Direct Action - 03

by Jack Murphy

  With the sites aligned on target, The Operator set his size 11.5 desert boot down on the foot peddle which acted as the trigger for the firing mechanism.

  The,n the night lit up with orange flame from the twin-barreled weapon. The 14.5mm rounds went downrange to devastating effect. Flesh was separated from bone as red ribbons shot into the air. Then, the bullets churned into the concrete surface of the arms depot and kicked up a thick gray dust.

  Spinning the traverse wheel, The Operator walked his gunfire into another technical on the other side of the bunker complex. Sparks blasted around the pickup like angry fireflies and in seconds it was reduced to scrap metal.

  “Let's go,” Bill said as he stood up.

  Deckard ran forward with a dozen of Yezza's fighters. Several of them began firing their AK-47's at absolutely nothing as they jogged towards the closest bunker. Deckard yelled at them in Arabic to hold their fire.

  “Kif! Kif, you assholes!”

  They took cover next to the heavy steel doors of the bunker just as The Operator abandoned the ZPU-2. He had burned through the entire box of ammunition. Reaching down, he recovered an FN FAL rifle from one of the militia men he had killed with his hands and feet before joining them at the bunker.

  A few pop shots still echoed throughout the arms depot. Someone shouted in Arabic.

  Bill looked back to The Operator.

  “Go take care of that while we secure the package.”

  “Roger that.”

  The Operator turned and ran into the night.

  “I like him,” Bill said with a smile.

  “Suffice to say that I have my reservations,” Deckard said dryly.

  “Don't worry. He'll be dead after a mission or two and we'll just hire someone new.”

  By now, Yezza had come waddling over the ridge and made his way towards them.

  “What did I tell you!” Yezza shouted to Bill. “Did my fighters not fight bravely in the re-capturing of my bunkers?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Bill confirmed. “Every one of them is a hero.”

  This made Yezza smile.

  “Now do me a favor and show me which bunker has our stuff in it.”

  “Come with me,” Yezza said. He was panting, out of breath from his arduous journey from their trucks.

  The Libyan arms dealer led them across the way to another bunker. Off in the distance, they heard Kalashnikov fire. The heavier 7.62x51 FN FAL rounds answered back. As they approached the bunker, Deckard thought he heard the rapid fire of a pistol, probably God's gun, the 1911 doing its thing.

  The sliding door was secured with nothing more than a bicycle chain and a padlock. Bill shot the lock off and Yezza ordered his men to slide open the steel door. With no small degree of bitching and moaning about it, the Libyans man handled the bunker door open.

  Bill clicked on a Surefire flashlight he had brought along and used the light to cut through the darkness inside. There were metal racks loaded with conventional dumb bombs that could be dropped from airplanes. There were wooden crates, some empty, some full. As they walked inside, Deckard could also see 130mm artillery rounds stacked against one wall.

  Their footsteps made hallow echoes inside the bunker. Everything was covered in dust. Deckard used his own pen light to find his way.

  “Bingo,” Bill said from deeper in the bunker. “Come over here.”

  Deckard joined Bill to see what he was looking at.

  “Know what that is?”

  From the tail fins and markings Deckard made a determination.

  “Russian dumb bombs,” he said as he looked over the long green bombs in the metal rack. “The mounting lugs on the sides mean they are designed to be dropped from an aircraft.”

  “And the payload.”

  Deckard noted the yellow band around each of the bombs in the rack.

  “I'm not sure.”

  “Inside is a small tube that acts as a burster when the nose fuse is touched off on impact. Packed around the burster are a series of larger tubes which can hold up thirty liters.”

  “Thirty liters of what?” Deckard asked, fearing he already knew the answer.

  “Each one of these puppies is a giant mustard dispenser, and not the kind you find at a hot dog stand.”

  Deckard clenched his teeth. It was nasty stuff. When deployed against humans, the gas acted as a blister agent against any exposed skin and in the lungs when inhaled. The first and second degree burns the gas caused could take up to a week to kill those who were exposed. The chemical warfare agent had killed thousands of troops during the first world war.

  Yezza barged in between them, looking at the bombs that Bill had found.

  “This is what you are looking for my friend?”

  “It sure is,” Bill said, clapping Yezza on the shoulder. “Have your boys load two up on the trucks. You can sell the rest to the CIA for destruction.”

  “And a big fat security contract.”

  “And a big fat security contract,” Bill confirmed. “C'mon Deckard. Let's go flip the off switch on our pal outside before he fights all the way to Tehran.”

  “Good idea.”

  Bill brushed passed them and walked toward the exit.

  “Gotta get back to the home station so I can get comms with higher and find out the rest of the game plan.”

  Deckard followed behind him, his rifle held by the pistol grip at his side.

  “Then what?”

  “We got a war waiting for us in Syria, that's what.”

  29

  The two chemical weapons, along with a cache of guns went on a plane from Benghazi, Libya to Antakya, Turkey while Bill, Deckard, and The Operator got on another plane back to Mauritius. Bill needed to get his high-side access on the Pirate Net in his office before continuing on to whatever their final objective was in Syria.

  Once plugged into his secure commo system, Bill got the rest of the Operations Order from their client and called a team pow wow in his bungalow. Nadeesha had been playing with Deckard in the shower when they got the call. Getting dressed, they walked over to Bill's place in intervals. Nadi still didn't want anyone to know even though Deckard was pretty sure that everyone noticed when she looked at him with those bedroom eyes.

  Once they had gathered around, Bill gave them the low down. Rick sat on the couch, hung over from the party the previous night. Nadeesha sat on a chair in the corner of the room with her back to the wall. Paul sat down on a stool next to the billiard table next to Ramon. The Operator stood towards the back with his arms crossed.

  “We will link up with Yezza's people in Turkey and take possession of the device. Because of the amount of road blocks and choke points that both the rebels and the Syrian military have established, we are going to have to parachute in behind enemy lines and link up with the locals. We are going to handle the dispersal of the mustard gas, but these clowns will be acting as bullet traps for us on the way into the target area.”

  “Who are these guys?” Ramon asked. “The Free Syrian Army?”

  “It gets better,” Bill insisted. “Al-Nusra.”

  “Fuck me,” Ramon snorted.

  “Who else is crazy enough to launch a chemical attack on this target?”

  “Wait, what's the fucking target?”

  “I just got it from the client. The target is the Umayyad Mosque in Damascus.”

  “Holy shit,” Deckard whispered.

  “What the fuck is that?” Rick said.

  “Yeah, what's the big fucking deal with some mosque? These people blow their own holy sites up all the time,” Paul said.

  “Not like this,” Deckard said. “Shia Muslims consider this mosque to be maybe the fourth most holy site in the world. It is one of the largest and oldest mosques in the world. If it goes up in a cloud of poison gas that gets blamed on the Sunni Al-Nusra extremists, it will cause a sectarian shit storm that will engulf the entire region.”

  “What he said,” Bill confirmed. “It seems the client feels it is time the United States ge
ts decisively involved in this Syrian Civil War deal. Hezbollah is calling a lot of the shots for the Assad regime at this point, not to mention that they are providing security around the target itself and in some Shia neighborhoods in the capital. Back in D.C., the President has said that the use of chemical weapons in this war would be a red line. Detonating the package in Damascus guarantees that the President will get off his ass and push Syria's shit in.”

  “And strike a fatal blow to Hezbollah,” The Operator spoke to everyone's surprise. They turned around to look at the new Liquid Sky member. “Once Hezbollah is defeated, we move on to Iran.”

  “Well, since you guys put it that way...” Rick said absently.

  Deckard was grinding his teeth without realizing it. Gassing innocent civilians in the middle of Syria's capital city. Whoever the client was, they had some fucking balls. Pat had better have Samruk International in position somewhere near if not inside Syria by the time he got there. One way or the other, this would be Liquid Sky's last mission, it was just a question of whether or not Deckard went down with the ship.

  They were going to launch a chemical attack in order to provoke what could very well become World War Three.

  That can't happen.

  “From Turkey we will fly nap of the earth during the night and pop up at altitude, dropping in to a drop zone Al-Nusra has secured for our arrival just outside of Homs. We'll HALO in from 18,000 feet with the package in secured bundles, along with an arms cache to help grease the skids with Nusra. From there, we'll stage out of Homs-”

  Bill's words were cut off as rustling sounded on the back deck where the work out equipment was set up. Looking through the sliding screen doors, Deckard saw the private security team that kept watch on Liquid Sky's bungalows manhandling someone onto the deck.

  The head guard was Alan, a former Royal Marine, and the other three were local off-duty policemen. The man they had captured was handcuffed and his feet duct taped together. The Operator opened the screen door as the prisoner was dragged inside.

  Deckard's heart sank.

  Because things can always get just a little bit worse.

  “We found him poking around behind Deckard's place,” the former British Marine hissed.

  The guards deposited their prisoner on the floor where he landed with a hollow thud.

  With his mouth duct-taped shut, the prisoner looked up at Deckard.

  It was Aghassi.

  Liquid Sky took turns slapping Aghassi around. Within minutes his face was bloodied and bruised. Rick picked him up and tied him to a chair. The former ISA operator's head hung down as blood dripped from his mouth. There was little Deckard could do for him without breaking cover. He would only intervene if they were going to kill him. On the other hand, they might put Aghassi under so much duress that he might blow Deckard's cover anyway. They weren't to that point yet, but Deckard knew that no one could hold out forever.

  Pushing Rick aside, Deckard decided to get some face time in.

  He backhanded Aghassi, sending a spray of blood across one of Bill's billiard tables.

  Bill had told them that they were leaving for Turkey today. If Frank and Sergeant Major Korgan were ready to go, Deckard could call them in to rescue Aghassi just as they were flying out. He just had to keep Aghassi alive until then.

  Deckard grabbed him by the shirt and out of the chair, right up to his face.

  “Where are they?” he whispered.

  Aghassi looked at him through the black and blue bruises around his eyes.

  “Call. Under your sink.”

  Deckard released him and the chair clanked on the floor.

  “We need to keep him alive,” Deckard said just as Paul was about to step in for his turn. “You guys said you had another team shadowing you in Pakistan. We can't take it for granted that this guy was just here to break in and steal our flatscreens or something.”

  “You're right,” Bill said as he stomped down into the living room from the staircase. “I informed the client and they are sending a couple specialists from Serbia. They will be on a plane heading here in a matter of hours. Our contracted security people can keep this guy detained here until they arrive. We have work to do.

  “We're compromised,” Ramon complained.

  “Mauritius is compromised for us, but not our mission. We stick to the timeline. Pack what you need and we will be out of here tonight. Don't plan on coming back, because the client may shut down our entire Mauritius operation. Whatever you leave will be destroyed or mailed to you by a freight forwarding company. Let's get moving, we're wheels-up in three hours.”

  Paul grunted as he unclenched his fists.

  Aghassi was motionless with his head down. It was on Deckard to come through for him now, even if there was a larger objective at hand.

  He left Bill's place and walked across the beach to his bungalow. Nadeesha came running up behind him.

  “I hope they torture that fuck like a couple kids burning ants with a magnifying glass,” she said.

  “I'm sure they will. Serbs are good at that.”

  “Hey,” Nadi reached out and grabbed him by the arm as they walked. “Want to get another quickie in before we leave?”

  She had an impossible sex drive. Finding an infiltrator in their midst didn't put her off much.

  “I've got to take care of a few things before we leave. Maybe we can join the mile-high club on the way over there?” Deckard offered as a compromise.

  Nadi now had a wide smile.

  “You got it mister.”

  She spun around, her black hair blowing in the sea wind as she walked off.

  Climbing the back steps to his bungalow, Deckard went inside. Aghassi's words made it sound like he had left a cache behind for him.

  Sure enough, when he opened the cupboard under his kitchen sink and felt around, there was a phone taped up underneath the porcelain. It was an Apple iPhone inside a Thuraya Sat-Sleeve, which enabled the smartphone to make calls by satellite from pretty much anywhere in the world. There was one phone number saved in the address book.

  Deckard took one more look around to make sure he was alone before dialing.

  Holding the iPhone to his ear, Deckard listened as it began to ring on the other end.

  “YES?”

  Deckard recoiled from the loud voice.

  “Cody?”

  “YES.”

  No wonder, it was the hacker he had hired during Samruk International's last mission down in Mexico. He was a genius behind a keyboard but had a bit of an abrasive personality.

  “I just picked up this phone. Did the guys set you up as a gateway between me and the two field teams?”

  “Correct. I am to facilitate any and all calls you have between the Madagascar team and the Syria team.”

  “Patch me through to the Madagascar team.”

  “Okay.”

  The line began to ring again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hey Frank, it's me. Don't have much time. How far out are you guys?”

  “About an hour. We're just off the coast in a fishing vessel waiting for the word.”

  “Push off in another hour and hit the targets here on the coast. Bill's place needs to be your priority target.”

  “You all right?”

  “I'm fine, but they got Aghassi. He is alive for now, but they are flying in a couple interrogators from Serbia.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “Exactly. We're about to take off for Turkey so you can hit the targets along the shore as soon as we leave. Any updates from Pat's team?”

  “They bought off some folks in Egypt and have secured some transportation by ship.”

  “Less than ideal,” Deckard's guts turned in knots. The stress was getting to him. “Cody?”

  “I'm here,” the computer hacker answered.

  “Get in touch with Pat and tell them to initiate movement for Syria. I will probably be in Homs within 48 hours and will re-establish comms with Pat to guide him and the boy
s into a position where they can ambush Liquid Sky.”

  Looking at his watch, Deckard quickly read on Cody and Frank to the mission brief he had just received on their plan of action in Syria.

  “The balls on these guys,” Frank said in response.

  “Yeah,” Deckard said. “This one is for all the marbles.”

  30

  A black-clad man strode up to his captive with a hammer in one hand. With the prisoner strapped to the chair, he swung the hammer in an arc, bringing it down on his big toe. It split open like a bloody grape.

  The prisoner screamed, and screamed, and screamed as he pulled against his restraints. The prisoner wasn't a Samruk International mercenary but rather a former informant of theirs. His name was Kenny Rodriguez.

  The man in black was a CISEN agent. Mexican intelligence.

  “We know you helped the gringos,” the CISEN agent said to Kenny. The leather restraints held his head firmly against the back of the chair. He was stripped naked. The snitch began having the dry heaves as the pain overwhelmed him.

  “That was just to show you that we mean business,” he said as he waved the hammer at Kenny.

  CISEN had rolled into Oaxaca, Mexico with the Mexican military just as the Samruk mercenaries had left. The Mexican intelligence service had a field office in Oaxaca but it went up in flames. Once the intelligence agents began prowling the streets they began to uncover details about the mercenary operation and how the gringos had taken down a number of drug lords in the space of just a few weeks. Following one lead after the next, they eventually heard about Kenny.

  He was in a barroom drinking tequila when the Mexican soldiers arrested him.

  After finishing up in Oaxaca, a small contingent of the foreign mercenaries had blitzed to the north, infiltrating Mexican military bases and blowing one sky high. Now CISEN's paymasters wanted answers. With Kenny under the bright lights of an underground interrogation room which had more in common with a dungeon, those answers would be forthcoming.

  “The leader of the mercenaries,” The CISEN agent began. “What was his name?”