by J M Hemmings
‘Damn straight. And you are, ma’am?’
The Colonel’s gruff Alabaman bark sounded even more masculine when stacked against the woman’s soft timbre, but despite all of this evident weakness, there was something undeniably menacing about her.
‘Ms Caris G. Hutton of Huntsmen Inc,’ the woman answered. Her accent was distinctly upper-class New Yorker. ‘I trust your journey was both comfortable and uneventful, Colonel?’
Colonel Rudd grunted wordlessly in response. Ms Hutton, meanwhile, peered over at the troupe of marines. They were, to a man, all lantern jaws, ox-like shoulders, rippling muscles and gleaming firearms. If she was intimidated by this testosterone-thick show of force though, she did not show it; her pale chestnut eyes remained impassive behind the thick spectacles she wore.
‘You can tell your men to stand down. We’re perfectly safe here.’
Colonel Rudd fired a quick look over his shoulder.
‘At ease boys!’ he grunted.
‘I’m sure they would like some refreshments after the long flight? If they follow my assistant here, he’ll take them to the company dining prefab.’
Ms Hutton turned around and shouted out an order in French to an elderly Congolese man who was busy going through some papers on a camping table. The man quickly set his folder and pencil down, picked up a pair of crutches that were leaning on the table, and then hobbled over to Ms Hutton and Colonel Rudd.
‘Do any of your marines speak French, Colonel? My friend Benoit here is a most useful fellow when it comes to arithmetic, but his command of English is, unfortunately, rather rudimentary.’
‘Yeah, Jimbo over there can speak a bit of that Paris-talk,’ Colonel Rudd grunted. ‘Jimbo! Come ‘ere!’
A strapping black marine, tall and built like a professional football player, hurried over to the Colonel and saluted stiffly.
‘SIR!’ he bellowed in a booming voice that was rough as sandpaper.
‘This here jungle bunny don’t speak English too good! You talk to him in that fancy-ass Paris-talk you can speak! Got it?’
‘SIR YES SIR!’
‘Stand down an’ get on with it, Jimbo!’
‘SIR!’
The black marine saluted again, and then began conversing in fluent French with Benoit, and together they headed off towards the dining area with the other marines in tow. Ms Hutton raised an eyebrow and stared with blatant distaste at Colonel Rudd.
‘Did you really just use the term “jungle bunny” in front of your African-American soldier?’ she asked, her flat tone leaving no room to misinterpret the judgement in her voice.
‘I sure as fuck did!’ Rudd snapped defiantly. ‘You got a problem with that, missy?’
Ms Hutton’s face remained emotionless.
‘I don’t personally care, Colonel, but I think that your African-American—’
‘Jimbo ain’t no goddamned “African-American”, he’s a fuckin’ nigger from the streets a’ downtown New Orleans! An’ he’ll tell ya that straight up, he will. Same as Fernando over there is a fuckin’ bean-eatin’ spic, Yamamoto is a slanty-eyed Jap, an’ Cohen is a stingy, big-nosed kike. An’ I’m a goddamn white trash cracker straight outta the worst buttfuck inbred trailer park a’ deepest Alabama! An’ what’s more, any one a’ them boys will tell you that! They’d gladly lay their lives on the line for me, as would I for each an’ every one a’ them motherfuckin’ sons a’ bitches! That’s brotherhood, real brotherhood, a concept that these goddamn PC pencil-pushing libtards could never understand!’
A thin smile unexpectedly breached Ms Hutton’s mouth.
‘I think you and I will get on quite well, Colonel,’ she said. ‘Come, we’ll talk in my office.’
A few minutes later Colonel Rudd and Ms Hutton were seated at opposite ends of a hardwood desk in her prefabricated office. She turned on the air conditioner, took off her suit jacket and undid the top button of her blouse.
‘I can’t stand the humidity in this godforsaken place,’ she muttered.
‘Wait until you’ve fought battles in the jungles of Southeast Asia, knee deep in crocodile-infested swamp water, an’ carrying an assault rifle, a mortar tube an’ sixty pounds a’ battle gear, while a bunch a’ commies’ AK-47 rounds are flying fast an’ thick all around ya, an’ mortars are comin’ down through the jungle canopy like goddamn rain,’ the Colonel grumbled, ‘then you can whine about “humidity”, princess.’
Ms Hutton ignored the blatant dig at her character and leaned over to an intercom on the left of her desk.
‘What’s your beverage of choice, Colonel? Coffee? Tea? Water? Or something stiffer?’
‘Two shots a’ dark rum, on the rocks,’ he replied stiffly.
‘Done.’
Ms Hutton spoke in rapid-fire French into the crackling intercom, listened for a moment to the distorted reply, and then turned back to the Colonel.
‘Drinks will arrive shortly. Now, let’s get down to business. You understand why we need your services, yes?’
‘I read over the briefing, sure. Lemme hear it from you though. Details can get all mixed up an’ shit, y’see. One person writes this, another says that … you gotsta understand, sweet cheeks, that for my unit t’ do its job an’ t’ do it well, we need clarity. I’m talkin’ ‘bout crystal clear, so-clean-that-the-Virgin-Mary’s-pussy-itself-would-be-put-to-shame clarity. My boys are the best a’ the best, I personally guarantee that. There ain’t no job we can’t handle. But we need absolute clarity an’ transparency from the beginnin’ in order t’ do our job right. You understand? So please, do not try an’ pull no bullshit on me. Don’t hold nothin’ back from me neither. I don’t wanna lose none a’ my men, an’ you don’t want your objectives t’ get all fucked-up, see? So like I just said, don’t hold no shit back, an’ don’t try cover nothin’ up. We need t’ know everything.’
‘That’s a perfectly reasonable request. May I ask you a few questions first though? Professional curiosity.’
A thin smile lit up her face – a smile that was hiding something.
‘Sure, whatever. Fire away.’
‘You are indeed Colonel Reginald John Rudd, formerly of the United States 1st Battalion 23rd Marines—’
‘Yeah, that’s me, who the fuck else d’ya think I am?’
The smile remained in place, unwavering in its plasticity.
‘I wasn’t finished asking the question, Colonel. What I was going to say, is that you were dishonourably discharged from the United States Marine Corps—’
‘It was a dismissal, honey. Get it right.’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I was a commissioned officer in the ‘Corps. Non-coms get dishonourable discharges, officers get dismissals.’
Ms Hutton raised a sceptical eyebrow and flipped through the pages of the dossier.
‘Yes, fine, you were “dismissed”, then, under less than amicable circumstances. Correct?’
‘There may have been a few … irregularities … in my conduct. Sure. Accordin’ to the goddamned brass, anyway. They gots their version a’ events, I gots mine.’
‘It seems,’ Ms Hutton remarked as she thumbed through the papers on her desk, ‘that your entire military career has been riddled with “irregularities”, as you call them.’
Colonel Rudd laughed loudly, and there was blatant mockery in his tone.
‘Is that a fact now? Well why don’t you go on an’ tell me all about what you think you know about my military career. C’mon cherry pie! I’m waitin’ on ya!’
‘At age eighteen, in your very first year of military service, you were involved in the infamous 1968 My Lai massacre in the Vietnam War. You took to violence against non-combatant civilians with such remorselessness – and effectiveness – that you were drafted to a special Black Ops unit in the seventies, operating under the framework of the CIA’s notorious Operation Condor. You participated in a number of operations in Latin America in the seventies and eighties, both in the jungle, fighting guerrilla battles, and
in urban centres as an assassin, while also running a torture slash “confessional” facility in—’
Colonel Rudd smirked and leaned back in his chair, putting his feet up on the edge of Ms Hutton’s desk.
‘Yeah yeah yeah, whatever. “No comment”, sugar, that’s all I gots ta’ say. But how in the fuck do you know that shit? This is all highly-classified information, which, even if it were true, an’ I had hypothetically participated in such missions, if they had hypothetically existed, I would hypothetically not be at liberty t’ discuss the details a’ ‘em with a goddamn civilian like you.’
Ms Hutton looked up at Colonel Rudd, her eyes sparkling with subtle, mocking amusement … and something else, something far darker.
‘There is almost nothing we at the Huntsmen Corporation do not know about you and your operations, Colonel. As I said, I just wanted to ask about some of these things due to my own curiosity.’
Rudd growled and folded his arms aggressively over his chest.
‘Find the answers to your fuckin’ curiosity in them there papers, honey. I ain’t gots ta’ answer none a’ your questions. Now let’s get back to what I want, no, what I need: information, goddammit!’
Ms Hutton’s expression remained cool and almost devoid of expression as she changed topics.
‘Fine. As you know, this coltan mine is owned and operated by one of our subsidiary companies, YTE-Tech. Now, the term “coltan” is a term used to refer to the ore, columbo-tantalite, that is mined here.’
‘That coltan crap is used in cellphones, computers, an’ all sorts a’ tech shit, ain’t it?’
‘Yes. Tantalum, an essential core component which is used to make the capacitors used in such items of technology, is extracted from the ore. To put it simply: no coltan, no tech items of any sort, anywhere. These mines are a primary source of one of the many essential streams of global economic lifeblood – the very lifeblood that feeds our factories and drives our financial enterprises.’
Rudd nodded and stretched his arms out in front of him, cracking his knuckles with a satisfying pop.
‘Yeah. I get it. This coltan shit is hella important for y’all ta’ be able t’ stay in business.’
With one eyebrow subtly raised, Ms Hutton smiled condescendingly before responding.
‘Indeed. “Hella” important, as you so eloquently put it.’
‘So that’s where me an’ ma’ boys come in. Y’all have been experiencing some, how do I put it – troubles – here, from local militia groups. Ain’t that the case?’
‘Well, yes. That’s the simplified version of the events, at least. This is why we’ve decided to hire your mercenary army.’
‘We’re problem solvers, Hutton. Best a’ the best. We make problems … go away.’
‘It seems you’ve dedicated most of your life to making uncomfortable problems “go away” for various important people and governments, Colonel Rudd.’
Rudd laughed dryly and humourlessly.
‘The CIA, the US Army, the Marine Corps, I made a lotta their “uncomfortable problems” vanish. But in the end them fuckers started t’ think my methods were too “extreme”. Fuckin’ hypocrites, the lot a’ ‘em. So yeah, after a little “incident” in the most recent Iraq conflict back in ’04, I was court-martialled an’ dismissed. Didn’t matter none to me, though. I just kept on doin’ what I do best, see. Recruited me the best “problem solvers” from around the world, who’d also been kicked outta their respective military an’ government organisations for, well, for fuckin’ just doin’ their goddamned jobs, an’ doin’ them too goddamned well for their libtard snowflake governments’ likin’.’
‘And so you started your own army of mercenaries. How fortunate for us.’
‘Damn straight!’ he boomed. ‘Y’all know our services don’t come cheap. I know you suits had a good hard look at our contract before bringin’ me out here. An’ I already told y’all straight up, we do not negotiate on fees. That deposit y’all paid inta’ my Swiss account, well that shit ain’t refundable on any grounds. Don’t fuck with me, I’m warning ya.’
‘Price is not the issue here, Colonel. I assure you, we at Huntsmen Inc do not lack for money. However, my predecessor here did not see things in that light, unfortunately. He thought that he could get away with cutting corners and pinching pennies in the defence budget by keeping a few million for himself and hiring out a local militia group to deal with the situation.’
‘I read about that in the files y’all sent. The local rebel group y’all initially hired t’ protect this here mine an’ eradicate the threat, they was all massacred, t’ a man.’
‘Wiped out completely, yes. Needless to say, my superiors were not happy. My predecessor was … removed from the situation and dealt with … appropriately for his short-sightedness and ineffectual handling of the situation. Thereafter I was sent here, to this filthy, godforsaken shithole, to properly take care of matters.’
A look of raw disgust briefly crossed her face, but she covered it up quickly. Rudd merely grinned smugly.
‘Takin’ care a’ things is my specialty.’
‘Exactly. I understand that in order to achieve the desired result you need to get the best person – or people – for the job.’
‘And you can bet your bottom dollar that we’r—’
‘The best of the best. I know. I’ve got connections in the mercenary world, and I’ve read up on some situations that you and your men have taken care of. You have a very impressive track record.’
‘Spotless, Hutton, fuckin’ spotless. We are fuckin’ perfection personified. Anyways, enough a’ this dick-strokin’. I don’t need that shit, I already know how good we are. Give me details, all a’ ‘em, an’ don’t spare none neither.’
Ms Hutton nodded as she clasped her bony, freckle-flecked hands together on her desk.
‘Do you have any game hunting experience, Colonel?’
Colonel Rudd raised an eyebrow, suddenly puzzled.
‘Uh, yeah, I sure do. Every time I get some R ‘n’ R between missions I do me some huntin’. I done bagged trophies from every continent on God’s green Earth. Shit, I got a dining hall full a’ ‘em on ma’ ranch back home. I don’t see what that’s got t’ do with the job y’all are hiring me for though.’
Whatever her unwavering, thin smile was concealing remained indecipherable.
‘Good. I’m just confirming what I’ve read in the briefing files. My question may not seem to make much sense to you now, but trust me, it will.’
Rudd remained unconvinced, and regarded her with a scowl that was equal parts sceptical, mocking and aggressive.
‘If y’ say so, honey. But please, how ‘bout you start debriefin’ me on the actual mission at hand, huh? The boys an’ me are fixin’ t’ oil up our rifles, lock an’ load, an’ head out int’ the jungle. We don’t like wastin’ time on chitter chatter.’
‘Very well. Like I said though, the previous mercenary outfit we hired – a local group, called Rambo’s Rage – were completely destroyed by our enemy.’
Colonel Rudd laughed uproariously at this, slapping his muscular thighs with his hands.
‘Rambo’s Rage? Who in the fuck do these jungle bunnies think they are? That ain’t the first re-donkin’-diculous name I done heard outta this neck a’ th’ woods, though. Anyways, go on.’
‘The entire army was slaughtered. A few captives were taken, or perhaps they simply fled into the bush after being defeated. Either way, none returned. The coltan mine of ours that those fools were supposed to be protecting, Mine CF-3HV, around seventy kilometres southwest of us, was overrun by the enemy.’
‘So now your rivals are controlling the mine, huh?’
‘No. The mine was destroyed.’
Colonel Rudd leaned back in his chair, cocked his head to one side and furrowed his brow. He clasped his hands together and rubbed on his calluses with his thumbs, narrowing his eyes with perturbation.
‘What? Destroyed? Ya mean, totally wrec
ked?’
‘Yes.’
‘That sure as shit ain’t the usual modus operandi ‘round these parts, in these types a’ situations. Last time me an’ the boys was called in t’ pull off an operation here in Central Africa, well, West Africa anyway, was t’ rassle a diamond mine in Sierra Leone outta rebel militia control an’ back inta’ the European diamond company’s hands. Ha, not that it mattered none for the niggers that was workin’ there, they was as much slaves under militia bosses as under a rich Austrian multinational. And b’fore that, we did a mission in Sudan, ‘cept that was for zinc mines. Same story, rebel militia took control a’ th’ mine, then used the profits from sellin’ the minerals t’ finance an’ expand their military campaign. Same shit all over this fuckin’ continent. But hold up: now you’re tellin’ me that these motherfuckers y’all are up against took down the troops y’all hired, then they took over the mine … but instead a’ takin’ the tantalum an’ makin their stinkin’ wallets a lot fatter by sellin’ it on the black market, they jus’ up an’ destroyed the mine? Trashed a perfectly workin’ fertile mine t’ shit, an’ then jus’ up an’ left? That’s what went down here?’
Ms Hutton nodded slowly, drumming her fingers in subtle polyrhythms as she did so; the last ghostly vestiges of hours of forced piano lessons as a child. She spoke in a calm, even tone, like a schoolteacher reciting a carefully planned lesson as she described what had happened.
‘They liberated all of the miners, paying them all equal shares of the money they seized when they cut open our on-site safe – which, I must mention, contained a substantial sum in US dollars – and then they broke the dam walls and completely destroyed what little industrial equipment was there. And I mean annihilated to the point where not even a single part or chip was salvageable.’
‘Sounds like they was exactin’ vengeance a’ some sort,’ Rudd remarked as he chewed lightly on a knuckle of his softly-clenched fist. Hutton retained an expression of cool, almost clinical composure as she continued.
‘It’s more complicated than that. Thankfully there wasn’t much rare or heavy equipment there, because, like in this place, most of the digging was done by hand. The loss of the money in the safe was of greater value than that of the machines. So, after they had wrecked the offices and stolen and redistributed our money, they filled in the mine holes, covered up the gashes in the earth and planted trees there. Only after they’d done that did they then wreck the dam and destroy the machines.’
