Doctors of Death

by Peter Nealen

  “It’s a disturbing world, Hector,” Brannigan said. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

  “Let’s quit beating around the bush, John,” Van Zandt said sharply, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table. The entire thing rocked, the coffee sloshing a little in their cups as it took his weight. “Mario Gomez’ family gets murdered. Next thing anyone knows, a whole bunch of Mexican gang-bangers get slaughtered, many of them during what has been reported as a balls-out firefight in the hills just over the Mexican border. Now, that sounds awfully coincidental to me. Especially when a bunch of you disappeared from Childress’ bedside at just about the same time.”

  Brannigan sipped his coffee. “That does sound like an interesting coincidence,” he said mildly.

  If you think I’m going to give you an inch, you’re sadly mistaken, Mark. I’ve been crucified by your type before, remember?

  “Cut the crap, John,” Van Zandt all but exploded. “You know as well as I do that you went full vigilante on those assholes. I’ll admit, they probably deserved it.” When Brannigan’s face hardened, he amended, “Okay, they definitely deserved it. If the reports are true, the Espino-Gallo gang was as vicious as they come. The world’s better off without them. But dammit, you went way off the reservation on this one.”

  “Oh, come off it, Mark,” Brannigan snarled, finally losing his patience. “Everything we’ve done since I agreed to go into Khadarkh has been off the reservation. You show me the Congressional authorization for any of these little operations, and then we can talk about staying on the reservation.” He all but slammed the mug on the table. “We do this because it has to be done, red tape be damned.” He stabbed a finger at Van Zandt. “And don’t try to fob this off on me alone. You knew we were going to do something, or else you wouldn’t have promised legal top cover when we talked before things kicked off. Now that the bodies are on the ground, you’re getting squeamish.” He snorted. “Not that I really should have expected anything else.”

  Van Zandt actually sat back a little at that. He took a deep breath, looking down at the table. Brannigan knew he was right, and he knew that Van Zandt knew it, too. Whatever kind of legal trouble they could potentially be in if anyone went digging too deeply, he knew that the Espino-Gallos had needed killing, and that Sheriff Thomas wouldn’t be pressing charges anytime soon, either.

  Having the men whom you had tried to drive off suddenly deliver your kidnapped daughter to your door with a curt, “You’re welcome,” could tend to make a man rethink his position a bit.

  “Look me in the eye and tell me it was a righteous killing,” Van Zandt said.

  Brannigan’s eyes narrowed at that. He didn’t need to justify his actions to Van Zandt. But he looked the former General in the eye and said, “They had it coming. They had a lot worse coming than we dished out. And if the local sheriff had done his job, we would have stood by and let him do it. You’ve got my word on that.”

  His lips pressed tightly together, Van Zandt nodded, breathing a long sigh through his nose.

  “Well,” Chavez said, “now that that’s out of the way, can we get down to the main reason we came here?”

  Brannigan took another drink of his coffee. “I assumed it was so Mark could chew my ass over the New Mexico incident,” he said.

  “Not quite,” Van Zandt said, reaching down to his briefcase. He pulled a tablet out, unlocked it, and slid it across the table.

  “Apparently, there have been at least three outbreaks of some new kind of hemorrhagic fever in several of the refugee camps in Chad, just over the Sudanese border from Darfur,” he explained, as Brannigan started sifting through the open file. Gruesome images of men, women, and children, their bodies marred by horrific lesions, flipped past. A map marked the affected refugee camps. “It’s apparently an odd place for a hemorrhagic fever outbreak,” Van Zandt continued.

  “Sounds like a job for Doctors Without Borders,” Brannigan commented, “not a bunch of off-the-books mercs.”

  “Well, that’s the thing,” Chavez put in, leaning back in his chair a little. “There are already a bunch of NGO doctors in the area. The most recent additions were from the World Health Organization. You’ll find the full list a few files down.”

  Brannigan found the marked file and brought up the list. An American, a Frenchman, an Italian, and a Basque. “So, what does this have to do with my Blackhearts?” he asked.

  “Somebody disappeared the WHO doctors three days ago,” Van Zandt said flatly. “They had just left Abeche, heading east. There are reports of a helicopter in the vicinity, but their motorcade was found only ten miles outside of town, shot to shit. No bodies found, but there was apparently enough blood to suggest that they’d all been murdered.”

  “From what I remember—which admittedly, isn’t much,” Brannigan said, “Chad isn’t exactly stable. Could have been just about anybody. That close to Darfur, the Janjaweed, or whatever they’re called now, are probably a good bet.”

  “Except for the helo,” Chavez pointed out. “The former Janjaweed—I’m sorry, ‘Rapid Support Force,’ now—have used them, but they’ve generally stayed on the Sudanese side of the border, the last few years. None of the other groups in Chad have used them, at least not in that area. The fight with Boko Haram is a couple hundred miles to the west.”

  “Assuming the attackers were actually on the helo,” Brannigan pointed out.

  “Nobody’s quite sure what to do about this situation,” Van Zandt said. “All the SOF assets in the country are in the west, fighting Boko Haram. And the WHO isn’t under US protection anyway. One of the doctors was an American, and her husband is raising all sorts of ruckus, but he’s getting the runaround. Which is how we heard about it.

  “Now, under any other circumstances, the response would be, ‘Africa wins again,’” he said. “She knew the risks, took her chances, and lost. But the collection of coincidences is ominous enough that we decided it bears further scrutiny.

  “And a recent report from Biltine, northwest of Abeche, puts the situation in an entirely new light. It seems that Mitchell Price has cropped up in Chad.”

  “Now, there’s a name I know,” Brannigan said. “He’s rather notorious.”

  “He’s also been a Person of Interest for the last few years,” Chavez said. “Ever since that incident in the South China Sea a couple years ago.”

  “I vaguely remember hearing a little bit about it,” Brannigan said. He stared at Van Zandt. “I was getting drummed out of the Marine Corps at the time, so some of the details rather escaped me.”

  “No one was ever able to prove anything, at least not enough to get criminal proceedings started,” Van Zandt said, looking distinctly uncomfortable. The two men had learned to work with each other over the last year, but there was definitely still plenty of friction. And Brannigan wasn’t likely to forget that Van Zandt had presided over his forced retirement, and then come looking for him to solve problems. “But it appeared that Price put together a sizable private army, based out of a resort on the Desaru peninsula in Malaysia, and sent them after a group of pirates based in the Anambas Islands, right next to the Straits of Malacca. The dicey part is, those pirates were being led by a Chinese frigate captain, who had deserted with his ship. The Chinese weren’t too happy about any of it, least of all having a bunch of Americans running around on their turf.”

  Brannigan frowned. “I never heard anything about Americans being involved,” he said, “but I remember hearing about some of the shooting going on down there. There were people losing their minds about World War Three in the Pacific kicking off once the Chinese started throwing anti-ship missiles around with the US Navy not too far away.”

  “Things got plenty tense,” Van Zandt confirmed. “And while, again, nobody could confirm it, Price was right in the middle of it. There were standing orders for his arrest if he showed up anywhere in the South China Sea, but if he was there, he managed to elude everyone.”

  “What abo
ut the contractors?” Brannigan asked.

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Chavez said. “The Chinese displayed several bodies and made a big stink about it, but nobody but Price knows how many there were, or if they were all killed, or some managed to get off the islands. The islands themselves have been occupied by the People’s Liberation Army ever since.”

  “Price has remained at large since, mostly thumbing his nose at the people who want him in Leavenworth,” Van Zandt continued. “There are whispers that he’s had a couple more run-ins with the Chinese since, though that’s only RUMINT at the moment.”

  “So, you think that Price might have something to do with these disappearances?” Brannigan asked, frowning. “That seems to be a bit of a stretch. Going from pirate hunting to kidnapping or murdering UN doctors?”

  “Nobody knows for sure,” Van Zandt said. “Price is playing his own game, and it’s making a lot of people nervous, especially since he’s done a damned good job of staying ahead of anyone who tries to get in his way. Nobody knows what his endgame is, and given some of his history, there isn’t much that most people in the National Security community would put past him to get there. He’s a loose cannon, and nobody thinks that his presence in Chad when this stuff is happening is entirely a coincidence.”

  “Is Price the target?” Brannigan asked. “Not entirely sure how I feel about that.”

  “Would it really matter?” Van Zandt asked.

  “Yeah, it would,” Brannigan said flatly. “I thought I made this abundantly clear before. I have ultimate veto on these missions. If I smell a rat, me and my boys are out. We’re not some mindless death squad you can point at your bad guy of the moment and trust not to ask questions.”

  Of course, Wade probably wouldn’t object to being part of a death squad, but he’s kind of the exception, and he’s one of mine. If I say no, he’ll back off. I can trust him that far.

  Van Zandt sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Sorry, John,” he said. “I shouldn’t have said that. There’s a lot of weirdness involved with this situation, and there are some severe pressures to figure it out. When somebody whacks a bunch of UN doctors, people get upset.

  “Anyway, no. Price is not the target. At least, not yet. As things stand now, I don’t have a target for you; this isn’t a kill or capture or a rescue mission. This is strictly reconnaissance. Should you accept the mission, you and your boys will go into Abeche, take a good look around, and see if you can find out what happened to the WHO team.”

  “Might not be that simple,” Brannigan pointed out. “Depending on what kind of bad actors we’re dealing with, getting in and getting out without somebody pinging to the fact that we’re there on recon might be more easily said than done.”

  “You have your usual leeway,” Van Zandt said tiredly. “Not that you need my say-so. Just try not to start World War Three while you’re there?”

  Brannigan stood up. “I doubt that World War Three is going to start in Central Africa,” he said, “though I’ve been wrong before. We’ll try not to bite off more than we can chew.” He looked down at Van Zandt. “I’ll call the boys in. Those we can spare.”

  Van Zandt raised his eyebrows. “Childress is in the hospital and off the operational roster,” Brannigan explained. “I’m not even calling Gomez; his sister needs him close for now. That’s whittling us down a bit. Don’t worry, I’ll get it covered. So long as you’ve got the logistics covered.”

  Van Zandt nodded. “Just call me with what you need.”

  “Oh, I will,” Brannigan said. “And Mark?” Van Zandt looked up at him as if not sure he wanted to hear what came next. “The fee will be the usual. No matter how many of us go.”

  The retired general just nodded tiredly. Brannigan smiled tightly and turned to go.

  Sometimes it was just satisfying to be a pain in Mark Van Zandt’s ass.

  The smile faded as he neared the door. Africa might not be quite as bad as Mexico, but it still wasn’t going to be a picnic. And if there were other actors besides the usual jihadists and tribal militias involved…

  This could be a rough one.

  Chapter 3

  The sound of crying echoed through the house. The place wasn’t even fully furnished yet, and Carlo Santelli had to cringe a little at just how loud Carlo Junior could get, particularly in some of the emptier rooms.

  He almost didn’t hear the phone. Part of that was because of Carlo Junior’s wails, part of it was his own deafness in the aftermath of trying to walk the little tyke to sleep. He’d failed miserably, and Melissa had come and taken the baby, leaving Santelli feeling frustrated and helpless again.

  So, he wasn’t in the best frame of mind when he snatched up the phone and answered it without looking at the screen. “What?”

  “Rough day, Carlo?” Brannigan asked dryly.

  Santelli pressed his lips together and cussed himself silently but thoroughly. He really wasn’t cut out for this family life, and it was taking its toll. Or so he told himself.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “The baby’s colicky, and he’s being a royal…a handful.”

  “You’re even trying to watch your language,” Brannigan said, sounding congratulatory. “You’re truly becoming a family man, Carlo.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not doing that great a job at it, sir,” Santelli said.

  “Knowing you, you’re doing a lot better than most,” Brannigan said. He paused. “I take it that this is a bad time?”

  Santelli glanced toward the other room, where Melissa had disappeared with Carlo Junior. The baby was still crying, but sounded like he was finally starting to quiet down. Maybe he’d just worn himself out. He could hope.

  The truth was, he desperately wanted to go on whatever job Brannigan had, even if it was—uncharacteristic for the band of under-the-table mercenaries who called themselves Brannigan’s Blackhearts—just guarding a compound for a couple weeks. He understood that work. He’d been a Marine for twenty-three years, and retired as a Sergeant Major. He was comfortable with it. This…being a husband and a father was turning out to be more than he’d bargained for, especially as his late forties were rapidly approaching.

  But at the same time, twenty-three years in the Marine Corps and eighteen years before that with a strict, traditional father had taught him that there was a time and a place for everything, and that a man had responsibilities that he couldn’t duck.

  “I’m afraid it really kind of is, sir,” he said, feeling torn. “What’s the job?”

  “It’s just recon for now,” Brannigan told him. “We might not need the whole gang.”

  “It’s always going to need the whole gang,” Santelli said. “Anything less is asking for trouble.”

  “We’ve been asking for trouble for months now,” Brannigan replied. “Take care of your family, Carlo. We’ll get this done. Don’t worry about it.”

  “Telling me not to worry about it ain’t gonna work, sir,” Santelli replied, his Boston accent getting slightly thicker. “I can’t just sit back here and play house while you boys are going into the shit.”

  “Call Ben Drake, then,” Brannigan told him. “You’re now our liaison with his Old Fogey network. We need to get some of those guys down to New Mexico anyway, and Don and Vinnie can’t stay lurking outside of Sam’s hospital room for this one. Make sure the families are covered. That’s your job this time.”

  Santelli stared at the wall, his throat tight, but finally nodded, though Brannigan couldn’t see him do it. “Roger that, sir,” he finally choked out. Carlo Junior had quieted, and that made it feel even more like a betrayal to be staying back. But the Colonel had spoken, and he couldn’t try to argue without going back on what he’d already said, and his pride wouldn’t stand for that.

  “You’re not letting me down, Carlo,” Brannigan said after a moment. Almost as if he can read my mind. He always was good at that. “You’ve got responsibilities at home, too, and I really do need that liaison with Ben’s guys. Take care of the boy,
and make sure our guys are covered while we’re gone. I’m counting on you.”

  Dammit, sir, you knew that was going to get me right between the eyes. “Roger that, sir,” he managed.

  “Say hi to Melissa for me,” Brannigan said. “I’ve got more calls to make.”

  ***

  Roger Hancock hauled his parachute out of the back of his truck and started toward the house. That was a close one. Better not tell Tammy. Or John, for that matter. Brannigan had gotten on his case about taking too many risks while at home, given that the Colonel had tapped him as the Blackhearts’ Number Two, to take over if something happened to Brannigan. And he’d already had to fill that job once, when Brannigan had been shot up on the Tourmaline-Delta platform, months before.

  But dammit, sometimes a man just needed his adrenaline rush. He knew Tammy hadn’t been particularly happy to see him head out the door that morning, but he’d been gone before she could say much. The fact that he’d almost burned in from a serious malfunction that had put him into a flat spin for almost four thousand feet would only give her a solid, “I told you so.” He’d never hear the end of it.

  He shoved the hastily repacked ‘chute into its cubby in the garage and headed inside.

  As soon as he saw Tammy in the kitchen, leaning against the island with her arms folded and his phone in her hand, he could have sworn the temperature in the house had just dropped ten degrees.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “I just went out for a quick skydive, hon,” he said. “Needed to get it off my chest.”

  “That’s the fifth ‘just going out for a quick thing’ this month,” she said tightly. She held up the phone. “And your old boss just called again.”

  “What’d he say?” Hancock asked, already starting to feel his pulse quicken. Another job. Had to be. Finally.

  The truth was, as hard as he was trying to regulate himself, especially after Brannigan’s stern words before the Burma mission, if anything, the Blackhearts’ jobs were intensifying his need to get his heart pumping, the adrenaline flowing through his veins. The work they did in the shadows of the world’s conflict zones was more intense than anything he’d done in the Marine Corps, even under Brannigan, and it was making daily life at home even more pale and lifeless by comparison.