“You worry too much,” Ted said. “You still amaze me.”
“How’s that?” Jim asked, going for a tug on his beer but finding it empty. He got the waiter’s attention for another. One of the things he didn’t like about the middle east; all the bars only employed men.
“West Point, top of your class. Made Captain in less than 5 years, then resigned your commission.”
“Got bored,” Jim said as the beer arrived. Ted grunted.
“Went to college and got a degree in geology. Took a few million your old man left you and went into oil and gas exploration. Had a dozen successes in places no one else thought there was oil. Company was worth over $100 million in five years. Sold the company.”
“Got bored,” Jim said again, taking a deep drink.
“Took that money and invested it with Elo Cologne, helped develop the Raptor Eight booster. Doubled your money in five years, cashed out.”
“Bored,” Jim said, not watching his partner.
“Disappeared for four years into the libraries of Europe. When you came back, you sank most of your money into buying and refitting an old NOAA research ship. Headed for the Caribbean where you found three lost treasure ships in less than a year, netting a cool $2 billion dollars. Dropped that a year ago; no, don’t say it, ‘Got bored.’”
“Sort of,” Jim said. “I also ran out of positive leads. I found all those through research, and there’s not many of those ships left around. I’ll have to remember to send a thank you note to Cortez’s descendants.”
“Some of them were probably just trying to kill you. So now you’re a billionaire, the world’s at your fingertips, and what do you do? You buy a piece of shit military contractor-slash-personal protection outfit, spend millions bringing it up to date, then just bump around the last six months doing crap like this.” Jim finished the beer and shrugged.
“Yeah, okay. You got a point?”
“Yeah, I do,” Ted said, leaning closer. “You’ve got the talent here for a top notch covert ops unit, but you haven’t taken any of those jobs. I’m not military; I was NSA, after all. I figured at first, it’s because maybe you don’t like wet work. Well, today tells me that ain’t the case. And you’re counting dollars. You haven’t spent 10% of your net worth on this company.”
“Nine point two,” Jim said, jabbing his finger to make in invisible decimal point.
“Right, but you’re counting every dime, like you know something’s going to happen.” Jim just looked at him. “So, what’s about to pop? Something has to be about to happen.”
“You know what?” Jim asked. Ted leaned forward. “I haven’t a clue.”
“Fuck,” Ted cursed and got up to leave.
“But I’ll tell you this much,” Jim said, giving his XO a wink. “You’re right, something is going to happen. My instincts have never been wrong.” Ted shook his head in bemused anger and walked off. Jim examined his empty beer bottle, beads of condensation dripping down the side. “Not yet, anyway.”
* * * * *
Cartwright’s Cavaliers - 2
As quickly as the powerful had arrived, they were all gone. Jim barely had two days to sit around and absorb the ambience of Kandahar, jewel of the butt crack of Afghanistan, before he was shuttling the Prime Minister back to the airport. None of the local jihadi seemed interested in a rematch, so the plane took off without incident. It seemed the KSK had brought along a deck of cards, too, because they never made an appearance in the green zone.
“Why the sudden departure?” Ted wondered as the plane roared into the early morning sky.
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Jim said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. He’d refrained around the Prime Minister. It was widely known she didn’t approve. The sound of idling turbojets made him glance at the giant, ancient hangar. Its doors were open, and one of Cartwright’s International’s three Russian surplus IL-76s was taxiing out. The big, squat transport was the company’s workhorse, large enough to move any of their manpower and equipment. It also had enough range to reach anywhere in the world with only one refueling. Jim had bought them shortly after taking over and renaming the company.
“I always want to whistle the old Soviet anthem when I see those things,” Jake said as he walked up. Both the MaxxPros were idling a short distance away, already refueled and ready to go. His entire 20-man team lounged around the MRAPs, shooting the shit and telling lies. Nina looked to be telling the story of how she greased the goat herders for the 11th time.
“Yeah, they get the job done,” Jim replied. “How are the men?” he asked Jake. He wore sergeants’ stripes, and was a senior NCO in the organization. The men liked and trusted him. Many still weren’t too sure about their new owner/commander.
“They’re bored,” Jake admitted. “That bit of action took the edge off, but not by much.”
“Nina seems to have enjoyed it,” Ted said, giving his boss a poke in the ego. He knew Jim was chagrinned about the cost of the little engagement.
“I’m sure she did,” Jim agreed. Over by the MRAPs, Nina was miming her arms as a machinegun, jerking it around as she hosed down enemies. Ted winked at Jake, who only just managed to not laugh.
The huge IL-76 came to a stop and the rear doors split to allow the ramp to drop. Their loadmaster came out and started gesturing to load the MRAPs. Jim grabbed up his personal weapon and duffel and walked toward the descending ramp to get on before the trucks.
The interior of the fuselage was divided into two sections, the big open rear area for cargo, and the front passenger section. In its current configuration, the IL-76 could carry 50 personnel and both the MRAPs. The big armored trucks were a tight fit at 8.5 feet wide and 10 feet tall. Observing the MRAPs being loaded into the 11x11 foot interior space was like watching a snake eat a lunch box. They had to detach the machine guns on the roof for the vehicle to fit.
Up front, Jim took his padded ‘boss seat,’ as Ted called it, and logged into the ruggedized laptop there. The IL-76 had a fuselage-mounted satellite link and maintained an internet connection in almost all of the countries in the world. He was deep into spreadsheets and work proposals an hour later as the turbines spun back up, and the plane taxied for takeoff.
“Hey boss,” Alex called. He had a little alcove in what was once the plane’s engineering seat before it was upgraded, right behind the cockpit.
“Yeah,” Jim said, “I’m reading a contract.”
“You better look at this.”
“It can wait, kid.” Ted unbuckled and moved forward. Jim glanced out the window by his seat. Taxiway markers were still going slowly by; they had a few minutes before takeoff.
“Holy fuck,” Ted said.
“I know, right?” Alex replied. Jake slid by next. Alex’s little compartment was getting really crowded.
“Takeoff in two,” the pilot called.
“Damn it,” Jim said. “Sit down before Slim comes back here and kicks all our asses.”
“You better see this, Boss,” Ted said.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Jim said, giving up. He wedged himself into the press of bodies and peered at Alex’s monitor. He blinked and shook his head. “What the hell, this a science fiction movie?”
“No,” Alex said, “you haven’t checked the news feeds, have you?”
The screen showed a YouTube video. It was set on a barge floating in a river, with a craft of some sort squatting on it. The craft was unlike any ship Jim had ever seen, long and sleek like an SR-71, but with fewer atmospheric control surfaces. The skin gleamed silver in the sunlight. The image zoomed in to a boarding ramp. Two people were walking across the barge toward the ramp. The view moved to a close-up of the ramp just as a pair of huge insects walked down it. They looked like praying mantises. Only, praying mantises didn’t have armor, helmets, and guns.
“Better buy stock in Raid,” Jake laughed, his amused tone falling flat.
“Is this real?” Jim asked.
“It’s on every ne
ws feed,” Alex said. “It happened about nine hours ago.” He gave a shrug. “Internet here in The Stan sucks balls. I didn’t get it until I uplinked from the plane.” Jim grunted as the video went on.
The two Human dignitaries waited a respectful distance for a minute, then another figure appeared on the ramp. This one looked like a big bipedal owl. The resemblance was uncanny, from the short legs to the big wide head and large black eyes. Only owls didn’t have hands, which the being held across its body as it trundled down the ramp. A few seconds later it stood before the two Humans, and they all exchanged bows.
“The First Contact with Aliens,” a banner on the video proclaimed.
“We’re cleared for takeoff,” the pilot, Slim, called from the cockpit, the annoyance clear in his voice. Jim was momentarily stuck, unable to decide what to do. Aliens, like in the movies?
“Everyone take a seat,” Jim said. Jake and Ted both complained. “I said sit down,” he snapped, going back to his own seat. Even Ted shot him a slightly annoyed look, but did as he was told. “Get us into the air,” Jim yelled to Slim as he buckled in.
“Taking off,” the pilot said, and the four PS-90 turbofans screamed. Fully loaded, the IL-76 used most of the runway to claw into the air, while word of what was on the internet spread like lightning. The men of Cartwright’s International were all using handheld devices and laptops to access the plane’s WiFi and see for themselves. As soon as they were up and out of missile range, several unbuckled and raced forward to look at the footage on Alex’s better screen. Now he had footage of the owl-like alien, apparently known as a Buma, as it was talking to the UN General assembly. Jim had found pictures from a telescope showing an object under construction in space at a location known as the L-5 point. He had to look that up too. The Buma, named Shinalra, was talking about a “Galactic Union” and inviting Earth to participate.
“Thousands of races,” Jim mumbled. “Screw Star Trek!” He laughed to himself; it sounded more like Star Wars. He imagined some grand galactic senate with a Human sitting in a chair arguing for more taxes for Human welfare. God help us all.
“There you go,” Ted said. Jim looked up, and his XO was pointing at the monitor. The alien representative was there, its little beak moving as surprisingly understandable English came from a little box around its neck.
“—the residents who live on your world will benefit greatly from citizenship in the Galactic Union. As a representative of the Trade Guild, I offer greetings.”
“What do you mean, there I go?” Jim asked.
“Remember our talk in the bar? You said yourself you didn’t know why you bought the company.” The older man pointed at the Buma, still talking though now muted. “Well, there you go.”
“I didn’t do it to study ET,” Jim said. “He can phone home, or go home for that matter, I don’t care.” Ted shook his head and pointed at Jim’s screen before speaking.
“Mark my words,” he said with the air of somber importance, “this is a game changer.” Jim gave a derisive snort, but deep down he had the feeling Ted was correct.
* * * * *
Cartwright’s Cavaliers - 3
Jim stood outside his Houston office, trying to stay back from the driving rain as he sucked at his cigarette in a morose manner. His wife managed the office, so the only way he could catch the occasional smoke was to sneak out with the excuse of getting coffee.
“You’re going out in this?” she asked, gesturing at the rain pounding against the 14th story glass. The remnants of tropical storm Abdul was spending its wrath on south Texas before looping back to Louisiana.
“I like Starbucks,” he admitted. The real problem was that during his trip to Afghanistan, he’d gotten a lot of smoking in, and now he was going through almost a pack a day again. “Fuck,” he grumbled as a wind gust between the buildings blew his hat off and sent it sailing toward the clouds. “Fuck my life.”
“Where’s your coffee?” Lisa asked as he slogged back into the office. Jim stopped and looked down at his hand, feeling like a complete moron.
“Oh, I drank it on the way back.”
“It’s 90 degrees out there,” she said, shaking her head. He shrugged, doffed his rain coat onto the rack by the door, and headed for his office. The smell of the copy machines and a dozen deodorants mixed with the wet smells he’d just brought in as his shoes squelched with each step. His underwear was wet.
“You really need to quit smoking,” Ted said as he went by the XO’s office.
“You really need to mind your own fucking business,” Jim snarled. The former marine laughed loud and hard. “God-damned leatherneck.”
“Semper fi, boss!”
“Hooah,” he replied without any energy. Jim dropped into his expensive leather chair, feeling water squirt up his back from his sodden pants. The spreadsheet on his computer hadn’t changed with an infusion of nicotine. He had a company of elite soldiers sitting around doing jack shit. Ever since the terrorist attack at the UN, and the aliens turning Iran into glass, the entire planet had been as quiet as he’d seen it in his lifetime. Almost six months of crazy quiet. Oh, sure, the Arabs were losing their shit. When weren’t they? But they were just making noise. Since the MinSha mercs had landed about 50 of their soldiers around the periphery of the worst damage and slaughtered anyone who so much as held a butter knife up to them, there hadn’t been a single terrorist incident on the planet. The war hawk conservatives in the U.S. were having a big ‘told ya so’ moment, and maybe they even deserved it.
The fact was, the damned aliens looked like they were bad for business. Even the U.S. Government, which was always good for a million here or there, was curtailing all spending for the moment. And his overhead wasn’t small. Oh, sure, he was flush enough to spend the next 400 years without significant income. That didn’t excuse the fact he wasn’t making money.
On top of the financial issue, he’d been bothered by what Ted had said back in Kandahar. He’d gone from venture to venture his entire life without ever realizing why. It was just something he’d gotten used to, especially because each new interest led to ever increasing fortunes. Until now. He had a list of potential clients he’d been going through, looking for a gig. After drying off a bit, Jim picked up where he’d left off.
By late in the afternoon he was all out of contacts. Nobody had any jobs to offer. He caught himself on the internet looking at business opportunities, and that pissed him off. He went to Drudge out of frustration, trying to distract from the annoying situation he found himself in.
“Hey, Boss.” Jim looked up to find Ted standing in his doorway.
“What’s up?”
“I have something you might be interested in.” He came in and handed Jim a small stack of papers.
“What’s this?”
“Details from a friend.” Jim started reading. After a minute he looked up in surprise.
“Is this for real?”
“Yes,” Ted said. “Take a look at some of those figures.” Jim read again, then he looked back up, his eyes wide.
“Does that say…”
“Yeah, millions.”
“What are these Union credits trading for?”
“There isn’t a direct exchange, at least not yet.” Ted looked down at a notebook he was holding. “I have figures from 45,000 to 66,000.”
“Dollars?!”
“Yeah, dollars.” Jim looked down again, and Ted laughed. “Yes, that’s 45 billion U.S. dollars per Union million.”
“The smallest contract here is 5 million credits.”
“And I understand they can be negotiated,” Ted added. Jim continued to read.
“What do these missions mean?” Jim asked. “Some seem more obvious than others. Heavy assault, light assault, static defense, sure. But highguard? And what the hell is industrial retribution?”
“I don’t have a clue,” Ted laughed. He set an SD card on the desk. “My friend also sent this.” Jim picked it up and looked. A common SD card, one teraby
te inside. He slipped it into his laptop. It was almost completely full of files downloaded from something called the GalNet.
“Mercenary Law,” Jim read. “Is this about that presentation from General Thales?”
“It is,” Ted admitted. The presentation from now-ambassador Thales had seemed like so much political garbage. Working for the aliens who attacked Iran didn’t seem like a plan. Of course, at the time, he hadn’t realize the amount of money involved. He was about to call his XO an idiot for wasting his time, then stopped.
“Ted, where does that friend of yours work?”
“He’s Top with 3/5 out of Pendleton.”
“Dark Horse,” Jim said. Ted nodded. “I knew their CO from a joint operation gig I did just before I resigned.”
“He was my company commander when I was back in 3rd Assault.”
“Why does he have this?” Jim asked, suspicious.
“Because the government wants in on the action. They’re sending a dozen units off on contracts. The quiet after the Iran deal has freed up a lot of firepower. They’re sending Army, Marines, and even a Navy unit. The Joint Chiefs are making noise about this balancing the budget.”
“How much research have they done on what they’ll be facing?” Jim asked.
“Top said they’re reviewing satellite footage of the praying mantises in Iran. He says they’re nothing special.”
“Nothing special,” Jim laughed. “The aliens took 3 casualties, from what I hear. And took down thousands of Mujahedeen. I saw a cell phone video where five aliens jumped on an old Russian T-72 and peeled the crew out of it like prawns. I didn’t see a video of a single alien casualty. Their armor stops heavy weapons. Heavy fucking weapons.” He turned to his computer and a minute later had a YouTube video with millions of hits. “Here, watch this.”
Alpha Contracts Page 2
