Countdown: H Hour

by Tom Kratman

  “That’s okay when they’re home, and it should be okay now, for the ones still back there, when they’re home fighting for their home against Venezuela. But when they get shipped overseas, while their families are in danger, at home, it’s just not enough money. No, not even with the combat pay, which they’re going to get two or three months of for maybe an hour’s fighting.”

  “But we can’t pay them to U.S. or Euro scales,” Hallinan objected. “If we did, we couldn’t support the entire regiment with the Euros and Americans. And without the Euros and Americans, nobody would hire the regiment for anything. Then there’d be no regiment, no jobs, and no pay.”

  Balbahadur grinned. “You know that. I know that. Logically they should know that, too. And, logically, they do. But it’s not about logic; it’s about how they feel. And the pay differential makes them feel like second class citizens. Which is why they’re so goddamned resentful.”

  Hallinan shrugged. “Yeah, I suppose. Above my pay grade. I don’t suppose you have a solution?”

  “Above my pay grade, too,” Balbahadur admitted. “But that’s where it all started. Add in that no Guyanan has yet been allowed to buy a share in the regiment . . .”

  “Sucks, doesn’t it?” Hallinan agreed.

  “Oh, it’s fine for me and mine,” Balbahadur said. “Fine for you. But it sucks for them. And this is what wrecked the Brigade of Gurkhas, you know.”

  “Huh? How so?”

  Balbahadur looked heavenward, as if asking the gods why his regiment had had to be mostly dismantled. “Well . . . used to be the Gurkhas got paid a pittance; it was set by treaty between India and the UK. But as the Empire closed down, and the Gurkhas had to be moved home, or to Hong Kong, or Singapore, or Brunei, the British Army found it had to start paying fairly. They hid it as cost of living allowances for quite a while, so as not to violate the treaty with India. Eventually, though, it was simpler to just make for pay parity and to hell with the treaty.

  “This got pushed by the courts into parity for retirement pensions, right to live in the UK, a whole bunch of things. Very quickly it became obvious that Gurkhas weren’t such a bargain after all. Oh, we were good, yes, but no better than a good British regiment. And we couldn’t be used for some things; try, for example, putting a Gurkha whose English was, at best, pretty marginal out on the streets of Belfast or Londonderry to keep order. Not such a good idea? Ministry of Defense didn’t think so, either.

  “So, in a time of tightening budgets, they let the Gurkhas go, for the most part. One battalion is all that’s left, plus a few demonstration troops at Sandhurst. And we’re mostly line boys now. The British Army takes in less than eighty new Gurkhas a year, and Nepal’s share is about twenty. And Gurkha pay sent back to Nepal used to be really important to a damned poor country.

  “So a loud-mouthed actress, whose father was an officer in the Brigade, did some good for a few, for a while, and damaged an infinite number, forever.”

  Balbahadur laughed lightly. “You’ve heard that two wrongs don’t make a right? Well, sometimes two rights make an infinite wrong.”

  “I’m wiring base,” Pearson said to Warrington. The captain stood on the bridge, facing forward over the deck where Hallinan and Balbahadur were talking, the guards dutifully standing over them and the rest. “This mission is a failure from the word go. There’s no way we can proceed.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” Warrington said. “I really do. We’ve still got three weeks or so to turn this around.”

  Pearson snorted. “I’m a Christian. I believe God made the Heavens and the Earth in seven days, whatever a ‘day’ may mean to God. But I’m not a fool. I don’t believe you can make a combat effective force out of this mutually hostile rabble in the three weeks or so we’ve got left.”

  “So what have you lost by letting me try?” Warrington pleaded. “We can’t go home anyway. The worst that happens is you burn up fuel. So?”

  “No,” Pearson said. “The worst that happens is that the next riot gets completely out of hand and somebody gets killed.”

  “Ah, but I have a cunning plan . . .”

  “Oh, Jesus.”

  “By the way,” Warrington asked with a grin, “what’s illumination going to be like for the next few nights?”

  “All right, you cunts; you want out of durance vile? This is your route.”

  The moon was up, but presented only a thin sliver of weak light, not enough to illuminate more than the grossest outlines of the ship, its structure, and the containers. In that nearly three-feet-up-a-well-digger’s-ass-at-midnight darkness, four lines and four knots of troops, all mixed in as randomly as Warrington, Pierantoni, and Stocker could deliberately make them, waited for the word to start assembling the flight deck from the perforated steel planking. The lines were for the drudgery of moving the sections of Marsden Matting from the containers to where they were to be assembled. The knots, and each of those contained both line infantry and special operations types, were to do the actual assembly.

  A bare minimum of the tiny, 4.5mm, chemlights marked the edges of the ad hoc airstrip and special danger areas. The greenish spark and faint glow they gave off was barely adequate to the purpose.

  “The standard is one hour for a field of sixty feet by three hundred,” Warrington reminded them. “Now GO!”

  With a collective groan, the men of A and C companies began. Although they’d rehearsed the procedure in a small way first, in the light, down on the mess deck, dark multiplied the problems to infinity.

  “Oooowww . . . you’ve got my fucking finger stuck . . . Back off! Back off! . . . Goddamnit, ease it over! . . . Get off my foot, asshole!...Where’s the half piece for the edge? . . . Shit! Get a medic; I think my leg’s broken . . . End piece here! End piece here! . . . Mediiiccc! . . .”

  “Sergeant Major P?” Warrington called out.

  “Here, sir.”

  “Take charge of this shit. Don’t let ’em kill each other. I’m going to go see how Blackmore, Cagle, and the landing party are coming along.”

  “Sir.”

  When Warrington reached the mess deck, Cagle, who—having a contact on the ground was effectively intel officer for the mission—was giving the situation brief. Behind him, on the big TV screen, was a Google satellite image of the objective area. Cagle pointed at it.

  “That’s the city of Bajuni,” Cagle explained. “My contact tell me it doesn’t look much like that anymore. Mostly it’s ruined and burned. It would be more burned except that there was never much wood in its construction, being mostly mud brick.

  “There is no civil order there; there is no law, not even Sharia. Rule is broken down between about nine different gangs, some pirates, some not. There used to be a ruling clan, the Marehan. That’s over; they’re just another one of the rival gangs. Rather, they’re several of the rival gangs since even that clan broke up.” Cagle pushed a button and the screen changed to superimpose the rough boundaries of the gangs that ruled the city and the surrounding countryside.

  “The NGO’s mostly gave up on the place a few years ago. The press has long since pulled out. Now nobody cares about it.”

  With another push of the button a rough oval appeared, encompassing a set of docks, some warehouses, and a ship rather smaller than the Bland. “That’s our objective area. It’s entirely within the sliver ruled by the rump of the Marehan, so, as long as we don’t wander, we shouldn’t have to fight more than one gang. They’ve no armor; just some technicals. For indirect they’ve a fair number of mortars, heavy and light, but few of those have sights and ammunition is limited.

  “Mind you, the other gangs could, in time, summon about five thousand fighters. So speed is going to be very goddamned important.”

  “And there’s another thing.” Cagle looked directly at Warrington, standing behind the mass of men seated on the floor and at the mess tables. “The price for the medicines we need is fair, but it includes evacuation of fifteen people, twelve men, a woman, and
two children. One of those is the current chief of the Marehan, who wants out before it’s too late. The rest are his family and close advisors and guards.”

  “We can do that,” Warrington agreed. “Simon, what’s that do to your load plan and egress plan?”

  “As long as we can get them to the LCM, we can get them out. We’re only going to load it with two Elands, one infantry platoon, plus a squad for portage, Sergeant Balbahadur on pipes, and the mortar section. Should be plenty of redundant carrying capacity.”

  The chief of the boat, no longer on guard duty, agreed but added, “There won’t be a lot of room for baggage.”

  “I passed on that they’ll have to travel light. They’ll be bringing about half a ton of gold, and one bag per person, but that’s it.”

  “Doable then,” the chief said.

  “Thing is,” Cagle added, “we’ve had dealings, indirect dealings, with at least three of the adults before.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  She signed and she swore

  that she never would deceive me

  But the devil take the women

  for they never can be easy.

  —“Whiskey in the Jar,” Irish Traditional

  Safe House Bravo, Muntinlupa, Manila,

  Republic of the Philippines

  In the end, Loo Fung had come through, as Lucas had known he would. What he’d come through with was a drug—a sleep drug—and instructions on dosage for a given effect and given delay. Once known as almorexant, the drug had been abandoned by its U.S. developer, GlaxoSmithKlein, because of its unfortunate, if merely occasional, side effects and the potentially huge legal liabilities that would have flowed from them. China, conversely, had figured, Eh? What’s a little depression, hypotension, slowed heart rate, and blunted stress response if there’s a buck—or a yuan—to be made? And besides, the doctors can always take any patients with bad side effects off the medication before it gets too serious. Moreover, in our current state of lawless industrial feudalism masquerading as communism, we can buy off any inquiries and settle with the families of any victims for mere fen on the yuan.

  What almorexant did, basically, was block the receptors for orexin, a chemical naturally produced by the brain, in the hypothalamus, specifically, which kept both people and lower animals awake. Block the orexin? Flump, sleep. And the great thing about it, Loo Fung had explained, was that there would none of the other symptoms of knockout drugs, no blurry or swimming vision, no nausea, no dizziness, nothing.

  Of course, it couldn’t be as simple as that for Maricel. Get everybody, including the guards, to start nodding off at the same time and it would likely, a) induce great suspicion and, hence, b) get her killed. Moreover, with the odd schedules the group she kept house for ran, she had to wait for a time when a) everybody was home, especially the big boss, Benson, and b) when everybody was involved in planning their own little things, rather than the entire group planning together.

  It was a week and another day off before everything was just right and she could send Lucas the message: Tonight.

  It was a strain on Maricel to keep her stress and fear—and her anticipation and excitement, as well—from showing. Then again, she’d been acting for her entire postpubescent life and, as importantly, fooling men for all that time. That this was a little more life and death didn’t really change that.

  She’d long since noticed a tendency for the rest of the crew to fuck off a bit without Mr. Benson riding herd on them. Thus, when for dinner on the big day she served everybody tocino and rice for a main course, then halo-halo for dessert, Benson’s dessert had a little something extra in it, but only a little. Two hours after dinner he began yawning. A half hour after that, he finally gave up and took himself off to bed. Maricel heard, “I really have a yen, to go back once again . . .”

  His last words before leaving the square-columned living room were, “It’s my night, Maricel, but I’m just too tired. Tighten up one of the other boys.”

  Oh, I will. Everyone except the ones on duty. Whatever else they might do, the boys take that very seriously.

  Next down was Perez. Bringing two clean rum and cokes for Baker and Malone, both balanced in one dainty hand, with the other she handed Perez a San Miguel Red Horse with just that little something extra. Before he was half through with the beer, Perez likewise excused himself to bed.

  “Goddamn; I’m tired.”

  Since he was the only one at that moment who was sleepy, nobody gave it a second thought.

  Two down, four to go.

  Malone and Baker were even easier, since, post-Perez, they decided to double team her—one at each end—on the living room ottoman, the dining room table, and one of the stools of the wet bar. For her part, Maricel put in her usual Academy Award quality performance and soon enough, all screwed out, the two sergeants left for sleep.

  In a way, that’s bad, she thought, since people who fall asleep naturally might just wake up naturally. Note to self and Lucas, take out Baker and Malone first, after the guards.

  Zimmerman, the interior guard at the moment, had wandered through the living room during the festivities. He’d seen it all before so paid them essentially no attention. Maricel thought him the nicest guy in a pretty pleasant bunch, really. And he’s never once used me, though I made the offer. Nice too that, to avoid insulting me, he just framed it as loyalty to his wife, back home . . . wherever home is.

  Next, after tugging her clothes back on and adjusting them, Maricel went to the kitchen and put on a pot of coffee. Taking two cups from a cabinet, and a two ounce vial from her purse, she put a quantity of almorexant, suspended in a liquid medium, in each of the cups, then swirled the liquid around before setting the cups down to dry. On a small tray she assembled some creamer, sugar, and a diet sweetener. Zimmerman stopped by once, on his rounds, to ask about the coffee.

  “Few minutes, boss,” she said, looking up from her cell phone and the text message she was preparing for Lucas. Earlier she’d sent him an alert that tonight everyone would be there.

  “I can’t wait,” Zimmerman replied, stifling a yawn. Slinging his submachine gun, he took one of the cups from Maricel’s tray and then, ignoring both creamer and sweetener, took the glass pot from under the still brewing coffee and poured it into the cup. A few drops fell from the coffeemaker’s basket to sizzle on the hot metal circle below, before Zimmerman replaced the pot, allowing the fresh coffee to flow freely.

  Serendipity works, thought Maricel, as soon as she heard the flump from Zimmerman’s falling body. Five down; one to go.

  She finished her message to Lucas—the last line being, “remember they’re all armed,” then dropped her phone into a pocket. After waiting a few minutes for the coffee to finish, she poured the other tainted cup full, set it on the tray, and walked out to where the last of the lot, Washington, the only black in the group, stood his shift.

  Pity about Washington, she thought. He’s the only one well hung enough for me to actually feel something besides weight.

  Tsk-tsking, she helped ease a swaying Washington to the ground. Her size, from her mainly European, Euro-American, and African-American genetic heritage, was a big help there. Then she reached into her pocket, pulled out her cell, brought up the draft message, and sent it on.

  Come and get it.

  “Wake up, tarantados!” said Lucas. The gang chieftain sat beside the driver’s seat of a large van; one with surprisingly fresh paint. It was parked three blocks away from the Kanos’ place. They’d been sitting there since about twenty minutes after receiving Maricel’s first message.

  There were seven in the van, including Lucas, though it had room to put in seats for fourteen. All seven were armed. Among the others were Rafael, driving, and Crisanto, the kidnap team leader. Crisanto was one of the very few, and highly prized, members of TCS with a substantial military background, in his case in the Philippine Marine Corps. Under different circumstances, he’d have been a prized accession for M Day, as well.


  The seven were crowded toward the front. The back had been left seatless, to allow a flat place to pile the presumptively unconscious prisoners.

  The van moved gently and quietly from its parking spot. This far from the center of town there was no traffic to speak of. In mere minutes—obeying the posted speed limits the whole way—it was in front of the safe house, with Lucas, Crisanto, and four more piling out to where Maricel waited.

  “Remember,” she hissed, “two of them are not drugged. Be careful!”

  “We know,” Lucas replied as he pushed past her. “Get in the van.”

  “And don’t . . .” Whatever she had been about to say was lost. Nobody was listening. Indeed, nobody was even talking, snapping and pointing fingers substituting for vocal commands.

  Crisanto pointed down at Washington and snapped his fingers. Immediately, two of his men bent over the prostrate black, flipped him to his belly, then taped his hands together at the wrists and his feet at the ankles. One pulled a sap from his belt and gave the bound prisoner a none-too-gentle rap on the head. It wouldn’t kill him . . . probably . . . but would ensure that he wouldn’t be calling out to anyone if the drug wore off. Washington’s submachine gun went by its sling over the kidnapper’s shoulder. The night vision goggles were left draped around the Kano’s neck. They could be recovered later.

  Lucas, Crisanto, and two others pushed on into the house, padding gently on bare feet. Another snap and a point and those two were on Zimmerman. They both squatted to one side, grabbed the American’s clothing, and hoisted him over to his front. Short strips of duct tape were pulled from pockets and quickly and expertly applied. By that time, the first pair, those who had bound Washington, were in the house. Crisanto pointed decisively up the stairs. With brisk nods the kidnappers began to ascend.