady watched the second hand sweep around the luminous numbers on his wristwatch. The Black Hawk throttled back, its nose lifting then sinking. Grady looked from the cabin window to see the black hump back shadow of the second machine form on station at three rotor blades distance. Then his pilot’s voice came loud into his helmet: ‘Red Two, from Red One, come in, over!’

From across the sky he heard the second Black Hawk pilot: ‘Red two, receiving, go ahead!’ called the Aussie pilot.

‘Red Two, we are going to black! Confirm visual on us, over!’

‘Roger, Red One!’

The pilot flicked a switch on the control console and the infrared searchlight died. The pilot lifted his night goggles and shut his eyes tightly while the co-pilot took control of the machine. She sideslipped and dropped a few feet, turning her round nose onto the Black Hawk on the starboard beam. The co-pilot still had his night goggles fixed to his face. A face turned to the second helicopter still with the infrared searchlight ablaze. Grady followed the pilot’s lead and lifted his