by Jim Roberts
“You heard me. Meet me over there now, over.”
“Be there in a minute, out.”
Joe double-backed and made his way to the stairs. He immediately spotted Jammer, keeping low in the shadows.
“Sarge, is something wrong? We’re supposed to leave once the satchels are placed, aren’t we?”
“New orders, kid,” said Joe, as he fished out the last satchel charge from his pack. He handed the explosive to his confused comrade, “Find the last container. I need to check something quick before we leave.”
Jammer was confused, “But the Major wanted us to–”
Joe cut the rookie off, “There’s no time for questions, Corporal. The container should be near the forward section of the hold. Find it and get off the ship. I’ll be right behind you.”
Jammer seemed about to object, but acquiesced. “Alright Sarge, see you topside.”
Joe nodded. He watched Jammer disappear into the shadows towards the bow.
Good kid.
Weapon in hand, Joe clicked the comm. “Jade, give me the quickest route to the bridge from here.”
IT TOOK Joe two minutes to stealth his way towards the bridge of the container vessel – a three story structure extending straight up from the aft of the ship. As he went, Joe listened in on the security radio chatter.
It wasn’t good.
“Attention all sectors, we have a security breach! Take immediate steps to contain intruders.”
Damn, thought Joe as he knelt behind a large collection of cables, piled several feet from the nearest hatch into the bridge. The poorly lit deck would only protect him for so long. Centurion helmets had infrared imaging and it wouldn’t take much for a trigger-happy trooper to spot him in the open.
Abruptly, the hatchway opened wide and two armed Centurions burst out, weapons at the ready. The troopers swept their weapons left and right, checking all nooks of the ship for the intruders.
Joe had two seconds to act, or he’d forever hold his peace.
As quiet as a prowling cougar, he leapt out from his hiding spot and bolted for the hatch. The two Centurions made their way towards the bow, their attention diverted from the Peacemaker behind them.
Joe eased open the hatch and peered inside. A small corridor and a flight of stairs leading up were the only things in his immediate view. Joe shouldered his sub-machinegun and withdrew his suppressed 9mm Beretta M9. Weapon trained ahead, he stepped into the corridor; eyes wide for any hostiles unlucky enough to enter his line of sight.
An Olympus Lord may be on the ship…
The Major’s words had been ringing in Joe’s mind over the past day.
In the last eight months, Joe had come into contact with only one other Olympus Lord, or Tribune as they liked to call them. The outcome had been less than what Joe had hoped.
Not this time.
There had been a single question in Joe’s head, one that would be answered by one of Olympus’s big shot death-dealers.
Where is Danny Callbeck?
Joe padded up the stairs, weapon ready for any and all danger headed his way.
Another flight of stairs brought him to the bridge. The sound of a voice forced Joe to freeze. He listened up, ears screaming for information.
He could discern one voice, speaking to someone on a radio. Joe kept his weapon at arm’s length as he eased his way up the stairs, listening as he went.
“No my Lord Falco, the shipment will not be delayed–” the voice spoke with a worried tone; like someone covering their mistake, “–there has been a security breach, but I have it contained…one Centurion has disappeared and we…no sir, if they are here I will find them!”
Joe cautiously peered up past the edge of the staircase and into the bridge beyond. He saw the speaking man, his back facing the stairway. Joe crept up the rest of the way, eyes sweeping the room for any additional occupants.
None. The man was alone.
He was dressed in a dark trench coat, and from what Joe could see, had odd, shoulder length blonde hair. He was speaking into a cell phone as he stared out through the glass of the command deck. Various consoles for the ship’s navigation were spread through the deck. As the man spoke, he half turned. There was a moment’s realization as Joe recognized who it was.
Olympus Legionnaire Commander Antonius.
Joe recognized the Olympus bigwig from the Kazakhstan operation two months back. The man was an albino, extremely lean; with a face one wouldn’t wish on their worst enemy. His lips were pallid and colorless and his eyes were a hideous Crayola yellow. Joe’s last run-in with the man had been in Kuryk, Kazakhstan, where Antonius had been operating a weapon smuggling operation for Olympus into Azerbaijan. Many innocents had died due to Antonius’s actions during that ordeal. After a brief initial confrontation, Antonius had slipped away from Braddock.
Joe had missed his opportunity to deal with the slimy PMC scum at the time.
He wouldn’t miss today.
Antonius continued his phone conversation. “No, Tribune, tell Tiberius that al-Assad will have his shipment with no delays…of course. Ad Manus Fratrum.” The bigwig spoke the last words in Latin, a language Joe had heard various members of the PMC use on occasion. The blonde mercenary clicked the phone off and stuck it into his jacket pocket.
At that moment, Joe acted. Careful not to present a reflection in the glass windows of the bridge, Joe crept up and pressed the 9mm barrel against the bigwig’s head.
“Move a muscle and you’re dead.” Joe growled.
Antonius didn’t move.
“Good. Take your hands out of your pockets, place them on your head and turn towards me.”
Antonius hesitated for a moment, but Joe tapped the 9mm against the goon’s cranium. Slowly, the mercenary did as he was told.
“I recognize your voice.” Antonius said, turning around. Seeing Joe, a twisted smile arched across his ashen face, “Joseph Braddock. Didn’t expect to see you again.”
Joe reached up and grasped the man hard by the throat. He thrust the gun barrel into Antonius’s cheek. “You killed two of my men that day in Kuryk.”
“And I would have killed you if I’d had the chance.”
Joe swallowed his rage, “I need you to tell me something. Otherwise, you die here and now.”
The albino chuckled, “What for? You obviously came here to kill me. I suggest you do it, before my men return.”
The Legionnaire Commander wasn’t taking this seriously. Joe needed the scum’s attention. He smashed the butt of the gun into the man’s cranium. The bigwig dropped to one knee. Joe held Antonius stationary with his left hand, while his right held the Beretta firmly against the bigwig’s temple, “Tell me what I need to know and I promise you won’t learn what a lead slug tastes like.”
“Oh dear,” Antonius smiled, dabbing at the blood running from his temple, “Just let me get my bearings and perhaps I…”
Joe struck the man hard in the chest. The Peacemaker’s blood was up now; adrenaline charged through his veins. He had waited for a moment like this for almost eight months. Now it was here. Even though Joe knew he was on the clock, this was a moment to savor.
“Where is Danny Callbeck?”
Antonius coughed hard. The punch had knocked the wind out of him. “Sorry, I don’t seem to recall that name.”
Joe pressed the gun tight against the merc’s head, “Last chance. Tell me what I want to know or lights out.”
“How is your young friend out there doing, Braddock?”
Joe froze. “What are you talking about?”
“Your teammate.”
Antonius gestured over to the window overlooking the cargo area. “Perhaps you should take a look out there.”
Joe dragged the bigwig roughly to his feet. Keeping the gun firmly against Antonius’s chin, Joe moved towards the window.
Standing on the cargo deck directly below the bridge were a cluster of Centurions.
Sitting on his knees in front of them, was Jammer.
The young soldier’s hands were behind his head and he’d been relieved of his weapons. Joe could see blood pouring from several abrasions across his face.
It had only been a few minutes. How the hell did this happen?
Joe clicked the comm unit, “Peace Command, come in over!”
No response.
Why hadn’t Jade warned him?
Antonius had an answer, “Can’t call home, can you? Once we learned of the infiltration, we activated a Dead Zone inhibiter – a wonderful little toy. It creates a bubble nearly a hundred meters in diameter that bounces incoming radio transmissions away.” Antonius gestured back to the window, “Keep watching, Sergeant. This you have to see.”
Joe looked out the window.
One of the Centurion’s behind Jammer raised his FN assault rifle.
“No!” Joe shouted impotently.
The gun cracked. The 5.56 round exploded through Jammer’s head in a wet, crimson cloud. The rookie pitched to the deck of the cargo hold without a twitch.
God no!
Joe’s moment of grief was what the Olympus bigwig had been waiting for. With surprising speed, Antonius threw his arm up and knocked aside the 9mm, causing Joe to fire a single round that ricocheted off the ceiling. The two men grappled against each other for several breathless seconds as each tried to get the upper hand. Antonius kept a firm grip on Joe’s gun arm, holding the 9mm at bay. As they fought, Joe fired several more bullets that struck the observation window of the bridge.
Out of the corner of his eye, Joe saw the albino produce a thin combat blade from the inside sleeve of his trench coat. Braddock had just a second to counter a thrust from the knife aimed at his throat. The men lurched against one another as Joe’s Ranger reflexes took hold. He pulled the albino forward, using his own weight against him and brutally twisted the arm holding the knife. Antonius’s only option was to move with the throw and was summarily flipped onto his back.
Joe brought the 9mm up and fired a bullet directly into the albino’s kneecap.
Antonius screamed as blood spurted from the gory wound. Joe knocked the knife from the bigwig’s hand.
Holstering the pistol, Joe hauled the jaundiced Olympus commander to his feet. Wrapping an arm around the man’s neck, Joe held Antonius immobile.
The sound of boots rushing up the stairs behind him told Joe that time had run out on this operation.
Joe removed the C4 detonator from his chest harness.
“So your inhibiter creates a bubble around the area, huh? Why don’t we see if your Dead Zone affects radio transmissions from inside?”
Antonius – in agony from the bullet in his knee – hesitated as he realized what Braddock had in mind.
Without a second’s hesitation, Joe clicked the detonator.
BOOM!
The container vessel was wracked hard by four massive explosions. The entire vessel groaned like a sick beast. A horrible grinding noise shrieked from the bow of the Marlin as several fifteen ton containers slid off the ship and pitched into the black waters of the harbor. The Centurions standing on the cargo deck below were tossed into the air like ragdolls as a multitude of containers came crashing down upon them.
It had been a lucky guess that the detonator would work within the Dead Zone bubble. The explosion nearly caused Joe to lose his footing, but he held his enemy tight. He heard the sounds of men shouting coming from the staircase below.
Joe was out of time.
The Peacemaker unhooked an N-99 fragmentation grenade from his chest harness and yanked the pin. The experimental grenade – developed by the Peacemaker’s tech unit – packed three times the kick of a traditional M67 frag.
“This is for Kazakhstan, you piece of shit!”
Joe shoved the grenade into the wide pockets of the Olympus bigwig’s trench coat. He shoved Antonius down the stairwell, just as a team of five Centurions rounded the stairway towards the bridge. The Olympus Lord tumbled down the stairs, crashing into the troopers, who fell amongst themselves trying to avoid the flailing body.
Joe didn’t wait for the fireworks. He aimed his 9mm at the bridge window and fired three shots through the glass.
Joe rushed towards the window, throwing his life into the capricious hands of fate.
The grenade detonated.
Just as Joe leapt through the bridge glass, the entire deck was filled with explosive flame. The rush of superheated air washed over Braddock as he fell fifteen feet down to the deck below. The fall was merciless, with nothing to cushion him. He landed hard; his lungs deflating like a bellows. For several seconds, Joe couldn’t move – his body didn’t seem to remember how to breathe. His right leg hurt abominably.
Through the pain, a voice chimed in his ear, “…oe, do you read me? Come in, over!”
Jade.
Somehow in the explosion, the Dead Zone around the cargo ship had been lifted.
Gasping for air, Joe finally learned how to work his lungs again. Before he could respond to the Peacemaker mission specialist, another explosion rocked the ship. The entire vessel listed to port side. More containers slid from the deck, creating an ear-splitting amount of noise.
“Joe, you have to get off that ship now!” Jade’s voice sounded frantic.
“Jammer…” Joe coughed as he stood up on his feet.
“We saw it on the drone, Joe. He’s gone.”
There was no time for anguish. The boat was foundering. Beyond the bulwarks of the vessel, Joe saw a myriad number of emergency vehicles approaching the edge of the harbor.
The C4 had done its job too well. There was far more ammo and explosives in the hold than the intel had reported. The entire cargo bay was exploding.
“Get off your ass Joe and get to the aft section. You can jump from there!”
Joe didn’t need to be told twice. He was on his feet and running just as a 30 ton container slid off its perch and tumbled towards where Joe had just been sitting. A fraction of a second earlier and he’d have been flattened. Joe unshouldered the MP5 and ran awkwardly across the tilting stern section. Several more explosions ripped across the cargo deck, gutting the interior of the ship. The Marlin was now tilting at a near thirty-degree angle.
“You’re clear Joe,” Jade’s voice sounded desperate, “Rourke is on his way to get you. Jump!”
Ignoring the pain in his side, ignoring the possibility that he would almost certainly drown, Joe pulled himself over the bulwark. A final, massive explosion erupted from the hold of the ship. Joe dived off the crippled vessel and into the dark waters below.
DARKNESS ENVELOPED Joseph Braddock as he struggled against the waters of the Mediterranean. The water in the shallow harbor had been churned up by the foundering cargo ship. Surfacing, Joe could hear the sounds and see the lights of incoming helicopters. He forced himself to swim. It felt like may have broken a rib. Gritting his teeth against the mean pain in his side, Joe swam out from the harbor.
After ten minutes of agony, he managed to clear the entranceway into the port. The pain in his side was killing him, and his ankle hurt like a sonovabitch.
Jade’s voice chimed in his ear, “Joe, Rourke’s almost there. Keep going!”
Her words buoyed Joe, giving him the strength to continue.
“Joe! Do you hear me?”
A voice across the water. The muted sound of a tiny motorboat.
Rourke.
Joe raised his arm above the water, trying to wave. It was too dark to see, but Joe thought he could make out a shape ahead of him.
The Navy SEAL was closing in.
Joe pushed himself on. Strength shot back into his arms as the motorboat altered its course. Rourke maneuvered the CRRC in front of Joe.
“Give me your hand, Sergeant. Come on!” Rourke clasped Joe’s hand and pulled him on board the rubber inflatable craft. The frogman spoke into his radio, “I’ve got him on board. Heading out for EVAC now.”
Joe barely heard the SEAL. The tiny engine of the CRRC revved to life and
Joe felt the boat slice through the calm waters of the sea. Joe’s mind was stuck back on that boat, going over and over the scene of Jammer’s death. Guilt knotted his stomach as he realized that it was all his fault.
Joe felt something creep into the back of his consciousness. It was a feeling of loss and helplessness. A soldier had died, and he had no one else to blame but himself.
Braddock clung to the small raft, wanting nothing more than to slip back into the sea and let the darkness of the water consume him utterly.
Jammer died. Another kid.
I swear on my life, I will make this right.
Chapter 2
Scorpion
Eastern Syria, Deir ez-Zor Region
July 13th, 2015
FIVE YEARS ago, the village of Hijjâné would have been considered a quiet place. Nestled between several low-lying hills on the outskirts of the Syrian/Iraq border, little affected the less-than 500 inhabitants of the stone constructed homes dotting the arid steppe. Even during the Iraq War, when Sunni Insurgents created a major supply line between Syria and the Al Anbar Governorate on the opposite side of the border, the people of Hijjâné were left in relative peace. An occasional militant Sunni group would pass through, but pay little to no heed to the meek, harmless desert dwellers eking out an existence in a harsh clime.
That ended today.
As he stood in the small town square of Hijjâné, Abdul Rashid Ibn Hamad looked upon the bodies of over two dozen men and women, crucified on makeshift crosses. Victims of militants belonging to the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant (ISIL), the sun had burned their bodies a sickening red. Blood streamed from their hands where barbed wire had been used to string them up. The cloying smell of rotting flesh permeated the square. On top of the various homes sat buzzards, patiently waiting for the visitors to leave so they could resume their evening feasting.
The sight had become all too common to Rashid. At forty-one years, having spent most of his life in this part of the world, the desert mercenary had seen more than his share of human-inflicted horror. Rashid had believed he’d grown an immunity to the rampant amorality of Syria, but days like this would come along and he realized he was still all too human.
