Into The Shadows Read online

  The operation would also ensure the United States had the ability to support rebel backed groups around the world without actually intervening, a preferred policy option chosen by the program’s commander in chief. This method would later work well in places such as Afghanistan, where US-backed rebel groups would fight Al Qaeda and the Taliban.

  Markus pulled in front of the truck carrying the AT-4s.

  Looking down at his watch, he said, “Niklas. Grab a smoke. We move in ten.”

  Markus would enter the warehouse and review the cargo manifest one last time. He was ultimately responsible for the cargo’s manifest and international shipping documents. Any setbacks or errors and Paul would have his head.

  In the meantime, Paul and his driver were approaching the Berlin Tegel International Airport. In approximately twenty minutes, he would soon be airborne in his Gulfstream G650ER business jet. With a cruising speed of Mach .9, his trip to Freiberg would be short.

  Euro Airport Basel-Mulhouse-Freiberg, Germany – November 5, 12:50 PM

  Markus and his team arrived at hangar seven a bit later than anticipated. The cargo entrance was busy that day, and the truck ahead of Markus was slow clearing customs. Security was tight since earlier in the year, a manifest seized by German Federal Intelligence, the Bundesnachrichtendienst (BND), found containers of illegal art destined for Charlotte, North Carolina.

  The truck carrying Markus and his team drove into the spotless hangar, leased by CIA through a subsidiary shipping company. Driving slowly to their right, they parked alongside the Jungheinrich forklift, with an operator seated and ready for their arrival.

  Niklas exited the driver’s side and walked toward the back where he released the rear hatch. His colleague, Alrik, many years younger, jumped out the back, while the forklift operator quickly moved behind the truck.

  For the next several minutes, pallets and crates containing the AT-4s were efficiently loaded into Jurgen’s plane, an Airbus A300-200F model purchased by CIA in 2011. The aircraft offered Paul maximum flexibility, heavy payload potential, and a range of nearly eight thousand kilometers. Today’s shipment would be extremely light when compared to the aircraft’s capacity.

  In the meantime, Paul and Markus stood off near the rear entrance of the lower cargo bay. Markus needed signatures, and Paul was all too happy to oblige. Even CIA required documentation, and a dozen AT-4s needed accounting for to his superiors back in Langley.

  “Okay Markus. Good work today. Know this was short notice. Enjoy the trip back home.”

  “We will Paul.”

  Markus rejoined his colleagues at the truck and off they drove. Paul entered the aircraft and met Jurgen in the cockpit.

  “The cargo is onboard and secure, Jurgen.”

  “Thanks, Paul. I’m just flying to Larnaca, correct?”

  “Yes. I will have someone contact you during the flight with instructions. Once on the ground, you will follow their lead to a designated location at the airport. Once the cargo is moved off the plane, you are finished.”

  “Spend some time in Cyprus. Get back here in a few days. Just let me know when you land.”

  “Will do, Paul. Larnaca is mild this time of year. I’ll call soon.”

  A few minutes later, Paul and his driver left hangar seven. Now satisfied the operation was underway, he would return to his Gulfstream and fly back to Berlin. As he sat down and prepared to depart, Michael called.

  “Paul. There will be a boat approaching the Larnaca port this evening around nine. The boat’s name is the Gulet Sophia. On board will be two individuals working for my contact here. I am sending you their pictures in a few minutes. Can the cargo be ready by then?”

  “Yes. The cargo should be in the air in a few minutes. I’ll call Cyprus and set up the delivery.”

  “Excellent,” said Michael.

  “Anything else I can do, bud?”

  “Not now. I will call when we have the equipment secured aboard the Sophia. Later, my friend.”

  Soon after Michael hung up, Paul would call his counterpart in Nicosia, Cyprus, home to the United States Embassy. Scanning his phone, he tapped on the name, Rick Killian, CIA’s top spymaster in the Republic.

  Paul vaguely knew him as Rick spent most of his time in North Africa and Italy. Their paths narrowly crossed on a few occasions, but the two men never worked closely with each other.

  “Rick. Paul Hernandez, chief from Berlin. How are you?”

  “Good Paul. It has been a few years. This probably isn’t a social call, is it?”

  “Nope. I am running an operation in support of a colleague. I have a plane landing in Larnaca tonight. I need to move its cargo to the port and loaded onto a ship named the Sophia Gulet. Can you get a crew to move it and secure delivery?”

  “When will the plane land?”

  “In about three and a half hours. Can I get you to notify the pilot to coordinate delivery?” asked Paul.

  “Sure, Paul. I’ll be glad to help. Larnaca is only about sixty miles away.”

  “I’ll send his flight number and communications data to your office in about an hour. The contents are several large crates. You should have a small forklift available, if possible, at the airport.”

  “Okay. I can get a team down there in an hour if needed. We have enough time to get ready.”

  “Your team might have to help load the contents onto the ship. I’d like you to use agency personnel only, Rick.”

  Paul referred to using only CIA officers stationed at the Embassy. Local contractors, often employed by station chiefs, were not suitable for this mission. It was too sensitive, and Paul determined the contractors, regardless of their loyalties or lengths of service had no business knowing of the AT-4s.

  “Will that be an issue, Rick?”

  “No, Paul. I understand the request. I’ve got the people to do it.”

  “Thanks, Rick. I will send the data your people need very soon. I should be back in Berlin shortly.”

  Paul hung up. Confident his colleagues in Cyprus would secure delivery, all Paul needed to do was sit back and watch the operation unfold. By this evening, Michael would be on his own.

  Nicosia, Cyprus – November 5, 2:40 PM

  Inside the United States Embassy, located along the streets of Odos Metochiou and Ploutarchou, Rick Killian sat at his desk. Anticipating details from Berlin soon, he chose to eat lunch in the office. Today’s feast was a chicken gyro sandwich with fries ordered from his favorite locale just blocks away. He could never get enough of the local cuisine despite approaching his third year as CIA’s top intelligence officer.

  Inside the Embassy’s secure communication room, the message from Berlin finally arrived. With instructions for Killian’s eyes only, the operator printed off the report and called Rick.

  “Sir. We have a high priority message from Berlin. Your eyes only. The originator is Paul Hernandez.”

  “Thank you, Christine. I’ll be right down.”

  As Rick made his way toward the communications room, he encountered Patrick O’Sullivan, one his deputies and soon to be a father. Pamela O’Sullivan learned of her pregnancy just three weeks ago.

  “Pat. I need to see your team in my office in fifteen minutes. Are all your people on site?”

  “Yes. Something come up?”

  “Yeah. We are going to secure some cargo tonight and help transport to the port of Larnaca. I need aerial images and an advance team standing by. Berlin has asked us for support.”

  “Sure. I will get them ready. Is this going to be an all-night operation?”

  “I don’t think so, but we are waiting for a ship to arrive. Who knows what the Med looks like tonight?”

  “Got it. See you in fifteen minutes.”

  Rick continued his descent to the communications room. Swiping his badge, he unlocked the door and entered the secure f
acility.

  “Christine. Got something for me?”

  “Here you go, boss.”

  Rick sat down. As he read the report from Paul’s team in Berlin, he reminded himself why Paul Hernandez was a legend in the agency. Always meticulous, with potential contingencies addressed and prepared for, Paul’s careful planning would ensure Rick’s team would find few surprises or ask many questions.

  A short while later, Rick and his team gathered. The group analyzed aerial imagery of the port, roads leading into the harbor, and other operational data. The advance team would arrive and split up in Larnaca.

  The first team would arrive at the designated hangar by five pm and ensure its cargo remained secure. The second team would continue to the port and establish observation points directed at the slip where the Sophia would dock.

  At seven o’clock, the rest of Patrick’s team would arrive onsite and provide surveillance of the hangar, establish perimeter security, and load the plane’s cargo onto their van. From there, they would transfer the cargo to the port and wait as standard movement protocol would be in place.

  Rick recognized the team was a bit slim, and asked Patrick if they wanted to deploy their new drone, just recently shipped to Nicosia.

  “I don’t see why not. We can bring it with us. Lindey can fly it. She finished training last week. It will only enhance our view of the port. There should be no gap in coverage.”

  Rick turned toward Lindey and asked, “Do you feel comfortable flying that little thing?”

  “I do. The technology is incredible. It practically flies itself and I can stay in one of the vehicles. Images are displayed in real time, and I’ll pass any relevant information on our secure frequencies.”

  Patrick and the team were discussing the agency’s newest micro drone, an enhanced version of the PD 100 Black Hornet 2.

  The Black Hornet micro drone, first introduced by the Norwegian company, Prox Dynamics, had gained early success with some security forces. Early adopters included the British military.

  The enhanced Black Hornet version was the product of a multi-year testing and development program. Langley scientists, cooperating with scientists at the Naval Research Lab (NRL) in Patuxent, Maryland, refined the micro drone for operational deployment.

  The miniature flying robot provided superior tactical data. Handheld, and weighing in at less than twenty grams, the drone could provide thermal images and even included a microphone to capture sound when hovering.

  Simple enough, thought Rick to himself. Pleased his team was prepared and had the intelligence they needed, he dismissed them. After Patrick’s team left his office, Rick needed to get back to the communications room. From there, he would call the pilot of the A330 on a secure high-frequency channel. His flight number was XQ913.

  “XQ913, this is NCC1701. Authenticate alpha omega.”

  “I authenticate papa hotel,” said the pilot.

  Rick thought the reference to papa hotel lacked subtlety. Nevertheless, he grinned softly and wasn’t surprised it originated from Paul Hernandez.

  Rick was satisfied that his communication with the pilot was secure, and asked where to meet him.

  Neither man knew each other.

  Jurgen simply replied, “Hangar eleven. On the northwest section of the airport, along Artemidos drive. My ETA is five-ten PM, over.”

  “Got it. NCC1701, out.”

  Rick sent Patrick the details. He would return to his office a few minutes later anticipating a smooth operation.

  Kenema, Sierra Leone – November 5, 4:30 PM

  Hello again, Manjo. How are your studies proceeding?” asked Sheikh Cissi.

  “Very good, Sheikh Cissi. I’m beginning to wonder if I have another purpose.”

  “What is that, Manjo?”

  “Farming is the only thing I know. It has been in my blood for generations. However, I believe I may have a duty to wage jihad.”

  Sheikh Cissi acted perplexed and simply asked Manjo why.

  “A few reasons. First, the West and its allies are killing Muslims around the world. How much longer before they get here? Second, the United States could have prevented my father’s death. They could have done more when Ebola struck this year. Finally, they are infidels. They do not believe in the prophet Muhammad.”

  “Jihad requires great sacrifice and commitment. Just days ago, you were not even practicing our faith, Manjo.”

  “I know. But I have learned.”

  “Learned what, Manjo?”

  “That living a simple life as a farmer, while my brothers struggle, is no longer acceptable.”

  “But can you not serve the Prophet by providing food and helping others?”

  “I could. However, I believe jihad is calling me. Should I purify myself of these thoughts?”

  “What kind of jihad are you referring to Manjo?”

  “The kind where I fight.”

  Sheikh Cissi thought for a moment. He quickly ascertained Manjo was serious but did not want to come across as too elated. He did not know him well enough, and the death of Manjo’s father was still on his mind. Emotions clouded commitment, he thought to himself.

  “Who do you want to fight?”

  “The Americans.”

  “And how will you do that Manjo?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe you can teach me?”

  “In due time, Manjo. For now, continue your studies. You have much to learn.”

  Sheikh Cissi returned to his office. A few minutes later one of the Mosque’s caretakers entered, and Sheikh Cissi spoke.

  “Foday. I just left Manjo. He wants to fight the Americans.”

  Chuckling ever so slightly, Foday asked, “Already? Foolish young boy.”

  “Maybe. But I have been asked to provide fresh recruits.”

  “How many?” Foday asked.

  “A handful. They are not ready. However, I am afraid they won’t be happy.”

  “When do they need them?”

  “Right now, of course.”

  “They understand our situation here?”

  “They don’t care. At least that is what I read.”

  “We will just have to make them wait.”

  “Indeed. But for how long, Foday?”

  “As long as it takes. They are not here in Kenema.”

  “For now, Foday. For now,” said the Sheikh.

  Turning his chair slightly to the right, he stared out the window. Sheikh Cissi had a tough decision to make. If he pushed too hard or too fast, the men would surely perish. If he moved too slowly, the dreams of a caliphate might disappear and his superiors would question his commitment.

  The Sheikh turned back to Foday and spoke.

  “Add Manjo to weapons training tomorrow. However, make sure he continues his reading. I am not certain he is committed. He is still angry.”

  “I understand. Will you join us in the morning?”

  “No. I have other matters to tend to. Will your men be gone most of the day?”

  “Yes. We will have them read in between training.”

  “Okay, Foday. Let’s meet here again tomorrow afternoon.”

  Foday left the Sheikh’s office. Walking down the hall, he turned right and began walking up the stairs leading to the second floor. Manjo would be in the third room on the left.

  The room where Manjo stayed the last few days was drab as just two bunk beds and some old drawers filled the room. On the ceiling was an old wobbly black fan slowly turning its three plastic blades. Often alone the past few days, Manjo relished the visit.

  “Manjo. I want you to join some of us in the morning. We are leaving town. Pack your Quran and drink plenty of water tonight.”

  “Where are we going Foday?”

  “Leaving for a village west of here. We leave after morning prayers.”


  “What are we doing there?”

  “You will find out in the morning. I suggest you get plenty of sleep.”

  “Okay Foday. I will be ready.”

  Soon after Foday left his room, Manjo looked up toward the ceiling. His mind raced with anticipation and questions. What would tomorrow be like, he pondered. Would Sheikh Cissi test his determination to wage jihad? Was Sheikh Cissi upset with him? Would he get a chance to prove his resolve?

  A couple of hours later, Manjo would eat his dinner, finish his chores and return to his new home. Manjo became anxious, and it took a considerable amount of time for the young man to fall asleep.

  Larnaca International Airport, Larnaca, Cyprus – November 5, 5:15 PM

  Flight XQ913 arrived as scheduled and Jurgen’s Airbus 330 slowly pulled into the hangar. Waiting for him were two associates responsible for handling his aircraft while Jurgen was in town. As the aircraft came to a stop, Jurgen and his co-pilot, Lukas, lowered the rear ramp and worked their way toward the back of the aircraft.

  Upon exiting, two individuals dressed in khakis, collared shirts and blazers greeted them. While in flight, Paul’s updates kept Jurgen abreast of the situation. There were no surprises.

  “You must be Jurgen?” asked one of the men.

  “I am. Are you are from Nicosia?” asked the German.

  “Yes.”

  “May I see your identification?”

  Removing the identification badge from his rear pocket, the black haired man proved he was from the Embassy.

  “Can’t be too careful, huh,” asked Jurgen in a sarcastic sort of way.

  Clearly displeased, and with his dinner date canceled earlier, the man simply replied, “Nope.”

  “Well, you guys enjoy. My work here is done. Time for a drink.”

  As Jurgen walked off, a forklift operator began to grab hold of the pallets and moved them to the awaiting van. Before exiting the hangar, he overheard two men discuss the movement to the marina. The AT-4s were loaded in less than ten minutes.