Reflexive Fire - 01 (29 page)

  
So much for that idea.

   “Keep those guns up!” Richie screamed at the PKM gunner, now in the middle of reloading.  Of course he didn't understand a word of English.

   Loading the metal link belt into the feed tray, the Kazakh slammed down the feed tray cover and held down the trigger, flame belching from the barrel.  The rest of the platoon had dismounted from their vehicles and shot at any enemy muzzle flashes in their sector.

   Richie reached into the back of the assault truck and freed one of the Mk14 grenade launchers.  The Milkor looked like a jumbo-sized revolver, loaded with High Explosive Dual Purpose 40mm grenades.  Flipping on the holographic sight, he adjusted it for one hundred and fifty meters, far enough to hit the deepest enemy positions.  There must have been a barracks nearby with the amount of shooting coming from the Chinese side, increasing by the second.

   On the far bank he could see the bursts of enemy fire coming from behind the low wall that surrounded the border check point, the Chinese troops turning themselves into a linear target that Richie was more than happy to service.

   Sighting in, he rapidly depressed the trigger, walking the barrel from side to side as he fired.  The 40mm grenades made a hollow
pop, pop, pop,
as they spiraled out of the barrel and armed themselves as they arced across the river.

   The explosives flashed as they made contact, devastating the Chinese lines.

   Down at the other end of the convoy, one of the commandos launched an RPG.  The rocket whizzed across the river and struck one of the enemy fortifications, spitting the remnants of sandbags and at least one human being into the air.

   Steel cross members snapped, the explosion deafening them, as the C4 detonated.  Richie stole a glance over the stone wall he had taken cover behind.  Amazingly, the Bailey bridge was still standing, the plastic explosives having failed to completely sever the trusses.

  
Motherfu-

  
Richie squinted through the darkness as a pair of headlights came into view.  In between the gunfire he could barely make out the rumble of an engine.

   Then the Type 63 Armored Personnel Carrier came barreling down the bridge towards them, the heavy machine gun mounted to the roof aimed directly at Richie.

   Deckard put his shoulder into the stack of assaulters in front of him and drove them forward, pushing them up the stairs as hard as he could.  His legs acted like pistons; for all he knew, he was pushing his teammates into enemy fire and certain death.  At the moment, death just seemed more certain with a grenade landing somewhere at their feet on the darkened staircase.

   On cue, gunfire erupted at the top of the stairs.  The squad on the steps behind him had turned and bounded down, while the other half of the stack had continued up.  Up or down, options were limited.

   Reaching the landing at the top, Deckard was thrown into the wall, the blast jarring his senses.  The grenade demolished most of the wooden stairwell, a mercenary unlucky enough to be caught in the explosion screaming amid the chaos.

   Everything seemed to move in slow motion. 

   Deckard struggled with his rifle, trying to find the correct grip, his hands felt like they had heavy gloves on them.  He was vividly aware of the carpet in front of him being torn apart by enemy gunfire.  Shouldering his Kalashnikov, Deckard searched the office he now found himself in, the Kazakh mercenaries to his left and right shooting on automatic.

   An angry face with a flat nose appeared from behind a desk, a Skorpion machine pistol in his hands.  Still on his knees, Deckard fired a single shot, catching his would-be executioner under the chin, a spray of blood turning aerosol in the air as he recoiled backwards.

   Standing on shaky feet, he scanned the rest of the office.  Desks and tables were laid out, along with some cots for people needing to sleep it off after a long night.  A half dozen bodies now added to the interior decoration.

   “Over here,” an accented voice shouted in English.  “This one is still alive.”

   Deckard looked down the ruined stairs, a gap now separating them from the ground floor.  Below, the medic was attending to the commando caught in the grenade blast.  His observation from afar told him that it didn't look good, a pool of crimson spreading beneath that Kazakh even as the medic attempted to get a tourniquet into place. 

   Turning away, he saw the Frenchman holding a captive militiaman pinned against the wall, the UWSA man's shoulder a bloody mess after acting as a bullet sponge during the firefight. 

   It was Jean-Francois, the new guy that he had met just hours earlier before leaving Astana.  He didn't know much about him, but Frank vouched for the former legionnaire.  Apparently, JF had
his shit in one sock,
as Frank had put it.

   “That isn't Peng,” Deckard told JF. 

   Wishful thinking.

   JF spoke in Burmese to his prisoner.  They continued back and forth for a moment as the commander stood by.

   “This is his accountant,” JF said, looking back at him. 

   “Where is the HVT located?”

   The Frenchman continued his interrogation, his voice raising as the accountant stammered and then hesitated.  JF shoved his thumb into the gunshot wound on his shoulder, causing him to wail in pain.  Not as much pain as their teammate downstairs but enough to do the job.

   With sweat pouring down his face, the UWSA bag man spilled his guts.

   “About five kilometers from here,” JF translated.  “A hilltop.”

   “Defenses?”

   It didn't take as much prodding this time.

   “Massive perimeter wall.  Several large structures inside, mansions for Peng and his associates.  Underground tunnels and bunkers, about a hundred men on his security force.”

   The bag man rambled on, words coming freely now.

   “Damn,” JF said shaking his head.  “He says the compound cost sixty million USD to build.  I guess he'd know if he is Peng's money man.”

   “Tell him he's coming with us,” Deckard snorted.  “And we don't like liars.”

   When JF told him, the accountant looked like he was ready to shit ten different kinds of bricks.

   “Let's get the casualties packaged,” Deckard said, keying his radio.  “We'll cross load them into the Medical Evacuation Vehicle when we rendezvous with Second and Third platoon.  I want us off this objective in five--”

   His next words were cut off as the entire casino shook on its foundations, ceiling tiles rattling loose and falling on top of the mercenaries from above.

   The cutting charges burned through the solid steel door, sending a thin line of liquefied metal punching into the frame, slicing through the locking mechanisms, and allowing the door to fall to the floor with a heavy clang.

   The Kazakhs fanned out through the top floor of the whorehouse, moving systematically from room to room.  The first few were empty, so the mercenaries continued moving on.  Fresh screams drew Kurt's attention, another meth addict maybe.  Another problem he would rather not have.

   Stepping into one of the rooms at the end of the hall, he was shocked by the scene he had stumbled upon.  Four Kazakhs stood along the wall, guns pointed forward and shouting orders.  Next to one of the windows, a Chinese man held a woman hostage, a screwdriver pressed into her throat.

   The bedroom was filthy, even with the plastic sheets covering the floor.  The place stank of death.  A video camera attached to a tripod lay on its side, someone knocking it over in the commotion.  Laying on the plastic tarp was the eviscerated body of another young woman, lifeless eyes staring into oblivion.

   From the looks of things, she had had her fingers sliced off and her intestines spilled in front of her before her tormentor slashed her neck from ear to ear.  The evidence made clear why a heavy steel door separated the third floor from the rest of the building.

   Snuff tourism.

   The Chinese man stood in his boxer shorts, snarling as he jabbed the screwdriver deeper into the woman's skin, drawing blood.  The woman cried for something, anything, in a language none of them understood.  Her breasts had been badly burned, the results of the torturer putting out cigarettes on her chest.

   “Slingshot, this is Oscar Two,” Kurt said, into his radio speaking in Russian.

   “Oscar, this is Slingshot,” Askar's voice came over the radio.

   “Top floor, fifth window on your left.”

   “Confirm, top floor fifth window.  My left.”

   “Roger.”

   The Chinese sadist yelled at them in rapid fire Cantonese, no doubt warning them to back away or he'd kill the woman.

   “Which one,” Askar asked.

   “The taller of the two, on your right-hand side.”

   “The taller one on my right.”

   “Wait one.”

   Kurt began pushing the Kazakhs towards the door, waving his hand to the Chinese hostage-taker.  The mercenaries resisted at first, preferring a showdown, but the look in Kurt's eyes told them he was serious.  Pushing them out, the former GSG-9 commando stood alone in the door.  He didn't want any friendlies learning a difficult lesson in terminal ballistics.

   “Ready?” the radio hissed, the precision marksman now chomping at the bit.

   Kurt depressed the transmit button on his hand mic.

   “Do it.”

   Glass shattered and the Chinese man pitched forward as if hit in the back of the head by a baseball bat.  Of course, it was merely a sympathetic reaction, the .300 winmag bullet having cored through his skull and exiting through his forehead in a spray of gore.  Gray white matter painted the wall to Kurt's side.

   The corpse fell on top of the Burmese woman, the screwdriver rolling across the plastic sheets.

   Kurt covered the distance in two large steps, with the Kazakhs right behind him.  Flinging the lifeless body away, they dragged the woman to her feet and carried her out of the torture chamber.  Eyes wide, she was too shocked to cry.  The German mercenary gritted his teeth. 

   They were too late to save her companion, her brown eyes staring up at him.

   Turning away he keyed the mic again.

   “Good shot.”