The Devil's Handshake
Read The Devil's Handshake Online
Authors: Michael Reagan
Tags: #obama, #cold war, #sas, #putin, #oligarch, #cia and diplomacy, #natural resources, #thriller actiion, #mi6 operative
The Devil’s
Handshake
Copyright 2014 Michael Reagan
All rights reserved
The moral right of the author has been
asserted
Published by Brightquart Rights Limited at
Amazon.
ISBN: 978-0-992-70140-6
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Table of Contents
Prologue
London
Holland Park 2007
Ashgabat 1998
Holland Park 2007
Hong Kong / Dubai / Aeolian Islands 2007
Africa / Los Angeles / Washington D.C
Ashgabat / Moscow 1998
Washington D.C.
Moscow
London
Venice 2001
London
Cote D’Azur
Langley
Borama
Washington D.C.
Borama
Washington D.C
Cote D’Azur
Borama
Cote D’Azur
Washington D.C / Moscow / London
Kenya 2006
Ros Kamboni 2006
Lamu 2006
London
Washington D.C
London
Los Angeles / New York / Washington D.C
Dubai
Upper Burpham
Borama
Moscow
Bangkok
Moscow
The Wood
Borama
Dubai International Airport / Borama
Aden Isaaq International Airport / Borama
Roschinsky
Borama
Aw-Barre
Langley
Borama
Lughaya
Borama
Langley
Washington D.C / Moscow
Borama
Washington D.C
Borama
Moscow
Borama
Washington D.C.
Aden Isaaq International Airport
London
St Ageranus School
London
Nouakchott
London
Nouakchott International Airport /
Nouakchott
London
Prologue
“
What’s the crack, Stevie?”
asked the Commander of Charlie Three Zero, who at first glance,
looked more like a local Bedouin tribesman with his dark long
matted hair and scraggy long beard rather than an officer of the
British Army.
“
The fucking RSM wants to
call a staff meeting at the pickup point!” said the Liverpudlian
Corporal shaking his head as he disconnected the call from the
encrypted radio.
The man smiled at the statement, the RSM who
apart from being the Special Air Services (SAS) Regimental Sergeant
Major also doubled as the Commander of Alpha One Zero always had a
dry sense of humor.
The young officer was just twenty-seven,
well-built and possessing a set of deep brown eyes that could look
into one’s soul, was in the second year of his secondment as a
language expert to the SAS from the Royal Gurkhas Rifles asked what
the RSM wanted to discuss. Figuring it was more than likely
something to do with the new intelligence from the Yanks that they
had received on their prime objective—the location and destruction
of Scud missiles in the western corridor of Iraq.
“
Boss, you don’t want to
know,” answered the young Trooper, a title given to enlisted men of
British Army elite fighting force that is comparable in status to
the United States Navy ‘SEAL’ or ‘Operator’ in its DELTA
force.
The young officer’s look told him
otherwise.
“
The fucking new furniture
for the dining room in Hereford!” replied Stevie, rolling his
eyes.
“
Typical,” the old sage of
the unit a Staff Sergeant called Richard “Taffy” Jones muttered in
his rich Welsh accent before continuing, “I’m telling
you!”
“
Tommy,” he said to the
young officer, using his first name as rank titles were never used
in the Regiment when it’s members spoke to one another. “The RSM is
fucking cracked!”
Thomas smiled at the Trooper. He took the
request for what it was: a morale booster, something the Regiment
certainly needed having just got the news they had lost four of
their own men on a mission last week.
“
I think you might find,
Stevie,” Thomas replied. “That’s the RSM’s way of sticking two
fingers up at Saddam,” he continued in an attempt to support a man
who wasn’t present to defend himself as he looked at his Casio
G-SHOCK watch on his wrist.
“
FUCK THAT!” answered the
Staff Sergeant who wasn’t the RSM’s greatest fan even at the best
of times.
Ignoring the banter of his No. 2 for the
moment, Thomas refocused his mind on the mission they had been
given: The location and destruction of a very special Scud
Al-Hussein missile launcher and its payload.
It wasn’t going to be easy. The terrain was
rugged and flat and after being dropped in by a Chinook helicopter,
it had taken them a day to make their Lay Up Point (LUP) as they
were overloaded with the equipment they needed to destroy the
rocket launcher. Nevertheless, Thomas tried to make his mind relax
as he lay in a depression in the ground.
The American Intelligence officer who had
operational command of this mission wanted a “hit and run” night
raid that echoed the days of the North African campaign of World
War II. This was in order to make it look as if a routine patrol
had stumbled onto the launcher in spite of the mission being
anything but that.
When Thomas had asked the man in front of RSM
and the Colonel as to why they were sure that the square building
with a massive antenna and satellite dishes surrounding it was
housing the missile launcher and why didn’t they just call in an
air strike and destroy it all, he was given an answer that had
shocked him.
“
Captain, we understand the
Scud missiles are carrying Anthrax,” the man, whom Thomas had
ascertained was of Pakistani origin despite his New York accent,
had said.
“
Is this a school?” the RSM
had asked while pointing at the map to a small building by the side
of the one that intelligence had assumed contained the hidden
missile. Grimly, it had dawned on Thomas and those around the table
why an air strike wasn’t possible. If an air strike hit its
intended target, then the most likely collateral damage would be
the deaths of the children the Iraqis were using as a human shield.
The ensuing propaganda generated for Saddam would be: a) the
Americans had destroyed a school and b) they had used chemical
weapons—a spurious claim that, although it would be denied by the
coalition, would gain useful political capital in striking a wedge
between the fragile partnership of the Western and Arab nations.
Worse still and the most likely result was something the Colonel
had confirmed to all around the table in his stiff tone as “It
would be impossible to keep Israel out of the conflict as they
would argue that the missile could be the first of many that be
directed in the direction of Tel Aviv.”
“
How many of these blighters
are in operation?” the Colonel had asked, referring to the missile
launcher.
“
Our intelligence informs us
so far this is the only one,” the American-Pakistani had responded.
Thomas had looked at him disbelievingly for a second but didn’t
comment further. It wasn’t his job to question the
intelligence.
“
I understand,” Thomas had
answered.
“
Unfortunately, we don’t
have any confirmed intelligence on the number of troops guarding
the Scud,” the American had continued. “But intelligence points to
them as almost certainly being members of the Brigade of
Mukhabarat, an elite group from the Iraq Intelligence Services
(IIS) that reports directly to Saddam,” the man had
explained
“
Don’t worry. I am sure we
be able to handle them!” Thomas had answered proudly.
“
Of that, I have no doubt
Captain,” the American had replied. With Thomas’s mind finally
starting to shut down for a couple of hours, he was about to find
out if his bold statement was going to be true or not.
“
David, I have briefed the
SAS team who is going to be handling the operation,” The CIA
Officer had said to his line officer, on the encrypted telephone
link to Riyadh just two days before the team had gone
in.
“
Your assessment of them?”
the Virginian had asked.
“
The Captain is young and
capable,” the officer had answered. “He speaks Arabic like a native
and moreover looks like one,” he had added, with a hint of
admiration. “Mackintosh calls him one of his best,” he had further
added, referring to the colonel of the regiment.
“
Good.”
“
We can’t allow that missile
to be missed,” the voice at the end of the phone had
declared.
The CIA Officer, an American-Pakistani called
Ali Mansoor, did not need his boss to tell him that. If that
missile landed anywhere in Israel, then the President would not be
able to keep the Coalition together. He knew the risks better than
anybody.
