Tiger by the Tail

by John Ringo

  “Go. Vanner, stay on for one more question. Are you still tracking Cong’s yacht?”

  “Like white on rice. He’s ten miles off the western coast of Myanmar, parallel to a port city called Sittwe, and seems to have dropped anchor, since he has not moved in the past twelve hours. Guess he needed a break after running guns and nuclear motherboards to crazy military officers who want to overthrow their government.”

  “Stick with him. If the boat moves ten feet, I want to know. If he takes a swim around that yacht, I want to know what color Speedo he’s wearing.”

  “You got it, although that is not a picture I want in my head,” Vanner replied.

  “I will contact you once I’ve met up with Nielson at the arms cache. Hopefully we will all get there in time. Kildar out.”

  Mike walked around the side of the truck to the group of former prisoners there. As he’d thought, at least half of the volunteers were those he thought might be Nepalese. “Jace?”

  “Yes, Kildar?”

  “Refresh my memory. Did you list Nepali as one of your languages?”

  “Not so much. Visited the country a couple times, but never stayed long enough to pick it up.”

  “All right, we go to plan B.” He faced the group and pointed at his suspects. “Any of you speak English?”

  “I do,” said one with an odd mix of a British accent underlaid with that of his homeland. He was a general prisoner who hadn’t lost too much muscle tone from his time in the mines. His head was shaved, most likely to avoid lice. He had the prerequisite Indo-Tibetan-Mongolian appearance, with piercing black eyes that settled on nothing, but still took in everything around him.

  “What’s your name, soldier?”

  The man smiled and nodded. “That obvious?”

  Mike nodded back. “We know our own.”

  “Lance Corporal Himal Chanda, of the Shree Naya Gorakh Battalion. I did UN Peacekeeping operations in Africa—Somalia, to be precise—and the Balkans.”

  “Gurkha military, right?”

  Himal nodded.

  “We just might be able to pull this off after all.” Mike raised his voice. “Okay, Himal, please translate this to the rest for me. This goes for anyone here with military experience. I am hiring freelance soldiers for one to two days. Payment is five hundred U.S. dollars a day, but you will be earning it, as we will probably be seeing action from this point forward. Are there any volunteers?”

  Every prisoner except Khin and two others stepped forward. With Himal’s and Jace’s help, Mike got the particulars of each man’s experience and confirmed whether he was in or out. In the end, he had swelled the men under his command by a solid dozen. He turned back to Himal. “Do you know anyone else in Mandalay with that kind of training?”

  The wiry man nodded again. “Since the abolishment of the Nepalese monarchy, many of the soldiers whose army term is up have gone into private security work. I’m sure I can scrounge up a few more in the city, and they probably know others I don’t.”

  “Great. While we’re securing the weapons, I need you to contact as many as you can find. Same terms as you are getting, but they have to be available immediately—like within an hour after your call.”

  “If you would lend me a phone, I can start contacting some of them on our way in,” Himal replied.

  Mike handed his over. “Works.”

  * * *

  An hour later, Mike sat beside Nielson in the Explorer, which was parked on the street a block down from their target, watching the warehouse complex through binoculars. They’d stashed the Cascavel outside of the city, although Mike was aware of the minutes ticking away. Still, he’d be damned if he was going to go into an unfamiliar situation without doing at least some kind of recon.

  “You sure you don’t need something to keep your focus up?” Nielson asked. “Got plenty of Modafinil—”

  Mike had wolfed three energy bars and drunk two bottles of water. “See if any of the men want some. I’m good.”

  “As your XO, I feel compelled to remind you that you haven’t slept in what, a day?” David said. “And you’ve been all go since early this morning. None of us are as young as we used to be. That includes you, you know.”

  Mike kept scanning the cluster of buildings. “I will not rest until Oleg and I have killed that prick General Cong. Then I will sleep.”

  “Yeah, Vanner filled me in. What the fuck’s up with that?”

  “The man likes collecting trophies. Be interesting to see how he likes it when I cut his fucking nuts off and mount those on the wall. The good thing about that is that he will still be alive for Oleg to kill.”

  “How’d he take it?”

  “Like a Keldara. He has to kill the one who dishonored him and reclaim the trophy. I ordered him to give it to me so that Chinese fuckhead didn’t shoot him like a dog and take it anyway.”

  “Jesus.”

  Mike lowered the binoculars and looked through Neilson with a thousand-yard stare. “It’s probably a good thing he’s not around here either. He wouldn’t like what’s going to go down in the next hour.”

  * * *

  Himal’s calls had paid off. By the time he was through, Mike’s force had swelled to thirty-five Gurkha soldiers. All of them looked like they had seen the elephant, and each one carried his personal kukri on a ring sheath at his belt.

  Mike was thrilled, since he considered them the equivalent of his Keldara. After arming as many as he could with the weapons he’d seized at the nuclear facility, he explained the current mission, finishing with, “If there are no questions, let’s take the warehouse.”

  They got into the back of the troop truck again, and Nielson led them to the Cascavel, where he dropped Mike off to rejoin Adams and Jace in the armored car. With it leading, the truck wound its way back into town again, heading directly for the warehouses this time.

  “Have you thought about how exactly you’re going to get inside? It’s not like we’ve radioed ahead or anything,” Adams said.

  “From what I could tell, it didn’t look like the main door was locked. Himal can just jump out of the truck and open it. Since he’s dressed for the part, they’ll probably figure someone showed up early. We drive inside and point the big guns at everyone, and they give up.”

  “Works. Let’s do it,” Adams said.

  They arrived at the warehouse a few minutes later, and sure enough, Himal jumped out of the back of the truck and ran to the door, which was another one that slid open horizontally on a top-mounted rail. Grabbing the handle, he pulled with all his might, yanking the door aside. Again, as soon as the space was wide enough, Jace drove the armored car inside.

  The five soldiers in the large room all whirled and raised their rifles when they heard the door open, but relaxed when they saw the Cascavel pull into the building. The trucks were packed in here like sardines, and there was barely enough room for Jace to pull in. The truck behind them pulled up tight to the entrance, blocking it from the street so no one could see what was about to happen.

  Shouting and waving angrily, one of the soldiers put his rifle up on his shoulder and tried to wave the armored car back out of the building. He froze when Adams popped up on the 7.62mm machine gun and aimed it at him. By that time Himal had reached the man. Grabbing the MA-1 rifle from his unresisting hands, he covered the others. One of the soldiers, hidden from Adams’ view by one of the trucks, tried to unsling his rifle, and was immediately stitched with a short burst from Himal. Three more ducked for cover, with at least one trying to escape out the back of the warehouse.

  “Surround the building! Make sure no one escapes!” Adams called out. Himal signaled the others, and a squad immediately peeled off and split up, with a group of three men going around each side of the warehouse.

  Himal was reinforced by a second squad of Gurkha riflemen, who disarmed and searched the other soldiers before tying their hands and feet. One of the three-person groups that had circled the warehouse returned with a disheveled, limping so
ldier who had obviously been taken down hard. He was also searched and secured.

  “Okay.” Mike and Jace jumped down from the car and walked up to the captured men. “We know what you are up to, and what you were supposed to do here. That is not going to happen today. Tell me who is behind this, and you guys can all walk. Don’t talk, or try to lie to me, and you won’t even crawl out of here.”

  One of the men shouted something at Mike and spat on the floor at his feet, ignoring the other men’s demands that he be quiet.

  “What did he say?” Mike asked.

  “You can’t stop the movement. Nay Pyi Daw will be ours soon, and after that Yangon, and then the whole country!”

  Mike pointed at the loudmouth. “Bring him over here. The rest of you, please come outside for a minute. Himal, with me, please.”

  Once Mike was sure he was out of earshot of the Myanmar soldiers, he addressed the group through the Gurkha soldier. “I need two things from all of you right now. One, I need you to contact anyone else from the service that you know is available for this kind of work immediately. Two, I need ten volunteers to drive these trucks. Nine of you will go directly to the port city of Sittwe and find a spot as close to the harbor as possible. I will have someone meet you there. You will unload the trucks as they direct. Pay rate is the same, and you probably don’t run the risk of getting shot on that job.”

  The group looked at one another, then one shrugged and said he would drive a truck. Once one said it, others followed suit, until Mike had his ten drivers. “Okay, the tenth guy—you,” he pointed at the last volunteer. “Grab one of the trucks that has rifles and ammo in it and get to the Mandalay Airport south of town. Find the C130 there and break out the weapons. I will call ahead and let them know you’re coming. Get moving, right now!”

  The last man took off to the trucks, and Mike addressed the rest. “I’d suggest you get started out of town immediately. Soldiers are going to be here any minute looking for the weapons they’ve been promised. Make your calls on the way out, send anyone who is available to the Mandalay International Airport. Do not tell them any particulars of the mission over the phone. I don’t want the local army intercepting any of the calls. Tell them they should reference a family reunion if they need to speak about it. They have sixty minutes to get there, then we are wheels-up.”

  When they heard that, the Gurkha drivers all ran to their trucks, all of them pulling out cell phones on the way. Mike turned to Himal and Adams. “Himal, get that truck out of the way. Adams, back the car up.”

  While they were jockeying for position on the street, Mike walked back over to his selected soldier, cut his feet free, grabbed his shirt, and dragged him outside toward the pond.

  A frown crossing his face, the soldier asked what Mike was doing. When Jace translated, Mike replied. “Tell him he’s going for a swim. Except that I’m lying about the swimming part.”

  Jace dutifully translated, and the man frowned again. By then they were at the pond’s edge, and Mike kept going, marching out into the brown water. The man began to protest, but as soon as they were waist-deep Mike kicked his legs out from under him and plunged him under the surface. There was a bit of thrashing, and many bubbles, but with his hands tied, there wasn’t a lot he could do except eventually suck water. Mike held him under for a forty count, then brought him up, spluttering and gasping.

  “Tell me everything you know about what’s happening in Yangon.”

  “Fuck . . . off!” Jace translated.

  “Wrong answer.” Back he went, this time Mike kept him under for a full minute. When he brought the soldier up this time, he was much weaker, and a mixture of water and bile streamed from his nose and mouth. “Care to try again?”

  “You cannot stop it. It is already in motion—” was all the man said before Mike dunked him again, letting another minute go by before bringing him back up. This time the man sagged in the Kildar’s arms, half-drowned.

  “If I cannot stop it, then there is no reason not to tell me what is going to happen. If you do not tell me, however, the next time you go under, you will not come back up alive.”

  As soon as Jace finished translating that, the soldier shook his head, gasping out words. “Bring him out, I can’t hear from here,” Jace said.

  Mike dragged him to the bank, where Jace had him repeat what he’d said. When he was finished, the Marine glanced up at Mike. “We didn’t get all of the weapons. Part of the shipment was held back in Yangon for the forces there to take over the City Hall building to prepare it for the officers to set up their temporary headquarters there. It’s their secondary plan, in case the nuclear event doesn’t go off as planned. He says the timetable is already in motion, and supposedly cannot be stopped by anyone, not even the coup leaders.”

  “Determined little fuckers, aren’t they? We have to get there ASAP.” Mike pulled out his radio. “Nielson, this is Kildar.”

  “Nielson here.”

  “Is the plane you rode in on still at the airport?”

  “Yes, on the tarmac right now.”

  “Great. Get in touch with them and tell them to have the plane ready to go in sixty minutes. We are coming down there right now.”

  “Not a moment too soon either. My outlying scouts are saying military convoys are coming from the east. They are hitting the outskirts of town right now.”

  “Son of a—” Mike ran up the embankment to see a truck rumble out of the warehouse. Running inside, he saw that all ten of them were on the road. “Okay, pull your men back and get to the airport. We will meet you there, and then it’s back to Yangon.”

  “What, the weapons aren’t all of it?”

  “Nope, I will fill you in when we get there. Also, if you see Gurkhas arriving at the airport, they’re with us. Collect them and bring them to the plane as quickly as possible. We will leave the vehicles here in exchange for personnel. From what I saw of Yangon, traffic would be a nightmare, and I have a feeling we’re going to need every trigger finger we can get.”

  * * *

  Fifty-six minutes later, Mike, Adams, Jace, and the rest of the men pulled onto the tarmac of the Mandalay International Airport. What he saw made him smile.

  At least forty more Gurkhas stood in several rows in front of the plane, which had its turboprops already warmed up. Dressed in a mix of blue jeans, cargo shorts or pants, and T-shirts and short-sleeved button-down shirts, each one had an MA-1 rifle slung over his left shoulder and basic web gear on. All of them looked ready for action.

  Mike brought Himal with him to address the group. “Have ’em all gather round.”

  Instead of trying to bellow the order, the Gurkha waved the rest of the men in. When they were all clustered around him, Mike started talking.

  “First, thanks for mustering out on such short notice. Before we go any further, you need to know the details of the mission, in case anybody wants to back out. We’re heading to Yangon to stop a rogue Myanmar army unit of unknown size from taking over the city’s capital building. We will most likely be outnumbered, probably heavily. All we have going for us is the element of surprise, and about seventy-five of the finest warriors on the planet. Are you with me?”

  As one, every man in the group shouted, “Jai Mahakali, Ayo Gurkhali!”

  “What was that?” Mike shouted to Himal.

  “The Gurkha battle cry. ‘Glory be to the Goddess Kali, here come the Gurkhas!’” Himal grinned. “We are all with you.”

  “Then let’s move out!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Every day, Mya Soe stared with undisguised envy at the throngs of people hustling past her souvenir kiosk. Men, women, couples, families, all coming or going somewhere much more interesting than this stupid airport. Meanwhile, she was stuck here every day, hawking cheap candy, T-shirts, and duffel bags; forever grounded, while everyone else got to fly away.

  Ever since she had been a little girl, Mya had dreamed of seeing the rest of the world outside Myanmar. But her family was poor,
and life was expensive in Yangon. So, she had dropped out of school at thirteen, and been working to help her family ever since.

  The seventeen-year-old had lucked into this job four months ago through one of her friends. She was supposed to work there, but preferred to roam the streets with her boyfriend instead. When she heard of the girl’s problem, Mya had offered to work in her place.

  The next day, she had gone to the airport with her black hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, wearing her best skirt and blouse. With her heart in her throat, she reported in at the beginning of her shift, waiting to be thrown out. But the manager’s face hadn’t even changed expression when she said she was the new girl. He had just given her an hour’s instruction on how to open and close the kiosk and use the register, and left her for the first of many eleven-hour shifts.

  Mya had quickly mastered the process of selling the products. But once that obstacle had been conquered, she soon realized that this job was worse than hell for her. It wasn’t so much the long hours, boredom, or standing on her feet all day. It was having to watch people coming and going every single day. Knowing that each one was coming from or going to something, moving forward, living their lives. And every day, all she could do was watch them while she remained here, trapped.

  What made her feel even worse was that the pittance she brought in was really helping her family. They had just managed to scrape together enough to move out of their leaking, rotting apartment deep in the slums to the edge of it. They had found a relatively clean, quiet place that welcomed families without asking too many questions. If she were to lose or quit her job, it would send her mother, father, and two younger brothers right back into the filthy, decaying neighborhood they had just escaped. So she worked and watched the people going by every day.

  At first, the airport had been exciting and strange, with so many different kinds of people passing by. Mya had even hoped that some rich businessman might see her and sweep her off her feet, maybe even marry her and take her away to exotic lands. Or maybe a talent scout or modeling agent would spot her and offer to represent her while she became a model or a pop star. But after a few weeks on the job, she realized that to the thousands of travelers passing by her booth, she was only slightly more visible than the cleaning crew. It had gotten so bad that she barely acknowledged the customers anymore, just rang up their purchases, made change, handed them the bagged items, and watched as they walked off.