by Jack Murphy
Chapter 1
The Russian Arctic
“I'll tell you boys what,” the mercenary said with a knowing grin, “it smelled so bad that I almost didn't eat it.”
The room exploded with laughter as his fellow mercenaries roared in approval.
“Anyway,” he continued, “that's how I got pink eye for the second time.”
Spinning turbines hummed outside, the buzz growing louder as the engines flared. It was one of two C-27J transport aircraft owned by Samruk International, a Kazakhstan-based private military company the mercenaries worked for. Outside, the C-27J screamed down the airstrip and lifted off, its passengers successfully delivered to the remote outpost in northern Russia.
The door swung open with a gust of arctic wind that sent playing cards flying off an overturned cardboard box that served as a poker table. In filed a dozen new recruits, big European and American dudes looking to secure their slots on Samruk International's oil security contract with American gas and oil companies in the Arctic.
The mercenaries looked at the new guys with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism. Samruk was a multinational company, split down the middle between Kazakhs and Westerners. Over the last couple of years they had seen action in Afghanistan, Burma, Mexico, and Syria. Killing was their business, and a batch of new guys could prove to be a valuable asset to the team—a team that had taken plenty of casualties over the last few missions. The newcomers could also prove to be incompetent idiots who got their teammates killed.
“Lookit these new jacks,” the mercenary with a sense of humor commented. The men shuffled by to their boss's office carrying rucksacks, black roller bags full of tactical gear, and OD green aviator kit bags.
“Welcome to the Thunderdome, assholes.”
* * *
“Send the first one in!” Chuck Rochenoire yelled. The former Navy SEAL sat on a folding chair next to the door. Also sitting with their backs to the wall were other leaders within the private military company. Pat, Aghassi, Frank, Nikita, Kurt, and Sergeant Major Korgan sat in on the informal board that would be the final interview for the new recruits. New hires would begin training, and rejects would be sent packing.
The first recruit came through the door and set his bags down. He was tall, with dark hair and a two-day beard.
“It says here you served in Italy's counterterrorism unit?” Pat, a Delta Force veteran, asked.
“Colonel Moschin,” the Italian responded with the nickname for his unit. “The 9th.”
“You were a member of Task Force 45,” Pat said, looking down at the resume in his hands. “Maurizio?”
“Yes. Also deployed to Libya and Sudan.”
“You also list military free fall and sniper operations among your qualifications.”
Pat grilled him on technical and tactical data for a few more minutes before looking across the room at the CEO of Samruk International. He sat behind a desk with a mug of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. He nodded his head.
“Arctic, mountain, or winter warfare training?”
“High-angle sniper courses and mountain warfare courses my unit did with the French.”
“Welcome to the team,” Pat said, shaking Maurizio's hand. “You're on probation for three months, meaning your contract can be cancelled at any time if you fail to perform.”
“I won't,” the Italian soldier said, clearly happy with their decision.
The next recruit strode in as the Italian departed, and stood in front of the desk.
“Name?” Pat asked.
“Jacob.”
The former soldier had the physique of a bull, but his muscle mass was the type built through long, hard endurance exercise and training. His hair was salt and pepper and his hands the size of catchers’ mitts.
“Former unit?”
“Jaeger Corps.”
“Danish special operations,” Aghassi commented. “Were you on Operation Anaconda?”
“Ja, calling in airstrikes for U.S. forces.”
“I appreciate that.”
“You were there too?” the big Dane turned to look at the former Army intelligence operative.
“I don't remember,” Aghassi replied with a smile.
“Six rotations to Afghanistan,” Pat said interrupting Aghassi's stroll down memory lane. “It says here you did clandestine intelligence work out of the Danish embassy in what country exactly?
The questions came hard and fast.
“We are specifically interested in your Arctic warfare training,” Aghassi announced toward the end of the interview.
“We did plenty,” Jacob said. “Cross-training in Greenland with Danish forces and other exercises in Switzerland, Sweden, and Norway.”
Pat probed for another few minutes until the CEO waved him away. Another new mercenary to add to the company rolls.
The next recruit walked in wearing a North Face jacket and Danner mountain boots.
“Nate,” Pat began. “Served in Force Recon until you guys got absorbed into MARSOC, huh? How did that go?”
“It was a total nut roll,” Nate answered. “But we eventually got our shit straightened out.”
“Did you go through Derna Bridge?”
“Later, yeah.”
“And MTSC?”
“Yeah, to learn the spooky shit.”
“How many deployments?”
“Nine, including the Indonesia deal.”
“What about Arctic warfare training?”
“I did some of the mountain warfare and cold-weather training at the Mountain Warfare Training Center in California.”
The Samruk boss took a sip of his coffee and nodded before stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray.
“Next!” Rochenoire yelled.
In walked another towering European.
“You served with Norway's FSK?”
“Yeah,” the Norwegian guffed.
“Dag, is it? It says here you worked in an intelligence cell for your unit for several years. Tell me about that.”
Pat grilled him before asking about his Arctic warfare experience.
Dag laughed. “We get plenty of that. A third of our country is inside the Arctic Circle.”
The CEO nodded and Dag was sent out to sign his contract with the others.
“Bring in the next—” Chuck’s words were cut off as the next recruit floated into the room. He had shed his cold-weather gear once inside, opting for something more comfortable. He wore capri pants and Vibram FiveFingers so that his little toes could stretch out. His shirt had some ironic pop-culture reference on it that the other men were too old to even understand.
“Please tell me you are not American,” Pat pleaded.
“Whah-ut? Of course I am,” the new guy replied.
“Jesus. Throw me a bone and tell me you were one of those West Coast SEALs or something.”
Rocheniore's eyes narrowed.
“I was Special Forces, man.”
Pat rested his face in his palm.
“Why are you guys so aggro?”
The boss slammed his coffee mug down on his desk.
“Get the fuck out of my office.”
* * *
Washington D.C.
Third time.
Third time.
One more time.
Harold wrung his hands as a smile crossed his face. His eyes lit up, stars dancing around in them as he looked at the white building behind the black iron fence. The path was clear and nothing would stop him this time. Not like the last two attempts. This time he was going all the way.
Jump!
Harold sprang into action, launching himself at the fence. Fill
ed with excitement, he bounded over the fence with little difficulty and hit the immaculately manicured green grass on the other side.
Success!
On the last two tries he was stopped on the lawn, brought down and tackled to the ground by the bad men. But not this time. This time he was going all the way, all the way to the big white house where the important man lived.
His legs pumped, propelling him across the open lawn like a gazelle. He hadn't been this excited in a long time. All the lawyers and all the judges scolding him like a child, calling him crazy, saying mean things about him. This time he would prove them all wrong.
And he did.
Harold sprinted across the lawn like an Olympic athlete. He had even surprised himself with his speed, struggling to slow down before he plowed right into the side of the white house. His hand wrapped around the brass door knob. He twisted and the door opened.
Finally!
Harold stepped inside. This was the farthest he had ever made it. Now he just had to go and find the important man. Harold had big ideas about economics and social issues to share with him. This was about the future of America! Looking around, he found himself inside an empty room filled with chairs. It looked like it might have been set up for press conferences, with a big podium standing on a stage at the end of the room.
But where was he?
Harold walked out into the hall. Pictures and paintings hung on the white walls. Fresh flowers leaned out of a glass vase sitting on an oak table.
Boring!
Harold went down the hall, opening doors, finding little of interest until he stepped into what looked like a living room. Overstuffed leather chairs were arranged around a table. More paintings hung on the walls. This was where the important man did important things.
A staircase!
Harold smiled. The important man must be upstairs. He walked toward the stairs, his hand caressing the wooden railing as the sole of his shoe landed on the first step. That was when the doors burst open and the bad men in black suits rushed him.
Not again!
Harold screamed as the bad men slammed him to the floor.
* * *
“Hey,” Pat said as he stood in the doorway, “what do you think of the new guys?”
“They're good,” Deckard said. “Except for that one guy.”
“We need all the help we can get with this Arctic warfare business. This is a different ballgame than we're used to.”
“I think we ran a pretty good winter warfare course for our guys,” Deckard added. “But two weeks isn't enough to understand how to fight in this kind of terrain. The cold and the long distances involved add up to serious issues when it comes to maneuverability.” Deckard finished his coffee and looked inside his mug as he set it down.
“You want the boys to brew some more coffee?” Pat asked.
“Good idea.”
“How do you like it?”
“The way I like my women.”
“Black and strong?” Pat joked.
“Ground up and in the freezer.”
“Holy shit,” Pat laughed. “It's good to hear you joking again. You've been in the dumps for weeks.”
“Fuck you talking about?”
“Come on man, it's obvious to everyone that something is bothering you.”
“Shit,” Deckard trailed off. “I guess I've been wondering what the hell I've been doing here.”
“This oil security contract?”
“No, the whole thing. Our entire careers.”
“I know that last one was rough,” Pat said, making a statement rather than asking a question.
“If even our own guys are sinking to these depths, then yeah, it makes you wonder what the hell all of this is for,” Deckard said, referring to his last mission.
Deckard had gotten on the trail of a very dangerous group of former SEAL Team Six operators known as Liquid Sky. They were cold-blooded killers. Samruk International put them out of business once and for all in the killing fields of Syria six months before. Deckard had recovered from that mission—physically at least.
“You know just as well as I do that those guys were outliers,” Pat warned. “Crazies who should have been put out to pasture a long time ago. That's not who we are.”
“Then who are we, Pat? We're the guys who spent the last fifteen years landing helicopters on rooftops and shooting dirt farmers in the face, as if that’s even that difficult. What the fuck for? It hasn't gotten us anywhere. We haven't made any progress and there is no victory.”
“That's bullshit, Deckard, especially in this company. We've gone toe to toe with some evil motherfuckers and walked away from it. Even our own kind when they stepped out of line. I know you didn't expect a ticker tape parade.”
“Of course not, but….” Deckard trailed off.
“You of all people should know better, Deckard. With Samruk International, we took no shit. We got right down in the mud with the nastiest people out there and gave them the business. Stop this self-loathing bullshit. You're not a pussy, so don't act like one.”
“I'm not throwing in the towel, Pat, it's just that...”
“What?”
“I just don't know.”
* * *
Highway 70, Missouri
Jake Reynolds leaned back in his seat, thinking that it was going to be a long night. These types of trips didn't happen too often, but they were the entire purpose for which the 25-year-old former Ranger had been employed. Another nine contractors sat with him in the back of the truck's cargo compartment. They had served in various special operations units. A few of them were still in 19th or 20th Group, the Special Forces National Guard components.
Highway 70 was long and lonely at three in the morning, which was exactly why the convoy was traveling on it. Five blacked-out SUVs surrounded a tractor trailer truck that cruised along just over the speed limit. The Department of Energy vehicles only traveled in the dead of night when transporting highly sensitive cargo. Just behind the convoy, and several hundred feet up in the air, a Little Bird helicopter provided overwatch.
The contractors were locked in the back of the truck with the cargo; the final line of defense. They wore OD green flight suits, body armor, and had HK416 rifles slung around their necks. The reality of their job was that it was boring as hell. For the most part, they spent their days qualifying out on the range until getting the occasional long-distance transport job. Despite the mundane nature of the work, the cargo was so sensitive that the U.S. government hired the best to ensure its safety.
The highway they were on cut straight through the state of Missouri as they drove from one secure DOE facility to the next. The ex-Ranger chugged some more water and sat patiently. It was during times like this he missed the excitement of rolling out on midnight raids with 2nd Ranger Battalion.
There was no way he could have known that tonight would be hairiest mission of his career.
Jake was rocked back in his seat as the entire vehicle shook, his rifle swinging up and smacking him in the face, opening a ragged cut above his eyebrow.
Outside, the entire highway split into pieces and rose up into the air. The two SUVs in the lead floated into the night like Matchbox cars, turning sideways and then upside down before gravity could inevitably bring them back down to the ground. The tractor trailer driver slammed on the brakes, then jerked the wheel in a desperate attempt to prevent the truck from jackknifing.
Several more improvised explosive devices were detonated, taking out two more SUVs. The remaining escort vehicle slid to a stop as the first two, which had been propelled into the air, crashed back down in a rain of debris. The doors on the surviving SUV were flung open, and more contractors in OD flight suits jumped out just as a linear ambush along the side of the road initiated with fully automatic fire.
The pilot of the Little Bird pulled hard on the stick, bringing the agile little helicopter back around on the convoy. The two contractors riding on the external pods attached to the side of t
he Little Bird spotted the muzzle flashes coming from the treeline, but they could not identify any white-hot thermal signatures on their forward-looking infrared systems.
The pilot clicked his mic to transmit over their secure communications net.
“Prairie Fire! I say again, Prairie Fire!”
The distress code was the final word the pilot was able to get out before a SA-7 surface-to-air missile slammed into the side of the helicopter. The Little Bird was knocked out of the air and crashed into the forest on the opposite side of the highway in a brilliant ball of red and yellow fire.
In the back of the tractor trailer, Jake wiped at his forehead and tried to blink blood out of his eyes. As he reached down and undid his seat belt, he realized that he couldn't hear anything. His ears were ringing, but he wasn't sure why.
The other contractors were coughing and struggling with their seat belts. A few of them fell out of their seats as they tried to stand. Jake struggled to his feet and jacked a round into the chamber of his HK rifle.
Over the ringing in his ears, he could now make out the staccato bursts of gunfire from outside. Rounds were thudding into the side of the truck. Thankfully, the armored cargo compartment kept them safe, at least for the time being.
Their team leader, a retired sergeant major, was already barking orders as the other contractors racked rounds into the chambers of their rifles. He was pointing to the door at the end of the compartment.
Even though he couldn't hear him, the message was clear to Jake.
They were the last line of defense.
* * *
Deckard set down his second cup of coffee and opened a laptop computer. The reality of running a private military company was that there was a lot of boring logistics planning to be done. Samruk International had expended a lot of human and financial capital lately. He had been reduced to selling off two of the company's mammoth An-125 cargo jets. Now they only had the one An-125 and two C-27Js left in their aviation wing. At least the C-27s had been bought dirt cheap. The U.S. Air Force decided they didn't want them anymore after wasting millions of taxpayer dollars to build the aircraft.
