Reflexive Fire - 01 (22 page)

   Jean-Francois walked into the hanger, wearing cut-off camouflage shorts, Jerusalem cruisers, and sporting the kind of sideburns that get good men killed in combat, according to Sergeant Majors the world over.  He wasn't a conventional soldier, and having walked across the Astana airport from the civilian terminal, it was apparent to him that this was not a conventional military unit.

   The hanger was packed with tan colored assault vehicles loaded down with weapons and ammunition, with individual rucksacks strapped onto the sides.  Kazakh mercenaries jogged back and forth carrying out their assigned tasks, loud voices filling what little empty space was left inside.  Green and brown jungle uniforms were washed but well worn, combat boots broken in, and weapons were handled with comfortable confidence.

   These guys looked like they were wired pretty tight.

   Definitely not the type of Mickey Mouse operation he had half expected.

   Behind him trailed two other former military men he had flown in from London with.  During the flight, conversations had been guarded as they felt each other out.

   “Ah, replacements,” a voice boomed from across the hanger.  “Love me some fresh meat!”

   A big black guy with dreadlocks motioned them over.

   “Where did you come from?” the big guy asked, tossing Jean-Francois an AK-103 rifle.

   “London.”

   “I know that, dickhead.  I mean, what outfit were you in?”

   “The Legion.  2REP.”

   “Jesus, you probably won't make it back,” he muttered.  “What about you two?”

   “I was with Force,” the former Marine with a high and tight haircut announced.

   “Recon?  Yeah, you're fucked, too.  How about the other guy?”

   “Operational Mobile Reaction Group,” the Polish mercenary said in stunted English.

   “GROM, huh?  Holy shit, I'm really going to have to talk to the boss about this.  This shit ain't right.”

   The trio of new recruits looked sullen, the former Marine looking down at his toes.

   “I'm just fucking with you guys-” the giant black man burst out laughing.  “You people take this shit too seriously,” he said, handing the other two men their rifles.

   “You might want to clean the cosmoline off those things before we hit the ground, and by the way, you are actually here to replace mercs who got smoked, so I don't expect you to last long.  Until then you can call me Chuck.”

   Reaching behind him, Chuck effortlessly lifted a nylon kit bag filled with gear and winged it at Jean-Francois.  Catching it, the Frenchman was almost dragged to the ground by its weight.  Tossing two more bags to the others, Chuck crossed his arms in front of his muscled chest.

   “Hey, boss!” he yelled again.  “The new guys just showed up.”

   Standing by the hanger door with a finger buried in a subordinate's chest, another American turned towards them.  Speaking in Russian, the soldier he was addressing turned and ran off as the commander approached them.

   The only thing Jean-Francois saw was his eyes.

   They'd seen things, and for some reason he didn't want to know what.

   “You made it in time.  We should be wheels up in a few hours-” the mercenary leader looked at the Polish recruit.  “Good to see you again, Leszek.  I was hoping you would take our offer.”

   “Good to see you as well D-”

   “It's O'Brien now.”

   “I understand.”  The ex-Polish commando hadn't known he was signing on with an old friend until now.

   “All of you were vouched for by existing team members, so that says something, but I don't know all of you personally.  Square away your gear and do what you're told.  That's the best advice I have for you since you missed rehearsals and mission planning.  Don't die in the next twenty-four hours, and you might see your first paycheck.”

   Turning away, he looked over his shoulder to Chuck.  “Escort them to their platoon sergeants.”

   “No problem.”

   Chuck led the way, dropping the American and the Polack off with a Kazakh wearing sergeants stripes on his uniform.  He introduced himself as Shasha, with Bravo Company.  Luckily for them the former GROM commando had a working knowledge of Russian and was able to translate for the American.

   “Isn't that special?” Chuck remarked at their handshakes.  “C'mon, Picasso,” he said, motioning for the Frenchman to follow.  “I know somebody who wants to talk to you before I introduce you to your new boss.”

   They stopped on the other side of the hanger where four trucks were lined up, front to back as a single unit, the platoon they belonged to making final adjustments to various straps and oiling machine guns.

   “Wake up,” Chuck bellowed, throwing a ratchet socket he found on the ground at one of the mercenaries asleep in the driver's seat of an assault truck.

   “Huh?” he said, rubbing his eyes.

   “Your buddy is here.”

   The American struggled out of the driver's seat with a groan before stretching his arms.

   “Sorry, JF,” Frank apologized.  “I just got in a few hours ago.”

   Jean-Francois' eyes widened in recognition.

   “Who do you think got you this job?” Frank said, seeing his expression.  “You were pretty good in the woods back in the Congo, as I recall.”

   “That's why?  I would have expected you to recruit Delta Force guys, or Chuck Norris, or someone.”

   “I heard about you drifting around.  Liberia, Sudan, and then I heard about you hanging out with Karen rebel fighters in Burma.”

   “Six months ago.  We were ambushing the SPDC as they tried to come in and flatten Karen villages.”

   The State Peace and Development Council was the Orwellian-named regime that routinely sent in the death squads to ethnically cleanse the Karen minority in southern Burma.  Murder, rape, child soldiers, and land mining Karen villages after attacks were all on the SPDC's shopping list.

   “Exactly, and I got to thinking, this is just the kind of guy we need.  Did you learn any Burmese while you were in country?”

   “I had to, I was training the villagers to defend themselves.”

   “How about Chinese?”

   “Very little.”

   “Well, more than me anyway.”

   Both men turned towards the open end of the hanger, hearing the sound of six monstrously large cargo aircraft screaming down the runway one after the other.

   “Where are we going again?”

   Frank smiled knowingly.

Eighteen

The massive Antonov-125 cargo carriers came in low and slow, one behind the other as they approached Nansang Airfield in southeast Burma. 

   The Ukrainian-built aircraft were scrubbed clean, engine decals missing, airline stencils fabricated, serial numbers non-existent.  The six airplanes had been completely rebuilt at a little-known airfield in Colorado by mechanics and engineers who worked for a shadow air force that specialized in deniable missions. 

   With the An-125 being the second largest cargo carrier in the world, behind its big brother the An-225, it was difficult finding reliable pilots with hours on airframes of a comparable size.  Most of the pilots and crew were sheep dipped from US military service and employed by front companies after giving up their duty positions on the C-5 Galaxy military transport airplane.  A few other crew members were repatriated members of the Russian Air Force.

   Air pirates.

   Soldiers of fortune.

   It was the world's second oldest profession.  Unlike the oldest, they didn't earn their pay on their backs, but sometimes a soldier for hire had to question his career choices.  The
condottieri
were mercenary captains fighting on behalf of the Italian city-states as far back as the thirteenth century, and while the players had changed, the job remained much the same. 

   Today, private military corporations existed on the global stage, hiring themselves out when and where strife existed. They were war's entrepreneurs.

   With the aircraft blacked out, the troops felt like they had been swallowed by a leviathan, trapped inside the dark belly of a metallic beast.  Deckard sat on the hood of one of the assault trucks, wearing a radio headset that allowed him to follow time hacks called out by the pilots. 

   “Ten minutes out.”

   In the past someone like him would have found himself trapped between warring barons, heartless Venetian banking cartels, and the papacy.  Now it was a labyrinth of ethnic-based autonomous militias, non-governmental organizations, and the death throes of a Western empire.

   Burma was the home of many peoples who had historically resisted any and all forms of governance, to include the ruling military junta.  The Kachin Defense Army, the Kachin Independent Army, the Myanmar National Democracy Alliance Army, the Pa-O National Army, the Shan State Army, and the United Wa State Army were just a few of the tribal militias that existed in the region, not including state-based actors.  The SPDC, Task Force 399, and Chinese intelligence were sure to be thrown into the mix as well.

   Examining his map with a red lens flashlight in his hand, Deckard mentally overlaid the dubious territorial boundaries of each militia. 

   In the near future the very notion of a state would become obsolete, hemorrhaging credibility and forcing local people to look for local solutions.  Burma, Somalia, Nigeria, Germany, and even the United States would carve itself into enclaves, each with its own private security contractors hired to maintain stability and enforce laws. 

   In his travels, Deckard had seen the future, and it wasn't pretty.  Societal breakdown and reorganization was no longer a far-flung idea restricted to the impoverished world or abstract futurist predictions, but one already becoming a global reality.

   “Five minutes,” the pilot informed him over the headset.

   The present was rapidly catching up with future.

   “Five minutes!” Deckard yelled, waving his hands to get everyone's attention.  No one could hear him above the sound of the engines but understood when he held up five fingers.

   The assault vehicles were ratcheted down to the floor of the aircraft with heavy duty nylon straps.  The ratchet straps would prevent the trucks from rolling around and crushing someone while in flight, but the Kazakhs needed to be ready to pop them the second they hit the ground.

   Wheels screeched as the plane finally set down on the runway.  The mercenaries immediately popped off the ratchet straps and quickly rolled them up before stowing them in the storage compartments on the trucks. 

   We'll need them for the trip back, Deckard thought to himself, cynically, if any of us make it back.

  
As the An-125 peeled off the runway and onto the parking apron, the next cargo carrier was coming in right behind them.  Everyone was still holding their breath.  If their operational security had been compromised and someone was waiting at the end of the runway with one of the anti-aircraft missiles they had been told of, then this mission could be over before it began.

   Sliding its massive frame into position, the pilots announced they were set, even as the rear ramp was opening.  Deckard put the headset aside and ordered the Kazakhs to drop the second portion of the ramp into place.  Two metal struts bridged from the end of the ramp the rest of the way to the ground, clanging loudly as they landed.

   Drivers turned the ignition, starting their engines, gunners already in place and assaulters quickly taking their seats.  They were primed, butterflies in their stomachs, wondering what to expect in the darkness outside.

   Headlights remained off as Deckard motioned for them to disembark and begin rolling down the ramp.  The first assault truck bounced as it maneuvered from the first section of the ramp and onto the struts before rocking again as it hit the tarmac.  A few dozen trucks regurgitated themselves out of the airplane before Deckard followed the last vehicle out on foot.

   The final assault truck halted, and several Kazakhs got out to help Deckard remove the struts and slide them back inside the aircraft.  The entire sequence of events had been rehearsed again and again with the trucks sitting inside fuselage mockups made of plywood back in Kazakhstan.

   Five other Antonovs were now lined up perfectly on the parking apron alongside them as they unloaded a battalion's worth of vehicles.  A few minutes later, the entire unit was on the ground.  As platoon sergeants and company commanders took over, the pilots were already turning and preparing to take off.  They'd be hanging out somewhere more secure until Samruk called for exfil.

   Meanwhile the vehicles were getting lined up on the side of the runway in a quick staging area for accountability before beginning movement.  The three companies had been split up among the six aircraft, so it was important to make sure everyone was in the right place.  The difficulty in not having officers was that Deckard, Korgan, and Djokovic had to split up and act as company commanders for the duration of the mission.

   Just as the last Antonov lifted off, Deckard initiated movement.  Illuminated by an overcast moon, the mercenary battalion skirted around the edge of a small village before cutting onto the main road junction.

   The combat operation called for a complete blackout.  Drivers drove, looking through night vision goggles with infrared headlights turned on to help them see at night.  The PKM gunners in the turret had the best field of view and could help the driver navigate, relaying directions by radio.

   At the intersection the battalion silently split off.  Alpha and Bravo Companies took a right heading north on National Highway Number Four while Charlie Company, being led by Djokovic, turned left on Highway Forty-Five.

   Keeping a good separation between vehicles, Alpha and Bravo crept up to fifty miles an hour on the straightaways, making good time for the moment.  It was important not to drive faster than they could see, especially when driving with night vision goggles on.  With the driver deprived of depth perception, an obstacle in the road could quickly lead to disaster. 

   The central lowlands made for pretty easy driving, with gently rolling terrain and fairly well built roads.  Only occasionally did they have to slow down to snake back and forth down a ravine to cross a bridge over a river.  The high rate of speed also kept the commandos riding in the open air rear area of the truck cool from the humidity.

   “Band-Aid One, this is OB-One.  Radio check, over,” Deckard said, keying the truck's encrypted radio hand mic from the passenger seat of his truck.

   “OB-One, this is Band-Aid One.  I read you, Lima Charlie; how about me?”

   Dr. Nick the Dick was supposed to be ready to accept casualties the moment the main element hit the ground if need be.

   “I got you, Lima Charlie.  What is your current status, over.”

   “We're green and waiting for your call, over.”

   That was a call he seriously didn't want to make.

   Piet scanned the scenery as it flashed by.

   Leaning back in his seat, he took grim pleasure in the knowing that while he was exposed in the back of the assault vehicle, at least if he were shot, the round wouldn't go through his chest and kill the guy sitting behind him, thanks to the bullet-proof ceramics of the seats.

   The .300 Winchester Magnum sniper rifle sat resting on its rubber padded stock between his feet.  He'd spent the last few weeks with his six man sniper section out in the steppes, getting familiar with the new rifle and collecting data for their log books.

   Craning his head around, the South African looked through the assault truck's rear window at the guy in the passenger seat, eyeballing the back of Djokovic's head.

   Jean-Francois leaned back in his seat, the Kazakhs sitting next to him holding their AK-103 rifles close.  The air smelled fresh after recent rainfall, reminding him that monsoon season had already moved in.

   He was still assigned to Alpha Company, headed north with the battalion commander.

   Speeding through the disputed Shan State, he could see thatch-roofed villages nestled into the jungle through his night vision goggles.  It felt good to be back.  Previously he had been farther south in the Karen State, battling it out with the Burmese Government's death squads. 

   In 1950, Chinese nationalist forces, sponsored by the newly formed Central Intelligence Agency, invaded the Shan State in eastern Burma.  Their reign of terror included tax collection, forcibly conscripting local men into their so-called secret army, and forcing the Burmese to grow poppies. 

   This resulted in the Burmese Government forming an alliance with Shan warlords to fight back against the Chinese insurgents, using military equipment purchased with opium money.  And thus began the Opium Wars, a low intensity battle that had never really ended, with one faction or the other struggling for control over the poppies and the convoys that carried them to the surrounding nations.

   With the current leader of the UWSA, Saya Peng, indicted by a grand jury in Brooklyn, New York and facing mounting international pressure, including a second conviction in absentia in Thailand, he had finally been convinced by the ruling junta to stop trafficking the poppies.  Peng forcefully relocated thousands of the Shan civilians south several years ago, setting up factories and beginning to produce
yaa baa
methamphetamine pills instead of farming poppies.  Being of Sino-Burmese lineage and well connected to the underworld on both sides of the border, he easily obtained the necessary precursor chemicals from China.

   After sixty years, no one could imagine the Shan without a narcotics-based economy.

   Frank had filled him in on the rest during the flight.