by Jack Murphy
Second Platoon had stormed through the front door, executing the bouncers before they could reach for weapons, and hit the lounge, securing the ground floor in seconds.
The party came to an abrupt halt. Second Squad flexcuffed the bartender and secured the liquor cabinet while Third Squad went for the stage and rounded up the prostitutes. First Squad lined up the whorehouse's customers, to see if any of them matched the photo they had of Peng.
This is starting to look like a B-grade porn, Kurt mused.
Thankfully, someone kicked over the stereo and unplugged the strobe lights.
The platoon sergeant took charge, directing one squad to evacuate the girls and continue to secure the ground floor while the others began working their way up. The remaining twenty Kazakhs flowed upstairs.
Reaching the landing, the German mercenary saw the hall lined with private rooms, the doors covered with bed sheets tacked to the walls. This was where the action happened. The Kazakhs proceeded with gusto, apparently curious as to the goings on up in the second floor.
Four assaulters stacked on one entrance and pushed through the stained bed sheet, moving inside. Screams sounded from inside, not the high-pitched voice of a female prostitute but coming from the mercenaries themselves.
More yelling in Russian ensued before the curtain peeled open and a squat Chinese man in business attire stumbled into the hall, fumbling to buckle up his pants. Looking up he made eye contact with Kurt, paused for a moment, and then ran down the stairs.
Behind him, a deceptively tall woman walked out as the curses in Russian continued. Huge breasts were literally mounted to her chest, the product of a plastic surgeon's careful work. Kurt frowned as she strode past him in high heels, now noticing the penis dangling between her legs.
Other, more natural born women and their patrons were ushered out of their rooms. The men were cross-checked to make sure none of them were the High Value Target, or HVT, before cutting them loose as well. So far they had no positive matches.
Kurt spun, hearing someone scream somewhere down the hall. Storming down the corridor, he found which room it had come from. Inside, four Kazakhs were struggling to get a naked man under control as he thrashed back and forth. Flinging one commando off his back, the Burmese man pushed another squad member into a chair, knocking them both over. The other two attacked, one going for his legs and taking him to the ground while the other tried to secure his arms.
The crazed look in the man's eyes told Kurt that he was most definitely sampling the UWSA's product, the methamphetamine sending him into a frenzy. With what appeared as super-human strength, the drug addict managed to fight back, taking a bite out of one of the Kazakhs and kicking free of the other.
The drug left the man feeling no pain, allowing him strength that was well beyond the threshold of normal men. The mercenary who had been bit in the shoulder stumbled off in pain, while the others readied a counter attack, preparing to take him down. Kurt let them tackle the meth head again before stepping in.
Tightening his grip, Kurt slammed the stock of his rifle into the addict's face. The junkie screamed before focusing in on the German with wild eyes. Lunging towards him with bared teeth, he almost broke free of the Kazakhs' grasp a second time. Kurt struck again, this time holding nothing back.
The second blow stunned him, but Kurt didn't stop there, following up immediately and pounding at him a third and fourth time until he fell to the floor permanently. His blows had caved in the addict's skull, leaving him in a pool of his own blood.
Unfortunately for him, the methamphetamine addict had left them with little choice. The mercenaries had tried to restrain him rather than using lethal means, but the man had jeopardized the safety of the team with his drug-fueled frenzy.
Shouts echoed throughout the second floor as Russian voices called out that all rooms were clear. Back out in the hall, a commando stood guard on the narrow stairwell leading up to the third floor. Looking up, Kurt saw a heavy steel door which looked to be secured with multiple locks from the inside.
The front to the building hadn't even been that secure, other than a few bouncers, probably half asleep until the platoon arrived. For an internal door it was definitely out of place.
What the hell was up there?
“Bollocks,” Richie cursed, fumbling with a stick of C4.
The demolition team was left over exposed in the middle of the bridge while they wired explosives in place.
The bridge only afforded them enough space to drive a single vehicle halfway down, to provide some semblance of cover fire if needed. A short walk twenty meters or so to the opposite river bank marked the far western boundary of the People's Republic of China. A lone Chinese border guard watched from the other side, occasionally shouting at the demo team but not daring to do much more.
On the Burmese side, four more assault trucks from Third Platoon waited, guns pointed towards China, just in case. Richie and the two engineers he had trained felt like fish bait, hung out to dry on the bridge that linked the growing superpower to the Third World.
It was called a Bailey bridge, an invention developed out of necessity during the Second World War. The trusses were prefabricated and trucked into position to be assembled by hand, no special machinery needed. Bailey bridges had the advantage of being easy to build, the ability to span about sixty meters of river, and able to support commercial trucking.
The Kazakh engineers worked the trusses on both sides of the bridge while the retired safe cracker reached between the wooden planks to gain access under the bridge where he could find the sway braces. The long metal rods connected underneath the main structure, forming an X that maintained the bridge's rigidness. Using the same type of plastic flexcuffs for securing prisoners, Richie ziptied one-pound sticks of plastic explosives to each sway brace in his section, maintaining control of the leads that primed each charge.
Leaving the Kazakh commandos to their task, Richie retrieved his roll of detonation chord off the nearby assault truck, glancing up at the gunner who was eyeballing Red China nervously.
“Fucking cunt,” Richie muttered under his breath.
He hoped all this trouble was worth it. Apparently the boss thought the Chinese might try to chase them into Burma. Gunfire was already raging inside Panghsang, the other two platoons going to work.
Unreeling the det chord, he strung it out in a circle around his charges before cutting the line with his folding blade and tying each end together in a square knot.
By now, the two engineers had finished their work and came to him with the leads to their own charges. They had placed one-pound charges between the channels on each truss and half-pound charges on each piece of diagonal bracing in their section of bridge. According to his calculations, it should be enough to bring the bridge down.
The three man demolition team tied their leads into the round main that Richie had laid out. With all ten charges tied into the det chord, Richie set about stringing a dual primed British junction into his system to detonate all of the explosives simultaneously.
The British mercenary had the entire system rigged, when the first gunshot sparked off one of the trusses just a few meters away.
The PKM on the assault truck belted out a long burst, stitching the Chinese border guard on the other side from crotch to chest, the Type 56 rifle he had carried falling silent. Not willing to waste another moment, Richie pulled the pins, starting the burn sequence on the time fuse.
Now you've done it.
Muzzle flashes from the Chinese side announced that they had in fact kicked the hornet's nest. Turret gunners in all five trucks fired back, dumping lead into Chinese territory. With gunfire now flying in both directions across the Shweli River, the demo team jumped on their truck.
Richie had cut a full two minutes of time fuse to give them plenty of time to make it to the minimum safe distance. If the truck broke down on the bridge after they initiated, they'd need every second of it. The ex-con's phobia wasn't based on irration
ality, but rather experience. He bore the scars to prove it.
The driver threw the vehicle in reverse and stepped on the gas. The machine gunner let it rip, the muzzle flash illuminating the bridge as the truck lunged backwards. Bullets coming from the Chinese side rang the side of the truck like a cowbell, as well as slamming into the metal struts of the bridge on both sides.
The driver came too far to one side, scraping a long streak of paint along the bridge before arriving on the Burmese side of the river. Cutting the wheel, the driver pulled the truck behind a small stone wall for cover, the turret gunner rotating his machine gun back on target.
Now it was a full blown fire fight, the border guards being joined by the Chinese military, if the amount of incoming fire was any indication. Richie looked at his watch. Another minute until the bridge blew, but it might as well have been another hour while in contact with the enemy. They had to stay in position to make sure the job was done before seeking cover deeper in Panghsang.
The Chinese troops could always commandeer one of the flat keeled junks moored at the docks and put men on their side of the river, but they would be without heavy armor or heavy weapons, not to mention conducting an illegal border crossing. The premise of the entire mission was that the Chinese would not be willing to instigate an act of war over their assault on Panghsang.
So much for that idea.
“Keep those guns up!” Richie screamed at the PKM gunner, now in the middle of reloading. Of course he didn't understand a word of English.
Loading the metal link belt into the feed tray, the Kazakh slammed down the feed tray cover and held down the trigger, flame belching from the barrel. The rest of the platoon had dismounted from their vehicles and shot at any enemy muzzle flashes in their sector.
Richie reached into the back of the assault truck and freed one of the Mk14 grenade launchers. The Milkor looked like a jumbo-sized revolver, loaded with High Explosive Dual Purpose 40mm grenades. Flipping on the holographic sight, he adjusted it for one hundred and fifty meters, far enough to hit the deepest enemy positions. There must have been a barracks nearby with the amount of shooting coming from the Chinese side, increasing by the second.
On the far bank he could see the bursts of enemy fire coming from behind the low wall that surrounded the border check point, the Chinese troops turning themselves into a linear target that Richie was more than happy to service.
Sighting in, he rapidly depressed the trigger, walking the barrel from side to side as he fired. The 40mm grenades made a hollow pop, pop, pop, as they spiraled out of the barrel and armed themselves as they arced across the river.
The explosives flashed as they made contact, devastating the Chinese lines.
Down at the other end of the convoy, one of the commandos launched an RPG. The rocket whizzed across the river and struck one of the enemy fortifications, spitting the remnants of sandbags and at least one human being into the air.
Steel cross members snapped, the explosion deafening them, as the C4 detonated. Richie stole a glance over the stone wall he had taken cover behind. Amazingly, the Bailey bridge was still standing, the plastic explosives having failed to completely sever the trusses.
Motherfu-
Richie squinted through the darkness as a pair of headlights came into view. In between the gunfire he could barely make out the rumble of an engine.
Then the Type 63 Armored Personnel Carrier came barreling down the bridge towards them, the heavy machine gun mounted to the roof aimed directly at Richie.
Deckard put his shoulder into the stack of assaulters in front of him and drove them forward, pushing them up the stairs as hard as he could. His legs acted like pistons; for all he knew, he was pushing his teammates into enemy fire and certain death. At the moment, death just seemed more certain with a grenade landing somewhere at their feet on the darkened staircase.
On cue, gunfire erupted at the top of the stairs. The squad on the steps behind him had turned and bounded down, while the other half of the stack had continued up. Up or down, options were limited.
Reaching the landing at the top, Deckard was thrown into the wall, the blast jarring his senses. The grenade demolished most of the wooden stairwell, a mercenary unlucky enough to be caught in the explosion screaming amid the chaos.
Everything seemed to move in slow motion.
Deckard struggled with his rifle, trying to find the correct grip, his hands felt like they had heavy gloves on them. He was vividly aware of the carpet in front of him being torn apart by enemy gunfire. Shouldering his Kalashnikov, Deckard searched the office he now found himself in, the Kazakh mercenaries to his left and right shooting on automatic.
An angry face with a flat nose appeared from behind a desk, a Skorpion machine pistol in his hands. Still on his knees, Deckard fired a single shot, catching his would-be executioner under the chin, a spray of blood turning aerosol in the air as he recoiled backwards.
Standing on shaky feet, he scanned the rest of the office. Desks and tables were laid out, along with some cots for people needing to sleep it off after a long night. A half dozen bodies now added to the interior decoration.
“Over here,” an accented voice shouted in English. “This one is still alive.”
Deckard looked down the ruined stairs, a gap now separating them from the ground floor. Below, the medic was attending to the commando caught in the grenade blast. His observation from afar told him that it didn't look good, a pool of crimson spreading beneath that Kazakh even as the medic attempted to get a tourniquet into place.
Turning away, he saw the Frenchman holding a captive militiaman pinned against the wall, the UWSA man's shoulder a bloody mess after acting as a bullet sponge during the firefight.
It was Jean-Francois, the new guy that he had met just hours earlier before leaving Astana. He didn't know much about him, but Frank vouched for the former legionnaire. Apparently, JF had his shit in one sock, as Frank had put it.
“That isn't Peng,” Deckard told JF.
Wishful thinking.
JF spoke in Burmese to his prisoner. They continued back and forth for a moment as the commander stood by.
“This is his accountant,” JF said, looking back at him.
“Where is the HVT located?”
The Frenchman continued his interrogation, his voice raising as the accountant stammered and then hesitated. JF shoved his thumb into the gunshot wound on his shoulder, causing him to wail in pain. Not as much pain as their teammate downstairs but enough to do the job.
With sweat pouring down his face, the UWSA bag man spilled his guts.
“About five kilometers from here,” JF translated. “A hilltop.”
“Defenses?”
It didn't take as much prodding this time.
“Massive perimeter wall. Several large structures inside, mansions for Peng and his associates. Underground tunnels and bunkers, about a hundred men on his security force.”
The bag man rambled on, words coming freely now.
“Damn,” JF said shaking his head. “He says the compound cost sixty million USD to build. I guess he'd know if he is Peng's money man.”
“Tell him he's coming with us,” Deckard snorted. “And we don't like liars.”
When JF told him, the accountant looked like he was ready to shit ten different kinds of bricks.
“Let's get the casualties packaged,” Deckard said, keying his radio. “We'll cross load them into the Medical Evacuation Vehicle when we rendezvous with Second and Third platoon. I want us off this objective in five--”
His next words were cut off as the entire casino shook on its foundations, ceiling tiles rattling loose and falling on top of the mercenaries from above.
The cutting charges burned through the solid steel door, sending a thin line of liquefied metal punching into the frame, slicing through the locking mechanisms, and allowing the door to fall to the floor with a heavy clang.
The Kazakhs fanned out through the top floor of the whorehouse,
moving systematically from room to room. The first few were empty, so the mercenaries continued moving on. Fresh screams drew Kurt's attention, another meth addict maybe. Another problem he would rather not have.
Stepping into one of the rooms at the end of the hall, he was shocked by the scene he had stumbled upon. Four Kazakhs stood along the wall, guns pointed forward and shouting orders. Next to one of the windows, a Chinese man held a woman hostage, a screwdriver pressed into her throat.
The bedroom was filthy, even with the plastic sheets covering the floor. The place stank of death. A video camera attached to a tripod lay on its side, someone knocking it over in the commotion. Laying on the plastic tarp was the eviscerated body of another young woman, lifeless eyes staring into oblivion.
From the looks of things, she had had her fingers sliced off and her intestines spilled in front of her before her tormentor slashed her neck from ear to ear. The evidence made clear why a heavy steel door separated the third floor from the rest of the building.
Snuff tourism.
The Chinese man stood in his boxer shorts, snarling as he jabbed the screwdriver deeper into the woman's skin, drawing blood. The woman cried for something, anything, in a language none of them understood. Her breasts had been badly burned, the results of the torturer putting out cigarettes on her chest.
“Slingshot, this is Oscar Two,” Kurt said, into his radio speaking in Russian.
“Oscar, this is Slingshot,” Askar's voice came over the radio.
“Top floor, fifth window on your left.”
“Confirm, top floor fifth window. My left.”
“Roger.”
The Chinese sadist yelled at them in rapid fire Cantonese, no doubt warning them to back away or he'd kill the woman.
“Which one,” Askar asked.
“The taller of the two, on your right-hand side.”
“The taller one on my right.”
