Fury in the Gulf (Brannigan's Blackhearts Book 1)

by Peter Nealen

  “No,” Flanagan repeated.

  “Oh, come on, Joe!” Curtis snapped, exasperated. The muscular little man looked like he was about to stamp his foot. “It ain’t gonna kill you to be just a little bit moto, once in a while!”

  Flanagan looked at Hancock. “Can’t we just, I don’t know, sew his mouth shut until the op is over?”

  Hancock smirked. “You seemed to consider bringing him along to be a foregone conclusion when I met up with you,” he said. “You only started bitching once he was within earshot.”

  “Ha!” Curtis exclaimed, jumping up and pointing a triumphant finger. “I knew it! I fuckin’ knew it!”

  “Shut the fuck up!” Santelli bellowed. “Meeting’s over for today. Go get some shut-eye. Otherwise you’re gonna be regretting it from sunup to sundown tomorrow. We’ve got a lot of prep work to stuff into a few days.”

  With more muttering and a few jibes, the meeting broke up. Santelli turned to Hancock. “You really couldn’t resist pushing that button, could you?” he asked.

  Hancock grinned. “No, I could not.”

  ***

  The sun still wasn’t all the way up when they gathered out behind Brannigan’s cabin the next morning. As Brannigan had instructed, they were all wearing some sort of fatigues and boots, though they had turned out in a motley assemblage of old Marine digis, khakis, greens, and a few British desert tiger stripes. Each man also had a rucksack on his back and a climbing rope with carabiner slung around his chest and shoulders.

  Most were still blinking sleep out of their eyes. Curtis especially looked like he hadn’t seen the near side of nine in the morning for some time.

  Santelli stepped out in front. “Since the Colonel is only going to be with us for today, I’ll be taking charge of training,” he announced. “As I said last night, we’ve got a lot to cram into a few days, so get ready for the suck. Just bear in mind, it will be infinitely worse if we get on the ground on Khadarkh and we’re not ready for it. Now, let’s go.”

  He turned and started off at a stiff jog, heading out toward the road. The rest followed, Brannigan in the lead.

  They didn’t keep much of a formation, but more of a loose file. These were all men who had done their fair share of formation runs, and no longer felt the need for the kind of strict regimentation that younger soldiers require. They might all have been out of the game for a while, but at their core, they were professionals, who could be expected to do their job with as little supervision as possible. Brannigan wouldn’t have recruited them, otherwise.

  He glanced back at Aziz, who was keeping an easy pace, about two paces behind Childress. Aziz was the question mark. One or another of the core team all knew each other. Aziz had been a last-minute addition, and he was already demonstrating a bit of an attitude problem. Brannigan wasn’t worried about that because of any self-regard for his no-longer-effective rank. He was worried about it because an ego has no place in a small team deep in enemy territory.

  Aziz would bear watching. Fortunately, he knew that Santelli was more than equal to the job. Carlo had announced that he’d gone the First Sergeant to Sergeant Major route, rather than Master Sergeant to Master Gunnery Sergeant, because he was lazy and didn’t want to work. Brannigan had always suspected that it had been a far tougher choice for the little fireplug of a man than he’d ever let on. He was as passionate about training as he was about taking care of his Marines. He’d chosen the disciplinary route because the latter had won out. Probably by the margin of a coin toss.

  The short, fat-looking Italian steadily increased his speed as they hit the paved road, until they were moving at a stiff seven-and-a-half-minute mile pace. Curtis was already starting to breathe hard, his shorter legs pumping as he tried to keep up. Hancock and Villareal were keeping pace with Curtis, while Flanagan and Childress didn’t look like they were hurting at all.

  Abruptly, Santelli turned off the road and plunged into the woods. There was no trail, and his route led them over multiple fallen trees, down into steep draws, and back up over towering boulders and cliffs. It was a run coupled with a lot of climbing, and it was a smoker. By the time they had gone five miles, Brannigan was huffing and soaked in sweat. Curtis wasn’t looking too good, and neither was Villareal.

  They finally stopped under a good-sized cliff. Santelli turned and bellowed hoarsely, “Walk it off for a minute. Just don’t get too comfortable; we’re just getting started.”

  “I thought this was a snatch-and-grab, not a movement to contact mission,” Aziz bitched, leaning down and putting his hands on his knees.

  “You ever been in an extended, close-quarters fight, Aziz?” Santelli demanded. The former Sergeant Major was red in the face and breathing pretty hard, himself. “It’s a smoker. We don’t have time to find a place in the desert to train, so we’re making do. Cardio is a must. Being able to climb over things is also a must. And this,” he continued, jerking a thumb at the cliffside looming over them, “is going to have to make do for simulating going over the Citadel wall. Attacking the front gate is probably going to be a non-starter, so we’re going to practice getting up a sheer rock wall for the next three hours, until we can do it in a matter of seconds, or we start falling off the cliff from exhaustion.”

  ***

  The rest of the day was a continuous parade of pain, sweat, and misery. Once Santelli was grudgingly satisfied with their times getting up the cliff, they started the run back toward the cabin, stopping several times to practice break-contact drills, or ambushes, or even stalking, wherever Santelli could find a stretch of ground with minimal ground cover. They were bruised, exhausted, and hurting by the time they got back to the cabin.

  They weren’t done, though. After a brief, spare meal, Brannigan opened up his gun safe, and they drew out an assortment of rifles. There was a fairly open stretch of land behind and below the cabin that Brannigan often used for a range; he had several steel targets permanently set out there at various yard lines, clear to the next ridge over, about eight hundred yards away.

  “Since we don’t know for sure what we’re going to end up with for weapons,” Brannigan said, “we’re going to practice with a variety. Ultimately, marksmanship is marksmanship. I’m going to try to get something in the AK family; they are common enough in the region that they should be easy to obtain. I’m sure everyone’s used ‘em, but I’ve got two that we can practice on.” The rest of the rifles consisted of a pair of ARs, three FALs, a PTR-91, and a SIG SG550.

  They commenced three more hours of shooting drills, from up close to as far as Brannigan’s most distant steel. They started with simple marksmanship and familiarization—or re-familiarization, as the case may be—with each rifle type. Then Santelli worked them up to break contact drills, fire and maneuver drills, and even some CQB practice, using some hastily set up paper targets and an L-shaped “room” set against the hillside.

  “I sure hope you’re getting reimbursed for us shooting all of your ammo, John,” Hancock said at one point, between drills.

  “Don’t worry,” Brannigan replied. “I’ll take it out of Tanner’s hide if I’m not.”

  ***

  After the shooting practice, it was Doc’s turn. He hadn’t participated in the weapons drills, which had drawn some not-so-friendly glances from Childress and Aziz. But he’d been hastily putting his own training schedule together.

  “I’m sure this is just going to be a refresher for all of you,” Villareal said, “but we need to go over it anyway. Tee-Triple Cee. Tactical Combat Casualty Care. I wish I could have some pigs or goats here to work on, but we don’t have the time or the funds right now. So, we’re all going to be each other’s meat puppets. First things first; tourniquets.”

  For the next four hours, he went into detail on treatment for the most common battlefield wounds, ranging from gunshot wounds, to traumatic amputations, to blast injuries. The basics were always the same. Win the fight, stop the bleeding, get the casualty to cover, then assess and treat as you go.<
br />
  If they were hoping to be done after Villareal’s medical class, Santelli wasn’t having it. “On your feet!” he roared. “Some of you have been getting soft in the fleshpots!” Brannigan stifled a chuckle; he knew Santelli well enough to see that the other man was hurting just as badly as any of the rest of the team. “So we’re going to be doing two-a-days for the rest of the training cycle, just to try to catch up!”

  There was a chorus of groans and curses. But Santelli led out at another stiff jog, heading back out to the road, even as the sun was going down.

  ***

  Brannigan hadn’t put on the one suit he owned since Rebecca’s funeral. But it still fit fine. He was glad of that; there really wasn’t time to get it tailored again, and he didn’t want to have to get a new one, either.

  He stepped out of the rental car outside of the offices of Taylor and Tailor. Hector Chavez had given him the name of the shipping company after some careful investigation, not all of it entirely aboveboard. While Hector’s company dealt primarily in maritime security and counter-piracy, he had close contacts in the cyber security realm, and a few of those guys resided in a sort of murky, ethical gray area, where it was probably best not to inquire too closely as to how they had obtained the information they provided.

  There was no evidence that Taylor and Tailor was actually involved in any black-market dealings. But in the new reality of globalization, the lines between licit and illicit networks were often very hard to see, and there was information that suggested that, with the right questions being asked, Taylor and Tailor could provide contacts that might or might not be on the darker side of gray.

  Brannigan strode in through the double glass doors, his back straight and his head up, even though he was feeling every minute of the previous day’s exertions. His outdoor lifestyle since Rebecca’s death had kept him in good shape, but Santelli’s training program was downright brutal. He momentarily felt for the guys back at the cabin, going through the same grueling routine, this time with some boat work down at the lake thirty miles away. But he put his game face on and approached the receptionist.

  “Good morning,” the pretty brunette said brightly as he stepped up to the desk. “Can I help you?’

  “I hope so,” Brannigan replied. He hadn’t had time to trim his hair, but he’d shaved and trimmed his graying handlebar. “My name is Gunnar Zebrowski,” he said. Corporal Gunnar Zebrowksi had died under his command, in a motorcycle accident. “I have an appointment with Mr. Daniel Taylor.”

  The girl looked down at her monitor. “Oh, yes, I see you, Mr. Zebrowksi,” she said, in the same bright, cheery tone of voice. “I think Mr. Taylor is about to get out of a meeting. If you’d like to have a seat, I’ll call you when he’s ready.”

  “Thank you,” Brannigan said with a smile. The brunette returned it dazzlingly. Brannigan momentarily had to remind himself that she was probably young enough to be his daughter.

  Taylor didn’t keep him waiting for long. He’d barely sat down and opened a magazine, something banal about investing, that seemed to be full of ads for very expensive rich kid’s toys, when the receptionist called his alias. “Mr. Zebrowski? Mr. Taylor is ready to meet with you now.”

  He stood up, to see a short, clean-shaven man with brown hair and wearing a suit that probably cost as much as Brannigan’s truck walking out into the lobby. “Mr. Zebrowski?” the man said, holding out his hand. “I’m Daniel Taylor.” Taylor had a firm grip, but there was something in his eyes when he met Brannigan’s gaze that he didn’t like. “Come this way, and hopefully we can do some business today.”

  He led the way to the elevator, and up to the sixth floor. Ushering Brannigan out into the richly appointed hallway, he led him to a conference room, with a deep pile carpet, what looked like a real wood conference table, and a view of the city through giant, plate-glass windows.

  Taylor motioned Brannigan to a seat, and took a chair across the table from him, leaning forward and clasping his hands together on the tabletop. “So, what can we do for you today, Mr. Zebrowski?” he asked.

  “I represent a security company that is looking to expand our operations into the Persian Gulf,” Brannigan said carefully. “We’re strictly private at this point, no government contracts. We’re having some…difficulties with obtaining all the equipment we need to secure our clients in the region, between the threats of terrorism, kidnapping, and piracy. I was told by a Mr. Vernon that you might have some contacts that could help us with our difficulties.”

  Taylor’s eyes had flickered, ever so slightly, at the mention of “Mr. Vernon.” Brannigan frankly had no idea if it was the name of a real person, or a code phrase. Hector’s people hadn’t been able to find that out. Just that “Mr. Vernon” seemed to be in some way connected with Taylor and Tailor’s possible underworld ties.

  Taylor straightened and leaned back in his chair, studying Brannigan impassively. “That is a touchy subject, Mr. Zebrowski,” he said. “ITAR can be difficult to navigate, especially in that region. While we are not in the same business, security is, of course, vital to our operations, so we are somewhat familiar with the problems that you are describing.”

  He leaned forward again, slightly, resting his elbows on the table and tapping his forefingers together under his nose. Brannigan watched him, noting the curious light feeling in his chest as he mentally prepared to go over the table and plunge the pen that was resting in his breast pocket into the other man’s jugular. He didn’t like this kind of subterfuge; he had been a warrior his entire life, and preferred the messy certainty of combat to the soft-clothed, duplicitous back-room dealing that this man exemplified, especially if Chavez’ information was correct.

  “I might be able to help you, Mr. Zebrowski,” Taylor said finally. “We have often had to make certain…local arrangements when passing through that area, and there are some local contacts who can offer certain…services for far cheaper than any regular Western company.” By which he meant either the security equivalent of sweat-shops, companies that paid their contractors pennies on the dollar, more than likely for the sake of “getting a foot in the door,” or outright illegal protection rackets. Brannigan’s money was on the latter. “I can provide you with a couple of these contacts, if you are going to be going that way soon. The question is, however, what does my company get out of it?”

  Brannigan spread his hands. “You have me at something of a disadvantage,” he admitted. “We’re still little more than a startup. But I think I can guarantee that, if you provide us with this little favor, I can offer you the chance to hire some top-notch security contractors in that region, all genuine US combat vets, for considerably below market price.”

  Taylor pursed his lips, in what had to be a practiced “thoughtful” look. Brannigan was beginning to wonder if the man had a soul at all, or if he was just a carefully put together collection of mannerisms and buzzwords. “That is certainly an option to take under consideration,” he said, “considering the quality of many of the local security contractors in the area.” He thought some more, though as Brannigan looked into the other man’s dead eyes, he thought that the decision had already been made. This was theater.

  It had always been a possibility that Chavez’ information had been wrong, and that his inquiry would only prompt a call to the FBI, followed by his arrest and the end of the entire operation. But he didn’t think so, and watching the suited man across from him, he was fairly certain that the “Mr. Vernon” code had, in fact, gotten him in the door. It was still possible that Taylor was simply stringing him along until the local FBI office could get agents there, but if that happened, he’d just have to deal with the situation as it developed.

  Finally, Taylor reached into his pocket, drew out a business card, and scribbled something on the back. When he slid it precisely halfway across the table, leaving one finger pinning it to the wood, he said, “Contact this email. It belongs to a facilitator, of sorts, whom we have had certain dealings with. He can help y
ou out with what you need.”

  Brannigan reached over and pulled the card out from under Taylor’s finger. Taylor had kept the pressure on the card, but Brannigan drew it out easily. Taylor smiled suddenly, showing a line of even, perfect teeth, and stood up, holding out his hand. “It has been a pleasure, Mr. Zebrowski,” he said. “I hope that this is the beginning of a long and fruitful business relationship.”

  I’m sure it won’t be. Brannigan shook the man’s hand. “Here’s hoping,” he said, instead of what he was thinking.

  As he left the building, he felt like he desperately needed a shower. But they had a contact. He checked his watch. He still needed to get tickets purchased for the team to fly to Dubai, preferably by several different airlines, traveling from different airports. There was still a lot to get done before they even left the country.

  CHAPTER 5

  After the mountains and woods of the Intermountain West, Dubai was mercilessly hot.

  “You’d think that with all the shit in the air,” Childress griped quietly, “it wouldn’t be so hot. All the dust and smog should filter some of the sunlight out.”

  “You’d think,” Brannigan replied. “You’d be wrong, though.”

  Childress snorted.

  It was a bad day, even so. The smog was so thick that much of the city’s distinctive skyline, including the towering, needle-like Burj Khalifa, was only visible as little more than shadows in the brownish haze. A haboob had come through not long before, and the wind was down, so the dust and industrial smog just sat over the city, adding its own unpleasantness to the blazing, blast-furnace heat.

  Fortunately, the air conditioner in their car was still working, though Brannigan wasn’t sure how much longer that was going to last. The temperature inside the car was rising as they waited outside the Karama Collective offices, just a few blocks from the Dubai docks and associated warehouses. He expected the AC was going to quit within another hour.