Dagger Strike: A Cairo Sloane Short Story

PART ONE

Scarlet ‘Cairo’ Sloane fired up another Dunhill and waved out the match. Beyond the Escalade’s tinted windows the busy streets of Karachi’s Noor Jahan Market district buzzed with life under the baking Pakistani sun.

She blew the smoke into the SUV’s cab, drawing a weary glance from her superior officer, Captain Clive Hudson. Taking the hint, she lowered the window an inch and redirected her exhaust fumes into the street outside.

As a freshly-minted lieutenant she had transferred out of the Parachute Regiment into the Special Air Service only three months ago and she was still finding her feet in the distinct atmosphere of the world’s most elite Special Forces Regiment. Hudson had worked hard to fit her in, but the note of recommendation from her CO in the Paras — Major Richard Eden — had sealed the deal among the others in the squad. There weren’t many people in this close-knit world who had not heard of the notorious Cairo Sloane.

In the front, Sergeant Eddie “Mack” Donald slowed to cross Third Avenue and then Cairo felt herself pushed back into her seat when the chunky Scotsman hit the throttle again.

“Couldn’t pass me one of those things, could you Cairo?” he said in his heavy Glaswegian accent.

As a lieutenant, Cairo was an officer and several rungs above Mack on the army ladder, but she didn’t flinch when he called her by her nickname. This was the SAS, and that meant life was very different from before. In normal regiments he would have called her “Ma’am” and she would have called Captain Hudson “Sir”, but out in the field the SAS overlooked such formalities. Their job was too hard and their bond had to be greater.

“Sure,” she said, and tossed a cigarette into his lap.

“Thank you kindly, lass.”

Hudson sighed. “Great, now I’m stuck in here with two sodding chimneys.”

Cairo smiled but said nothing. As the smoke drifted through her teeth in a thick plume her eyes crawled over the parks either side of Fifth Avenue. This was her first serious mission with the regiment and she knew she would be under observation the whole time. A major screw-up could see her ‘returned to regiment’ and that, as they said, would be that.

“Smoking calms the nerves, Cap,” said Jonny Lane, the final member of their classic four-man unit. Jonny was the youngest of them all — a fusilier who had amazed everyone with the grit he’d demonstrated during SAS selection.

“We’re here,” Mack said.

“About bloody time,” Jonny said. “I need a slash.”

Cairo looked up and saw the heavy security gates of the British Deputy High Commission at the end of Fifth Avenue. Moments later they were producing ID and being waved through into the enormous compound in southern Karachi.

They were met by Peter Everard, the British Deputy High Commissioner and Commander Olivia Hart of the Royal Navy. They stood in the shade of an Indian beech tree as they shook hands.

“We spoke earlier, Captain,” Everard said casually. “And let me introduce Commander Hart. She’s here in her capacity as the commanding officer of the SBS team you’ll be working with.”

At the sound of the word ‘SBS’ — Special Boat Service — Mack pretended to be sick behind the backs of Everard and Hart, but a quick glance from Hudson brought him back to the conversation. Once, SAS and SBS rivalry was infamous, but with the non-stop merging of the UK Special Forces they were gradually morphing into one, and many on both sides didn’t like it.

They walked past the High Commission’s elegant swimming pool and stepped into one of the buildings in the north of the compound. Leaving the baking Karachi sun behind was a relief, and after climbing a short flight of stairs they reached a confidential briefing room where another two men were already waiting for them.

Hart moved forward and made the introductions. “This is Imran Zafar from Pakistani Inter-Services Intelligence.”

The sombre man gave them a shallow nod but said nothing. The ISI was the highest level intel gathering service in Pakistan and an essential tool in the national security of the country. Established after World War Two by Major-General Robert Cawthome, and Australian-born British soldier who also served in the Pakistan Army, the contribution of its operatives had been critical throughout the intervening decades and everyone in the room held it in high regard.

Hart continued. “And this is Lieutenant George Fleming of the Royal Marines,” she said. “He’s my 2IC in the SBS and arrived from hell just this morning.”

Fleming got to his feet and shook their hands. He was tall and lean, with straw-colored hair and an honest but serious smile.

“Fresh out of hell, eh?” Hudson said.

“Yes, just back from an op in Helmand.”

Everard cleared his throat and got everyone’s attention. “We know why you’re all here,” he began. “So let’s get on with it.” As he spoke, he moved around the room and closed the blinds.

Cairo considered making a joke but thought better of it given the company and the subject they were about to discuss.

Everard switched on a laptop connected to an overhead projector and a second later a large image was beamed onto the wall in front of them. It was the Ministry of Defence’s tri-service logo — anchor for the navy, crossed swords for the army and eagle for the RAF — and beneath it three simple words: OPERATION DAGGER STRIKE. “Let’s get to it,” Everard said flatly. “Commander Hart?”

Hart moved over to the laptop and faced those gathered in the small room. For a few seconds the only sound was the gentle hum of the evaporative air conditioning unit above their heads. “As you all know, we’re here to take out Erzhan Akmetov, a Kazakh drugs cartel boss with strong connections to several high-ranking Taliban officials. He’s responsible not only for a massive amount of the opium that’s exported from this area but he helps to fund countless insurgencies against allied forces in the region as well.”

“Nice guy.”

“He’s primarily interested in the opium, but he finds the local Taliban are more amenable to his desires if he stirs up some trouble with the allied forces from time to time. He’s a ruthless individual who has exerted control over some of the toughest Taliban warlords, mostly because of his wealth, but he can also be unpredictable.”

“Why now?” Hud asked.

“He recently had his men kidnap a British photojournalist on the road south of Marjah and he’s talking about handing him over to the Taliban — plus he’s threatened to take others working in the area. He’s trying to frighten people away.”

They all exchanged a grim look. “How do we get to him?”

“This chap.”

An image of a man in a suit flicked onto the screen and Hart continued. “This is Kevin Campbell, Akmetov’s money launderer. He’s based in Karachi.”

“That doesn’t sound much like a Pakistani name,” Jonny said.

“Nothing gets past you, does it?” Hart said.

“Aye, he’s a sharp one,” Mack said. “Would this scumbag be British by any chance?”

“No,” Imran Zafar said, moving into the light of the projection. “Campbell is a Canadian national who is wanted in his own country and the United States for massive drugs trafficking offences.”

“He picked some nice new friends to start over,” Cairo said.

“Akmetov pays him the sort of money that makes everything else irrelevant,” said Hart. “Especially if you’re persona non grata in your homeland. As far as we’re concerned he’s pretty much our only way to Akmetov.”

“How so?” Hudson asked.

“Akmetov knows he’s on our Most Wanted and he constantly circulates his location, moving between various mansions and heavily-defended compounds almost every week. He doesn’t sleep in the same bed for more than a few days.”

Another wisecrack occurred to Cairo, but she was young and not entirely sure Imran Zafar or Peter Everard looked like they would share her humor so she kept it to herself.

“I knew a girl like that,” Mack said loudly, and everyone laughed.

Seeing everyone’s reaction to the gag made Cairo curse herself for not having the courage to say her own joke which had been even funnier.

“From what Imran here has gathered,” Hart continued, “Akmetov is currently in one of three locations.”

An image of a heavily-bombed compound in the Afghan desert flicked on the screen.

“Total devastation,” Hudson said.

“If you think that’s bad you should see where I grew up,” Mack said with a snort. Another chuckle and Mack casually scratched the silver stubble on his chin.

“This place is the first of the possible locations — a town in the Washer district, and this is the second possible location.” Hart flicked an image of another town on the screen, this time it was untouched by allied artillery and beside a wide river.

She changed the image again. “And this is the final place he could be…” Now they looked at a large compound full of flat-topped buildings scattered at various places within a high perimeter wall, all situated in front of an enormous range of snowcapped mountains. “It’s in the Garmser district in the far south of Helmand. Wherever he is, he travels with lots of armed men. We can’t be sure of his forces, but we know most of them are former Russian soldiers mixed with some Kazakh gangsters.”

“So what’s the plan?” Fleming asked.

“Dagger Strike will be composed of two four-man British units and two US Navy SEALs — the Americans are keen to have someone in the field on this one but they’ll join us after we have the location of Akmetov himself. The SBS will be composed of me, George here, plus two of our men already in the field,” she turned to the young naval officer. “Michaels and Sparrow, right?”

Fleming nodded.

“And the SAS contingent is all here — Captain Hudson, Lieutenant Sloane, Sergeant Donald and Trooper Lane. These two squads are ordered to capture Akmetov if possible, but if not then take him out. It’s that simple.”

“What’s the first step?” Hudson asked.

Hart switched off the laptop and the room went dark. “We pay a visit to Kevin Campbell.”