Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  “Africa sucks,” I said, looking up at the stars. The time I’d spent there hadn’t been so pleasant, either.

  “It is what it is,” Hawk said quietly. “You boys be careful over there, now. Always have a way out. Don’t trust the people you work for. Remember, if you die, they don’t have to pay you.”

  “Okay, Hawk,” I said.

  “I mean it, boy,” he said harshly. “I’ve been to too many goddamned funerals already.”

  VALENTINE

  Kelly Field Annex

  Lackland Air Force Base, Texas

  February 4

  0545

  Southern Texas was warm, even in February. It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was a far cry from the harsh winters and lake-effect snow of Northern Michigan, where I’d grown up.

  The last few days had been a whirlwind. Tailor and I had been flown from Las Vegas to San Antonio. From there we were hurried to a military installation that they tried to keep secret, but I knew it was Lackland Air Force Base. I’d gone to Air Force basic military training and Security Forces School here. They kept us cooped up in an old barracks for several days. Each day, more and more people would arrive. All told, there were forty-two of us living in the barracks, that we knew of.

  Food, in the form of military MREs, was brought to us, and we weren’t allowed to go outside. All cell phones had been confiscated, and those that had kept theirs hidden had found that they had no signal anyway, meaning our hosts were probably jamming them somehow. They also took all of our personal identification documents, like passports and driver’s licenses. This caused all manner of outrage, but our employers insisted that these effects would be returned when the mission was complete.

  People came and went from the barracks, but they weren’t part of our group. No one knew who they were, so we all guessed that they were associates of Gordon Willis. I had to hand it to Gordon: he’d certainly managed to recruit an interesting bunch. As Tailor and I talked to, and got to know, the people that were presumably our new teammates, we learned quite a bit about them and how much we all had in common.

  For starters, almost all of us had combat experience. Most were ex-military, like me, and of those, a few had been kicked out or had spent time in the Fort Leavenworth military prison. Others had an intelligence background, and most of us spoke foreign languages. Tailor and I spoke Spanish fluently. Very few of us had any close family. None of us were married.

  There were a few women in the building, too, but they were confined to a different part of the barracks and weren’t allowed near us. We didn’t know how many there were. I guessed that they were afraid someone would end up pregnant or something. It seemed silly to me.

  So there I was, standing on the ramp, looking at a plain white Boeing 767 jetliner that was waiting for us. The sun wouldn’t be up for another hour. We stood there in a big cluster, smoking and joking, waiting for them to tell us to board the plane. A few of us, including Tailor and me, had formed into a little circle.

  “Where are we going?” someone asked. “Anyone heard?” I turned around. The guy that had asked the question was named Carlos Hudson. He was a black guy from the south side of Detroit, originally. He was the only other Red Wings fan in the whole bunch, so he and I had hit it off.

  “They haven’t told us anything,” I said. “They issued us a bunch of hot-weather gear, though. We’re going to the Middle East.”

  “Oh, yeah, definitely,” Tailor said, standing next to me.

  “Why would they send us to there?” someone else asked. “What are forty-two guys going to do that half the US military can’t?”

  “Maybe we’re going to Iran or somewhere, then,” Hudson suggested. “You know, someplace the US ain’t supposed to be?”

  “Could be the Sudan,” another guy chimed in.

  “I do not want to go back to Africa,” Tailor said for the umpteenth time, puffing a cigarette.

  “Don’t worry, boys, we’re not going to Africa,” a woman’s dusky voice said. That’s when I saw her. She was tall, probably fve ten or so, and had auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail. She had curvy features hidden beneath khaki cargo pants and a sage green fleece jacket. A green duffel bag was hoisted over her shoulder, and it looked like it weighed as much as she did. She was flanked by three other women, but there was something about her . . .

  “Who are you?” Tailor asked.

  “McAllister,” she said, sticking her hand out.

  Tailor glanced at me, then shook her hand. “My name’s Tailor,” he said. “William Tailor. So, where are we going?”

  “Zubara,” she said.

  “Where?” someone asked.

  “The Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara,” one of the other females, a tall black woman, said.

  “It borders Qatar and Saudi Arabia,” McAllister added. “The US has no real presence there.”

  “How . . . how do you know this?” I asked, stumbling on my words for some reason.

  McAllister smiled at me. She had a mischievous . . . no, a devious smile, and beautiful green eyes. “I’m going to be in charge of our communications network when we get there. I’ve spent the last three weeks learning how their telecommunications setup works. Can’t drop me in blind with equipment I’ve never seen and expect me to make it work.” She maintained eye contact with me for what felt like a long time but in reality wasn’t. “Anyway, that’s all I know,” she said then. “Well, we’re getting some really good equipment, too.”

  Before I could think of anything else to say, the door of the plane opened, and the stairs were lowered down to the tarmac. A moment later, a black Suburban pulled up next to where we were all standing. Three men got out. Two looked like standard-issue contractor types, with their tactical cargo pants and tactical vests and whatnot. The third looked like something out of an old movie. He was probably sixty or so, with white hair and a black eye patch over his left eye. His face had hard lines in it. His remaining eye could bore a hole in you. He wore a bomber jacket that was undoubtedly older than I was.

  “Alright, listen up!” he said. His voice was harsh and raspy. “I need you all to fall in and board that plane in an orderly fashion. This is your first assignment, and it’s an easy one, so try not to fuck it up! I know you have a lot of questions. We have a long flight ahead of us. You’ll be briefed in the air.”

  “But, um, sir, Gordon Willis told us that we’d have briefings and training before we deployed,” some brave soul said.

  “You were lied to, son. Now get on that plane so we can get going.”

  “Um, sir, who are you?” the same person, a red headed guy, asked. Some people just didn’t know when to quit.

  The old man, for his part, cracked an evil smile. “My name is Hunter, son. Colonel Curtis Hunter. I’m the boss. Now move out!”

  We’d been in the air for a few hours, just wandering around the plane, killing time. The Boeing 767 jetliner was meant to hold hundreds of passengers in its standard form, but there were only about sixty seats in the front of the plane we were on. The rear was all for cargo. Tailor and I sat next to each other, talking, when Hunter’s harsh voice came on over the intercom. “Listen up. Everyone wake up. I’m coming back to give you the first part of the briefing. McAllister, King, you two come up front.”

  I watched as McAllister and the tall black lady from the tarmac got out of their seats and made their way forward. After a few minutes, they returned, each carrying a bunch of manila envelopes. They walked down the aisle, handing them out to everyone.

  “Thank you, stewardess,” a smartass named Walker said. Walker was one of the guys that had been to Leavenworth. He’d been an Army Intelligence interrogator. Apparently he’d gotten in trouble for killing an insurgent prisoner in Iraq. He was short and suffered from obvious Little Man Syndrome. I had no idea how a dipshit like him scored high enough on the ASVAB to make it into Intelligence in the first place. “Could you bring me a Coke and some peanuts?”

  “Shut your face, pencil-dick,” McAl
lister said, dropping Walker’s packet in his lap. Several guys started to laugh. Walker’s face turned red, and he stood up. He grabbed McAllister by the arm, causing her to drop the rest of her packets. She was four inches taller than him.

  “Listen, bitch,” he started, looking up at her. She turned and punched him square in the face, just like that. He recoiled and let go of her. Blood came trickling from his nose. He came at her again, grabbing her with both hands. The next thing I knew, I was out of my seat, standing in the aisle.

  “Val, what are you . . . ?” Tailor asked. I ignored him and moved toward Walker and McAllister. “Oh, goddamn it, Val,” Tailor said, getting out of his seat and following me.

  “What do you want, Valentine?” Walker didn’t let go of McAllister. A couple more guys stood up. Walker was about to get his ass beat.

  “What the hell is going on back here?” Colonel Hunter yelled, his rough voice clear over the drone of the engines. He had appeared from up front, flanked by two of the ambiguous security men. Both had their hands under their vests, probably ready to draw pistols.

  “I’m fine, sir,” McAllister said, pushing Walker off. She seemed embarrassed that people had come to her defense.

  “I’m sure you are, Sarah,” Hunter said, working his way through the crowd. “Mr. Walker, what is your problem?”

  “Sir,” Walker said, defiantly staring Hunter in the eye, “I just made a joke and this bitch—”

  “That’s enough, Mr. Walker.” Hunter cut him off. He moved in closer. “Now you listen to me, boy. We aren’t even in-country yet. If you’re going to give me problems before we even get there, so help me God I will drop your ass into the ocean. I’m not joking. That’s not some empty threat. You belong to me now. If you don’t make it to Zubara alive, no one in my chain of command will give a shit. So I suggest you sit down and shut your mouth before you piss me off.”

  Walker looked around nervously. The rest of us had backed away, leaving him virtually alone with the scary senior citizen. After a long moment, he deflated. “Yes, sir.” He sat back down.

  “Better,” Hunter said. “Sarah, Anita, please hand out the rest of the packets. Let’s get this briefing started.” McAllister and King both resumed handing out the materials. Tailor and I returned to our seats at the rear of the abbreviated passenger compartment and were the last to get the handouts. McAllister handed me mine without so much as making eye contact.

  “Did I piss her off somehow?” I asked Tailor. He just shrugged and opened his packet. Inside was a bunch of documents, maps, and photographs.

  “Gentlemen,” Hunter said, using the aircraft’s intercom so we could hear him, “as you’re all probably aware, our destination is the Confederated Gulf Emirate of Zubara.” There were screens all along the passenger section that displayed the briefing. The cabin lights darkened, and a large map of Zubara appeared. There wasn’t much to it. It was a patch of desert with three little peninsulas sticking out into the Persian Gulf on the eastern side. Its borders touched Qatar in the north, Saudi Arabia in the west, and the United Arab Emirates in the southeast. The map then changed, from one of the entire country to one focusing on the three urbanized peninsulas.

  “The capital city, and really the only city in Zubara, is Zubara City. It’s made of three sections, Ash Shamal, Umm Shamal, and Al Khor. Over a million people are packed into these three pieces of land, including large numbers of immigrant workers from Pakistan and South Asia. For years, Zubara was a reclusive Middle Eastern emirate, founded on the supposed site of some ancient port city. It’s rich in oil and natural gas but was very isolated. Without foreign investment, Zubara was unable to fully tap its natural resources, leaving the country much poorer than its neighbors.

  “This made it a breeding ground for radical Islam. Over the years, Hezbollah, Hamas, and especially Al Qaeda were able to do a lot of recruiting here. Things started to change ten years ago. The old emir went on a vacation to Switzerland. His son, the current emir, had built a loyal following in the country’s military and told his old man not to come back. Things have more or less been improving ever since.” The map disappeared, and the picture of a middle-aged, mustachioed man, in an expensive-looking suit and traditional Middle Eastern keffiyeh headdress, appeared.

  “This is the current emir,” Hunter explained, “Salim ibn Meheid. He’s tried very hard to force Zubara into the twenty-first century. He’s attempted to crack down on terrorist recruiting and financing, has formally recognized Israel, though relations with the Israelis are strained, and has opened his nation’s economy to foreign investment and development. As a result, billions of dollars are pouring into his country now, and oil and natural-gas output has doubled.

  “There are problems, though. The biggest problem is this guy, General Mubarak Hassan Al Sabah.” The picture changed again, this time to a man with a goatee in a gaudy tan military uniform, decorated with ribbons and medals.

  “General Al Sabah has gained the loyalty of the army. Most of the army is made up of conscripts from poor families and volunteers from places like Iran, Iraq, Pakistan, and Yemen. General Al Sabah has created a cult of personality and has done everything short of openly defying the emir. The emir’s economic policies have brought a lot of change to Zubara, and many Westerners. And while he’s tried to crack down on the financing of terrorism, the general has proved an obstacle to that. General Al Sabah wants to be the Saddam Hussein of Zubara. He’s built a network of contacts and allies, from the Iranians to Al Qaeda. All of his allies don’t necessarily like each other now, but he apparently is able to keep them from killing each other long enough to focus on the Americans. Despite the emir’s efforts, Zubara remains a safe haven for terrorists. This is where they do their banking. This is where their families live. This is where they recruit. This is where they go on vacation.”

  Hunter paused for a long time. “Gentlemen, I think you’re beginning to understand why such tight security has been necessary in this operation. What we’re doing here is radically unconventional. We’re running a major operation with a skeleton crew. You make up the bulk of our forces. We have the support of the emir and a few people loyal to him, but we’ll largely be on our own.”

  “What exactly is our mission, sir?” that same redhead asked.

  “We’re going to bring the war to their doorstep, son,” Hunter replied. “We can’t invade Zubara. It’s not diplomatically or militarily viable. In any case, any attempt to bring in Americans would probably result in a coup attempt against the emir, which would surely bring the country into civil war. The mission would be over before it began. So we’re doing things differently. It’s called Project Heartbreaker. After you get off this plane, you’re never to mention that name to anyone, ever. Anyway, through heavy use of human intelligence and years of planning, we’ve been able to track down a large number of bad people in Zubara. We know where these people live, where they work, and who they’re dealing with. We’re going to find them and kill them.”

  “Is that it, sir? Go to Zubara and kill a few terrorists?”

  “You, ginger,” Hunter said, pointing at the talkative redhead, “no more from you today. It’s a lot bigger than that.” “We’re bringing the war to their home front. The enemy will discover that there are no safe places, anywhere, for them to hide. Our small operational group is going to try something that’s never been tried. Gentlemen, welcome to Dead Six.”

  Tailor and I looked at each other, grinning. Despite my trepidation about my new employers, I liked where this was going. I returned my attention to Colonel Hunter and his briefing.

  I had been in a deep sleep when someone pushed me on the shoulder. I sat up quickly, having been startled awake. I was in the window seat and had been leaning against the fuselage of the plane, using my jacket for a pillow. I looked to my right. Tailor was nowhere to be seen. The cabin was darkened, most of the window shades were pulled down, and it seemed that almost everyone was asleep. Sitting next to me was Sarah McAllister.

>   “What is it?” I said, rubbing my eyes.

  “Hey.” She sounded almost awkward. “I, uh, wanted to thank you, for, you know, standing up.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I mean—”

  She cut me off. “But I can take care of myself. I don’t need you to come galloping to the rescue.”

  “I saw that. You clocked him pretty good.”

  “I used to play hockey,” she said. “When I was in high school.”

  “Seriously? Me, too.”

  “That’s great,” Sarah said flatly. “Listen. I know you and the others were trying to help, but you have to let me handle things or I won’t get any respect around here. Does that make sense?”

  It made a lot of sense, actually. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you. I just . . . it just happened, you know? I didn’t really think about it.”

  “I know. I’m not trying to be a bitch or sound ungrateful, but there are four women here in the middle of all of you guys.”

  “You probably had wieners thrown at you from day one.”

  “Oh my God,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “You have no idea.”

  “I didn’t do that to get in your pants, if that’s what you’re thinking.” I was being honest with her about that, too. Of course, I had no objections to getting in her pants, either.

  Sarah smiled. “The funny thing is, I actually believe you. You know . . .” Sarah’s voice trailed off and she leaned in close to me, squinting quizzically. I pulled back a little bit, not sure what she was doing. “Holy crap,” she said, still too close to my face. “Your eyes are different colors.”

  This always makes me self-conscious. My left eye is blue. My right eye is brown. People usually react like that when they first notice. “Yes, they are.”

  “Are you wearing contacts or something?”

  “No, I’m not.” I gently pushed her back a little bit, out of my personal space. “I was born like that. It’s called heterochromia.”