Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  “They’re shipping us off,” Hudson said from across the room. Sitting next to him was Wheeler, the guy who kept asking questions on the plane. He and Hudson had both been in the Rangers together. Wheeler was a slim, freckled redhead. Despite being from New York, he was a country boy. Wheeler had grown up hunting in the woods of upstate New York, or as he always pointed out, the “unpaved” part of the state.

  “To where?” I asked.

  “Downtown,” Colonel Hunter explained, facing us at last. “You boys are ready. I’m shipping the four of you off to one of our safe houses in the city.”

  “Al Khor,” Sarah said. “It’s the upper class of the three peninsulas of Zubara City. It’s where most of the government ministries are and where most of the Westerners live. It’ll be easier for you to blend in there, but you will operate throughout the city.”

  “So, we’re the last ones to leave, and we’re getting an easy assignment,” Tailor said. “Did we screw up somehow, sir?”

  “You’re the last team to leave, Mr. Tailor, but you’ll probably get the first mission. I’ve actually been impressed with you boys, so I’m assigning you all to the same chalk.”

  “Just the four of us, sir?” Wheeler asked.

  “You’ll be fine,” Hunter replied. “Mr. Tailor, you’re in charge of this chalk.”

  “Yes, sir!” Tailor answered crisply. I groaned. Tailor kicked me in the shin under the desk.

  “From your records, I know that Mr. Tailor has the most combat experience of you four,” Hunter said. “Mr. Valentine, you’re second-in-command.”

  “But, sir,” Wheeler protested, “I mean, no offense to Valentine, but Hudson and I have been through a lot. We did two tours in Afghanistan together.”

  “I know that, Mr. Wheeler. However, Mr. Valentine has seen combat in Afghanistan, Africa, Bosnia, China, Central America, and Mexico. I didn’t make the chain-of-command decision lightly. Do not question me, ginger.”

  Tailor snickered.

  “Holy shit, Val,” Wheeler said, looking over at me. I just shrugged.

  “Moving along,” Hunter said, “your first target is this man.” Sarah pressed a few keys on the laptop. An image of a young Gulf Arab man, probably no older than me, appeared on the screen. He was wearing the traditional thobe and headdress. He had a baby face, with a thin mustache and a neatly trimmed beard on his chin. “His name is Abdul bin Muhammad Al Falah. He’s a young up-and-comer in the Zubaran terrorist network. He’s used his family’s money and political connections to try to make a name for himself.”

  “He looks like a kid, Colonel,” Tailor said.

  “He’s twenty-six,” Hunter replied. “He’s also, by all accounts, just a spoiled rich man’s son. Our intelligence assets believe this is all a game for young Mr. Al Falah. And he’s not been directly involved in any terrorist operations so far.”

  “So why is he important?” Hudson asked.

  “He has connections. They’re grooming him to be a player when he gets older. Your first assignment, gentlemen, is to locate and capture Mr. Al Falah.”

  “Capture, sir?” I asked.

  “The junior Al Falah knows people,” Sarah said, still sitting in front of her computer. “He’ll be a very useful intelligence asset. He’s relatively young and inexperienced, too, so it should be easier to extract information from him.” Her voice was colder than usual as she spoke.

  “Miss McAllister is right,” Hunter said. “We need him alive, for the time being. You will interrogate him.”

  “Are we supposed to make him talk?” Wheeler sounded nervous with the idea. “Aren’t there, like, rules about that now?”

  Hunter scowled. “Rules? Does extracting information from this young man make you uncomfortable, Mr. Wheeler?” He didn’t wait for a response. “You’re not in the army anymore. This young man has been helping recruit the assholes who’ve been blowing up your old compatriots. I don’t want rules, gentlemen, I want results.”

  “So, how are we supposed to find him?” Tailor asked.

  “Our intelligence assets are working on that, Mr. Tailor,” Hunter replied. “You’ll be assigned to observe him yourself, and you’ll be given a list of places he frequents. He’s not a difficult man to track, and he has no reason to suspect he’s in any danger here. Zubara has been a safe haven for terrorists for years. This should be an easy one.”

  “I’ll be assisting during operations,” Sarah said, taking over from Hunter, “as a sort of dispatcher. I’ll be in radio contact with the other operational teams. I can update you on intelligence, give you instructions, and assist in translating if you need it. You’ve all been assigned radio call signs. Wheeler, yours is Ginger.”

  “Hey!” Wheeler protested. Tailor broke out in a laugh.

  Sarah ignored our adolescent humor. “Hudson, you’re Shafter.”

  “So the black man gets to be Shafter, huh?” Hudson growled. “Hell, why not Dolemite? Or how ’bout Black Dynamite?” The room immediately fell silent. Sarah looked at Colonel Hunter, not knowing what to say. Hudson could only maintain his indignant expression for so long before he started laughing. “Lord, girl, where did you come up with these?”

  “They’re randomly chosen by computer,” Sarah insisted.

  “Bullshit!” Wheeler snorted. Hudson slapped the desk and let out a raucous laugh.

  “Gentlemen,” Hunter warned, frowning. Kill joy.

  Sarah continued. “Tailor, your call sign is Xbox.”

  “Xbox?” Tailor asked, sounding laughably butt-hurt. “Seriously?” Wheeler folded his arms across his chest and gave Tailor a look of smug satisfaction. I chuckled.

  “And Valentine, your call sign is Nightcrawler.”

  “Nightcrawler?” I repeated. “How did you come up with that?”

  Hunter finally cracked a smile. “You should’ve heard some of the ones she came up with for the other boys. Mr. Walker’s call sign is Lilac.”

  “I thought you said they were randomly chosen by computer?”

  Sarah tried as hard as she could to look innocent. “They are! Why would you think otherwise?” She flashed me a little smile and winked. Tailor, noticing, kicked me under the desk again.

  VALENTINE

  Ash Shamal District

  March 11

  1900

  “This is Ginger. I’ve got eyes on the target,” Wheeler said over the radio.

  “Roger that,” Tailor responded, his voice very hushed in my earpiece. “I see him, too. He just passed my position.”

  “Ginger, Control,” Sarah said over the radio, her voice very professional. “Do you have a positive ID on the target?” It was very important that we had the right guy, after all.

  “Uh . . . stand by.” Wheeler and Hudson were both in our van, which was parked farther down the darkened alley to the south. To the north was the target building. It was a small building, only one story, constructed out of stucco and brick like most of the older buildings in the city. It looked out of place, though, surrounded by several huge, new, corrugated-steel warehouses. On the south side of the target building was a bright amber light. The rest of the alley was dark. Previously, our intelligence assets had made sure the other nearby street lights were out of commission, vandalized with a pellet gun.

  “Control, Shafter,” Hudson said. “I’ve got a positive ID on our target. He’s got three others with him.” The van had an impressive assortment of gadgets and equipment, including state-of-the-art night vision and thermal optics.

  “Copy that, Shafter,” Sarah said, ice in her voice. “You are cleared to engage. Capture the target. Kill the others. Control out.”

  It was on. Shrouded in darkness, I peeked around the corner, looking north, up the narrow alley. Abdul bin Muhammad Al Falah and three compatriots slowly made their way toward me, talking loudly in the darkness. Al Falah and one skinny man were dressed in traditional Arab thobes, dark ones because it was cool out, and checkered headdresses. They were flanked by two serious-looking men in bro
wn suits, probably bodyguards. Our target had what appeared to be a laptop bag slung over his shoulder. Good. It was likely we’d get at least some intelligence from his computer. Al Falah and his friend were having an animated conversation, their voices echoing loudly down the narrow alley. They acted like they didn’t have a care in the world as they approached me.

  The building at the end of the alley was some kind of terrorist hangout, used mainly for recruiting and propaganda. Al Falah frequented the place. Almost every night he would take a walk down the alley with another potential recruit. He’d go on and on about the jihad and other bullshit, wowing the recruits with his family connections and promising their families large monetary rewards if they would sign up to kill Americans. At first, I couldn’t believe how brazen they were, walking down a public street discussing this stuff. After a few days, I realized that this was the reason we’d been sent to Zubara in the first place. They’d never see it coming.

  “This is Xbox,” Tailor whispered, his voice hushed in my earpiece. “They just passed my position. Four of ’em. The target, another individual, and two big fuckers, probably guards.”

  “Roger,” I said, still peeking around the corner. Tailor was hiding behind a wall that separated the target building from a warehouse to its south. In the darkness, Al Falah and his escorts had walked right past Tailor’s position without noticing him. His bodyguards were complacent, it seemed. Good. Complacency kills.

  I looked down at my watch. The final call to prayer of the day would begin at any moment. There was a mosque only a block away. Once the call to prayer began, the traditional music would start blaring over a set of loudspeakers. This would last for a couple of minutes, and would give us a little cover if we had to make some noise.

  I was wearing tan cargo pants, a black shirt, a black jacket, and a tan baseball cap. I looked unmistakably American, but I was dressed similarly to most of the Westerners running around Zubara, except for the holster on my left hip and the body-armor vest under my shirt. I reached under my jacket and drew the Sig 220 pistol I’d been issued. With my other hand, I reached into my jacket’s inside pocket and pulled out a suppressor. I quickly screwed the two together, while taking one last look around. The sky was glowing from the lights of the city, so much so that I couldn’t see any stars, even though it was clear out. All around us were typical city noises; we were only one block away from a busy main thoroughfare. The alley itself was peaceful, save for the prattling of Al Falah and his friend.

  Suddenly, from the north, a recording of a man singing in Arabic began. It was 1907. The call to prayer had begun. I took a deep breath. “This is Nightcrawler,” I said, whispering into my radio. “I’m moving.” With that, I stepped around the corner, suppressed pistol held behind my back, and began walking purposefully toward my target. I kept my head down, so the brim of my ball cap hid my eyes. I hunched over, trying to hide how tall I was. My heart was pounding, but I wasn’t really scared. I doubted Al Falah’s half-assed bodyguards were much of a threat.

  “Xbox moving,” Tailor whispered. To my north, past Al Falah and his compatriots, something moved in the shadows, another figure coming up behind them on the sidewalk. Tailor’s shape was silhouetted against the amber light of the building at the end of the alley. The bodyguards hadn’t once looked behind them yet.

  I was getting close now. Looking up, I saw that the two bodyguards had noticed me. One stepped in front of the rest and began to approach. The other hung behind. Still, neither had looked behind them. Tailor continued his approach unnoticed.

  The lead guard said something to me in Arabic, his voice raised to make himself heard over the blaring music. Al Falah and the other man stopped. I didn’t understand the language, but I definitely got the gist from the tone of his voice. The thug was a tall man, with a bushy mustache. His right hand was beneath his brown jacket, resting on the butt of a gun. I made eye contact with him for the first time. He held his left hand up, signaling me to stop, still talking. He grew angry when he realized that I was a foreigner and took another step closer. He was only a few feet in front of me now. Young Mr. Al Falah had an obnoxious grin on his face; his friend seemed nervous.

  My eyes darted to the left. Tailor was right behind the other bodyguard. His hands came up, extending his own pistol. He fired a shot; the muffled pop of the suppressed .45 round discharging was barely audible over the singing that echoed through the alley. Tailor’s target dropped to the sidewalk.

  The bodyguard in front of me turned around quickly, having heard the discharge. Before he knew what was happening, I had my own pistol up and put a .45 slug into his left ear. My gun was on Al Falah before the body hit the sidewalk. He and his friend both turned to face me, eyes wide, staring at my pistol. Tailor’s .45 popped twice more, and Al Falah’s friend fell to the ground, two gunshot wounds to his back.

  Al Falah looked down at his companion, then turned around to see the muzzle of Tailor’s suppressed pistol. He turned back to me, skin pale, eyes fixed on my pistol, and raised his hands slowly. A puddle formed on the sidewalk beneath him as his bladder let go.

  An instant later, Tailor snapped open a collapsible baton and struck Al Falah on the neck. He cried out in pain and dropped to the sidewalk, falling into his own piss. I watched the street while Tailor zip tied our prisoner’s hands. Al Falah looked up at me one last time before Tailor pulled a black bag over his head.

  “Ginger, Nightcrawler,” I said over the radio, “We got him. Get up here.” I unscrewed the suppressor from my pistol and reholstered it. I then snapped open my automatic knife, cut the shoulder strap on Al Falah’s bag, and pulled it off of him.

  Without turning on its headlights, the van sped up the alley, coming to a stop right next to us. The sliding side door opened. Hudson jumped out, grabbed Al Falah, and effortlessly threw him into the van. He climbed back in, and I followed, laptop bag in hand.

  Just as the call to prayer died away, Tailor noticed Al Falah’s friend, lying facedown in his own blood with two bullets in his back. He was still alive. He groaned slightly and tried to move. Without blinking, Tailor stepped forward, shot him in the back of the head, then jumped into the van, pulling the door closed behind him.

  We backed down the alley until we came to the cross street, turned on the headlights, and sped away into the night. Tailor called Control over the radio to inform them of our success. I slumped against the wall of the van and looked down at my watch again. 1909. Not bad. Hunter had been right. It’d been remarkably easy.

  Stepping forward, Tailor roughly pulled the black bag from Al Falah’s head, knocking off his checkered headdress in the process. The young terrorist looked around, still groggy from the sedative and from being clocked by Tailor. His eyes grew wide as he became aware of the surroundings and his situation. He was handcuffed to a chair in the basement of our safe house. We had him shoved off into a corner. The only illumination was from a bright lamp we’d set up. I had to shake my head at the whole scene; it was like something from a bad spy movie.

  Al Falah looked at Tailor, fear in his eyes. His mouth was slightly open, but he didn’t, or maybe couldn’t, speak. He then looked over to me; his eyes darted down to the pistol on my left hip. We’d removed our jackets in order to openly display our weapons.

  To my left was Hudson. Al Falah seemed especially intimidated by him. Hudson, for his part, just folded his muscular arms across his chest and stared the skinny terrorist down, not saying a word.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked. Our prisoner’s eyes darted back to me. He didn’t say anything.

  “I know you can understand me,” Tailor said, leaning in a little closer. He was probably right; almost all educated Gulf Arabs spoke English. “So we can do this the easy way, or we can do this the pushing-your-shit-in way. What’s it gonna be, ace?”

  Al Falah, for his part, seemed to have found a little bit of spine. He closed his mouth and sat up a little straighter in his chair, staring defiantly at the wall behind us. Tailor st
raightened up, then looked over at Hudson and me, grinning. It seemed that Al Falah didn’t want to do this the easy way.

  “Wheeler, go get Sarah,” Tailor said then, talking over his shoulder. Wheeler, who was behind us, near the stairs, nodded and headed up to the main floor of the safe house. A few moments later, he clomped back down the stairs. Behind him, Sarah gracefully made her way down, clipboard in hand. She followed him across the darkened room.

  The prisoner’s eyes grew wide again when Sarah stepped into the light. He stared up at her shapely figure, and his mouth fell open again. She was taller than he was. She looked back down at him, not saying anything. Wheeler pulled up a second chair, and slid it next to her. She sat in it, crossing her legs and laying the clipboard in her lap. She clicked open a pen, leaned forward, and spoke to Al Falah in Arabic.

  He looked back at us, then back at her, then back at us again, seemingly confused. Sarah repeated whatever it was that she’d said, her voice a little bit harsher. Al Falah seemingly balked at this and said something back.

  “What’d he say?” Hudson asked.

  “He just called me a cunt,” Sarah said. “Said he doesn’t have to answer to a woman.”

  “Really?” Tailor said. Without another word, he stepped forward and punched Al Falah across the face. The terrorist’s head snapped to the side, and he cried out in pain. “Ask him now.”

  Sarah repeated whatever it is she said to Al Falah. His voice wavered, but the young terrorist apparently didn’t tell Sarah whatever it was she wanted to hear. She looked up at us and just shook her head.

  Tailor shrugged. “Okay, asshole,” he said and punched Al Falah again. Hudson stepped around Sarah and violently struck our prisoner himself. Al Falah’s head snapped back, and the young Arab cried out. Tailor and Hudson took turns hitting him a few more times. Hudson was strong as an ox and had to take it easy. A real shot from that man would have cracked Al Falah’s skull.