by L. J. Martin
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Prologue
My phone suddenly plays Okie from Muskogee, and I'm trying to remember to who-the-hell I'd assigned that ring?
There are only a half dozen folks in the world who have my cell number—real honest-to-goodness-always-answer cell number—as I have had dozens of throwaways from time to time. And for good reason, as some of the phone calls I get and make are the kind you don’t want others to know about, or God forbid, hear and record. Particularly others with acronyms like NSA, FBI, CIA, ATF, NCIS, JAG and a hundred other groups and organizations around the world who might lose their sense of humor if they listened in.
So when my real cell phone chimes at 3:00 AM I’m pretty sure it’s a very good friend or close associate.
But who?
When I get my eyes focused—a few too many Jack on the rocks with my buddy Pax—I look at the caller ID, smile, and hit the answer button. "Commander, how the hell are you?"
"Semper Fi, fuck face," Commander Thomas Scroder growls in his normal gruff tone.
"I see you’re the same old foul mouthed squib. I figured some irate husband would have shot your dumb ass by now."
"Yeah, right, and I figured you’d be in the pokey for molesting some seventeen year-old school girl."
"Hey, hey, bite your red stained tongue. I make them show me their driver's license before I molest these days. Besides, you jealous old fart, it’s the girls who do the molesting in this century. It’s a new world out there."
"Jealous ain’t the half of it."
"Okay, so, let’s see…you need bailing out, you need to borrow some dough to get some hussy an abortion, or you’ve got the clap and need me to get you in touch with a corpsman? Which is it?"
"If memory serves it was me who bailed you out, me who loaned your buddy Pax the dough as some lady in San Diego accused him, and me who loaned you my private stash of Triple X when you contracted some crawly little critters. So you got it all backward. How’d you know my tongue is stained red?"
"Commander, I keep up with everyone who I figure will cause me trouble, and last I heard you were retired to some sunny spot in Italy…and I know you drink the cheapest swill available."
He guffaws, then he’s silent for a moment before he asks, "Any chance this is a secure line?"
"No way."
"Need one. How can we talk?"
"You still in Lamborghini land?"
"I am. Doing private security. We’ve got crews in Africa and Burka-ville."
"And your email address is still the same?"
"One of them is."
"Stand by. And by the way, I don’t answer to reveille any longer. It’s three friggin’ AM here."
"Too bad, jarhead. It’s noon here and I’m about to set down to a Tuscan T-bone and a jug of Barbera with essence of dark cherry and blackberry and a nice vanilla aftertaste." That makes him guffaw. And me laugh.
He’s the last guy in the world who’d be a wine, or any other kind of, snob.
I growl, "I hope you choke. Stand by."
"Roger that."
Commander Thomas Scroder, Commander Scrotum to those who might have a decent head start, was likely directly responsible for my not ending my Marine Corps career busting rocks in Leavenworth. He sat on a panel of General Court Martial, one of five who determined my fate after I disobeyed an order, raided a Haji compound and broke in on a family busily stoning a couple of young girls. Young ladies whose crime was speaking to me, an infidel, and who paid for it by having their gray matter spread all over the yard among the goat crap.
As it happened, the men of the family happened to be armed, and happened to swing a couple of AK47’s in the direction of my squad…and we, with great pleasure, happened to clean house.
Among those who took a trip to seventy two Virgin-ville was a Major General in the Iraqi Armed Forces.
My mistake, not that I wouldn’t do it over again.
As it came to me later, Scroder argued for many hours with his panel mates until I was drummed out of the Corps, but with a General, not a Dishonorable Discharge and a few years of free lodging. So I owed him big time, and it was over a year before I was able to pay him back.
Word came to me that he was stationed in D.C. and his kid was using and dealing to keep up a habit. I hate dope dealers and dissuaded young Scroder’s dealer from breaking young Scroder’s legs when he couldn’t pay up, by breaking the dope dealer’s legs. Thomas the 2nd went to rehab, and on to college, and is now a George Washington University educated D.C. attorney…and I became a hero around the Scroder homestead. And we’ve done each other a few favors since…even though Scroder is a squib.
So I find a throwaway phone and send him an email and he sends me back the number of a payphone, hard to find these days even in Rome. And two hours after our first conversation, we are talking again, only this time with me on an untraceable and Thomas on a payphone…and believe me, we don’t use names.
"So, my good friend," I started, "how’s Junior?"
"Making more money than God and driving me wild with stories about the crummy town we worked in, and he still does."
"So, what can I do for you?"
"Got a few folks I need to send away, and we can’t do it. At least not so anyone knows who did."
It’s my turn to be silent a moment, and he waits until I ask, "So, I take it these are folks none of us will miss?"
"Not only that, but it’s my belief a good many of your friends and neighbors won’t be around if they don’t take a trip."
Again I’m silent. "And this is something the acronyms can’t handle?"
"Not with this administration. Not with the attitude in the country these days. Not with our debilitated armed forces. These guys are Chechens doing biz with Pakistanis and Afghans, or so we believe. All ragheads, of course. And they are well connected."
I sigh, then ask, "How many?"
"A half-dozen or so. They have their hands on a suitcase."
"A suitcase? Is that what I think it is?"
"It is.
"We’re being watched closely by the acronyms or we’d handle it. We’ve been warned from no less than the State Department. We can lose all our contracts if we stick our nose in…so we need an independent. The State dickheads are trying to negotiate a deal, and you know how that will turn out, Mr. Independent."
"I’ve been called worse."
"When can you leave? You’ll need a team."
"How many?"
"You and four or five, if they’re good."
"It’ll take me a couple of days."
"We’ll bring you some of the necessaries. Lot’s more will be awaiting your arrival at your first stop, and even more at your second."
"The quicker the better with the seed money."
"You still hanging with that other worthless jarhead with the game name?"
"You bet." We often call Pax, Paxman, so I know exactly who he means.
"Can you be at his place at eight your time...he does open at eight, or does he keep banker’s hours now that he’s a big time computer guy?"
"Yes, and yes he opens at eight. He just got his head-shed rebuilt and himself put back together after both got busted up."
"I heard. Watch for a tall blonde, Sophie, and keep it to business. She’s related. Besides, she's dog butt ugly."
I laugh. "The ugly ones try harder. Finally, I get revenge."
"You’ll get a boot up your ass…. That's not quite all of it. We sent a few of our guys in and the bad guys dusted a half dozen of our boys and captured two of them. We not only got the short end of the stick, we got no stick at all. And, yes, we got proof of life as of yesterday. Now they want fifteen mil in cash to release our people."
"Sounds like you've got a plate full for me."
"And my company has a plate full of money for you and y
our boys."
With that we ring off.
Looks like I’m headed for Italy, and then God knows where else. God works in mysterious ways, as I have business in Albania, just across the Adriatic from Italy…a double-dickhead who killed a friend of mine is most likely there, as that's his home turf. So maybe, just maybe, I can kill two birds, or more, with this one trip…to risk a pun.
1
Pax, my best buddy and fellow Corps brother, is headquartered in Vegas, the original of his six Internet Service Provider offices in as many west coast cities.
The last bad boys we tangled with, a bunch of bad-ass asshole Albanians, blew his office to pieces seven months ago, killed three of his employees and damn near killed him. I've spent the last six months working with the architect and contractor to put his headquarters back in working order, while he got himself well.
I enter from the rear parking lot knowing that Pax is healing and not yet working full time so he's not getting in the office until mid-morning. And I should know as I’m staying at his place until he mends. I don't go up to his office, but rather, go to the front to see the new receptionist I hear he's hired. My old buddy, Rosie, who had the job, was one of those killed, and I still have a hard knot in my stomach and will till I get revenge.
To my surprise, it's a guy working the phone, to my very, very much greater surprise, there's a gorgeous blonde in a mid thigh skirt in one of the waiting room chairs, thumbing through a Guns and Ammo.
Walking over I extend my hand to the new receptionist. "Hi, I'm Mike Reardon."
"Bruce...Bruce Richardson. Nice to meet you. I've heard lots—"
"Reardon?" the blonde interrupts.
I turn, pleasantly surprised this one knows my name. Then wonder. "You a process server or?"
"I'm or. I'm Sophie McAmber. You know my Uncle Tom. Where can we go to talk...in private?"
"Your uncle said you were the original mud fence." I've got to laugh.
"And you say?"
"One has to believe one's commander."
"I thought you were Corps?"
I laugh again. "You're right. He never was my direct boss, so I guess I can make up my own mind."
"And you say?"
"I say let's go up to Mr. Weatherwax's office and talk private."
"Lead the way."
I take a brand-new chair behind Pax's brand-new desk, and she sits across from me...and I'm happy to say, far enough that when she crosses her long perfectly tanned legs I can enjoy the show.
"So, what's up?" I ask.
"Two of my uncle's men are being held for ransom in Afghanistan and he wants you to bring them home. I’m sure you’ve talked with him?"
"I have."
"And these guys have a little package they hauled from Kazakhstan. A very nasty little package. These bastards are Chechen, but one of them is Afghani, born and raised and has high placed contacts there. We think the package and the Blackthorn guys are in the same place near Mazar. A mullah’s compound."
"Lots of guys know Afghanistan. I know...or knew...something about Iraq, but don't know—"
"He wants you." She moves forward and places the briefcase on Pax's desk and pops it open. "A half million in cash to cover your expenses, two point five million more if you bring them home to Italy, another million if you get the suitcase. You'll need four or five more men, and we'll need to get them to Atlanta. I’ve got a Citation chartered. When I give the word a company plane will come over to meet you there."
"From there to where?"
"Italy then Uzbekistan. You'll jump off from there into Afghanistan."
"Why Uzbekistan?"
"No one will expect Americans to come that way and we’ve got some good contacts there with an American oil company who’ll loan us some assets."
"It's a long drive over some high mountains and through the poppy fields."
"Two MH-53's will be waiting for you and, hopefully, airlift you to within miles of where we think they're being held. We’ll also have a Little Bird on call, but it’ll be no closer than thirty minutes away, so make sure you don’t need him too quickly. The commander will brief you on the op."
"And do we hump from there to the target?"
"Nope. There’ll be lots of supplies to cache, but the real reason for the two heavy choppers is there will be a DPV slung under each. They'll be fully armed with a 50 cal machine gun and MK-19 grenade launcher on front, MK-48 on the rear, and two LAW rockets mounted on the top frame. You'll have sat communication, of course. And they'll be flying an Afghan flag and you'll be wearing Afghan uniforms. We’ll have a friend in place to act as guide and interpreter."
I laugh. "They shoot spies, not that they wouldn't shoot us anyway. Do I get to take a mechanic along?"
She smiles. "I know they've not been too dependable in the past. These two machines have had a little work. The Volks engines have been replaced."
"With?"
"Porsche. Top end of eighty or so is now one-thirty, not that I'd advise driving them that fast. Put the pedal to the metal and they might do a wheelie, or worse—go ass over teakettle."
"So, we’ll look like upgraded, ANA, Afghan Army and have al Qaeda and the Taliban trying to kill us. I’m not sure I wouldn’t prefer Toyota pickups so we look like the bad guys…not that the ANA will be our buddies."
"You’ll be way faster and way better armed in the DPV’s…besides, the ANA has control of the area."
"When am I scheduled to leave Atlanta?"
"Your transport will be standing by when you arrive. A complete inventory of your gear is in the briefcase. They'll go when you load up."
"Uzbek visas?"
"You won't need them. You'll go private, you'll land on a private strip in Italy, and you'll go private from there directly to a strip this side of Tashkent. The choppers are registered to the oil company I mentioned, doing biz and well connected with the Uzbeks."
"I'll leave for Atlanta in eighteen hours, quickest commercial flight I can get."
"No need, we'll charter you a flight from McClellan. I've got a Citation standing by."
"Sounds good."
"I know I don't have to tell you, you'll need a very hard-ass, gung-ho crew."
"Yeah, I know, they'll be as tough as you are beautiful."
"You don't say." And I love the coy look I get. She continues, "Don't worry about BDU's, we have everything in every size in Italy, ANA, Afghan National Army, issue. Bring your rucks, your webbing and battle rattle, but we’ll have the basics. You just bring some guys with lots of bark and no back up...oh, by the way, the Chechen born in Afghanistan is the president's cousin, one of the world's largest dope dealers."
"Nice of you to mention it. So, odds are, the ANA will be very protective of the old boy. I’ll have a list of my requirements for you early this afternoon. Can you get back with me?"
"I’ll bet we already have everything you put on your list. I’m staying at the Bellagio, call and leave word when and where."
"Let’s make it supper." She flashes me a doubtful look, so I add, "…a working supper. I’ll call you."
She nods, and she's gone.
DPV's are Desert Patrol Vehicles, very sexy and well-armed dune buggies, but not particularly well protected.
MH-53 is a Sikorsky Helicopter, a heavy weight. The Little Bird, AH-6, is a fast maneuverable two man fighting attack helicopter, usually toting two M134 7.62 mini-guns, Gatling style capable of six thousand rounds a minute, and 7-tube FFAR rocket pods, firing high explosive or flechette anti-personnel rounds.…but thirty minutes away could be an eternity. BDU's are battle dress uniforms...and it sounds like the ones they have are Afghani.
It's nice to work with serious guys...particularly serious guys with deep pockets. However, it sounds like these bad guys may have even deeper pockets.
2
Five guys with, as Sophia puts it, lots of bark…and she means thick hides, not dog style vocal apparatus.
My best buddy, Pax, is going to have his feelings h
urt because he’s staying home. He’s still not totally back from having his office fall on him and being in traction…and he was already gimpy with one leg an inch and a half shorter than the other due to taking an AK47 round through the thigh while he was dragging me out of the middle of an Iraqi road. I was wandering around like a drunk after an RPG landed close enough that it’s only by the grace of God I wasn’t in pieces.
But my number two best friend, Skip, is whole and ready to go and even though he’s got a bodyguard gig in Reno, I know he’ll head for the airport as soon as he punches out from my phone call.
Henry ‘Hank’ Hausman is two hundred twenty pounds of piss and vinegar who was with me on a job in Paraguay, and I know he’ll follow me into hell if the dough is right.
'Killer' Carlos Juarez is an ex-Delta Force cat who's now in bail enforcement, a bounty hunter, and he too will butt heads with Beelzebub if the money’s right.
Tobin ‘TooBad’ Michaels is Juarez’s good buddy with the same background and hard as nails.
Last but not least is one of the most hell-on-the-hoof guys I’ve ever known, BeBe Gunter, whose German name belies the fact he’s black as an eight ball…and he’s at least as hard. BeBe is actually Bobby Bouchard Gunter, ex-SEAL, and if any of these guys have bark on them, it’s BeBe. He’s been running a program for delinquent kids but I know the group lost their funding and he’s footloose.
So I spend the rest of the morning on the phone and as I suspected, after telling them there’s a good chance there’ll be a six way split of up to three and a half mil, they're all headed for McClellan with nothing more than a ruck full of personal gear.
It’s six ways because I’m going to cut Pax out of the action, but not out of the op. We need a guy on the computers and that will be the best guy I know, Paxton Weatherwax. I wish I had him on a .300 or .338 Lapau mag sniper rifle, but I’ve got guys who can fill that slot, including myself.
The good news, we’ve got six guys with tons of experience and knowledge of every weapons system we’ll be able to drag along or find in Afghanistan. They’re scheduled to arrive at various times tomorrow, except for BeBe, who’s from West Palm Beach and is meeting us in Atlanta. Hank, TooBad and Killer are driving over together from L.A., Skip’s flying in from Reno.