by Jack Murphy
The team split up and flew commercial air into Cairo with their false passports. Thankfully, their covers were backstopped. They could provide some official looking NGO paperwork and phone numbers that had someone on the other end sitting on a phone and ready to pick up. Deckard wondered if it wasn't Sarah, the girl he met in Washington D.C. prior to joining up with Liquid Sky, who was standing by to back up their cover. They got asked a few questions in customs, but pretty much breezed through.
Bill hit up a Western Union booth and came back with wads of cash that he immediately divided up between the team. It was their op fund, but also money to escape and evade in case they got compromised. They rented two vehicles and began driving southeast to the port of El-Sokhna. Bill was on the phone pretty much the entire trip through the desert, trying to get a handle on the mission parameters and logistics. Ramon was making calls as well.
It was dark by the time they arrived on the coast of the Red Sea. Bill had both of their vehicles pulled off to the side of the road for some bare bones mission planning before they went in to secure the weapons for their mission.
“I contacted some people who work the maritime security circuit to get the lowdown on this place,” Bill told his team. “They have an armory at the port where Egyptian authorities secure the weapons of maritime security contractors.”
Deckard knew some guys in that line of work as well, mostly former military. Armed security on civilian vessels was still kind of a mess, and existed in a constant legal gray area. Technically, security guards in international waters could be armed to defend against piracy, but many of the countries where the ships docked were places where such weapons were illegal.
As commercial ships loaded with oil or connex containers traveled through the Suez Canal and headed south, they faced the presence of pirates off the coast of Somalia. The pirates were known to board the commercial ships and ransom back the crew and the ship for big payout from the insurance companies in London. Some even believed that the pirates had an insider racket going with the insurance companies, as the pirates had intel on where ships would be and when with just a little too much accuracy at times. The pirates also knew exactly what the most amount of money was that they could extort from the insurance companies, making some wonder if there were not some kind of kickbacks involved.
The presence of armed security guards on the ships almost always scared the pirates off. The pirates had a system down; it was a business model for them and they had no desire to have a shootout with armed security. They would go find a less protected ship to capture. When they did, that was when Deckard's friends in SEAL Team Six would raid the ships, kill the pirates, and free the crew. In fact, that was what Dusty and Flakjacket were doing right then several hundred miles to the south.
But when the armed security guards came into port with their ships, they had to have a deal with the local government, otherwise their guns would have to be thrown off the side of the ship and into the ocean while still in international waters. In Egypt an agreement had eventually been worked out that the Egyptian police would take control of the weapons in port and hold them in a secure facility until the ship was heading back out to sea.
The arrangement worked pretty well, other than the odd security contractor getting detained by crooked policemen and shaken down for bribe money.
Bill blasted through how the armory at port worked with the maritime security contractors in a couple seconds before detailing the information he had just gotten from some contractors who recently passed through the port. They knew where the armory was, and they knew that there were weapons there because several ships were at port having cargo loaded and waiting for their respective security teams to show up.
The seven of them would rush in, overwhelm the two Egyptian policemen standing guard, and bust open the armory. There would be very little finesse involved in this approach. The team huddle broke, and they drove for the port.
The Egyptian police officer looked over his desk with a cigarette burning between his fingers as the door opened and then slammed shut. He stood up as the newcomer approached him and looked through the metal grate that separated the armory and office from the waiting area. The guard wore a black police uniform and perhaps the most half-assed beret in history, bad enough to make a French painter's beret look professional by comparison.
“Hey, how goes it?” the Westerner asked. He had a long, bushy beard like many of the American contractors that passed through the port. The policemen often thought that it was funny that they seemed to mimic the Wahhabi beards of Islamic extremists. Just then, he noticed that another man had also entered the building, a small, Filipino-looking guy. It wasn't uncommon for maritime security teams to be composed of one British or American leader who supervised a team of Filipinos.
“We're here to pick up our guns,” the bearded one said.
The policemen looked down at his clipboard.
“I don't see any scheduled-” he began to say in broken English.
The bearded guy leaned closer to the grate.
“I'm sorry, I can't hear you?”
The Egyptian leaned closer.
“I do not have any-”
Reaching through the shoebox-sized opening in the grate, the American grabbed the policemen by the neck in an iron grip and slammed him forward into the metal crosshatch. He screamed something in Arabic as his black beret fell to the floor.
The Filipino sprung forward, reached through the grate and wiggled his arm down to the holster at the policeman's side. Tearing the Beretta out of the holster, the Filipino racked the slide just as the second policemen came running from the other room where he had been watching television news footage of the protests in the Tahrir Square in Cairo.
Ramon fired a single shot through the grate. The second policemen's hands went to his neck as blood leaked from between his fingers. He staggered back towards the break room, then collapsed.
“Where are the keys?” Paul demanded. “Where are your keys?”
The guard was shaking as he reached into his pocket and handed them to the American.
Paul tossed the key ring to Ramon. The former Special Forces soldier first opened the front door and waved the rest of the team in before going and unlocking the door that led to the offices and armory. The other five Liquid Sky members walked in while Ramon secured the policeman.
Deckard looked down at the dead policeman who had been shot in the neck. Paul and Ramon went in unarmed. He had no idea they were going to start killing cops who were just doing their jobs. Deckard knew he had to take control of the situation before it spun further out of control.
He grabbed the Beretta 9mm pistol from the holster of the dead policeman and strode across the room to secure the other cop from Ramon.
“Go get the armory open,” he told Ramon. “I'll take care of this fucker out back.”
“Have at it,” Ramon said with a shrug, letting the prisoner go.
With the policeman still shaking, Deckard man-handled him out the front door and along the side of the building until they were behind a connex container.
“Please, please, please,” the policemen begged. He was mumbling and could barely get the words out.
Deckard bent down and picked up a large rock. Kicking the policemen down on his knees, he slammed the rock over the back of the cop's head, knocking him out cold. Chambering a round in the Beretta pistol, Deckard leaned in close and fired a single shot.
He blew off the top half of the cop's left ear. If any of the Liquid Sky members walked by, they needed to see some blood near the body or they would investigate further. The fleshy part of the ear exploded and sprayed blood into the gravel next to him. There was a pretty good drip going from where the ear had been severed, but nothing that would cause him to bleed out and die.
The cop would wake up in a world of shit, but at least he would wake up.
Back inside, Deckard found that Liquid Sky had already opened the vault door and were inside the armory. The pai
nt-chipped weapons racks were pretty empty, most literally covered in dust. Maritime security companies were cutting every corner they could in order to turn a profit, so they were not going to find any Heckler and Koch 416 rifles in the armory, just cheap M4 knockoffs with iron sights. After a little digging around, Ramon did find what he was looking for.
There were a few American companies that did issue their security teams with the hardware needed to repel a determined attack. Ramon flipped open the latches on the case and cracked open the lid. Inside was a Barrett .50 caliber anti-material rifle with a 10-power scope and several loaded magazines.
“Gotcha,” the Filipino said with a smile.
Deckard found a Norinco AR-15 in the racks and claimed it for himself. He would have to fashion a sling for it using a backpack strap or something later on. It was bare bones, with a carrying handle and rear iron sight. No frills, that was the reality of military contracting for most folks. He slipped several loaded 5.56 magazines into his pockets. He would have to make it work.
On the way out, no one took a second glance at the policeman sprawled out in the gravel. Deckard was glad, for both their sakes that he didn't wake up while they were loading up the vehicles.
It was a long ride back to Cairo.
18
Bill turned around in the passenger seat to face Deckard as he terminated a call on his cell phone.
“I've got a geo on a dead drop you guys are going to need. One of the technical guys at the U.S. embassy stashed it a while back in case something like this came up.”
“Surprising amount of forethought on their part,” Deckard said.
“Yeah, no shit. Almost like they anticipated this situation, huh? Most of those guys couldn't find pussy in a Mexican whorehouse.”
Bill sent a text to Deckard's cell phone. They all carried encrypted cell phones that Ramon had set up for them back in Mauritius.
“That is the lat-long for the dead drop,” Bill told him. “Pick it up and I will get back to you with a grid to wherever the device is being stored. I don't have it yet, but the client should get it to me soon.”
“He better if he wants it back.”
“Just do your job and let me worry about that.”
It was four in the morning when they arrived back in Cairo. The streets were a cluttered maze of brown buildings covered with satellite dishes. The streets were relatively quiet with light traffic as it was early morning. Riots could still break out at any time. Egypt had descended into its own French Revolution where Generals replaced the President; then, the next revolution saw the Muslim Brotherhood take charge. Then, the military came back into power and Colonels replaced Generals. What happened in the next stage no one knew, which managed to scare everyone, including the West.
Ramon and Deckard were dropped off while the rest of the team drove off to begin their own recon. A mission like this would usually take weeks of planning, and Deckard was all too aware that they were simply flying by the seat of their pants. Liquid Sky was half-assing it because somebody's ass was on the line, that same ass unwilling to risk actual American soldiers to unfuck their problem because if they got compromised, it could make things even worse back in the U.S.
Ramon carried the black case as they found a building that looked to provide an overwatch position of their dead drop. Deckard had his AR-15 broken down and hidden under his shirt. Again, half assing it. At least the streets were pretty dead at this time of night. They walked a few blocks until they located a building with an external staircase that spiraled up seven stories to the top. The mercenaries had to hop a wall, but then were inside the apartment complex. Deckard snatched a bed sheet off a clothesline on their way.
Sweat was pouring off their bodies as they reached the rooftop. Both men went about assembling their weapons. Deckard's M4 was simple to snap together with take down pins as he attached the upper and lower receiver. Ramon extended the .50 cal rifle's barrel and slid the recoil spring into place. Then, he made sure the bolt and buffer spring were in place as he held the charging handle slightly back and attached the barrel to the butt stock and trigger mechanism, pinning it in place. They each loaded magazines.
“The sun is going to be up in an hour,” Ramon said to no one in particular.
“We should recover the dead drop before then.”
“I agree.”
“What is it?” Deckard asked.
“The dead drop? Specialized ammunition that we are going to need to penetrate the secure compound the device is being held in.”
“What, like API or Raufoss rounds?”
“No, not like that. Come on, let's get eyes on before sending you down there.”
Deckard spread the bed sheet over Ramon and the Barrett rifle once he got into position. It would give him some concealment in case low-flying aircraft flew by, which they would be as they monitored protests and riots.
“There it is,” the Filipino mercenary said as he looked through the Leupold scope. From their vantage point, they had a good view of the sprawling neighborhood below. Down the street was a concrete bridge that crossed over a shallow depression. “The dead drop is under that bridge.”
It looked like there were just a few feet of clearance under the bridge, enough room to scoot through if you hunched over.
“You can see that narrow opening between the ground and the bottom of the bridge,” Ramon said as he scanned. “That is your FRP for this cache according to the data Bill sent me.”
The FRP or final reference point was a fixed position which could easily be found by the person uncovering a cache. From there, he would have precise measurements to follow to locate the cache itself.
“Take a look,” Ramon said while pushing the Barrett over to Deckard so he could recon the site with the ten-power scope.
Deckard settled in behind the rifle.
“What the fuck?” he cursed.
“What is it?”
“The cache site is compromised.”
Through the scope, Deckard saw an Egyptian man wearing khaki pants and a brown button down shirt squeeze out from under the bridge. He walked up the embankment and onto the street. Deckard passed the rifle back to Ramon so that he could see for himself.
“Holy shit,” the Filipino said as he looked through the scope. “Another one just came out from under the bridge. It's like a fucking clown car down there. This one is zipping up his pants on the way out. I guess that was what was going on. He was squaring his buddy away with creme of some young guy.”
“What idiot placed this cache?”
“Too late now. Get your ass down there to that underground homo den and see if the cache is still there. It's up under the bridge, a small case resting on the lip of the fifth I-beam in from the entrance.”
“Looks like I'm drawing the short straw again.”
“Here,” Ramon said as he reached for something on his belt. “That AR is too big for confined spaces anyway. I smuggled this through the airport.”
Ramon handed him his karambit knife. It was curved like the claw on the hind leg of a velociraptor.
“Take care of business and get that package. The sooner you do, the sooner we can get the fuck out of here.”
Deckard left his AR-15 with Ramon and started back down the stairs to the streets below. He held the karambit close to his body with his pinky finger through the hole at the end of the blade's handle. Walking down the street, he shuffled down the embankment to the opening under the bridge. Looking over his shoulder, he knew Ramon would be watching from his crow's nest above, but Deckard would have no backup once he went inside.
Deckard could hear something shuffling around in the dark.
Holding the karambit in his fist, he stepped into the darkness.
Ramon lay in the prone, motionless, as he watched the scene unfold below. Observing through the sniper scope, he saw Deckard look back at him over his shoulder then turn and duck under the bridge. His partner was an odd cat, but Ramon had to admit that he was squared away and g
enerally fearless.
Scanning the surroundings for a few minutes, he hoped that Deckard made it fast. Dawn was already approaching.
“Uh oh,” Ramon said under his breath.
He spotted one of the men they saw exiting the cache site walking down the street, heading back towards the bridge. Ramon had no way to contact Deckard since he would not be able to get cell phone coverage under the bridge.
The Filipino mercenary smiled to himself.
It would be interesting to see how Deckard handled this.
Deckard squatted in the darkness, giving his eyes time to adjust. Something was definitely moving inside the urban cave.
“Who is there?”
It was a women's voice, asking him in Arabic.
“Who is that?”
She had also sensed that she was no longer alone. Deckard heard metal drag on metal as her feet kicked through the dust as she tried to move. Reaching into a pocket, Deckard turned on a small pen light. The white light cut through the darkness like a knife.
What he saw turned his stomach. A homeless woman wearing rags was chained to a piece of rebar sticking out of the dirt. He could only imagine why.
“How long have you been here,” he asked her in Arabic.
“How could I know? They chained me up down here. He charges men in the neighborhood for them to come down here and rape me.”
The American had seen some demented things in his travels. Unfortunately, he wasn't surprised in the least that such activities occurred, just surprised that he encountered it in the cache site. The woman's hair was a rat's nest, her clothes covered in grim. She was barefoot, kneeling in the dirt with the handcuffs securing her to the metal bar.
“I'm going to get you out of those handcuffs.”
They both froze as a third voice came from the entrance.
“Marhaban?”
Deckard flicked off his flashlight.
“That's him,” the woman whispered in the dark.
