by Jack Murphy
“Get me an estimate on the heading. If we can get into the general vicinity by daybreak, we might be able to follow their wake.”
“So you’re in?”
“They burned our compound to the ground. I would like to know who it is that wants me dead.”
“Keep me up to date.”
“I will,” Deckard said. “And Eliot?”
“Yeah?”
“I want paper.”
“You’ll have a contract sent to you within the hour stating that if Xyphon is granted oil rights to Pechora, you will receive three percent of our net profit.”
“We’ll see,” Deckard said, hanging up.
Kurt, Chuck, Frank, Pat, and Otter stood looking at him.
“What you are waiting for? Turn this ship around and make way for the Orion platform.”
“You got it, boss,” Otter said as he began working the helm.
“Here we go again,” Frank said.
“You think I made the wrong call?”
“No,” Pat interrupted. “Someone just declared war on both Russia and America. They are seconds away from starting World War Three, and whoever they are, they are out there,” Pat pointed out into the darkness.
“Besides,” Chuck said, “a brother has to eat.”
* * *
Tampa, Florida
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Joshua said, the exasperation dripping in his voice.
“They are the only ones we’ve got up there,” Gary stated.
“You keep using that word—we—but he isn't really one of ours,” Joshua countered.
“He’s a freelancer,” Craig chimed in with nothing of any relevance. “A loose cannon.”
“I acknowledge that there are aspects that make this...problematic,” Gary said. “But beggars can't be choosers. For decades we neglected our capabilities in the Arctic. The Coast Guard only has three icebreaker ships. One is in the process of being decommissioned and the other two are in dry docks being overhauled to extend their lifespan a few years.”
“This guy is a fucking mercenary for Christ’s sake,” Craig said. “You can't trust him.”
“We talked to an officer Grant with Central Intelligence,” Gary said. “He said they had a fairly good working relationship for a time.”
In the corner of the room, Will’s chair screeched across the white linoleum floor as he stood up. He had been huddled over a JWICS computer terminal for hours. The Joint Worldwide Intelligence Communications System was how some of America’s most classified information was shared within the intelligence community.
“I like him,” Will announced.
“Takes one to know one, huh, Will?” Craig said sarcastically. “Disavowed and disgraced.”
“The president just took us to DEFCON 2 in case you haven't been keeping score,” Will said. “That's the problem with bureaucrats, you are afraid to get your hands dirty. Well, today, we are going to do just that.”
“Oh my god,” Joshua said. “We’re all going to jail.”
“You don't have to trust him,” Will said. “You don't even have to like him, but this is the guy who can get the job done, and there isn’t a single other person we can call on.”
“You understand your colleague’s concerns though,” Gary added. “He brings substantial baggage.”
“Read his file,” Will said. “Special operations, Ground Branch, Omega. This guy is one of ours. If the ring-knockers hadn’t pissed him off he would probably still be one of ours. Instead, he took his show on the road, and by all accounts this guy has more kills than cancer.”
“That's what we’re afraid of,” Gary said as he leaned back in his swivel chair.
“Don't concern yourself. It's the Arctic; it isn’t like there is much up there for him to destroy, anyway.”
Craig rubbed his forehead.
“This is illegal as fuck,” Joshua said in a last-ditch effort.
“It doesn't have to be.”
“How?” Gary asked.
“Letters of marque.”
“What the hell is that?”
Will tapped a cigarette out of his pack and popped it between his lips.
“You can’t smoke here,” Craig whined.
“Go fuck yourself,” Will said as he lit it up. “So here is the deal: Back in the days of Sir Francis Drake and Captain Kidd, letters of marque were issued by the king to commission and authorize privateers to attack enemy vessels. They were government-sanctioned pirates.”
“I hate to break it to you, but we had this little incident in 1776, and ever since we haven’t had a king,” Gary said, swatting at cigarette smoke.
“But there is a historical precedent. President Madison authorized letters of marque during the Second Barbary War off the coast of Libya.”
“That has got to be the most obscure legal justification I’ve ever heard,” Craig said.
“Are you kidding me?” Will asked as he exhaled another cloud of smoke. “We break the law all the time in JSOC, we just do it legally by exploiting loopholes and bypassing the intent of the law. If anything, this is on far more solid legal ground. Letters of marque are constitutional.”
“Who has the authorization to grant a letter of marque?” Gary asked.
Will arched his eyebrows.
“Shit.”
“Run it up the flagpole,” Will said, turning back to his terminal. “A lot has changed tonight. They will sign it.”
The men sitting around the table let out a collective sigh. Will just chuckled as he scrolled through files on JWICS.
* * *
At daybreak, Otter spotted clouds of black smoke billowing in the distance. It was becoming an all-too-familiar sight. After making contact with Xyphon’s oil platform, they determined a rough heading that took them straight to Kotelny Island.
Deckard stood next to Otter on the bridge, kitted up except for his heavy snow-camo parka that he held in one hand. Xyphon and the Russian government had been in touch via a cut out that Deckard probably didn’t even want to know about. The Russian military lost communications with their base on the island during the night. When aircraft were scrambled, one of the MIG fighter jets was shot down. Now they were requesting that Samruk scope the situation out prior to Russian forces making an amphibious landing later that day.
All the boys were jocked up down below. They were going to execute a forced entry to the island, eliminate any enemies they encountered, attempt to rescue any remaining Russian soldiers, and report back to Xyphon with their status. If the base had been compromised, the enemy might attempt to utilize the airstrip that the Russian military had recently upgraded. Kotelny was a strategic base during the Soviet era, but had been shut down at the end of the Cold War. It was only with the opening of Arctic transit lines that the Russians renewed their focus on the region, seeking to assert their sovereignty and fossil fuel rights.
As the Carrickfergus neared the island, they could see burning vehicles. They were Russian GAZ 3351s, treaded personnel carriers made specifically for traveling across the Arctic’s snow and ice.
“Somebody pushed their shit in all right,” Otter said, taking a sip of spiked coffee as if it were just another day at the office.
Deckard stepped out of the bridge and climbed down a ladder onto the barge deck. His men stood assembled and waiting. This time they were not even going to dick around with the trucks. Bringing them had been a huge mistake in the first place, one he chalked up to his lack of experience in the Arctic. These weren’t counterterrorism raids in Baghdad, and he should have adapted to his environment better.
The Carrickfergus cracked through the sheets of ice as they closed in on the island. The Samruk mercenaries almost looked robotic in their Arctic gear. In addition to their snow camouflage and heavy parkas, they each wore tinted SnoCross goggles, which also included a nose protector. Without them, they would suffer from both frostbite and snow blindness. Under that, they each wore a No-Fog breath deflector that would help keep them warm, but more
importantly, would prevent their goggles from fogging up. That was one of those little details that, if overlooked, could get you killed in a firefight.
“Listen up!” Deckard yelled as he strode into the middle of the group. “First Platoon, you have the airfield. Second Platoon, you have the barracks a few kilometers east. Afterwards, we will consolidate and sweep up anything else we missed.”
The orders were brief to say the least, but he had faith in his platoon sergeants. They were just making this shit up on the fly, anyway.
As the Carrickfergus approached the icy coast, the ramp lowered and the mercenaries flowed off the ship, already wearing their assault snowshoes. Fedorchenko took his platoon toward the airfield while Shatayeva took his platoon to the barracks. Deckard shadowed Fedorchenko while Sergeant Major Korgan trailed after Shatayeva, the senior men present to help provide command and control.
The only thing the mercenaries heard was the whistle of wind in their ears and the crunch of snow under their boots. The columns of black smoke rising into the dreary gray sky warned them that, despite the alien desolation and emptiness of the Arctic, something was very wrong on Kotelny Island.
“We have bodies,” Korgan reported over the command net. “Someone tore them to ribbons. Looks like large-caliber rounds were used.”
“I'm seeing them,” Deckard replied as he walked past the remains of a Russian soldier. He had been wearing a heavy jacket with a fur-lined hood. His entire body was scorched black up to his neck and was nearly cut in half at his midsection.
Fedorchenko’s men moved out in a wedge-shaped formation, spreading out and keeping a good distance between each mercenary so they couldn't be wiped out by a single grenade, IED, or burst of machine gun fire. Deckard trailed along behind them, his head swiveling back and forth but not seeing any enemy threats. After a few more minutes of treading through the snow, Fedorchenko ordered his men on line with each other to conduct a sweep of the airfield.
Deckard walked off to the side and crouched down next to a pile of expended shell casings. Picking up one of the shells with a gloved hand, Deckard recognized it as a 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun cartridge casing. Dropping the brass shell, Deckard clicked his radio. “Seven, this is six. How are the barracks looking?” he asked Korgan.
“Mostly empty, but some of the compartments have been completely ripped apart by heavy machine gun fire, over.”
“12.7mm?”
“Maybe, but I don't see any firing positions.”
Deckard walked around the pile of expended brass. In the snow, it was easy to find and follow spoor. Taking the hint from Korgan, he immediately saw tank treads next to the pile of brass. They seemed to lead off in another direction.
Tanks? But where did they go?
“Barracks secured,” Korgan reported.
“Airfield has been swept as well,” Fedorchenko radioed in. “No sign of the enemy, over.”
Deckard knew that something was seriously wrong. Someone just wasted a company’s worth of Russian soldiers with tanks and machine guns. They didn't just disappear.
Deckard looked down the slope on the opposite end of the airfield, noticing that the Russian motor pool looked untouched, unlike the barracks and other vehicles scattered around the island. Reaching into his chest rig, he pulled out a small three-power monocular. Lifting up his snow goggles, he cupped his hand around the monocular and took a closer look at the garages a few hundred meters away.
The motor pool looked dead; clouds of snow had been blown around the parking area. Then the doors on the garage suddenly began to open. Deckard squinted, trying to get a better view of what was inside. Then he saw it.
Deckard hit the transmit button on his radio.
“We’ve got a problem.”
Chapter 5
“To your three o’clock!” Deckard shouted over the assault net as he ran, but it was already too late.
Five treaded vehicles burst from behind the slope and rolled onto the airfield, their turrets scanning in all directions for targets. Then the slaughter began. Machine guns mounted on the tanks opened fire, yellow flashes bursting from the muzzles as anti-aircraft rounds began tearing into Fedorchenko's platoon.
Deckard hit the ground, hoping to avoid being detected by the tanks. He was out in the open in the middle of the airfield, just like Fedorchenko’s men. He watched helplessly as a half dozen of his men burst into pieces as they tried to run, turning the snow red. The gray-colored tanks rolled across the airfield. The rotating turrets on top had 12.7mm DShK machine guns loaded into their cradles. Deckard noted two rectangular radar dishes sticking from the sides of the turrets like ears. There was also a sensor suite on each gun platform for thermals. Two of the tanks locked on to Samruk's second platoon over at the barracks and took off on a new trajectory.
Fedorchenko’s men had beaten an embarrassing and chaotic retreat, desperate to find some low ground to take cover in. Their numbers had been thinned out as they crossed the airfield. They were still in danger of being overrun by the armored vehicles, as the tanks were not about to be slowed down by Kalashnikov fire.
Deckard panted, his body already covered in sweat from the brief run. The great irony of the Arctic was overheating inside all of your cold-weather gear. Fedorchenko’s men were staring down three tanks, and no matter how badass an infantryman you were, enemy armor could steamroll right over you in the blink of an eye, reducing you to a pink, gooey paste.
That was when Deckard had a dumb idea.
He might be able to peel one of the tanks away from Fedorchenko’s platoon so they would face two instead of three, maybe even giving them a fighting chance. Getting to his feet, Deckard unloaded on the closest tank, about a hundred meters away, with his AK-103. His rounds sparked off the side of the tank, drawing its attention. The treads on one side of the tank reversed while the other continued forward, making a sharp right turn toward Deckard as the gun turret sought him out.
As the tank swerved toward him, Deckard sprinted, but not in the opposite direction. He ran straight toward it.
Crazy as it sounded, Deckard knew that trying to outrun the tank was pure suicide across open terrain. His only chance was to charge it, knowing that the machine gun had limits to its elevation angle. His hood flew off his head as he ran directly at the tank, sweat running down his neck. Thick gray smoke suddenly burst all around Fedorchenko’s position as his men deployed thermal smoke grenades. The tank was now facing Deckard, and he was staring right down the barrel of the Russian anti-aircraft gun.
Deckard dived forward as the DShK opened fire.
* * *
The Russian robotic tank swung toward the two new Samruk International recruits. It was only their second mission with the company and they were already being run to ground by robots with machine guns.
Maurizio and Jacob were quickly separated from the rest of their platoon as twin tanks suddenly assaulted the barracks and opened fire on the Samruk International mercenaries. So much for following the clues and unraveling the mystery of what happened to the base on Kotelny Island. The answer had became immediately clear to them.
The Italian and Danish mercs did what all the others had done, the only thing they could do: run and try to find cover. One of the tanks homed in on them, firing bursts that chewed through the snow next to them. By zigzagging a few times they had managed to avoid being cut down in the open snow drifts. The computer targeting programming the tank used clearly had a hard time leading targets, but they both knew they only had seconds before the machine gun fire walked into them.
“This way,” Jacob said, grabbing Maurizio’s sleeve. They cut a hard left and descended down a snow bank. Both mercenaries tripped in the knee-deep snow and rolled down the embankment. The men flopped through the snow, the tank quickly bearing down on them.
Maurizio lay on his back at the bottom, looking up at the ridge as the automated tank rolled over the edge. The turret swung toward them. The former Italian counterterrorist operator rolled the st
ock of his Kalashnikov into his shoulder, ready to go down in a blaze of glory. Both mercenaries fired ineffectively at the vehicle.
The turret tried to lock onto its targets as the tank platform it was attached to began to slide in the snow. The DShK opened fire, 12.7mm rounds spraying right in front of the mercenaries. Then the tank lurched again and began sliding down the embankment. The European mercenaries continued to fire, cycling through their 30-round magazines. Their bullets smacked into the tank armor, the turret, and the machine gun.
Now the robotic tank was sliding down on top of them. Maurizio struggled to his feet. Grabbing Jacob with both hands, he pulled him out of the way as the tank rolled over in the snow. It flopped down just a few feet away, crushing the turret under the tank platform. The treads spun, but with the vehicle flipped upside down. It was going nowhere fast.
The Dane and the Italian looked at each other with wide eyes.
“Che palle,” Maurizio whispered.
What a ball-breaker.
* * *
Bullets ripped just inches above Deckard and slammed into the snow-covered runway, stitching a burst across the tarmac that kicked up ice and debris. Deckard slid forward on his forearms, the toes of his boots dragging as he attempted to gain purchase on the ice. He got halfway up, stumbled forward, fell, and the tank was on top of him. The mercenary lay as flat as possible, tightly gripping his Kalashnikov.
His ears rang as the tank rumbled over him, the clanking treads passing on either side.
Seeing daylight again as the tank passed, Deckard sprang to his feet, ran a few more paces to catch up with the tank as it searched for new targets, and jumped.
His hand seized a thick rubber cable looping down from an antenna on the back of the tank. With a sudden jerk, Deckard was lifted off his feet and dragged behind the tank. With the AK slung over his shoulder, Deckard reached out and grabbed the cable with both hands. His gloves had a good grip, but his hands still slipped around inside them. Knowing he was all out of options, Deckard ignored the pain in his shoulders, gripped the cable tighter, and climbed hand over hand.
