by Peter Nealen
CHAPTER 4
“So, that’s the shape of it, gents,” Brannigan said. They were gathered around a small folding table set up inside the big wall tent. It wasn’t the same campsite they had used for the Khadarkh debrief, but it was on the flanks of the same mountain.
There was silence as the men pondered the situation he’d laid out, and the job that Van Zandt had offered them. Finally, it was Childress who spoke up.
“Seems to me that it’s actually a little easier than the Khadarkh job,” he said.
“Easier?” Aziz demanded. “What part of that seems easy to you?”
Childress shrugged. “No hostages to worry about, no real timeline to hit,” he said. “It’s a straight search-and-destroy mission. Go in, find the Norks, kill the Norks, and get out.”
“It’s getting out that has me worried, if we’re being honest,” Brannigan said. “Thailand is the nearest ‘friendly’ territory, and the border is a good one hundred fifty miles from our target area. That’s a lot of ground to cover on foot, especially through highland jungle. And those highlands ain’t gonna be fun, I can promise you that.”
“No possibility of air support?” Hancock asked.
“That deep into Burma?” Brannigan said. “Not a chance. They’d have to stage inside Burma itself, or just over the Thai border. There’s no way we could do it in Burma, and the Thais might start asking too many questions. Especially given how porous that border is for the drug runners at times.”
Santelli was nodding. “Even if the Thai government doesn’t care, somebody on the cartel payroll would talk.”
“Not only that, but we’d have to fly at relatively low level across United Wa State airspace,” Brannigan pointed out. “They’re not likely to look too kindly on unannounced, armed helicopters flying overhead, especially given how often they’ve clashed with the Thais or the Burmese.”
“Which raises another question,” Flanagan said, the first words he’d uttered since Brannigan had started his brief. “How are we going to insert, that deep into Shan State?”
Brannigan smiled thinly. It wasn’t a humorous expression. “It’s going to have to be by air. And not by helicopter.”
“Are all of us even jump qualified?” Curtis asked.
“We will be by the time we step off, if we decide we’re taking the job,” Hancock said. “That’s going to be my bailiwick.” Hancock was a certified skydiving instructor, among other things.
“That still leaves extract.” Flanagan’s voice and face were grim. “Because that one hundred fifty miles ain’t gonna be a nature walk. You can bet that they’ll be hunting us the whole way.”
“I might have a solution to that,” Aziz said. For once he wasn’t being sarcastic or snippy. “I know a guy who’s been all over China, climbing mountains and shit. He speaks fluent Mandarin and Cantonese, and he knows Yunnan Province like the back of his hand.” He looked around at the rest. “And we’re going to need a linguist or two, won’t we? My Arabic won’t help us in Burma.”
“I think we’re going to need more than just a linguist or two,” Santelli said bluntly. He looked up at Brannigan. “If we’re going to do this, we need more shooters. A search-and-destroy in the jungle highlands? We need a platoon, not just a team.”
“I think we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves,” Brannigan put in. “We haven’t decided for sure that we’re going to take the job in the first place.”
“Well,” Hancock said, “if we can solve the insert and extract problems, I think that we’d all be onboard with killing some North Koreans teaching effective infantry tactics to drug runners. From what you told us about this ‘Bureau 39,’ it seems to me like putting a crimp in their operations is an overall plus.”
“And it’s a paycheck,” Childress pointed out. He got a momentary glance from Santelli, and Brannigan noticed.
“We’ve got to be alive and at large to be able to spend that paycheck, Sam,” he said. “And we won’t do anyone any good if we’re lying dead in the Burmese jungle or rotting in a Chinese prison.”
“Which is why we’re problem-solving,” Hancock said. He stared at the map on the tablet. “Unfortunately, I’m guessing that any advanced reconnaissance is out?”
Brannigan nodded. “Right at the moment, it is,” he said. “What we’ve got is what we’re going to get until we get on the ground.”
“Van Zandt can’t send in an advance element to look around?” Santelli asked.
“If he could, I don’t doubt that he wouldn’t,” Brannigan replied. “Too much politics.”
Flanagan looked keenly at Brannigan. “And you’re sure he’s still working for USG?” he asked.
Brannigan nodded grimly. “A man like Mark Van Zandt wouldn’t be hiring mercs for a private concern,” he said. “Whoever’s paying his bills, they’re somewhere inside the Beltway. Count on it.”
“Makes sense,” Hancock said. “No private company would really have a vested interest in a mission like this.”
Nobody said anything for a moment. All eyes were on the table and the imagery there.
“Well, I’m in,” Curtis said. “I, uh, might need to steer clear of Vegas for a little while anyway.”
Flanagan turned a basilisk glare on the smaller man. “Tell me that those guys in the bar weren’t…”
“They might have been,” Curtis said, a little evasively.
“Dude, who the hell was the chick?”
“It’s not so much who the chick was,” Curtis said. “It’s more who her boyfriend was.”
“The guy in the Hard Rock Café shirt?” Flanagan asked.
“Yeah, him.” Curtis wasn’t looking at Flanagan, and the taller man was getting angrier.
“Did you steal a mafiosi’s girlfriend, Kevin?” Santelli asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“Not exactly,” Curtis said. “But he might have been a little connected. Like, he might have been the mayor’s nephew.”
“Oh, hell,” Flanagan said, exasperated.
“You don’t fuck up by halves, do you Kevin?” Hancock asked.
“Of course he doesn’t,” Flanagan snapped. “That would be boring.”
“All right, back to the question at hand,” Brannigan said, raising his voice. “Show of hands. Are we taking the Burma job, or not?”
“What’s the pay?” Childress asked. “I guess that’s kind of the clincher.”
“It’ll be the same rate as the Khadarkh job,” Brannigan said. “Though I’m expecting this to take a bit longer on the ground.”
Childress was evidently doing some math in his head. He nodded. “I’m in.”
“If you’re going, I’m going, you know that,” Santelli said.
“Same here,” was Hancock’s word.
“Somebody’s got to keep Curtis out of trouble, since he can’t do it himself,” Flanagan growled.
“Hey, now,” Curtis said.
All eyes turned to Villareal. The doctor hadn’t said anything so far, but had only listened and absorbed the briefing. When he looked up to find the rest of the team watching him, he grimaced slightly.
“I don’t know,” he said. “And I’m sure that you guys don’t know, either. I’ve…got a few hangups, I guess.” He took a deep breath. “But I can’t let you guys go into the Burmese jungle without a doc, and frankly, I wouldn’t trust any of the replacements I can think of off the top of my head with jungle and combat medicine, not on this kind of short notice.” He ran his hands over his face. “Maybe when we get back, I can find you a doc who can carry a weapon. I still can’t. My oath said, ‘First, do no harm,’ and that means unless I want to break that oath, I’m done as a gunslinger.
“But for now, I’m in.”
Brannigan nodded somberly. He knew it was a sacrifice for Villareal, and he appreciated the fact. “All right, then,” he said. “In that case, I’ll get back with Van Zandt, let him know that the job’s on, and start getting logistics set up; weapons, gear, and insert.” He looked at Santelli. “Carl
o, recruiting and screening another…hmm…six to eight shooters should do it. That’s on you. Take Hancock with you.”
Both men nodded their understanding. “I think I know where to set up our little vetting course,” Hancock said. “I’ve got a buddy who owns a farm, and occasionally hires it out for weapons and tactics classes. He’ll be discreet.”
“Getting word out without giving too much away is going to be another problem,” Flanagan pointed out.
“Don’t worry about that,” Hancock said. “Don’s got contacts. If I ask him, he’ll start putting feelers out. His grapevine is faster than the Lance Corporal Underground.”
Flanagan raised an eyebrow at that, as if he didn’t believe it, but held his peace.
“Aziz,” Brannigan said, turning to him, “is your linguist buddy going to be able to keep up? We need somebody who isn’t going to slow us down. This is going to be tough enough as it is.”
“Like I said, he climbs mountains for fun,” Aziz said. “He’ll be fine.”
“Can you trust him to keep his mouth shut?” Hancock asked.
“Sure,” Aziz said easily, though Brannigan and Santelli shared a look. Neither man was entirely sure Aziz was telling the truth. “He’s walked all over China without ever being harassed or arrested as a spy. He knows ‘discreet.’”
Hancock looked at Brannigan and shrugged slightly. “He’s got a point.”
“Feel him out,” Brannigan said. “But don’t tell him what the job is until he’s onboard.” He smoothed his mustache. “I’m frankly worried about how we’re going to handle him if he doesn’t react well once he does know what the job is.”
“I can handle him,” Aziz insisted. “Like I said, he knows when to be discreet.”
“See to it,” Brannigan said, with just enough of a warning in his voice and his slightly narrowed eyes that Aziz couldn’t help but gulp, just a little.
***
Van Zandt was waiting when Brannigan walked into his office. In fact, the receptionist at the desk outside simply waved him through before he could even say anything. Apparently, he was expected.
It had taken one look to convince Brannigan that the office, in a small business park in Denver, of all places, was a purely temporary operation. This wasn’t Van Zandt’s headquarters any more than Mama Taft’s Rocking-K diner in Junction City was Brannigan’s.
The place was a bog-standard industrial business office, with cheap carpet on the floor, a mass of cubicles in the large central room, and offices along the back wall, most with the doors closed. In fact, as he walked past, Brannigan didn’t see anyone in any of the cubicles, either.
He was increasingly convinced the entire office was little more than a front. It was Van Zandt’s hide site, his cover while he was working on the Burma job, and simultaneously a bit of obfuscation intended to keep Brannigan from figuring exactly who he was working for.
As for that, Brannigan’s mental list was a pretty short one.
He strode into Van Zandt’s office, tossed the manila envelope in his hand on the desk, and dropped unceremoniously into the cheap office chair across the desk.
Van Zandt had been typing on his laptop, which was the only other thing on the desk, and hadn’t even looked up as Brannigan had entered. He spared a sideways glance at the envelope, then finished whatever it was he was typing before sitting back in his own chair and looking at Brannigan.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Logistical requirements,” Brannigan replied. “Along with the invoice for the first installment of our pay. It’s itemized; pay and expenses are separate.”
“Logistical requirements, huh?” Van Zandt reached out and picked up the massy envelope. He was dressed in a different polo shirt this time, one with a curious logo embroidered on the left chest. It looked, at least from a distance, like a diamond with wings, with a fighting knife through the diamond. It looked like a military or PMC logo, but it wasn’t one that Brannigan recognized. “What sort of logistics are we talking about?”
“What kind of logistics would you be looking for in the case of an operation like this?” Brannigan countered, leaning back in the chair. “First things first; weapons, ammo, and gear. I don’t want to be playing patty-cake with the local black market for this. Twenty HK G3s, with five hundred rounds per, plus thirteen magazines each. Two Rheinmetall MG 3s, with two thousand rounds each. Fifty Arges HG 84 grenades. Four satchels of C4, with all priming supplies. SINCGARS radios, with crypto and spare batteries, enough for a platoon to operate for a month. Two satellite phones. Jungle cammies, preferably plain green or tiger stripe. Packs. Boots. Combat vests. Medical supplies…the full list is in there.”
He stroked his mustache. “Also, a bird equipped for high altitude jumping, including supplemental oxygen. High-altitude chutes for twenty men, along with O2 bottles, masks, and helmets.”
“Is that all?” Van Zandt asked dryly.
“Not quite,” Brannigan said. “All of this will be in Sri Lanka and ready to go a month from today, at the latest, or the job’s off.”
“You’re asking a lot, Brannigan,” Van Zandt said. “You’re not in the military anymore. Things are a lot more cutthroat out here.”
“Which is why you hired us,” Brannigan said. “And cut the crap. I know you’re not really working for a private concern, or even some kind of NGO. You’re still working for USG, out of some deep, dark, obscure office, that you don’t want me or my boys to know about. Fair enough; I know about security, and as long as your checks clear and we don’t get left to the wolves, I’m willing to play ball. For now.” He jabbed a finger at Van Zandt. “Bottom line. I know you’ve got the resources; deniability is the only reason you came to us with this job. If you want the job done, you’ll come through with everything on that list. If not, well. Let’s just save everyone some time and effort and tell me now.”
Van Zandt’s facial expression had remained carefully still, but he’d stiffened at Brannigan’s words, especially the accusation that he wasn’t representing a private concern. For a long moment, he sat perfectly motionless, staring back into Brannigan’s hard, icy blue eyes.
Finally, he sat back in the chair again, looking down at the papers he was drawing out of the envelope. “Did you type this up on a typewriter?” he asked, a note of incredulity in his voice.
“You’re really asking me how I typed up the equipment list?” Brannigan asked.
“There are encrypted email applications these days, you know,” Van Zandt said, as he continued to scan the pages in front of him.
“And you don’t want anything about this online any more than I do,” Brannigan countered. “Quit ducking the subject.”
Van Zandt finished scanning the pages, then tossed the stack of papers back on the desk with a faint sigh. “You drive a hard bargain, John,” he said.
“So sue me,” was Brannigan’s answer, cold and direct. “You’re asking me to accomplish a mission that looks impossible on paper. It isn’t, not quite, but if you want it done, you’ll pony up the gear, or I’ll call the boys right here and now, and tell them to go back to whatever it was they were doing. There’s no job here.”
“I’m going to have to check with the board,” Van Zandt temporized.
With a heavy sigh, Brannigan pulled the cheap, pre-paid phone out of his pocket.
“Okay, okay,” Van Zandt said, holding out a hand to forestall him. “Fine. I’ll get the gear. I’m going to have to twist some arms and grease more palms than anyone is going to like, but I’ll get you your gear, your weapons, and your ammo. And a plane.”
“In Sri Lanka, ready to roll in thirty days,” Brannigan pressed.
“In Sri Lanka, ready to roll in thirty days,” Van Zandt agreed. “Anything else?” There might have been some bitterness in his voice.
Brannigan studied his old superior officer for a moment. Van Zandt, like most general officers, had already been a consummate politician by the time he’d retired; it was an absolute necessity to g
et stars in the modern US military. But Brannigan knew men, and knew that it had to grate on Van Zandt to just be a facilitator, and to have to sit there and accept demands from the man he’d seen ushered out of the service for taking the bull by the horns in combat.
“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Brannigan said. “I need up-to-the-minute overhead imagery and daily intel reports on the region and the target area specifically. If the Kokang Army, or the United Wa State Army, or the Kachin Independence Army, or anyone else in Shan state so much as sneezes in such a way that would affect our op, I need to know about it. I will not go in blind and find myself and my men in the middle of a snake-pit due to lack of information.”
Van Zandt nodded. “I assume that Chavez will handle dissemination?”
“He will.” Brannigan didn’t say that he’d have Hector’s guys keeping an ear to the ground, as well. He wasn’t going to take every word from Mark Van Zandt as gospel.
Van Zandt nodded tiredly, managing to give the impression that he was going to put up with Brannigan’s demands out of long-suffering patience. Brannigan kept his own sneer of disgust off his face. It had been years, well over a decade, since Van Zandt had come close to actually setting foot on a battlefield himself. “The materiel will be aboard the plane in Sri Lanka,” he said. “I’ll even go along myself, at least for that leg.”
“Glad to hear it,” Brannigan said, managing not to sound sarcastic. There was no way in hell he was going to tolerate having Van Zandt looking over his shoulder for the entire op. He got up. “In that case, unless you’ve got a new intel dump for me, I’ve got work to do.”
“I do not, and I have plenty of work to do, myself,” Van Zandt said. He sounded like he wanted to tell Brannigan that he was dismissed, but knew better. “More work, now. I’ll be seeing you.”
Brannigan jerked his head in acknowledgement. “Sure. Just make sure that stuff’s all ready to go. We’ll have to prep in the air.”
“I know the job, John,” Van Zandt said brusquely. “Will you let me do it?”
