The Rogue: Prologue

Prologue:

November 6, 2007

Baghlan, Afghanistan

         It had taken months of planning, but finally the time had come. Soon the country would be watching their television screens in horror at the site of a factory in flames, and all fingers would be pointing to the usual suspects; it was the perfect cover for a covert operation. Not only would it leave the MPs distracted, but it would also leave his targets scurrying from the country, allowing him to complete his objective without any questions asked. Of course, others would have to die to make the operation go smoothly, and John still pondered whether or not the sacrifice was worth it, but whether it was right or wrong didn’t make sense now: he had done everything he could to prepare for this day, and it was finally here.



         He had been in deep cover since January; learning everything he could about his target, the group’s interactions with other assets, the way the dealers operated, and so on. His cover ‘identity’ was that of a former soldier in the Afghan army, but after some thought and run-ins with the government, he decided to work for the arms dealers in aiding and supplying revolutionary agents of change. Some might call these groups terrorist but John had come to understand one man’s terrorist is another man’s patriot. He had come up with the name ‘revolutionary agent of change’ during his flight from Virginia to Kabul; it had been a long flight, filled with plenty of battles; battles against his own conscious. He arrived at the Kabul International Airport within a few hours, assigned a new name, Khaled Muhammad Abdul, and his new past as the former soldier. Not only was he handed a new name, but a new wardrobe as well. The society was difficult to become accustomed to, but John made it, and even picked some a few words of Arabic and took on their accent. All the little details would play a huge role in the following operation.



         Now several possible scenarios played over and over in John Anderson’s head as he walked through the halls filled with bustling people; mostly men. The halls were dark and damp, with only a few strips of light penetrating the sand walls. Every television screen inside the compound was switched to a news channel, and every channel was talking about the same thing. John managed to pick up a few key pieces from television sets in separate rooms on both the left and right side of him: “Today, the Economics Committee met to reopen a sugar factory to...”

“...due to the poor economic conditions in the region...”

“...reports of a bomb explosion...”

“...unknown of how many killed or injured...”

“...Military Police forces are on the scene...” It was all going according to plan.



         One of the television sets in a room to his left managed to catch John’s eye as he walked down the dark hallway. He stopped for a quick second and watched as paramedics and MPs loaded bodies into ambulances, police officers helped wounded away from scorching flames, and children crying as they searched for their parents. John turned his head; he couldn’t watch, knowing what he knew. Thoughts began to flood his head once again; the same questions he struggled with on his flight: This isn’t right, why am I doing this? Was it really worth a hundred lives to kill one man? John pushed these thoughts out of his head: there was no turning back now. ‘Revolutionary agent of change’ suddenly sounded much easier to say.



         More thoughts intruded his brain as he heard more of the television broadcastings:

“...45 were found dead at the site, and the death toll is continuing to rise as bodies are uncovered within the rubble...”

“...factory employees, young students visiting the event, and members of the Economic Committee were brutally killed...”

“...this act was an act of cowardly and senseless cruelty; the animals who perpetrated this should and will be brought to justice...”



         John tried to block out the voices, but he couldn’t, they kept flooding in, as if the broadcasters on the TV screens were trying to convict him. Guilt began to steadily rise; hate, regret, pain, sorrow; all those lives lost at the factory were by his hand: all the families torn apart, all the lives ruined, all that blood and death...



         “Khaled, come here,” one of the men said in his native tongue. John continued walking down the hall; he hadn’t heard the man at first; he was too caught up in his thoughts. “Hey, Khaled...” the man grabbed John’s shoulder and turned him around. John was surprised and almost raised his arms to defend himself, but slowly relaxed when he saw who’s hand it was: it was Kahmad’s, a friend he had made in the few tense, past months. The man was a bit taller than John and brawnier as well. Kahmad eyed John over from head to toe, examining every aspect of the long-time friend. “You ok, Khaled? You don’t seem like yourself today. Was it the bombing?” John wiped his friend’s hand off of his own shoulder and gave Kahmad a warm smile. “I’m fine; I guess I’m just a little fidgety. I find it funny how all of a sudden there’s a bombing and we’re high-tailing it outta here.”

“It’s too risky; our client was blamed for the attack, and if the military decides that they want to eliminate the threat, then that means there’s a risk that we’ll be compromised, and possibly eliminated. Nasik doesn’t want to take any chances.”



         Nasik Al-Raffia. He was the big man, the one calling the shots. If he was eliminated, then as far as the CIA could tell the whole arms deal group would fall apart. At least, that’s how the SACs back in Langley determined it would turn out. They were going by the old proverb: cut off the head of the snake, and the body dies. That was the plan, and that’s what John intended to carry out. Nasik was the head of the snake and John was going to help him loose his head.



         The two men began making their way to the garage where several vans were currently being loaded with whatever they could carry. Crate after crate was cautiously getting packed. Large green crates loaded with equipment, ammunition, and explosives, no doubt; crates that John had arranged the purchase and delivery of were being placed into the back of the white Mercedes SUVs. John found this as the perfect opportunity: if he could slip a small C4 package onto the vehicle transporting Nasik, it wouldn’t just decimate the SUV, but the explosives already loaded would assist with the carnage. Nothing would be left for evidence, leaving the kill-site completely clean. It was messy and loud, but it got the job done and left John uncompromised.



         The two entered the garage area and saw the three SUVs. John knew this was a problem: Anyone of the three could be Nasik’s transport. John turned to Kahmad: “You know which one Nasik is riding in?” Kahmad looked over the two other cars aside from their own and eventually pointed his finger to the middle van. “That one, the one being loaded up now; at least, I think that’s it. Ours is the one on the right...” John nodded his head and slipped his hand into his back pocket to make sure the C4 packet was still there. “Hey why don’t you make sure our vans alright, I’m driving.”



“Sounds good to me, gives me more time to sleep.”  Before Kahmad left John, he slipped his hand onto John’s shoulder one more time and whispered into his ear. “Please don’t try anything stupid.” That scared John: did Kahmad know? The Afghan left to review their vehicle, leaving the American to his dirty work.



         The garage was clear save for a few mechanics. There were three garage doors leading to the outside world. The rest of the garage included tools, crates, spare tires, oil stains on the concrete floor, and a pair of AK-47 rifles stacked against a wall; the garage also stunk of sweat and diesel.



         There was only a single mechanic working on Nasik’s SUV, and he was just loading the crates. John approached the mechanic and tapped the young man on the shoulder: “You need help with those?” The boy looked about eighteen; John thought that maybe the boy had been captured or forced into the arms dealer group. The young man slowly nodded his head and placed the crate he was carrying inside the van. John simply smiled and then walked over to one of the crates. He checked the garage to make sure no one was looking, and then slipped the C4 pack inside the crate. He then picked up the crate and placed it inside the van. After the two finished loading the van, John returned to his own van and took his place on the driver side.



         Kahmad had already taken his seat and watched as John buckled himself in. “Everything alright,” Kahmad asked. John looked over at his friend and smiled. “Yeah, we’re good, let’s roll.”



         The garage doors opened, revealing the bright light of the hot sun and the open streets of Baghlan. The middle ML550 was the first to pull out, followed by the one on the left of the garage, and then John and Kahmad’s. The small convoy of three began intertwining threw buildings inside the small city. John was waiting for the perfect opportunity to make his move: it finally came.



         “What are you doing? We’re supposed to be...” John brought out his Colt 1911 and pointed it toward Kahmad. “I don’t care, and I don’t want to hear another word you understand?” Kahmad immediately shut his lips and watched as John broke off from the rest of the convoy. John brought up his knees to the steering wheel and used his driving hand to reach into his pocket. Upon pulling his hand out, he revealed his cell phone. John looked at Kahmad who was apparently very confused, and then back to the road in front of them. He began punching in numbers on the small flip-phone; as soon as John hit the call button, the pager buzzer inside the C4 packet began vibrating. Several seconds later, a loud bang could be heard off in the distance as a small black cloud rose to the sky. John replaced the cell phone back into his pocket and looked at Kahmad. “Get out.” Kahmad eyed John as if he were crazy. “But we’re still mov...” “Get out!” John yelled as he pointed the gun at Kahmad again. Kahmad scrambled to open the passenger door and jumped out onto the dirt street. John leaned over, closed the passenger door, holstered his pistol, and brought out the cell phone from his pocket. He punched in a different number, brought the phone to his ear, waited for the beep, and then began talking: “Mrs. Johnson, this is Dr. Anderson; I’m calling to inform you that your test results are in...”