Undeclared War (5 page)

“Accusations are easy. There is no hard evidence as yet to support these suppositions—only the words of several SEALs who I trust. But if JAG was to become involved in an official investigation, I'm sure corroborating witnesses and evidence could turn up.

“And before you tell me that security classifica
tions will keep me from learning what I want to know, I should tell you that the Special Warfare community is a very tight one. We have been in the business of gathering intelligence for this country for a very long time.

“The Teams were working for the intelligence community since before the CIA even existed. There are a lot of ex-Team guys in the Intel world right now. This thing stinks and I will find out just what is rotten. I think that some very bad judgments were made in regards to our allies in that part of the world. And there are some extremist groups around there who have their own agendas. Agendas they have every intention of following no matter what they have to do or who they have to kill.

“I don't know who, or to what extent, Captain Paxtun was involved with over there—and I don't particularly want to find out unless I have to. And if I do, you can rest assured that it will become part of the official record.”

Martin Rosacrantz was stunned by the tone of the big SEAL's words as much as their content. As the bureaucrat sat back in his chair and stared at the SEAL, Straker considered it time to take a new tack. Now it was his turn to play diplomat and push a cookie across the table. Chief Reaper couldn't get out of this situation unscathed. The bit about exposing some kind of possibly unsanctioned ops or corrupt activity had hit the bureaucrat harder than Straker expected. Offering an alternative punishment for Reaper, and making it sound worse than it was, could give the State Department, or just Rosacrantz, a means to save face.

“There is the fact that Chief Reaper struck a superior officer,” Straker said. “Even one who may not have been a true commissioned officer. That is a serious breach of military discipline. There are no witnesses to the incident, but Paxtun's jaw being broken in two places speaks for itself.

“Making Reaper face charges under the Uniform Code of Military Justice would bring a great deal out during a court-martial—some of which the State Department may not like shown even to a secure court.

“I think I could convince Chief Reaper to accept one option. He could leave the Teams and return to the fleet, maintaining his rank as a Navy chief petty officer. That would keep him under military control and he could retire as soon as his twenty years were completed.”

Straker had no real expectation of Rosacrantz accepting his first suggestion of punishment for Reaper. The people at the State Department had the reputation of being bargainers and Rosacrantz was no exception. What he wasn't saying to Rosacrantz was that Reaper had already admitted to having struck Paxtun. That the SEAL chief was ready to stand up for what he had done and accept whatever punishment would be due him for his actions was one of the factors that put Straker solidly on Reaper's side.

“No,” Rosacrantz said emphatically, “Chief Reaper will leave the service entirely. Paxtun has been stripped of all rank and relinquished all claims for any benefits he may have accrued. He has been expelled both from the military and the intelligence community. Your chief will not receive any more lenient treatment for his involvement in this affair.”

“Chief Reaper is up for reenlistment within a few weeks,” Straker said. “As a career military man, he has to put in his twenty years before he becomes eligible for any retirement. If he was not allowed to reenlist, he would have to just leave the service. Any actions taken by him after he left the Navy could jeopardize any benefits that would come to him down the road. His discharge is already in the works.” Straker neglected to mention that the discharge would be an honorable one. “I'm certain Chief Reaper can be shown the benefits of ending his career.”

Captain Straker had a bad taste in his mouth even as he said the words. They could keep Chief Reaper from facing any kind of trumped-up charges. The fact was that a number of Balkan-area Islamic groups that had been supported by the State Department had turned out to be terrorist organizations. That was something that State didn't want talked about. The situation in the Balkans was a mess, and the present administration didn't seem to be able to do anything about it as things got worse. Getting Reaper the hell out of the line of fire would be the best Captain Straker could do. He would just have to get by in the civilian world.

In the years following the massacre of Muslim civilians at the village, the story never left the immediate area of Bosnia or the halls of the U.S. State Department, Intelligence agencies, or military. Coming from a land that had seen the worst of war for years, the story of a handful of villagers being slaughtered didn't make even a footnote in the international news.

The loss of a few personnel to the Intelligence community and the Navy, even the small ranks of Naval Special Warfare, were absorbed without notice. Lives were changed in major ways, without directly affecting the U.S. government in the least. In other parts of the world, the policies of the U.S. administration of the 1990s, especially those of the State Department and Intelligence community, were going to affect the government, and the world.

A large part of the operating funds that al Qaeda and other organizations depend on came from their involvement in the illegal drug trade. Growing opium
poppies had always been part of the Afghan farming scene. When Iranian drug merchants came into Afghanistan, fleeing revolutionary justice in Iran, they helped set up drug processing labs inside the country to convert opium first into morphine-base and then into heroin. The high-quality heroin produced was quickly slipped into the drug pipeline.

The Balkans had been developed by al Qaeda and others into a southeastern approach into Europe. The drug pipeline stretched from Afghanistan and central Asia, through the Middle East, north to Bosnia, and on to Italy and beyond.

Heroin flowed by the metric ton from al Qaeda labs in the mountains to addicts in Germany, Norway, and England. These were productive markets and money poured into the coffers of al Qaeda as Afghan heroin saturated Europe. That money helped to finance a number of extensive operations by Islamic extremist groups.

In spite of the success of their narcotics trade, what was desired above all by al Qaeda and their brother organizations was a secure connection into North America and the United States markets. Having returned to the States while still maintaining his contacts in Afghanistan and elsewhere, Cary Paxtun was happy to supply that connection.

Paxtun had come from the large Arab and Muslim community in southeastern Michigan. His ethnic Middle Eastern background had served him well when he had been working as an intelligence agent among the mujahideen in Afghanistan. But he had been out of the United States and away from his home area for a long time.

What Paxtun needed was a local contact to help him set up a major drug distribution network. He found that business partner in Steven Arzee, a younger Muslim who had been running a small nightclub in Detroit. Out of his club, Arzee had also been conducting some drug deals and other illegal business with the assistance of a number of his extended family members.

The fastidious Arzee was not a soldier, in spite of the airs he gave himself. But he was a dedicated Wahhabi Muslim with a good deal of street smarts and some very loyal and trusted men with him. With Paxtun's knowledge and connections and Arzee's manpower, their illegal and legal businesses quickly grew.

Creating private secured bank accounts, money laundering techniques, surreptitious transport of materials across international borders, and other such skills had been part of the trade craft that Paxtun had learned during his time in the intelligence community. This knowledge base, combined with the contacts Paxtun had in the mujahideen brotherhood, helped both Paxtun and Arzee to become very successful.

 

North of the center of Detroit exist a number of smaller factories surrounded by tract houses and old neighborhoods. A loss of jobs had caused most of the factories to close down years earlier. Both the local neighborhoods and many of the factory buildings fell into a bad state of decay.

One old manufacturing center had undergone a
resurrection of sorts, though not to make cars as it had years before. The Factory, as it was known, was now a nightclub for the adventurous in Detroit. Built on the first floor of the old auto plant, just off the intersection of two major highways, the Factory was a modern playground for the clubbing youth of both the city and the surrounding suburbs. Young Canadians from across the Detroit River in Windsor also came to taste the night life at the Factory.

The Factory had been organized along the lines of a permanently located rave. It had proven itself popular as a rave in spite of the protests of the hardcore rave devotees who insisted that such an event had to remain portable and underground to be a true rave.

With its grittiness and progressive electronic music, the Factory won over even the hardcore ravers. A rave was a place to go to release tensions and burn off excess energies. The subculture who flocked to raves preferred a place that offered them their distinctive style of techno music, dress, dance, and visual effects. It also would allow them to combine the atmosphere with open sexual behavior and consumables that included alcohol and psychedelic chemicals.

What neither the suburban upscale clubbers or the ravers knew was that the Factory was just another means of feeding their decadent habits and taking their money in the process. Many things went on in the six-story old building, besides the frenzied dancing and sexual antics of the clubbers. Those who wanted to could find that there was more than alcoholic drinks and exotic cocktails available to
them. Various top-quality drugs were available on the floor of the Factory.

Sales of such things remained inside of the building and a very hard force of security goons saw to it that any entrepreneurs who sought to sell their own wares on Factory grounds quickly chose another line of work, once they had healed. Those who continued to sell never had the chance to heal after dealing with security a second time. The bulk of the security force had been recruited from the Arab community in Dearborn and surrounding areas.

Speaking among themselves mostly in Arabic, the security people distanced themselves from the customers even as they watched them. All the security force were deeply committed believers in Wahhabi Islam, as such they considered themselves immune to the entreaties of even the prettiest of the clubbers.

Local drug gangs let the Factory alone as long as it kept its retail share to itself and didn't extend into their turf. If any of the dealers thought that their wholesalers might be supplied from the Factory, they kept that theory to themselves.

Police and drug enforcement agencies never had any proof to substantiate a search warrant for the Factory. Informants knew better than to even consider dealing any information on the Factory to the authorities. The few who had tried had never been found, except as some unidentified parts left as private examples to others.

The most modern scanning techniques and shielding kept listening devices from ever transmitting from inside the building, and wiretaps turned up nothing useful. The police and DEA never con
nected more than rumors to the Factory, and that wasn't enough to get a warrant. Not that any authorities expected to get past the first floor of the place with any real chance of finding anything. The huge plant was small only by automotive manufacturer's standards. The block-long edifice was a nightmare to a police agency.

On the first floor, there were still remnants of the conveyor system and frames that had assembled cars decades before. The place could be a whirling flux of gyrating bodies during peak hours, and just a huge area to cover during slack times. All attempts to infiltrate undercover agents into the club had failed. Without having hard intelligence on what was going on inside the building on the upper floors, the police could do nothing. The only thing that was known was that the public owner had his offices on the sixth floor at the east end of the building.

The owners of the Factory according to official documents was a consortium of investors. The listing of investors consisted of other businesses, holding companies, even mutual funds. Following the line of ownership would only result in running up against a blank wall as the paper trail disappeared into foreign finance laws. Liquor licenses and such were all in line with the necessary requirements, no legal details had been missed.

A very stylish Steven Arzee showed himself on the club floor on occasion. He was listed as the executive manager of the club, but he reported to the real manager regularly.

Cary Paxtun had opened the club several years earlier with funds from his overseas investors. He
did not maintain quarters or offices in the Factory. The money from the legal aspects of the club were quite lucrative though they were small change in comparison to the profits from the drugs, money laundering, and other activities.

Part of that money had gone through more fronts and businesses to pay for several very major land purchases. Two whole islands in Lake Michigan had been purchased almost outright by Paxtun through cutouts. He now maintained his quarters between a luxury high rise in downtown Detroit and the mansion of a private hunting club on South Wolverine Island in Lake Michigan. Paxtun's privacy was very important to him, and so was the maintaining of cutouts between himself and his trusted lieutenant Steven Arzee.

But in spite of his security and distance between the illegal activities of the Factory and himself, Paxtun was anything but a relaxed man. He had his own bosses that he had to satisfy. The overseas investors who not only had supplied him with funds, but were also his source of high-grade narcotics, had made demands on Paxtun. These demands were ones that he could not refuse, and must not fail to satisfy, and he was in the process of failing them now.

 

“…officials said that the quantity of arms seized was the largest ever taken in Canada. Elsewhere in the news…”

A thumb punched down hard on the remote control. The TV screen across the room immediately faded to black with a dull “snap” as the sound clicked
off. Cary Paxtun looked up from the desk and snarled at Steven Arzee standing nearby.

“How the fuck could this have happened?” Paxtun said. “That route was supposed to be solid. The weapons had been built into the bottom of the shipping container itself and shouldn't have even been detectable through the insulation. There was no reason for anyone to have even been looking at that shipment—we spent a bucketful of money to make everything seem as legitimate as possible.”

The fact that Paxtun was cursing indicated just how angry he was—a fact not lost on Arzee. He knew that the situation was a serious one. The seized weapons were intended for people who expected them. They wouldn't have accepted the shipment even being delayed. The fact that the authorities had found them was a disaster.

“It was just blind, stupid, bad luck they were ever discovered,” Arzee said. “The Toronto port authorities had asked for a demonstration of a new mobile scanning system. They were trying to meet the demands of the Homeland Security Border and Transportation people. The damned system uses some kind of new X-ray technology called Z(R) Backscatter. It was set up at the exit gate and it checked every container that was going out of the port. The truck driver couldn't have turned around even if he had known about the system.

“I checked with our people in Toronto. None of them knew the system was going to be demonstrated that day. The setup that was being demonstrated was packed in a van that just parked next to
the exit. It was just bad luck, there was no way to have foreseen it.”

“Bad luck, huh,” Paxtun said. “Everything's fucking gone. The guns, the grenades, the missile launchers, the ammo, explosives, everything. A few hundred thousand dollars worth of ordnance just gone with no decent explanation for its being missing, at least not one that Ishmael will be willing to hear. Or do you want to tell him that he won't get his shipment because of bad luck?”

Arzee's face blanched at the idea of telling the terrorist leader any bad news at all. Paxtun could see in his lieutenant's face that he wanted nothing at all to do with Ishmael, that he was terrified of him. And Paxtun couldn't blame Arzee for his fear.

Ishmael was not the man's real name. It was a kunyah, an Arabic pseudonym adopted from the names of the Companions of the Prophet and other heroes of Islam. A kunyah was used to disguise the name of a faithful while he was on a mission.

No matter what this man's real name was, he was dangerous to anyone who blocked his path. As the leader of a major terrorist cell infiltrating into the United States, Ishmael would kill anyone he saw as a threat to his mission. And he would kill them quickly and without hesitation. Paxtun knew the man well because it was Paxtun's organization that was bringing the cell members into the United States and Ishmael had been one of the first men brought in.

The demand to bring in the terrorists had been made of Paxtun by people that he could not refuse. It wasn't a matter of money, or even of stopping the
very lucrative flow of drugs he was receiving. You refused al Qaeda only once, and that was when you felt tired of living. Failing them was a quick ticket to Paradise.

After the events of 9/11, the Afghan drug traders there expected U.S. reprisals against targets in their country. That fear caused them to dump their stockpiles of heroin and opium before they could be destroyed by U.S. military action. Accepting a low profit margin was considered better by the traders than a complete loss of their stocks.

A large amount of these drugs found their way into Paxtun's hands. And he took advantage of the situation to build up his distribution network, and profits. The heroin out of Afghanistan was an 80 percent pure narcotic. It was known as Heroin No. 4, or White Heroin, by the addicts who craved it.

Al Qaeda didn't mind the increase in business by Paxtun, they also benefited from the profits of his drug sales. The drugs were simply considered another sign of the decadence of the infidels, another means of attacking them. Osama bin Laden liked destroying the West through its own sins and indulgences. He had specifically financed the development of a new liquid heroin, the “Tears of Allah,” to help corrupt the population of the West even faster.