Operation Free Bird, a Campbell/Greene Adventure

By Douglas Kimball

Particular friends, US Marine Colin Campbell and Canadian botanist Alan Greene, are each abruptly relieved of assignment in war-torn Afghanistan. Colin is now recovering from drug-resistant typhoid in the US Military Medical Facilities in Landstuhl, Germany. And Alan has returned to their black pepper farm in Costa Rica.

In Costa Rica, Alan receives a letter from the widow of his former subordinate, Oliver Meath. Before his televised murder by the Taliban, Meath was the Managing Director of the Afghan Alternative Crop Program, an initiative designed to discourage agricultural dependence on the opium poppy.

Some months before, in Kabul, Meath entrusted Alan with a key to a bank deposit box in Mumbai, India. He asked Alan to deliver that key to his wife in Brighton, England, should he meet an unfortunate end. Upon confirmation of Meath's kidnap and murder by the Taliban, Alan sent the key courtesy of the Canadian Embassy. Now, Mrs. Meath, a widow with two boys, has requested his help recovering the contents of the box.

In the meantime, while recovering in Germany, Colin regales the hospital staff and patients with daily piano concerts in the lobby. He's also been offered, pending his release, an assignment with the Defense Intelligence Agency by his former superior officer, the former commanding general of all forces in Afghanistan, Norman Stanton, the new DIA Director.

Colin is released from Landstuhl just as Alan begins his journey to recover the contents of Meath's bank deposit box in Mumbai. On the stopover in Paris, Alan meets with some old friends in the Muslim quarter and is kidnapped. It seems that Meath, during his capture, tried to leverage the deposit box contents to buy his freedom. The offer was dismissed by his captors at the time, however some in the Taliban are still convinced that Meath really did have millions in that Mumbai lockbox. Alan, they learned, was given the key to that treasure.

They want it, so they targeted him.

Back at DIA HQ in Washington DC, Operation Free Bird is initiated. Colin joins the DIA led recovery team, operators dispatched to Paris to find and free Alan. With the help of the Paris Sûreté, the kidnappers are tracked from Paris to Molenbeek, Belgium. There, the team locates Alan, who had already escaped his captors. The ringleader of this plot, the son of a prominent British Muslim, is later captured in London. He accepts a Canadian plea deal and is transferred to Ottawa to serve out his sentence.

Colin and Alan return to their pastoral ex-patriot lives in Costa Rica, awaiting their new assignments in Washington DC, Colin with the DIA and Alan as an intelligence liaison with the Canadian State Department.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Douglas Kimball
• Release date: Aug 30, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005494872

Douglas Kimball

Sometimes writer, sometimes executive, I ride the economy barebacked. My unvested stock options have touched the multiple millions and then then crumbled, worthless. Right now I'm writing, wishing one moment that I wasn't and the next, glad that I am whatever the final outcome. Writing is for me a way to find, if not meaning, then comedy in the daily struggle. One smile is worth at least the cost of a book. Enjoy.

Book preview

Part 1

"There are four qualities essential to a great jazzman;

they are taste, courage, individuality and irreverence."

Stan Getz

Chapter 1

Camp Eggers

Kabul, Afghanistan

Major General Norman H. Stanton was a small, spare man; with his darting blue eyes, receding and short cropped hair (gray at the temples) and nervous energy, he might be mistaken for a middle-aged tax accountant. But despite his slender, diminutive stature, he was not one to be underestimated. He was an intelligent, energetic man, a former middle-distance track athlete who graduated at the top of his class at West Point. Now, he was to be relieved of his duties as the Commanding General of Combined Forces in Afghanistan, well short of his promised two-year assignment, and Stanton was not very happy about it. He could not but hold contempt in his heart for those civilians, politicians all no doubt, who had made this insipid decision. He’d sensed a shift in the political breeze presaging yet another abrupt policy change, likely an abandonment of the surge strategy just as it was beginning to show so much damn promise. He wanted to bring the boys home, sure, but after the utter and admitted defeat of the Taliban, not chasing some damnable peace treaty.

So, it was with a profound sense of disappointment and failure that Stanton stood in front of all his men, soldiers, marines, seals and their officers, in this grave and solemn ceremony as none other than Secretary of Defense, Craig Hagel, pinned a third gold star on his collar, indicative of the second highest rank in all the US Armed forces. The only thing that kept the now Lt. General together through the ceremony was his overwhelming sense of duty and his absolute love for the service. But those who knew him the best, Lieutenant Gong, Corporal Falzone and the few others who’d closely served with the Lt. General on this and other assignments, could see the tired strain in his face as he stood sharply to receive this new rank and honor. Stanton was not an easy man to please; quite the opposite. In fact, he could be extremely difficult and impatient, yet the officers and the rank and file who served under him had, to a man, come to appreciate, even love the cantankerous little bastard.

Stanton was also not surprised when Secretary Hagel asked for his private company on the following day, just an hour before the Secretary’s planned departure from the base. Stanton was anxious and expected orders; that is to find out the specifics of his next assignment. He sighed with relief when, at 0900 hours, Secretary of Defense Hagel arrived at the HQ building and was announced.

Show him in, said Stanton. Corporal Falzone, the general’s assistant, ushered Secretary Hagel as well as another man, whom Stanton recognized as Deputy Secretary James Danforth of the US State Department, into the General’s cramped office. Stanton rose behind the two overly large computer monitors that otherwise dominated his gray metal desk, and saluted.

Hagel waved him off. Sit, sit, General, at ease. This is Deputy Secretary James Danforth, of the State Department.

We’ve met before, said Stanton.

Danforth was one of those ubiquitous State Department employees, average height, average weight, wavy brown hair, large brown eyes, as unassuming as he was ordinary. He smiled easily and exuded a friendly nature, handsome in the sense that nothing about him seemed disproportionate or out of place. He could have been Latino, Italian, Greek, Indian, Arab or Jew. His name indicated WASP, but his person defied that assessment. His very presence exuded trust, though Stanton remained wary. I assume you have orders for me? said the General, directed at Secretary Hagel.

Actually, Norman. May I call you Norman? I don’t, at least not yet.

Stanton was confused and a little bit stunned, his mind still numb from all the whiskey he’d consumed the prior evening.

Hagel said, The president is very impressed with what you’ve done here.

I’m not done here, said Stanton. He almost regretted the comment as soon as it slipped out.

Well, maybe not, said Hagel, who ignored the breach and continued, You served in Army intelligence, ten-plus years ago, correct?

I did a few years as an intelligence officer, then counterintelligence, said Stanton.

Look, Norman. I don’t want to beat around the bush here. The President wants to nominate you to run Defense Intelligence. He could order you to take the post, but he wanted me to ask you. Hagel looked directly at Stanton and smiled. What do you think?

Head of Defense Intelligence? said Stanton.

Hagel nodded.

What about my guys?

Bring whoever you want. They may have to spend time on the Farm, first; your call.

Stanton understood. The Farm was where all DIA and CIA officers and operatives were trained.

What’s the timing?

If you say yes, the President will make you Interim Acting Director in the next 24 hours. Then there will be an official nomination, Intelligence Committee hearings, confirmation. We don’t expect any pushback.

OK, said Stanton.

We’ll make a formal announcement once the appointment is official. Secretary Hagel extended his hand. Thanks Norman.

Welcome to the President’s team, added Deputy Secretary Danforth as he rose to shake the General’s hand as well. Next time I see you, we’ll be in DC.

Once alone, Lt. General Stanton called Lieutenant Gong. Gong, he said, Gong there. Send someone to the PX to bring us a couple of those fat Romeo and Juliets. Then come in my office. I have something I want to talk to you about. The melancholia that had been weighing on his heart was rapidly dissipating. DIA! He'd never imagined it. He reached into his desk drawer for a stash of Ol' Rip Van kept just for occasions like this.

Chapter 2

Military Medical Facility

Landstuhl, Germany

Alan Greene, had, of course, green eyes. He also wore his reddish, wiry, Kissinger-hair, high and tight, cut as it was on the base at US Camp Eggers in Kabul, Afghanistan. He was tall, six-foot-three or four depending on his posture on any particular day, and bordering on too thin. Early years playing hockey on the ponds and rinks in his native Montreal had bent him nearly permanently, a characteristic that he retained, even now, in his mid-thirties. He walked briskly down the bright, pristine streets of this old German city. It was late October and the air was dry, cool, clean and smelled of wood smoke and forest. It was quite a contrast to the fetid air at his recent assignment in Kabul, Afghanistan, a foulness that combined spent ordnance, diesel fumes, excrement and death; war air.

This was now Dr. Greene’s third full day in Landstuhl and he was pleased. The US military medical facility here rivalled any in the world and they had quickly determined that his particular friend, Major Colin Campbell (USMC) suffered from, among several other bugs, a resistant form of Typhoid. Typhoid, a third world pathogen, was a difficult infection in the best of circumstances, but in places like Kabul, where antibiotic treatments were often ended prematurely so pills could be hoarded for future use or sold, some Typhoid strains developed antibiotic resistance. Maj. Campbell was unlucky and had contracted such a bug. Azithromycin for underlying infection and Ceftriaxone seemed to have put the pathogens in their place. The tide had turned and Alan’s friend was feeling better and would no doubt recover fully.

This was Alan’s second visit to Germany. He wondered, as he considered the place, what his parents would think of this visit. They were nominally German; all four of his grandparents had been forced to flee their homes in Germany after the surrender of the Reichstag to the Nazi's. Both of Alan’s parents were born in New York City, the children of war refugees, who then immigrated to Canada after the war.

Now Germany had reunited and healed, and was once again leading Europe economically.

Alan had expected Landstuhl to look like Quebec City, ancient, walled, granite buildings on winding, narrow, cobblestone streets. Actually, the streets were asphalt, wide thorough-fares and built for traffic. And the medical facility was a massive collection of substantial limestone buildings, nearly all whitewashed, with orange tile roofs. The hospital stood on a knoll in the center of the city and the city itself seemed to radiate from there, waves of boulevards and similar, white, limestone, orange-clay roofed structures, mostly three story or more, all substantial, the commercial indistinguishable from residential. The buildings might be new or ancient, it was impossible to tell, but all were in near perfect condition as were the roads and sidewalks. There was no hint of drab Soviet or post WWII utilitarian influence. Alan thought that this was what Italy would look like if it were built and maintained by Germans though he had never himself been to Italy; he’d seen it in pictures and of course, in movies.

When Alan stopped at a small Turkish bakery on the way to the hospital and ordered pastry and coffee, the clerk asked if he was from Koblenz; he had family in Koblenz. Alan’s German, though seldom used, was excellent, in part a result of undergraduate coursework, but mainly due to the Yiddish, his first language really, his parents spoke in the family home. Alan surprised the clerk and said he was from Canada.

With his offering of local pastry and coffee in hand, he entered the three-story facility, passed through the security check and took the stairs to the second level room where his friend was recovering in semi-isolation. Maj. Campbell had been much diminished by the last several months in Kabul and a near constant struggle with illness. Alan presented the pastries; he wanted to do his part to help his old friend regain his strength and vigor.

Alan! Colin lit up when he saw his friend. What did you bring us today? Danish?

Not Danish today, El Colonel. El Colonel was a nickname, a bastardization of Colin, that Major Campbell had picked up in central America when he had embassy duty there. Today I bring strong Turkish coffee, ham and cheese croissants, and poppy seed rolls.

Colin grabbed the grease-stained bag, looked inside, breathed in the fragrance and smiled as he took out an unctuous croissant and took a huge bite. This so beats hospital grub, he stated, still chewing. He took a gulp of Turkish latte and sighed. Alan took a poppy seed bun and a coffee and watched as his friend ate greedily.

I see you have your appetite back, Alan observed.

The doctors want me above 170 before they’ll set me loose. Though it was not evident from the sallow, gaunt figure that he presented in that recovery room, Colin, at 6’2", was athletic and naturally lean when over 215 pounds, an imposing, formidable Marine. Now his pale blue eyes had retreated behind dark disks of fatigue. His tropical sun-brightened hair had thinned, grown out and turned dull and ashen.

I have to go back to Washington, said Alan. He’d received several requests, more each day and each more anxious than the last, from various parties, inquiring of his schedule.

What’s the big hurry? An electric motor whined as Colin adjusted his hospital bed and sipped his coffee awkwardly with his free hand, his arm attached as it was to an IV drip.

Remember Meath?

I heard about that, Alan, sorry. Horrible thing, disgusting.

The worst. There are questions, of course. Meath was my direct report, so everyone wants to talk to me. Meath’s murder was the reason I was yanked from Kabul the way I was.

Who’s everyone? Colin looked at his friend.

US State, for one. The Brits. UN Security. Who knows? It's like they're following me around.

Together or separate?

I think separate, said Alan. Everybody’s trying to be first in line.

Probably not good. Colin washed down the last bit of croissant with the last of his coffee.

Meath had problems in Kabul, Alan admitted. He always seemed so stressed.

Stressed? Colin responded.

Alan then recounted his last contact with Meath in Kabul, just days before Meath’s death. Alan had been walking (despite repeated warnings about his habit of leaving the security of the green zone unprotected) to his favorite tobacconist in a busy commercial part of the city when a ubiquitous older commercial van pulled out of traffic into a vacant lot directly in his path. The door to the van opened, startling him and there he was, Meath, all UK ginger hair and freckles and in full Kabul native garb. He motioned for Alan to take the passenger seat. Alan climbed in and could not help but notice the cot in the back of the van along with numerous weapons, boxes of ammunition, water, supplies. Meath was on the move; he explained; he was leaving Kabul, had been threatened by some very bad people, people who’d demanded favors in the past. He had some money saved and a life policy. He gave Alan the key to a bank deposit box, a Mumbai bank. If something happened, if… would Alan get this key to Meath’s wife back in Brighton? Alan agreed. (In hindsight, what else could he do?) Meath then drove the van the few blocks to the tobacconist and dropped Alan off. The van pulled abruptly away and disappeared into the noxious traffic. Last I saw of him, said Alan.

You still have the key? Colin asked, though he knew his friend and he knew the answer.

I mailed it to Mrs. Meath from the Canadian Embassy before I left Kabul.

Of course, you did. What do you say in the debriefs?

I have nothing to hide, said Alan. And he didn’t.

Chapter 3

Alan arrived at Reagan National at 11:30 AM the following day and had booked a room at the Meridian in Pentagon City. His intention was to get these debriefings over with as quickly as possible and then plan his permanent return to Puerto Saludos, Costa Rica where he and El Colonel had together developed a vast black pepper plantation and lived as expats in the tropics.

Alan was not surprised to see Isaac Crews standing just outside of the customs checkpoint at Reagan International. He was holding a Dr. Greene sign and grinning like a hyena. Crews, a large, hairy, round man who looked to be part bear, had been the man sent to Kabul to spirit away Alan from Afghanistan. Crews was a former operator who worked with Deputy Secretary of State James Danforth.

Nice sign, said Alan.

Thought you’d like it. Deputy Secretary Danforth is waiting for us. Crews took Alan’s carry on.

I have another checked bag, Alan mentioned.

Crews interrupted. We’ll get it and have it delivered to your room at the Meridian. You hungry?

Alan nodded, not surprised that they knew where he was staying. The Meridian had a floor dedicated to Pentagon visitors and Alan had stayed there the last time he visited Washington.

Good, said Crews.

Crews parted the crowd like a pulling guard. Alan followed along and found himself quickly winded and amazed by the pace of the massive, but remarkably quick Crews. He led Alan through the terminal to a private exit and down a set of stairs to the tarmac. There Danforth awaited them in his standard Washington attire, black wool overcoat, dark suit, white shirt, red tie; he stood outside a large, gray GMC Suburban. Alan wore only a thin fleece jacket and was immediately chilled by the frigid air.

Welcome to Washington, said Danforth extending a handshake.

Alan returned the greeting and said, I wasn’t expecting this kind of reception.

It’s the least we can do, said Danforth while opening the rear driver’s side door and motioning for Alan to enter. We’ll grab a bite and then drop you off at the Meridian. It’s important I speak to you.

Alan settled into the leather seat next to Danforth in the warmth of the SUV’s cabin. Crews took the driver’s seat. It was then that Alan felt utter exhaustion move through him to his very bones; it was the toll of this trip and the prior few days. Perhaps we could just get some coffee to go and head to the Meridian? he asked. I’m tired.

As long as we get to talk first, said the Deputy Secretary.

They cleared the Beltway congestion, picked up a box of Dunkin donuts and three large black coffees and were outside the Meridian in less than an hour. The massive Crews was, as always, hungry.

Chapter 4

It was afternoon and cloud cover had descended into the valley that held Landstuhl in its bosom, enveloping the hospital in mist. Colin gazed out the window but could see nothing but white. He was amazed at the density of the fog and wondered how long it might persist. It was as if the world outside had stopped, frozen by water vapor, waiting, hoping, for the sun to free it.

I have very good news, Major. Major Campbell’s daytime attending, Doctor Mark Cronin, had entered the room and was reviewing his chart. He seemed almost too young to be a doctor, short, thirty-something, from a large Irish-Catholic family. No sign of Typhoid in the last blood test and your inflammation numbers are down, but still a concern.

This was nothing new to the Major. He knew they were getting ahead of this bug as he felt better than he had in some time. And his appetite was back. Still, there was this problem. What about the runs? he asked.

We have to continue an antibiotic drip regimen for a few more days, so you have to be patient. In the meantime, I’ll prescribe something that'll slow it down.

Major Campbell wanted to tell the young doctor that his friend, Dr. Alan Greene, could have whipped up a collection of herbs and made a tea that would fix him up in no time. Dr. Greene had a PhD in Botany, was an herbalist; he’d studied the herbal medicines of indigenous people all over the globe, in Madagascar, the Amazon rain forest and the tropical highlands of Central America. He had a massive collection of roots and leaves that could cure just about everything, even a hangover.

I can’t get to 170 if everything I eat…

We’re getting ahead of this thing. Once you’re off the drip, the problem should go away in a day or two. It’s the antibiotics. Just try to stay hydrated. Before Colin could respond, the young doctor had turned and disappeared down the vast hallway toward the elevator bank.

This was all very frustrating for Colin. He was not one to sit still, much less be tethered to an IV drip and confined to a bed when he otherwise felt pretty good. He was also concerned for Alan, who would have by now landed in Washington, DC and faced a gauntlet of unpleasant intelligence briefings. Meath’s horrific execution, captured as it was on video and leaked to the internet, was just the latest thing to erode political support for the Afghan war, especially among the typical, reflexive, anti-war people and the disarmed and otherwise flaccid international community.

The Major looked greatly forward to his release and a few