THE INTELLIGENCE DEN
The CO stopped talking, closed his diary and put down his pen. The silence was broken by an incoming message on Sam’s secret computer system in the corner of the room. Two more messages came in quick succession. Looking around at the three other men, he tapped his finger against the table waiting for a response. Sitting around the oval table, the men all thought about what the CO had just said. The room had been witness to many of the most important decisions the SOTG had made over the last few years. Various COs, some great and some not so great, and their staff had discussed operations and targeting serials on that shiny table that sat on an old tattered Afghan carpet. No bigger than an average dining room, the place was packed with computers, printers, secret fax machines, phones and monitors.
‘So, do you understand the situation and what I need you to do, Terence?’
Saygen nodded. ‘Yes, sir, I think I understand.’
‘RSM, Captain Long, how about you two? No issues?’ The CO narrowed his eyes. It was clear that he didn’t want there to be any issues; particularly not in relation to using Yankee Platoon as bait.
‘No, sir – all good.’ The RSM said matter of factly.
‘Good, it’s understood then. We’ll act under the assumption that the enemy has access to the concept briefs sent to the NATO HQ for approval. We’ll use Yankee Platoon to draw the enemy out, and Terence will target off the back of the Taliban taking the fight to Matt’s guys.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Saygen made a few more notes in his small notebook.
‘So, Sam, why don’t you update us on the most recent developments,’ the CO suggested.
Sam brought up a chart on the big screen showing the local Taliban network within the province. These were primarily black-and-white cartoons depicting the traditional Arab, nondescript and wearing the headdress typical of the region’s Bedouin. Below each image was the real name that the intelligence community assumed belonged to the objective, and above was a code name. There were over eighty of them in total. They were arranged from foot soldiers and low-level fighters to medium-value individuals and high-value targets.
‘Okay, sir. We have this guy in recent developments. We don’t have a definite name for him yet, but it is believed he might be Mullah Ghal. We think he is now in charge of much of the Taliban in the area and is thought to be operating from Quetta.’ Sam clicked on one of the cartoon images and a fact sheet came up.
‘He’s an HVT, a high-value target. It’s assumed that he’s in his early fifties, has black hair and is of medium build. There’s a scar running the length of his left cheek and a hole where the left eye once was – he doesn’t wear an eye patch, either, as he believes the grotesque look earns him the fear and respect of his foot soldiers. He has a distinctive limp; local legend has it that he lost his foot and his eye when he stepped on a Soviet mine, but some say that in fact he has a club foot.’
‘So we’re not going to find the ugly fucker at the local Tarin Kowt square dance meet then,’ said the RSM.
‘No, RSM, it’s believed he was once a close friend of Mullah Omar, who is still believed to be alive and well and leading the Taliban from a safe haven somewhere in Pakistan. This guy is a senior tribal judge who administers the border regions of Zabul bordering the Panjwai and Khakrez provinces. We are more likely to run into him managing a huge tribal meeting, what the Afghans refer to as shura. Not much else is known of him. We had a report in late January that he was spotted in Uruzghan by one of the human intelligence network, riding a Helmand 175 motorbike. This sighting wasn’t corroborated nor was it from a very reliable source and it’s now five months old so not of much use anyway.’ Sam paused to give the other men time to study the fact sheet before bringing up the next screen.
‘As you know, the main network is operating in and around Uruzghan Province. The latest operation the SAS conducted greatly attrited a large proportion of the lower-level fighters, as shown here.’ Sam clicked his mouse and a series of more than twenty red crosses went through the bottom two tiers of foot soldiers.
Saygen looked across at the CO, who smiled at him.
‘Well done, Terence – sterling effort from you and the lads, mate.’
They both turned their attention back to Sam, the CO observing. ‘So, we are making some inroads; good work all around, eh, Sam?’
‘Yes, sir, it’s going well.’ Sam clicked the mouse and another fact sheet came up on the big screen. ‘This is Dahwood Wardak. Our sources indicate that he was here last week on the night of the attack on Camp Russell. This in itself is interesting, because in recent years he has taken a back seat from the fighting to focus primarily on making homemade explosives for IEDs. No known photo. What we do know about him is that he is tall and in his early forties. After the attack on the camp, one of our agents identified a possible location for his compound. It’s the other side of Sorhk Lez, just past the Mirabad Valley, seventeen kilometres as the crow flies.’
‘Only a few minutes’ flight from here,’ Saygen remarked.
‘That’s right,’ Sam agreed. ‘Just a stone’s throw away, really – across the open dasht and out the other side of Tarin Kowt, then over the Mirabad Valley; with some deception thrown in, it’s about fifteen minutes’ flying at the most.’
‘Dasht?’ the RSM queried.
‘Afghan word for the desert plains, RSM.’
The RSM nodded. ‘Got it.’
Sam took a folder from his desk. ‘Terence, here’s the target pack, maps and all the reports on the area, just in case you need it in the coming days.’
‘Right, thanks, Sam.’ Saygen took the proffered file. ‘Is there a trigger to launch on this punter – what’s his name . . . Dahwood?’
The CO stood up and walked over to a large map hanging on the wall. He turned side on to the group. ‘That’s where Rix comes in. His platoon is going to patrol through this corridor here and move past these key areas over the next couple of weeks.’ The CO turned back to the map and traced a wide arc through Tarin Kowt up to the Chora Valley and back around. Terence watched him, silently wondering what that would mean for Matt and his platoon.
Sam nodded in agreement. ‘We can’t be exactly sure when he will be there. He rarely stays on a phone or radio for very long, unless he’s reporting information and most of the neighbours want nothing to do with any of our field agents. It’s going to have to be a drop-in on his compound, triggered by Yankee Platoon’s movement in that area. Then you either kill or capture him and turn the place over looking for evidence of IEDs. You’ll know pretty quickly if you have him as we suspect that his fingerprints are all over the IEDs that were found on the last rotation.’
‘Understood. Thanks, Sam.’ Saygen tapped the folder.
‘Go over the package, Terence,’ said the CO, ‘and brief me tomorrow afternoon when I return from Kandahar.’
‘Roger that.’ Saygen got up to leave.
‘Oh, and Terence?’ The CO looked at Saygen and then his gaze swept over to encompass Sam and the RSM. His expression was serious. ‘The situation with the commandos is compartmented. No one is to discuss it outside of this group. I hope I make myself clear.’