by Jim Roberts
“Cohort number and designation, trooper!” The PMC soldier had to shout for his electronically filtered voice to be heard above the rain.
“Centurion Gamma Seven, Fourth Cohort,” Krieger replied, trying his very best to hide his accent. He held out the stolen PDA. The Centurion stepped forward to sweep the device with an infrared scanner.
“Reason for entry?” asked the Centurion.
Krieger jerked a thumb towards the various crates stacked in the back of the Hummer. “Medical supplies and personal effects. Can’t say more than that, I am afraid. This stuff belongs to—”
A new voice interrupted him. “You...you’re from Fourth Cohort?”
The Centurion moved aside as one of the tall Legionnaire’s took his place beside the Hummer’s window.
Krieger nodded. “Yep…err, yessir. I belong to Contubernium Group Seven.” He was amazed he was able to pronounce the Olympus word for squad correctly.
The Legionnaire stood in the rain like a statue of granite, eyeing the vehicle. “Where is your partner designate?”
“My what?” Krieger asked.
“Your partner designate. Olympus urban pacification guidelines chapter one, subsection thirty-two require all Centurion units to travel at least in pairs. Where is yours?”
Krieger swallowed. “Uh, he had...bad case of shits, you know? Dysentery. Had to leave him behind back in Bakadi.”
The Legionnaire did not look convinced. “You should know the rules by now, Gamma Seven. Traveling without your designate in a wartime environment is punishable by disciplinary actions up to and including twenty lashes.”
The Olympus idea of corporal punishment always struck Krieger as humorously barbaric. “Please, sir,” he replied, trying to sound as honestly as possible, “my, uh, designate left me his PDA to make sure I could do this run without him.” Krieger produced the tablet belonging to the second Centurion he’d stashed in the Hummer glove compartment.
The Legionnaire snatched the device from Krieger’s hands. “He gave you his PDA? That’s punishable by decimation!”
Krieger thought fast. “Yes, I know, I tried to warn him. He said the supplies in back of Hummer are far more important to Lord Saladin than his own life.”
The Legionnaire seemed to pause at the mention of that name. “Lord Saladin? These supplies are for him?”
“Of course!” Krieger replied. “I’m sure you’ve heard of the man’s expensive tastes. Hell, I would not wish to be the one stuck explaining why his favorite brand of caviar was stuck at checkpoint getting moldy, would you?”
The Legionnaire took a look back at the row of vehicles lining up behind Krieger. Clutching the PDA, he said, “Alright, move on, Gamma Seven. I’m going to hold onto this. When you’re finished, I want you back here to explain this gross dereliction of duty of your partner in full. Get going.”
Krieger nodded. “Thank you, sir. Uh, long live Olympus!” Without waiting to hear a reply, he raised the window and hit the gas, guiding the Hummer into the city. Knowing his luck was not going to last much longer, he needed to get to his destination and fast.
CHAPTER FOUR
Juba, South Sudan
April 22nd
THE CAPITAL of Juba was a rather unimpressive sight in the pouring rain. Small compared to
most African cities, it was also badly rundown due to major lapses in urban planning. Potholes were plentiful and Krieger had to swerve to avoid some that could damage even the sturdy Hummer. The entire place smelled like soaking garbage. The city’s infrastructure was awful and the dismal economic outlook of South Sudan wasn’t going to change that anytime soon.
As he turned the Hummer down a rain-drenched road, Krieger wracked his brain to remember the correct storefront he was looking for. It had been nearly five years since he’d last been here and even then, it was only for a few short hours. He prayed his judgment was sound in choosing to come. The man he was planning to ask a huge favor of wasn’t exactly known for his love of surprise visits.
At last, he pulled the Hummer into the back of what had once been a vacant strip mall. Several stores along the front were boarded up or had vandalized windows. At the back of the building was a small parking lot, absolutely covered in garbage. The Juba city sanitation department must have had the decade off, Krieger thought to himself as he parked the Hummer. There were several disheveled looking doors dotting the exterior of the complex. He wracked his brain trying to remember which door it was he was looking for. Searching the mall exterior, he spotted a surveillance camera attached to the roof, pointing down at the reinforced steel door directly in front of him.
There, that must be it.
Krieger removed the Centurion helmet and tossed it on the seat beside him. Grasping one of the XM8 rifles, he exited the vehicle into the downpour and jogged over to the mall. The door below the camera had a small rusted electric buzzer off to the side. Looking around to make sure the coast was clear, Krieger jabbed the button. A loud noise reverberated from behind the door, but no answer came. After waiting a few beats, he was about to press it again when a voice speaking English came through the glitchy speaker.
“What do you want?”
“Graves? Are you there? It’s me.”
“Get lost.”
“Come on, open door, I need to speak with Marshal Graves.”
“No one here by that name.”
Krieger let out an angry sigh. He looked up at the camera as he pressed the talk button. “It’s Alexei. Open door now, it’s fucking wet out here!”
There was a pause from the speaker. “How do I know it’s Alexei?”
“You can check my ID when I break down goddamn door and introduce your ass to your mouth. Open up!”
There was another pause. Krieger was about to press the button again when there was a clicking sound from the door handle and a loud buzzing noise. Gripping the handle, Krieger opened the door and moved inside.
He found himself at the top of a narrow staircase that led down. The walls were termite-eaten and covered with mold. Wrinkling his nose, he moved down the stairs, shouldering the XM8 rifle as he went. At the end of the stairway was another door, heavily reinforced. Krieger raised his arm and was about to knock on it when abruptly it burst open and he was met with a SPAS-12 shotgun staring him straight in the eyes.
“You could never take a hint, could you, Alexei? Drop the carbine.”
Krieger’s brutal face showed no emotion as he did as he was asked—dropping the XM8 onto the floor. He half raised his arms, staring down the barrel of the automatic shotgun at the man on the other end.
“Got to say, this is interesting greeting for old comrade, wouldn’t you say, Graves?”
The man named Graves guffawed out loud. “Comrade? Christ, Alexei, you’ve got some fuckin’ nerve coming to see me again. Why the hell are you dressed as a fuckin’ Centurion?”
“Disguise. Only way I could get inside city.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“Nyet.”
Graves lowered the shotgun a hair. With the weapon out of his face, Krieger finally got a good look at the man.
Graves hadn’t changed much in the years since he’d last seen that ugly mug. A lanky east-African native, Marshal Graves was almost the same height as the towering Russian. With a rugged but athletic physique, one got the sense that the man had used his time away from Blackwater well in maintaining himself. His black hair was cut severely short. Dressed in a loose-fitting T-shirt and slacks, he didn’t look like a stereotypical gun-runner, if such a thing existed. Around his neck was a huge collection of colorful Dinka tribal adornments; vestments of his time spent across the nation as a mercenary and smuggler.
The man who Krieger once called a friend now had a distant, cold look in his large brown eyes. His iris were heavily dilated, a result of too many pulls on a joint.
Graves finally lowered the shotgun. “What the hell are you doing here?”
“We going to talk here or can I come in?”
the Russian asked in return.
Graves sighed before turning and disappearing into the room beyond. Krieger lowered his arms and picked up the HK XM8 before following after him.
An incredible sight met the Russian as he entered the basement beneath the old mall. Wall to wall, stacked as high as eight feet in some places, was a literal arsenal of guns. Rows of AK-74s and other assorted Kalashnikov rifles were lined along the walls, while various RPG’s and bazookas sat in large, overfilled plastic tubs. As Krieger moved further inside, he saw crates of ammo, plastic explosives, detonators and wires stacked haphazardly around. He gave an impressed whistle. “Quite the collection you have going here. Setting up for World War Three?”
Graves closed the reinforced steel door, locking it with three separate mechanisms. “Times are hard in this shithole, Alexei. Just doing what I can to keep my head above the water.”
As Krieger moved throughout the room, the distinctive aroma of gunpowder and homemade napalm mixed with the skunky smell of ganja assaulted his nose. A loud fan in the corner provided no relief from the humid air in the basement at all.
Looking around in wonder at the assortment of weapons, Krieger asked, “How the hell have you managed to keep this stuff here?”
“This is my auxiliary warehouse,” replied Graves, “I had to move most of this here when Olympus raided my main operation in Ngalia. Just managed to get this stuff moved before those PMC twats locked down the city. Now I’m stuck with no one to sell it too.”
“Why is that?”
“With the lockdown, I’ve got nowhere to move my merchandise. My normal consumers are busy fighting Olympus and the SPLM and they’re getting their supplies from outside sources. So here I am, sitting on all this with no one to buy.” Graves headed over to a small spot hollowed out among the guns and ammo, where a TV loudly blared a soccer game. He reached for a lit joint resting on a dirty side table and took a long drag. “So what do I owe this visit? Last time I heard from you, you were running that security outfit in Lebanon.”
“That was years ago.”
“Huh. So it was.” Graves exhaled smoke, his eyes never leaving the Russian. “What brings you here?”
“Do I need reason to see old friends?” Krieger said jovially.
Graves was not amused. “You’re about as much my friend as the hornet that stung me in the ass the other day.”
“Oh that hurts, Graves. Even after I pulled you out from under that flipped truck all those years ago, I still get no respect. If it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t be destroying your brain right now, would you?”
Graves took another drag of the joint, savoring it as he breathed it out. “I haven’t forgotten. It’s just that some of us don’t use moments like that as swords to hang over our heads when they need a favor.”
The weird mix of gunpowder and ganja was already starting to do a number on Krieger’s head. “You wound me, my friend. I just wanted to hang out, share stories about old times.”
“Bullshit, Alexei.”
“It’s Krieger.”
“What?”
“The name is Krieger.”
Graves seemed confused. “Wait a minute, you didn’t like your old name, so you—a Bulgarian raised in Russia—chose a German fake name?”
“Now you’re getting it,” Krieger responded, his flippant attitude returning.
“Christ,” Graves muttered, rolling his eyes. “So what are you doing here besides annoying me?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Krieger said, fishing around absently in a pile of radios.
“In Juba?”
“Not sure. Maybe.”
“Why do you want my help?”
“You were always good at finding someone not wanting to be found,” Krieger said. “Many fingers in the right cakes.”
Graves let out a grunt. “Pies, you mean. That was a while ago. Things were different during those years in Blackwater. I’m a businessman now, can’t you tell?” He took another drag on the joint.
“His name is Braddock. Joseph Braddock.”
The name meant something to his old comrade, as Graves started gagging on the smoke. “Braddock? You mean Joe fucking Braddock?”
“You’ve heard of him.” It was more of a statement than a question.
“You could say that. Word on the street is Olympus has offered a cash reward of something like twenty-million American dollars for the capture of a man named Braddock, dead or alive.”
Krieger nodded. “That’s him. What do you know about him?”
Graves stuffed out the joint. “Not much, really. Stories of the guy hitting various Olympus positions around the country started coming through the wire a few weeks ago. Bastard’s insanely hard to kill.”
“Anything else?” Krieger asked.
Graves lit another joint, thinking for a moment before responding. “Just rumors. They say he’s working with a freelance organization of some sort…philanthropist militants I think. What the hell was their name…Renegades? Vagrants?”
“Vagabonds,” Krieger said, the truth starting to take shape in his mind. Memory of the time he spent those months back with Leo Lennox’s unit of high tech PMC hunters was still fresh in his mind.
Graves snapped his fingers. “That’s it. They’ve made a deal with the Ethiopian government and stationed themselves across the Eastern Sudan border. They’ve been providing ‘missions of mercy’ for those being oppressed by Olympus in Eastern Equatoria. From what I know, this man Braddock is working with them.”
Krieger scratched the week’s growth of beard on his face. “Do you know where he could be now?”
Graves snorted. Reaching down, he opened a small cooler beside the room’s only chair and fished out a bottle of beer. Cracking it open, he asked, “Why are you interested? All the stories point to this guy being one cold-ass killer. What’s he to you?”
“We served together. He is good friend of mine. A brother.”
The gun-runner took a swig of the beer. “Olympus has a hard-on for this guy, Alexei...Krieger or whatever your name is now. They’ll find him soon enough and peel him like a grapefruit.”
Krieger clenched his fists tight. “That will not happen. Do you know where he is?”
Graves shrugged, setting his beer on the table beside him. “No clue. It’s in my best interests right now to keep my nose clean until the occupation ends. Now, why don’t you see yourself out, Alexei—”
It took Krieger two massive steps to clear the distance between them. He lashed out with a thick arm before Graves could grab his shotgun and grasped the gun-runner by the collar—pushing him against the wall.
“What the fu—” Graves tried to speak, but Krieger held him fast.
“I am not in mood to be screwed with right now, mudak. You remember our time back in Blackwater, right? I got you job there—even saved your life that day in Baghdad. You owe me your life.”
“I don’t owe you—”
“Yes. You do. And I am giving you chance to pay it back. I know there is something you’re not telling me.”
Krieger’s grip loosened for a moment. Graves swatted his hand away and stared the Russian square in the eye. “If I tell you what I know, will you get the hell out of here?”
“Of course! How you say, scout’s honor.”
Graves dusted off his T-shirt. “Alright. I don’t know where Braddock is, but I do know that Olympus is planning something in the eastern district of the country. Something big.”
“Go on,” Krieger said, crossing his muscular arms as he listened.
“A few days ago, the rebels reported an entire village in East Equatoria was wiped off the face of the earth. Literally just vanished.”
Krieger frowned. “What do you mean vanished?”
“I mean one day it was there and the next it was a fucking crater. No survivors. The rebels believed Olympus was somehow behind it.”
“Why?”
Graves shrugged. “Dunno. I heard they found some sort of tech there, far
more advanced than anything the SPLM military has.”
“What does this all have to do with Braddock?” asked Krieger.
“Probably nothing. But from what I’ve heard Braddock and those Vagabond asses are usually spotted near zones of high Olympus activity. The PMC has been pushing hard trying to pacify Eastern Equatoria, so it would be worth a look.”
“Do you know where this village is…or was?”
“I could point it out, sure. It was called Hashaba, I think.” Graves picked up his beer and took a drink.
“Great. When do we leave?”
The gun-runner almost spat out the beverage. “Leave? What the hell are you talking about?”
“You’re taking me there,” Krieger stated.
“The hell I am!”
“You probably know all the roads from here to Ethiopia and how to avoid rebels and government.”
“I do and that doesn’t matter because I’m not going!”
“You owe me this, Graves.”
“That was a lifetime ago. I’m a businessman now.”
“You were businessman then.”
“Yes, but now I’m respectable.”
Krieger looked around the dilapidated surroundings. “Huh. Some respect. Sitting around watching TV, smoking weed, and selling shitty weapons.”
Graves eyed the Russian for a second before saying, coldly, “Look who’s talking! I remember you swearing to me you’d never work in a regular army again—yet here you are serving alongside those bootlicking Peacemakers.”
That admission surprised Krieger. How did he know that?
Graves continued, “Yeah, you’re right, I do have eyes out in lots of places. I know you work for them. Why should I trust a word you say?”
“Because I can pay,” Krieger answered, staring the man hard in the eye. “Two-hundred grand. American.”
Graves halted for a moment. “Okay, I’m listening.”
“You take me to this Hashaba village and I have my people wire the money anywhere you wish.”
“Bullshit.”