Dead Six

by Larry Correia; Mike Kupari

  These were the only pictures I had of Sarah. She’d gotten her hands on one of the cameras we had and used the equipment in the lab to print out photographs before clearing the camera’s memory.

  The first was one of me. It was an awful picture. I wasn’t even looking at the camera. I was standing by a building, sunglasses up on my head, mouth open. I’d been halfway through a sentence when Sarah jumped me with the camera. It was a completely natural picture. The next one was of the two of us together. I had my arm awkwardly around Sarah’s waist as she pulled me close to her. She had a bright smile on her face.

  My God, she was so beautiful. I stared at the pictures for a long time. My hands started to shake. I set the pictures down and buried my face in my hands as my chest tightened. There, alone in my room, I sat on my bed and wept for the first time that I could remember.

  Some time later, I noticed something else in the bag as I put the pictures away. It was Colonel Hunter’s flash drive, with his bloody thumb print still on it. I had forgotten completely about it. I held it in my hand and struggled to remember, there was something important about what was on here. Information he wanted me to see. I had to take a look.

  I made my way across the Exodus base in the early morning darkness. The base was a walled compound that seemed to have sprouted out of the jungle, big enough to house a couple hundred people. The low, utilitarian buildings were interspersed between huge trees and thick vegetation, permanently shrouded in shadow by triple-canopy tree cover overhead. Misty shafts of light would poke through the trees during the day, giving the base a very ethereal look, but right now it was dark.

  The compound sat on a flat spot between thickly forested hills and a rocky beach. The dense tree cover probably made the place difficult to study from the air or by satellite. I could faintly hear the low rumble of waves over the constant din of nocturnal animals and insects, generators, and a few vehicles.

  Across the rocky beach was a dock big enough to service a ship the size of the Walden, though that ship was long gone. On the other side of the compound, in a narrow clearing, was a short airstrip, and planes would occasionally come and go. Only one road led out of the compound. Out the gate, the gravel path wound its way through the hills until it disappeared.

  Many areas of the small base were off-limits, at least to me. An armed patrol roved the facility, and guards were posted at the entrances to a couple buildings. These areas were fenced off from the rest of the compound, even. Vehicle traffic was sparse, but there was a motorpool.

  I’d been here for a couple of weeks, but hadn’t ventured out much without Ling. While everyone I met was exceedingly polite, I was regarded as an outsider. No one spoke to me unless I engaged them in conversation first, except for Ling and Dr. Bundt. But I’d been around enough to know where to find a computer.

  There was an Internet cafe in the compound, apparently for use by transient Exodus personnel who needed to check their e-mail or something. I’d been past it several times before, but had never gone in. What did I need to get on the Internet for? I was scared to even check my e-mail, lest the people behind Project Heartbreaker realize I was still alive. I suppose I could’ve at least checked the news or something, but honestly, at that point I didn’t give a good goddamn what was happening to the rest of the world.

  Entering the café, I noted that it was all but deserted at this early hour. Out of fifteen computers, only two were occupied. A squat Asian man sat behind a desk near the door, reading a newspaper in a language I didn’t recognize.

  I approached his desk. “Uh, good morning,” I said awkwardly. “I need to use a computer.”

  “You come right place,” he said with a thick accent, not lowering his paper. “This Internet place. Many computers. Here.” He began to slide a laminated card across the desk to me, but stopped. “Wait. You guest. You can’t get on Internet. Information security rules, okay? Sorry!”

  “Listen, I really need to use a computer.”

  “No Internet, okay? Sorry!” he said, sounding testy.

  “Listen. I don’t need the Internet. I just need to use a computer. Please.”

  The clerk folded his newspaper in a huff and thought for a moment. “Okay. Use computer ten. Internet not work. Okay?”

  “Uh, okay,” I said. “Um, thank you.” I turned on my heel and headed for computer number ten.

  The computer, like most Internet cafe machines, was a few years old and was pretty beat-up. But it would do for my purposes. I fished Colonel Hunter’s thumb drive out of my pocket and plugged it into a USB port. It took a few seconds for the computer to read the drive, then a window popped up displaying all of the available files. It wasn’t even password protected; Hunter had put this together in a hurry.

  There was more information on the drive than I could’ve imagined, hundreds of files. One was an initial proposal, more than five years old, describing the theory behind Project Heartbreaker. It was written by someone named Walter Barrington and was vague, at best.

  The use of a DEAD unit would accomplish overall regional goal, but with limited chance of blowback to core elements. See success of D2 and D3 in completion of Project Red in China. The failures of D4 in Chechnya and the eradication of D5 in Mexico were unforeseen setbacks, but in no way undermine the viability of the DEAD program as some program administrators have alleged. I am certain Zubaran security could be achieved with a limited expenditure of resources.

  They had done this before.

  There were personnel files for every member of Dead Six, including our field leaders. I found mine. It proved to be a fascinating if vaguely surreal read. It was almost frightening how much they knew. My Air Force service, details of my time with Vanguard, bank statements, phone records, everything about me up until my recruitment. After that were newer entries about my performance in Zubara, evaluations, even notes regarding my relationship with Sarah. Apparently, I had gained Hunter’s admiration, though he’d suspected I was a flight risk.

  There were bios for every one of us, nearly clinical assessments of our suitability. There was one common thread in the pre-recruitment section. Nobody of importance would notice if we were gone.

  The meat, the part that Hunter had entrusted me with, came from his personal logs. There were two sections, official daily entries reporting back to some unknown overseer about our operations, successes, goals, and losses. April 1—Successfully neutralized terror cell in city. 20+ kills. No losses. It was all very professional. In addition to the official entries, though, were his notes, almost like personal journal entries. Apparently these had not been sent in with his reports. April 1—Tailor’s chalk hit a club. Murdered a bunch of them. Burned it down. Sent a real message. Good op. Not getting support from above. Logistics are a nightmare. I’ve got a bad feeling about this one.

  I began to skim.

  April 15—Tailor and Valentine eliminated Adar. Gordon screwed them, sent just the two of them. Said he wasn’t authorized more, but I think it was a test. I think he’s eyeing them for Direct Action jobs. They got the job done, though. Chalks are running without enough support. Intel is shit. They’re lucky to be alive. Two chalks have taken casualties now because of Gordon’s bullshit. I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing, but nobody will answer my questions.

  It seemed that Colonel Hunter had grown increasingly disaffected with the project as time went on. He distrusted his superiors, especially Gordon Willis.

  April 18—I got confirmation today. The hit on the assistant ambassador was Gordon’s call. Anders pulled the trigger. That was unnecessary. They were being evacuated anyway. They were no threat to OpSec. This was not part of the plan. This is not what I signed up with the organization for. Things have changed over the last twenty years, and not for the good.

  Frustratingly, there was almost nothing about his organization on the drive other than a few scattered opinions. It was, however, pretty clear that whatever the late colonel’s organization was, it was powerful, it operated strictly behin
d the scenes, and it had been around for a long time.

  April 21—Singer is dead. Two chalks took heavy casualties. Gordon didn’t give two shits, and now I know why. Gordon secured another asset for Project Blue. Blue is so much bigger, but still. As much as I dislike Gordon, I can’t believe he’d compromise this entire operation just to boost his career.

  That was one of the few mentions of Project Blue, but there was a lot more about Gordon. I learned a great deal about the man. Hunter had despised him and didn’t trust him in the least.

  May 5—We’re done. I’ve not got the order yet, but I can read the writing on the wall. Project Heartbreaker is Gordon’s baby, his ticket to upper-management. He lobbied for a DEAD op in Zubara. But by last month our superiors knew we were done. Zubara has spiraled out of control and I simply don’t have the manpower to do anything about it. Too much reliance was placed on indigenous assets. The Emir is too weak. The best I can hope for is that we can kill a few more of these assholes before we pack it in. Gordon’s withdrawn. He knows his career is shot.

  By May 7, Gordon Willis had received orders to wrap up Project Heartbreaker as quickly and quietly as possible and prepare to withdraw all assets from Zubara. The hit on Rafael Montalban had taken Hunter by surprise. Even his official report had plainly stated that Gordon had ordered the op over Hunter’s objection.

  May 10—Gordon is up to something. Orders were hands off on anyone from the Rivals. Montalban was not on our list. Moving on someone as high up on their hierarchy as Rafael Montalban is an act of war. Gordon had to have cut a deal with somebody. This puts us all in danger. Our organization isn’t ready for that kind of fight. The bastard. He’ll hang for this.

  The lack of details about Montalban’s rival group was also frustrating. It was as if Hunter had expected whoever read this to already know about them.

  I sat back from my computer and pinched the bridge of my nose, closing my eyes tightly for a moment. I realized I’d been reading for two hours and had scarcely learned a thing. What did he expect me to do with the information on this drive? Who could I give it to that would make a difference? Who would even believe me? I’d have a hard time proving that I’d been in Zubara at all, much less that there had been some kind of international conspiracy afoot there. Still, I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. I rubbed my eyes and continued to read. There was only one entry left, dated the morning of Dead Six’s betrayal.

  May 11—Preparations for the evacuation have been made. I pushed for one last mission targeting General Al Sabah, hoping that maybe we could leave this country a little better off, but was denied. Gordon Willis left ahead of the rest of us. Probably hoping for a head start so he can try to explain this all away before I can file my official report. I think I know what he’s up to. Turns out Rafael Montalban’s second-in-command was his younger brother, Eduard. I’ve gathered some evidence that Eduard has been in contact with Gordon. I think the Montalbans just had a coup, only our organization will get the blame. I don’t know why Gordon did it. He either got paid off by Eduard, or worse, he’s more ambitious that I thought. Worst case scenario, he’s trying to force us into a war so we can initiate his precious Project Blue. Even Gordon can’t be that crazy.

  I could figure out the rest. Instead of waiting for Hunter to burn Gordon to their mysterious organization, Gordon had turned the tables and sold us out to General Al Sabah.

  Recording any of this is a direct violation of OpSec, but I have a bad feeling about tonight. This file is my insurance policy. The first DEAD unit was stood up thirty years ago. Detachment One, protecting the world from communism. I was on D1. We accomplished a lot of good, killed a lot of bad guys, saved a lot of lives, but things changed. We’ve changed. The organization has gone bad, turned rotten. I don’t recognize it anymore. Men like Gordon Willis run it now. I used to be proud of what I did, but not anymore.

  The plan is to evacuate by ship. A handful of D6 have been approached and accepted permanent positions with the organization.

  Gordon had tried to hire me and Tailor, and I had nearly shot him. The personnel files were still open in another window. It looked like some of us on the chalks had been approached, and it appeared several had agreed. Sarah hadn’t been approached, though; neither had Anita King. In fact, there was a note on all the support-staff files that they were unsuitable for recruitment. Curious, I continued with Hunter’s final entry.

  The recruits and I will rendezvous with a chopper in the gulf for transport home. As for the rest, once out to sea, the evacuation ship will be destroyed, terminating the remainder of D6 deemed to be security risks.

  Shocked, I stopped reading. I must have made a noise, since the man running the café gave me a disapproving look before going back to his paper.

  It pains me. These boys fought and died thinking they did it for their country. I was the same way once. But most of these boys were dead before they left the States. They didn’t even know it. It was Gordon’s suggestion to our superiors when this mission started to go off the rails. Anyone who might talk about our operation was to be eliminated. The control staff especially knew too much. Gordon decreed that they were to be on that boat, no matter what. I disagreed, but he outranked me. Too dangerous, he said. Deniable and expendable, he said. Then, when command agreed with Gordon’s plan, I knew for sure that this outfit had gone straight to hell.

  I’m amazed that command went along with this. I’m fighting to get the order rescinded. I volunteered to stay, to try to force their hand. Majestic used to mean something. I can’t let this stand.

  Majestic? Was that who I’d been working for? I’d heard the name before, but only on From Sea to Shining Sea. I thought they were just some ridiculous conspiracy theory. It seemed less ridiculous now that I’d ridden in a few stealthy black helicopters.

  But there it was, in black and white, right in front of me. I had worked for Majestic. And not only had Gordon Willis betrayed us, but he’d apparently betrayed them as well. More importantly, he had personally and deliberately orchestrated Sarah’s death. If the Zubarans hadn’t killed her, then Majestic would have.

  I sat there staring at the screen. My heart began to pound so hard I could feel it in my chest. My hands were shaking. A pit formed in my stomach. I felt something well up inside of me that I hadn’t felt since the morning my mother was murdered. My eyes narrowed slightly, and I scrolled back through the documents to confirm something I’d seen. Yes, there it was. Gordon Willis’s home address.

  I stood up from the computer and shoved the thumb drive back into my pocket. I left to find Ling; I needed to talk to her. It was time for me to go home.

  Ling was teaching children to fight.

  I found her near the docks, working in a large structure with corrugated steel walls and a dirt floor. It had been a storage building once, but it had been turned into a training dojo. Ling was standing in front of twenty kids, boys and girls, the oldest maybe sixteen, the youngest approximately twelve, while she yelled at them in Chinese. Though I hadn’t made any noise, she turned when I entered, giving me a small nod, as if to say give me a moment.

  Turning back to her class, she continued shouting. There was nothing gentle about her commands. I only knew a handful of words in Chinese, but I gathered that she was not pleased with their efforts. The children were all barefoot, wearing shorts and T-shirts, and every last one of them was drenched in sweat. At Ling’s command the kids broke into pairs and immediately set about trying to murder each other. It wasn’t the sort of sparring you’d expect from children being taught martial arts. They fought each other viciously. The soft dirt floor had seemed odd at first, but as I saw a teenager go bouncing across it on her head, I could understand the logic.

  “Shen?” Ling asked. “Would you continue the lesson?”

  There was movement in the doorway I’d just come through. A short Asian man wearing green fatigues passed by. I had not heard him at all. He dipped his head, giving me just the briefest acknowledgment as I jumped in
surprise. He took Ling’s place in front of the class as she approached.

  “How long has he been following me?”

  “Since your arrival,” Ling explained. “Shen is very good at what he does.” Shen caught one of the teenage boys by the wrist, mid-punch, and began to berate him for something in Chinese. He proceeded to demonstrate by putting the kid in an arm bar and then tossing him on his face until the kid desperately tapped the dirt for mercy. “We meant no offense, but you are a stranger here. Some were nervous about your presence. Your status has allowed some leeway, but I needed to placate others. My apologies. You are looking well,” she said, sounding slightly less serious. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Much.” My health was improving, but my mood wasn’t. Shen kicked a girl’s legs out from under her. “He was in Mexico with you, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. He is alive because of you. All of us from that day are.”

  I shrugged. The attention made me self-conscious. “I just did what anyone would have done. It was nothing.”

  Ling shook her head. “No. It is the reason you are here. Your actions in Mexico earned our gratitude. You alone risked your life against impossible odds to ensure our survival. Exodus does not take its debts lightly. You are a bit of a legend in some circles.”

  That explained some of the odd looks I’d gotten while I’d been here. These Exodus people were a strange bunch. “Hey, how is . . . you know, the girl? The one we rescued? Is she here?”

  Ling smiled at me. “She will be disappointed to learn that she’s missed your visit, assuming that she doesn’t already know. I’m afraid she’s not here. She is well.”

  I had about a thousand more questions about the mysterious girl we rescued in Mexico, but the look on Ling’s face and the tone of her voice told me she wouldn’t answer any of them. My thoughts were interrupted when one of the kids screamed when a punch landed way too hard. “That’s pretty rough,” I suggested. “Aren’t they a little young for this?”