I am embe dded in an Al Qaeda cell in Afghanistan. One of the few cells still left and still at great odds with the United States while fighting for a place of safety amid the Taliban. I speak Arabic and have no handler or communication with the authorities in Washington, CIA, NSA, FBI or the military. Not even a cell phone or com. I'm totally on my own. An autonomous agent.
It is a cold, clear moonlit night and we three jihadists are walking through a remote village in South Eastern Afghanistan near the Pakistani Territories to meet our Taliban rivals at midnight sharp with information that may cease our hostilities and unite us in overcoming the infidels. But, I suspect from all the suspicion in the air, that we may be walking into a trap. Our AR 15s are loaded and ready to seek out any possible threat to our existence. But it is shaky, being so exposed. Our bulletproof armor is little consolation.
When we are 15 paces away from five Taliban coming to greet us, I hear a snapping sound as bullets from snipers on the rooftops strike the heads of my two companions and they drop without knowing what hit them. I'm next, flashes through my mind, but I continue walking without flinching.
Suddenly, there is a "humph" from the sky and within a couple of seconds the close grouping of Taliban ahead evaporates in a precise drone strike guided by a small heat-seeking personnel weapon. I began to run as laser beams zigzag on the central plaza in front of me and bullets with tracers "frap" into the ground in a desperate cat and mouse attack that will end up with the cat winning until I duck behind a building and escape most of the fire.
Beyond the buildings, I see a wheat field that I could hide in, so I run for it in the run of my life. My heavy equipment becomes light as a feather as adrenaline accelerates me into the field and behind me the drone lights up every source of tracers that its missiles detect.
Once in the field, I dive into the tall wheat and crawl on my belly. But I am still detected by the sharp eyes of snipers because the tops of the wheat move back and forth and they fire at the movement. I feel hot lead zipping past my body and ripping wheat from the stems inches from me all around. Finally, one slams into my pack and I'm racked by the impact but feel no pain of a bullet's penetration.
I decide to lie still. With no indication of my location, the sniping stops. But behind me, the entire village is brought to ruin in an attempt to wipe out the Taliban nest that I have revealed by walking into it. I feel lucky to be alive and undetected. Lying there, awaiting what may come next. Searchers to kill?
But, I am still detected by my heat signature and a chopper appears with a blinding light and lands in the field further destroying the wheat crop. I hear a SEAL team leader yell out, "We're taking you home!"
I knew it was time, so I jumped up and ran. No bullets followed me this time. I'm going home. My debriefing reveals much that was unknown about Al Qaeda and I once again go underground.
Six months later…
Dressed as a woman carrying a purse with vital information, I am in a remote Arizona ghost town in the middle of a moonlit chilly night after a 117° day, walking down the middle of the street to meet my contact at midnight sharp. Similar to Afghanistan, but different. She is also a woman and walks up sharply to me and holds out a purse. I hand her my purse and we are about to depart when she senses, perhaps from my anxious smell, that I am a man.
She turns quickly with a knife and I respond with my newly acquired purse. The knife runs clearly through it, but held away from my body, I am able to wrench the knife out of her hand by twisting the purse sharply and grabbing her around the head with a swift movement that breaks her neck and instantly kills her.
I have no time to clean up the mess because I have a strict timeline to get back to Washington DC and meet another woman in front of the Capitol at 9 am. I quickly dump the contents of the purse that I brought onto the ground and replace it with the contents of the knife damaged purse, nothing out of the ordinary, just typical things that a woman would carry. I return to my rental car and speed off into the night to the nearest airport. There was a redeye waiting and no time to lose.
From a locker in Reagan National, I find a package and duck into a men's restroom in the wee hours that was unoccupied to change. Inside the package is men's clothing, including a tailored suit, and instructions that I'm supposed to memorize and use the book of matches to burn them. I am to meet a well-dressed, well described woman with red hair and a blue dress and shoes on the steps of the Capitol and light her cigarette. While lighting her cigarette, I'm to strike one match on the end of the book of matches that is different from all the others.
I look at the book of matches and the one on the end has a different looking head. Puzzled, I look closer in the bright light of the restroom and reveal that it is a miniature electronic circuit! I leave the restroom and dispose of the women's clothing in the locker and then leave the airport to have breakfast at a bistro near the Capitol. As I awaited my appointed destiny, I pondered what the match head was. A bomb? It could be, but it was too small to contain enough accelerant to do any damage. If it did, it would be very small and only affect the woman and me--not likely.
Finally, just as I was walking up to the woman that I saw in the distance on the steps ahead I realized what it was. It's a switch! Thinking fast as I walked, I thought about dropping the match and crushing it underfoot. But, if the switch activated by friction, I nixed that idea quickly and desperately looked around for a solution. I was passing a small fountain. I didn't know if it would work, but I had to do something. I was running out of options. I stopped suddenly, like I had forgotten something and turned around. I reached into my pocket, opened the matchbook and ripped the match from the book. As I turned around again to continue on my way, I flipped the match into the pond hoping that no one would notice, especially my target on the steps ahead.
I walked up to the ravishingly beautiful woman and she pulled out a pack from her purse and tapped out a cigarette. I wasted no time for introduction because it was 9 am, so I reached in my pocket, pulled out the matchbook and struck a match, lighting her cigarette. She puffed until it was lit, thanked me with a sweet voice, and I walked away, expecting to hear bombs going off from somewhere. Instead there was a scurrying of men surrounding the woman and taking her under arrest as I walk away scot free, my blood pressure dropping with every step.
You can read more about autonomous moles like this in my American Mole trilogy of novels.
Copyright 2018 © Ronald W. Hull
8/2/18
