Reflexive Fire - 01 (5 page)

   “It’s a job.  It pays the bills.”

   “True, and we have a job that will pay the bills for the rest of your life.”

   Deckard leaned forward in his chair.

   “I'm listening.”  

   “We had, should I say,” Hieronymus cleared his throat, “a falling out with a former employee.  We think that you would be well suited to take his place.”

   “We have a private army standing by,” Jarogniew stated bluntly.

   Even Deckard was surprised by such an unguarded statement.

   “In a central Asian nation,” he continued.  “We would like you to begin training and equipping them immediately.  When the time comes, you will be charged with leading them into combat.”

   “Interesting,” Deckard replied, his curiosity genuinely piqued.

   “You would have full access to several accounts; this will be a well budgeted operation.”

   “The mission?”

   “When the time comes,” Hieronymus interjected.  “When the time comes, there will be a culling.”

   “Yes, the useless eaters,” Kammler muttered.

   Jarogniew looked at his partners as if they had said something wrong.

   “The bottom line is, we need someone who can get the job done, once that time arrives.  You will have full operational authority on the ground; we don't care how you conduct your business.  Only results matter,” Hieronymus finished.

   “When do I start?”

   The old men smiled crooked smiles.

   It was dark by the time they exited the lodge and the old men began to lead Deckard down towards the pond.  Deckard followed them down the winding path from the lodge, soon merging with a larger road where the Grove's patrons shuffled along.

   At the pond, Deckard stood among Hieronymus, Kammler, and Jarogniew, waiting for the Grove's final ceremony to begin.  The pond, along with the altar on the other side, was illuminated with torchlight.  Around the altar stood robed men wearing hoods, some in white, others in red.  Behind the altar was a massive statue made to look like a stone sculpture in the shape of an owl.

   Deckard's guts churned at thoughts of what might be coming next.

   He had heard rumors about the ridiculousness that the so-called global elites engaged in, but this was surreal.  A scan of the crowd revealed many that he didn't recognize, but some were unmistakable from television and movie appearances.  Within his own clique Jarogniew seemed slightly amused if nothing else.  Hieronymus and Kammler leered.

   The owl represented the ancient Canaanite and Babylonian god Moloch, to whom those civilizations offered human sacrifices thousands of years ago, or so he had read in history class years ago.  Personally, he found the scene comical but was disturbed by how seriously it was being taken by the Grove members.  They were the elite of politics, Hollywood, banking, business, and here they were like a bunch of mouth breathers at a peep show.

   There were hundreds of spectators now, clamoring around the shore of the pond, watching, waiting.  As bagpipes began to play somewhere off in the darkness, more robed men began to stroll towards the altar, carrying what looked like a bound body between them.  The crowd cheered.

   The robed men disappeared behind a black canvas, shielding them from view.  What was happening behind the black curtains was unknown and no explanation was given.  The old men simply continued to breathe hard.

   Without warning, one of the black-robed men in front of the visible altar began to speak.

   “The owl is in his leafy temple,” his voice boomed.  “Let all within the grove be reverent to him.  Lift up your heads, oh, ye trees and be ye lifted up, ye everlasting spires...for behold!  For here is Bohemia's shrine, and holy are the pillars of this house.”

   A gong being struck rang above the sound of chirping frogs.

   “Weaving spiders, come not here!”

   The gong sounded a second time before the speaker walked from the altar and a new procession moved forward.

   “Hail, Bohemians!  With the ripple of waters, the song of birds, such music as such inspires the sinking soul, do we invite you into midsummer's joy.  The sky above is blue and sown with stars,” the new speaker continued.  “The forest floor is heaped with fragrant grit.  The evening's cool kiss is yours.  The campfire's glow.  The birth of rosy fingered dawn.  Shake off your sorrows with the city's dust and cast to the winds the cares of life.  But memories bring back the well loved names of gallant friends who knew and loved the grove.”

   As the torch light illuminated the faces of the crowd and the surrounding trees, Deckard wasn't sure whether to laugh or to cry.  The only thing he was sure of was that most of the attendees took the ceremony deadly seriously.

   “Dear boon companions long ago.  Aye!  Let them join us in this ritual and not a place be empty in our midst.  All of his battles to hold in this gray autumn of the world or in the springtime of your heart!”

   As the speaker carried on, Deckard was struck not so much by the sinister implications of the Bronze Age ritual, but that it was in fact a simulacrum of older rites.  A dulled fabrication.  The trio of old men, his new employers, seemed nonplussed.  Perhaps the Grove was simply another steering committee for the three puppet masters.  A place for them to fill the lives of their high level minions with purpose.

   The narrator wrapped up his speech about Mother Nature as old horror movie music blasted over a sound system mounted in the surrounding trees.

   “Bohemians and Priests!” A new speaker called out.  “The desperate call of heavy hearts is answered.  By the power of your fellowship, dull care is slain!”

   The crowd cheered once more.  Deckard was left confused.  What had happened behind the curtain?  Had he been party to a real human sacrifice or a simulation of one?  Maybe not knowing was part of the ritual in order to intrigue and stimulate new Grove members.  To Deckard it still reeked of parlor tricks better suited for a dime store novel.

   “His body had been brought yonder to our funeral pyre, to the joyous pipings of a funeral march.  Our funeral pyre awaits the corpse of care!”

   More creepy music played while a robed man paddled a dugout canoe across the pond, a reference to the river Styx, to be sure.  On the boat was what looked like yet another bound body.  Reaching the other side of the pond, the robed men placed the body on the altar.

   “Oh thou, thus ferried across the shadowy tide in all the ancient majesty of death.  Dull care, ardent enemy of beauty.  Not for thee the forgiveness or restful grave.  Fire shall have the will of thee and all the wind make merry with thy dust!  Bring fire!”

   The crowd shouted with glee.  Maniacal laughs came over the speakers as pyrotechnics were set off around the pond. 

   “Fools!” the speakers sounded.  “When will thy learn that me ye cannot slay?  Year after year you burn me in this grove.  Lifting your puny shouts of triumph to the stars when again ye turn your faces to the marketplace...do ye not find me waiting, as of old?  Fools!  Do you dream you can conquer care?”

   “Say, thou mocking spirit,” the narrator fired back from the altar at the imaginary deity.  “It is not all a dream.  We know thou waiteth for us when this our sylvan holiday has ended.  We shall meet thee and fight thee as of old, and some of us will prevail against thee and some thou shalt destroy.”

   The mock battle between the Grove's narrator and the crowd's apparently burdensome responsibilities back in their real lives continued.  Finally the effigy on the altar was set ablaze, flames flickering in the night as the deity of the crowd's burden walloped over the loud speakers.

   At last the Grove members applauded.

   As music continued to play and fireworks were fired off alongside the pond, Deckard finally placed the sickening feeling in his gut.  It wasn't the childish and immature display, a charade of a pagan ritual.  It was the three men who stood beside him who had crafted this elaborate hoax to corrupt, entice, and compromise the leading minds in America.

   It was the look Jarogniew had given him the lodge as he shook his hand.  The tugging at the corner of his lips, the warm look in his eyes, the well honed mimicking of real emotions he had never felt.  The phrase that had been digging at him all night finally came to the forefront of his thoughts, and with the red glow of fireworks on his face, he remembered.

  
They traffic in the souls of men.
     

Four

The steppes reached out to the horizon in every direction, the landscape unchanged since time immemorial.  It looked barren, inhospitable, and even alien.  Something was to be said for the men and women who called this place home.

   Shadows shifting throughout the cabin, the passenger aircraft banked, internal pressure changing as the plane lined up on heading for approach to Astana International Airport.

   Deckard closed his laptop computer.  He had read nearly unblinking for the entire trip.  Decades ago, Jarogniew had published a book about global geopolitics and the shifting paradigms that influenced long established cultural motifs.  In that last thirty years, nearly every prediction he made in his massive fifteen hundred page tome had come to pass, by design or by coincidence, Deckard didn't know.

   The only sure thing at this point was that the man was as brilliant as he was ruthless.     

   The human terrain was what was really shifting.  Ignoring borders, transnational groups floated above national sovereignty, power drawn from new centers of gravity.  The Balkanization of the entire world occurred under the guise of modernization.  Mini-states and micro-states competed with super powers on an increasingly level playing field. 

   Deckard closed his eyes and sat back in his chair, wondering who or what would meet him on the ground.

   The Gulfstream 500 slowly rolled to the secluded industrial sector of the already nearly empty airport to meet with Deckard's liaison.  Descending down the folding stairs, the wind blew across the open plains, biting at his face.  Standing in front of the commercial hanger were two men wearing black trench coats, with an airport baggage handler close by with a dolly.

   Stepping towards them, Deckard shook hands with the nearest man.

   “Jake O'Brien,” Deckard said, introducing himself under his cover name.

   “Stevan Djokovic, Executive Officer.”

   Mind turning, Deckard suspected the older Serbian man was responding with a cover to a cover.  He knew this man, but from where?

   “Fomenko
Korganbaev.  Sergeant Major.”  Six foot three or so and carrying himself with obvious military bearing, Deckard had no other background on the Kazakh.

   Having loaded Deckard's two black tough boxes off the private jet, the bag handler rolled the dolly into the warehouse.  Korganbaev led the way, and the three began walking through the industrial pavilion and out to the street where a driver was waiting for them in a nondescript black van.

   Climbing into the van, the driver and the bag handler finished loading Deckard's equipment before getting back into the truck and taking off towards the Kazakh capital.

   “Your first time in Astana?” Korganbaev asked.

   “It is,” Deckard answered truthfully.  He had been to most of the 'stans', but this was a first even for him.

   Djokovic lit a cigarette, neglecting to roll the window down.

   “Did you retire from Sunkar or Arystan?” Deckard asked the Sergeant Major.

   The tall Kazakh chuckled.  “Sunkar, but we have recruits from both units, as well as the 37
^th
Air Mobile Brigade.”

   “Strong troops.”

   “I know you will be satisfied.”

   “What kind of access will our unit have to the facilities here at the airport?”

   “A hanger will be set aside for us prior to deployment.  We have no dedicated aircraft at the moment.”

   “How many men do we have assigned to us?”

   “Four hundred and fifty-one.  Full strength on combat troops but still lacking support elements.  Mechanics, intel, supply, and such.”

   “They've been in training for two months now?”

   “Nearly,” the Serb interjected.  “We will get you settled in your personal quarters and give you a tour of the compound when we arrive--”

   “No need for that now.  Take me to whichever platoons are currently training.”

   Samruk International had its compound set up forty kilometers outside Astana proper, and as expected the conditions were spartan.  A Soviet era warehouse, with the roof half collapsed, and a dozen surplus army tents served as the headquarters and barracks.  Fans of fire had been established out into the empty steppes where training, when ammunition was available, could be conducted at any time.  Open air toilets rounded out the facilities.

   Directing the driver to the range, the Serb pointed towards where one of the platoons was using the shooting range.  There wasn't much to it, but you don't need much to train.  The troops were on line in the prone position with AK-47's, taking careful, deliberate shots that punched through paper targets posted fifty meters down range.

   “Which platoon is this?” Deckard asked, as they exited the vehicle.

   “Third platoon, Bravo Company,” Korgan responded.  “Led by Sergeant Serik.”

   “No officers?”

   “None.”

   Deckard's appearance stood in stark contrast to the rugged descendents of nomads and warlords now training for combat.  He wore western clothes and trail running shoes while these men wore ragged boots and tattered fatigues, firing nearly ancient but still serviceable AK-47 rifles.  A few of the Kazakhs looked in his direction, barely acknowledging him before returning to their task.

   While Deckard passively observed the training, Sergeant Serik shouted orders and the men ceased fire.  Clearing their rifles as one, they carried them down range for a target inspection and critique by the platoon's senior NCO.  Deckard followed behind, examining the paper bulls eyes himself.  The shot groups were decent but not great, except for one talented young soldier.  Deckard committed the kid's face to memory.  The battalion would need several sniper teams.

   It wasn't so much the marksmanship that he had come to see but the method of training and discipline of the troops.  Having worked with indigenous soldiers all over the world, Deckard had seen much, much worse.  These guys had potential.

   Following the mercenaries back to the firing line, the gears were turning in Deckard's head.  Ideas and improvements would be discussed later once he had more than just a snap shot impression of the battalion's operations.

   Nodding towards the XO and Sergeant Major, they got back in the van, the two seeing the look on his face and wondering what was in store for them in the near future.

   Looking more like the Kazakhs under his command, Deckard walked into the interior of the warehouse, covered in sweat and dust.  The morning light streaked through the huge gap in the ceiling, reminding him of the amount of work that needed to be done at Samruk International.

   The warehouse had already been partitioned off by the former Kazakh military and police veterans with plywood, sheet metal, and whatever else they could scrounge into makeshift offices for the battalion's leadership and a war room consisting of a table and a ten-year-old computer.  The rest of the warehouse was left open, one corner having been converted into a gym.

   With his body warmed up from the five mile run in fatigues and boots, Deckard walked over to the weights, what Russian Spetsnaz units called the courage corner, a tradition that had obviously bled over to the Kazakhs, among many other influences from the former USSR.

   Hitting the ground, he knocked out fifty pushups, alongside the Kazakh NCOs conducting their own physical training, and then followed up by sticking his boots under some dumbbells and executing a hundred sit ups.  Next came a hundred flutter kicks, fifty dips on the dip bar, and a hundred squats.  That was one set.  Four more came after.

   Taking a few deep breaths and stretching for a moment, he picked up one of the twenty-five-pound kettle bells.  The AK-47 of fitness equipment.  He began by doing five kettlebell swings before moving up to a thirty-five-pound kettlebell, then a forty-four, and finally a fifty-three.  This made for one set.  Two more followed.

   Finally it was time for pull ups.

   Legs feeling as if they were about to give out under him, he refused to show it in front of the mercenaries.  It was his new found responsibility to provide an image of absolute confidence and strength in front of them.  However, sitting down in his so-called office he knew he would be hurting for it by the time tomorrow morning rolled around.

   Last night had been fairly productive.  After observing training, Deckard had called a team pow wow to meet the battalion's leadership, which was basically platoon sergeants, along with the XO and Sergeant Major.  After the troops went back to the tents to get some sleep, Deckard placed some calls on the satellite phone.  As promised by his new benefactors from the Grove, several open lines of credit had been made available to him in New York, London, and Hong Kong.

   While changing uniforms, he thought of what needed to be done.  The former soldier wanted a full day to evaluate the organizational and equipment needs of the unit before placing any large orders.  A few weeks was what was needed, but he didn't have that long.  Based on the conditions he had seen so far, he had already contacted contractors in Astana to deliver pallets of water, portable lavatories, and some metal workers to fix the collapsed roof.  Next would be electricians to make sure the place didn't burn to the ground, once the generators began showing up.

   Looking at the situation as small manageable tasking blocks, the job in front of him looked fairly straightforward.

   However, the truth was that Deckard had deep reservations.