Earth Unaware (First Formic War) (8 page)

“Corruption?”

“Murder. Drug trafficking. Human trafficking. Local police in these situations are often nothing more than thugs in uniforms. It doesn’t take much to swing power in unstable countries, Colonel. If you’re a tribal warlord, and you off the chief of police, suddenly every police officer has a choice. He can either swear allegiance to you and keep his weapon and badge, or he can watch as you hack his wife and children to pieces. Or, as happens just as often, the warlord executes all the police anyway and populates the police force with his own loyal men.”

Napatu sat back in his chair. “The Chief of Defence Force told me that I’m supposed to give you the liberty to recruit any of my men. Full access to all of our facilities and troops. The highest level of clearance.”

“I have the official letter here,” said Wit, placing the envelope on the table, “signed by the Chief of Defence Force as well as the Minister of Defence.”

Napatu didn’t look at the envelope. “You and I both know, Captain, that these signatures don’t mean squat. I can come up with all kinds of legitimate excuses why you shouldn’t take any of my men, all of which the big boys in suits will agree with. Family issues, health issues, emotional issues. They give you these documents because they have to. It would be political suicide to do otherwise. But they don’t mean a damn thing to me. The only way you’re taking any of my boys is if I agree to it.”

Napatu was right. The signatures were more a formality. Wit was actually relieved to hear that Napatu realized that, too. He preferred that Napatu gave him men because he wanted to and not because someone had forced his hand.

“What makes you think any one of my men will want to give up their position here to join you?” asked Napatu. “Do you have any idea, Captain, how near impossible it is to get into this unit? Do you know what these men have suffered, the grueling torture we put them through for the chance to wear the tan beret?”

“I do, sir. I’ve studied your selection process and training cycle. These men go through hell and back, and only a small fraction of them make the cut.”

“You’ve studied?” said Napatu. “With all due respect, Captain, cracking open a book on our process will hardly give you an accurate perspective of what it means to become an SAS man.”

It can’t have been more difficult than my SEAL training, Wit thought. But he said nothing. No need turning this into a pissing contest.

Colonel Napatu jabbed a finger on the table. “These men take themselves to an inch from death to join us, Captain. We push them until we think they’ll break, then we push twice as far. We cull so many in the training process that it’s a miracle we have any men here at all. But somehow a few make it through. Men who have no quit in them. Men who will endure any physical suffering, make any sacrifice. You don’t become an SAS soldier to impress single girls at pubs, Captain. Your motivation has to be rock solid. You have to want it so bad that even the threat of death won’t take it from you. And once they’re here, once these men have joined our ranks, they become part of a brotherhood so strong that nothing can break it. And you think that you, a total stranger, can waltz in here, and convince them to leave behind everything they’ve worked so hard to achieve just so they can join
you
? I find that incredibly arrogant.”

It was the token response Wit got every time. Regardless of what language they spoke or what corner of the world they came from, all commanding officers of Special Forces units had the same reaction. They saw their troops as their own sons. And the idea that any of their sons would consider going elsewhere was unthinkable.

But Wit knew soldiers better than Napatu did. He understood the warrior mind. The most elite of soldiers didn’t join Special Forces to be part of a brotherhood or for the prestige. Men joined Special Forces because they wanted action. They didn’t sign up to
train
for fifty-two weeks a year and sleep in comfortable bunks with downy pillows. They signed up to sleep in the rain with their finger on the trigger.

But Wit had to say this delicately; COs had fragile egos. “Your reservations are warranted, Colonel. Your men are the model of loyalty to their country and their unit. However, MOPs offers these men something more. Action. And lots of it. Since we are so few in numbers, we deploy throughout the world far more often than larger forces like yours, which often requires congressional or parliamentary approval. MOPs is not at the mercy of politicians concerned with self-preservation and what military action will mean for them at the voting booths. We move everywhere, sir.”

“We do covert missions as well, Captain. Surely you don’t think our operations are only what you read about in the press.”

“I am aware of your operations, Colonel. Both your covert actions and the missions that never reach your desk because one of your higher-ups vetoed the operation simply because the operation wasn’t his idea. There are careerists in this military, Colonel, as there are in every military. You are not one of them, but there are plenty above you.”

Colonel Napatu had no response to that. He no doubt knew there were men above him who fit that description. He had been suffering under their command his entire career. What probably rattled him was learning that Wit knew more about the classified operations circling the upper echelons than he did.

“We also offer something else,” said Wit. “You will take this as further arrogance, Colonel, but MOPs is arguably the most elite fighting force in the world. At least on a small scale. We recruit from the best Special Forces groups out there. Russian Alphas, U.S. Delta Force, British SAS, U.S. Navy SEALs, Israel’s Shayetet 13, French Green Berets. These units only take the best of their soldiers, sir, what they call the ‘one percenters.’ But MOPs are the point zero one percenters. We only take the best of
their
best. To be counted among us is an incredible honor. Our soldiers don’t forfeit their love of country or patriotism when they join us. I would argue that service in our unit is an even higher demonstration of love of country because you are representing your home nation on a global scale. Ask yourself, Colonel, if you were given the opportunity to represent New Zealand, to be one of the few men deemed by your government as your country’s perfect soldier, the ideal warrior, would you not at least be intrigued by the idea?”

“I’ll concede that some may jump at the chance for more action,” said Napatu, “but why would we forfeit our best soldiers to another army outside our own jurisdiction?”

“Because MOPs allows New Zealand to have a hand in global stability without worrying about political ramifications, sir. Send a brigade of New Zealanders into North Africa, and the political fallout could be catastrophic. Suddenly New Zealand is the bully of the world. But send a few New Zealanders who are a part of an international military unit seeking to preserve human rights, and there is little to no fallout. No one can accuse New Zealand of imperialism. Any action taken by MOPs is clearly an act of global goodwill.”

“There are those who say MOPs are the dogs of the West, Captain O’Toole, that you boys are nothing more than grunts for American intelligence. Puppets of the CIA nicely disguised as a mini-international coalition.”

Wit shrugged. “There are also those who say we are soulless child murderers carrying out the personal vendettas of the current U.S. administration. It’s propaganda, Colonel. You and I both know who we are and what we do.”

Napatu was quiet a moment. Wit remained silent, letting the man think it through, though he knew Napatu would come around.

Finally, Napatu said, “Who did you have in mind?”

Wit removed his handheld from his pocket and set the device on the table in front of him. He extended the arms on the sides and the thin bar at the top and turned on the holo. A wall of data with photos and records of five servicemen floated in space above him. Wit turned the device around so it faced Napatu.

“There are five of your men we’d like to screen.”

“Screen?”

“A capabilities test, sir. We want the best and most willing candidates. If all five pass our screening and demonstrate an eagerness to serve, then we will gladly take them all. If none pass, we will thank them and you for your time and not bother you further. It’s that simple.”

Colonel Napatu scanned the names and didn’t show any surprise until he reached the last of the five, the youngest and smallest of the group. He was the most unlikely pick simply because of his inexperience. He deserved to be among the SAS like any other man in the unit, but he wasn’t battled-tested like the other four. He had only been with the SAS for five months and was as green as they came.

“You can have your pick of any of my men,” said Napatu, “some of them proven warriors with flawless service records and the highest marks. And yet you choose this one, a greenie?”

“Yes, sir,” said Wit. “We are very interested in Lieutenant Mazer Rackham.”

*   *   *

The following morning, just after dawn, Wit stood in a small grassy valley two hours northeast of Papakura. Around him, beyond the valley, was the dense Mataitai Forest with its tall Tanekaha trees and vibrant broadleaf ferns. Five men stood in front of Wit at attention, their eyes forward, their feet at a forty-five-degree angle, heels together. They wore military-issued T-shirts, fatigue pants, and solemn expressions. Wit had left them standing that way, unflinching in the morning chill, for the better part of an hour.

Wit looked at each man in turn. They were all physically strong, but only two of them were the heavily muscled bodybuilding types. Two others were of average height and build, and the last, a Maori, Mazer Rackham, was lean and slightly smaller.

Size mattered little in the Special Forces, however. In fact, thick upper bodies and large arms might give you greater strength, but they also made you an easier target and harder to conceal, not to mention top-heavy and less nimble. Wit, who was larger than any of these men, knew all this from experience. He had suffered enough broken noses in sparring matches with men half his size to know that bigger soldiers weren’t necessarily better ones.

The handheld in Wit’s pocket vibrated, signaling that his men were in position. Showtime.

Wit faced the five soldiers. “Good morning, gentlemen. You know who I am, and you know why you’re here. This morning we will conduct a preliminary exercise. If you pass, you are eligible for a screening. Let me emphasize that whether you pass that screening or not, you can take pride in knowing that you were selected from the entire New Zealand Defence Force to participate in these proceedings. You represent the highest degree of readiness and training, and are a credit to your country.”

The men kept their eyes forward, showing no emotion.

“While we’ve been standing here enjoying the lovely nippy morning,” said Wit, “my teammates have been hiding in the forests around us. I have just received a confirmation that they are ready to begin and are eager to embarrass you by making you fail. On the ground in front of you are forty-kilo rucksacks. You will each carry one of these to a safe house five kilometers from here. The coordinates of the safe house as well as a map and compass are in your rucksacks. Also in front of you is your weapon, a small automatic rifle that you likely have never handled. It is unique to MOPs. It goes by many names, the Flatliner, the Angel Maker, or my personal favorite, the Hell Ticket, since it sends so many of our unfortunate enemies on a one-way trip to the devil himself. Its technical name, however, is the P87, and if you join us, gentlemen, it will become your truest and most devoted companion, never leaving your side. You will pee with it, eat oatmeal with it, shower with it, and sleep with it. Don’t think of it as your weapon. Think of it as the appendage you never knew you had. In the SAS you are trained on many unconventional weapons, but the P87, once you learn its features, may surprise even you.

“But since this is an exercise and not an actual engagement, your P87 is loaded with twenty spider rounds.” Wit held up a red pellet. “Spider rounds are not lethal, but they will incapacitate you. If struck, you will receive an electric shock that is hard to forget. If any of you have a pacemaker or are pregnant, I invite you to withdraw.”

A few of the men cracked a smile.

“Ah,” said Wit. “You’re not zombies, after all.” He showed them the pellet again. “My teammates are equipped with these same rounds. If you are struck, and believe me, you will know it, your participation in the exercise is over. Unlike real warfare, you are instructed to leave your wounded team members behind. If one of you drops, keep moving. Your mission is not to get your team to the safe house. Your mission is to get
me
to the safe house. I will be playing the role of a diplomat you have been assigned to protect. Should I be wounded, the exercise is over. Like my men hiding in the forest, I am wearing what is called a dampening suit. If struck it will take the electric shock of a spider round without harming me. Since all of you are so concerned with my personal safety, I thought I’d mention it.”

Another grin from the men.

“Please wear your helmets and visors at all times. You have five hours to deliver me to the safe house.” Wit donned his own helmet and tightened the chinstrap. “Begin.”

The men immediately moved into action, putting on their helmets and forming a perimeter around Wit with their backs to him.

“Please kneel down, sir,” said one of the men.

Wit took a knee, hiding himself behind the circle of soldiers.

Mazer had hung back and was now snapping cartridges into the rifles and tossing them to the soldier in the perimeter nearest him. That man passed two rifles to his left and one to his right until every man in the circle was armed.

Wit was impressed. The whole maneuver had taken only a few seconds, and the men had reacted smoothly without speaking to one another, as if this had been a drill they had run hundreds of times.

Shots from the trees to the north pegged into the dirt around them. Intentional misses. Something to get the blood up.