by Sean Wilson
As the DIA team approached the edge of the minefield, Mike gave a simple hand signal and the team split into two six-man groups, each one edging around the outer rim of anti-personnel mines, each squad equipped with a precise overview of the minefield and their individual routes through the hazards. The teams crawled forward on their bellies, inching through the killing zone, hugging the dust and sand, sliding silently over pebbles and scree, moving like shadows in the night, creeping closer and closer to the barbed wire emplacements that ringed the base. Mike’s team was moving in from the south west and the others were approaching from the south east. If they were discovered, they couldn’t risk running through the minefield to escape. They had to move with utmost care, checking and re-checking their position to make sure they were precisely slotted in the middle of their access pathways. One false move, one minor deviation from the route and they could trigger a mine and blow a damn sight more than their cover. Patience was the critical factor. Patience and nerves of steel. Titanium balls were also handy but nothing beat rigorous training and years of practice, focus and concentration, a visceral urge to stay alive.
The teams paused every ten minutes to regain their composure and focus. Mike was breathing carefully, drawing in long, slow breaths that kept him calm and focused, tuned into the environment and straining his ears for any sound that might escape from the perimeter. He stopped and turned his head towards the sandbagged enclosure in front of him, his mouth wide open to catch as much of the sound as possible. There! Voices. Quiet but not whispering. Russian voices. No sound of panic or alarm. Just sentries passing the slow hours with a conversation about home that kept them awake in the cold night air of the desert. Mike edged forwards and reached the innermost edge of the minefield. Turning slowly, he signalled the man behind him to move forward as the rest of the team froze in place. He moved his hand a few centimetres above the ground and showed two fingers, indicating two sentries, and carefully drew a long, black, razor-sharp blade from the dull scabbard strapped to his shoulder harness. The perimeter was marked by a dense row of sandbags topped in places with barbed wire and firing platforms that would support riflemen and heavy machine guns. The two men silently removed their packs, leaving them to be picked up by the guys who would follow behind them. With infinite care, the two men moved forwards, aiming for the spot where Mike had heard the voices. They were invisible in the night, a pair of black shadows edging slowly over the hard-packed ground, breath by breath, centimetre by centimetre, closing in on the low wall of sandbags. As they reached the perimeter, both men rose up noiselessly onto their knees, hunched below the sentries’ line of sight, and waited for a long moment to be sure they hadn’t been detected. Mike counted them in with a gloved hand, first showing three fingers, two fingers and one and then they rose up together and rolled silently over the top of the sandbags. In one blurring movement, they landed on top of their prey and, in the space of one moment of total shock, surprise and confusion, they dragged the sentries to the ground, hands locked over their mouths and heads wrenched back to expose badly shaved and unguarded throats. The tempered steel blades bit swiftly and deeply into the guards’ necks, slicing all the way through to the small vertebrae at the back of their heads. The sentries didn’t have a chance to cry out. The night air was completely still as the DIA mercenaries lowered the dying guards to the ground, holding them as they bled out into the parched and dusty sand, their legs twitching uncontrollably. Mike and his buddy were watching for any signs of other guards, checking their immediate surroundings. Nothing moved. They’d breached the perimeter and their presence was still undetected. Mike released the dead guard from his grip and rose up to look just above the rim of the sandbags. With one brief hand movement, he signalled to the rest of the squad to move up, instantly spotted in the faint glow of the forward man’s night vision equipment. He dropped back down and pressed the switch on his throat mike three times to signal the other team that he’d made it inside the perimeter. He breathed deeply and slowly as he waited for each of his men to roll over the sandbags and set up a firing line. He collected his pack from the last man in and, just thirty-three seconds later, he heard the three distinctive clicks in his earpiece that confirmed the second team had breached the defences on their side of the perimeter. Thirty-three seconds. Not bad. They were supposed to be perfectly synchronised but, on a real life operation, thirty-three seconds was damn near close to miraculous. Mike cleaned the blood off his blade and wiped his gloved hands on the dead guard’s uniform before sliding the knife back into its sheath, secured point up on his webbing strap. His heart was beating steadily, his breathing calm and deep. In many ways, he was in his element, relishing the intensity of every moment. He pointed at the two dead bodies laid out at his feet and signalled to his guys to pick them up and dump them quietly and carefully on the other side of the sandbags, out of the way and out of sight. He checked his squad, looking at each man in turn, smiling as a sign of recognition that they’d done well to gain access without being caught. He raised one fist and then turned and moved out on point in a low crouch and headed towards the interior of the camp. They didn’t have a lot of time and there was always the risk of discovery. They had to move fast.
Mike’s squad was heading for the long, low row of pre-fabricated buildings in the centre of the camp, the camouflage-netted warehouse facility that was being used to store the heroin. The team carried advanced, nano-thermite explosives, super high-temperature compounds that had been designed to deliver the kind of intense heat that would burn through the heroin and render it to ash. The primary danger lay in the dog patrols that had been identified from satellite imagery. If the team met a guard dog, they’d need to react immediately and that meant a cyanide dart to guarantee the animal’s silence and a fusillade of suppressed, low velocity rounds to the handler’s head. The team assigned two of the members to carry dart guns and each man in the squad had been equipped with a suppressed .22 calibre pistol to deal with any of the guards who patrolled within the base perimeter. The mission depended on avoiding detection for as long as possible. Silence and stealth were the key words in all the briefing and training sessions. Beyond the success or failure of the mission, silence and stealth meant the difference between life and death. Everyone had been impressed by the nano-thermite explosives. A weapon that could generate 4,000 F of heat deserved a lot of respect. Heroin would incinerate at 2,500 F and the resulting cloud of smoke would create the world’s biggest opium pipe. Mike’s team carried respirators to make sure they didn’t go ‘terminally hippie-trippy’ - as one of the DIA brass remarked. One of the guys had wondered out loud if the tech boys could bottle some of that very expensive smoke on the basis that it’d be worth a lot of money back home. Everyone laughed but a couple of the men started thinking seriously about how to get some of that high-grade smack into a container. You could never separate a mercenary from the topic of money.
The team fanned out in an arc to cover the front and sides of their formation and slipped forwards, keeping to the shadows to conceal their presence. Twenty meters inside and the man on the right edge stopped and raised one fist. The team dropped to their knees, sensing straining. The man on the wing had heard a voice. In the ambient light from the brilliant stars, Mike made out a figure. Two figures. No dog. Two guards making their rounds. He signalled to the team to lie down, slowly and smoothly, silently, like shadows blending into the hard ground, suppressed pistols aimed forwards. The sentries passed within ten meters, unaware of the six figures lying on the ground in the darkness to their left, unaware of how close they were to the whispering death of a tempered steel blade or a volley of .22 hollow point rounds. When the guards had passed out of sight, Mike raised one hand and the team rose as one and settled back into patrol formation, moving as quickly as possible without making any noise, stepping carefully between the low buildings and tents. Within two minutes, they had the long, low storage facility in sight, clearly visible in the starlight. Exactly as predicted by the survei
llance photos, the building was guarded. Mike counted out the number of guards on his hand, holding up five fingers to confirm his tally. They didn’t appear to be very alert but they would have to be eliminated. They had assault rifles slung over their shoulders and wore woollen hats to keep their heads warm in the cool, night air of the desert plateau. They’d huddled in a small group to chat together at one edge of the building, stamping their feet to keep warm and rubbing their gloved hands to keep the circulation moving. Ducane clicked his throat mike twice. And then twice again to signal the other team that he’d reached his objective. There was no reply but Mike couldn’t wait. Crouching low at the side of a small hut, he allocated targets to the five other men, pointing with a minimum of movement to convey his orders. He nodded once and the men crept out to take up their firing positions. Mike settled down to provide back up and waited until each team member gave the signal that they were ready. Two clicks from each man. They had to get close to their targets to make sure the suppressed .22 shots were effective. Then they had to open fire at the same time and make absolutely sure their targets went down without raising the alarm. Mike breathed calmly, clicked three times and the team released a volley of suppressed rounds into the heads of the five guards. The effect was devastating. The five figures collapsed to the rocky ground without uttering a sound. But even suppressed fire created noise and a dog barked in the distance. Time to get busy. Mike sprinted forwards and gathered his team at the warehouse entrance. He made sure their pistols were reloaded and made sure everyone’s assault weapons were ready. With his .22 pistol in front of him, he opened the wooden door to the warehouse, cringing as the hinges creaked. The darkness probably meant that no one was inside but he signalled one man to go forward with him using night vision equipment to confirm that they’d have the building all to themselves. Empty. Apart from rows and rows of stacked pallets, each one securely wrapped with plastic film and holding layers and layers of tightly packed bricks of heroin. The team had stepped onto the platform of Syrian Smack Central and the drug’s street value was enough to tempt any highly-paid mercenary to stray from the mission’s objective. One of the guys whistled low beneath his breath. ‘Mike? Do you reckon anyone would notice if a couple of kilos went missing?’ Ducane couldn’t help smiling as he helped to carry the dead guards inside the building. They closed the door behind them and Ducane unloaded his share of the explosives and arranged a detonator. ‘For personal use, Shane, or to top up your Ferrari fund?’ The two men laughed quietly in the darkness.
‘A couple of kilos of this stuff and I’d be thinking of retirement, skipper!’
‘I know. Very, very tempting.’
‘And we’re going back with plenty of space in our pockets.’
Mike nodded. The guy had a point. They’d carried a lot of gear on the mission and they planned to get out with just the basics in their packs. That meant weapons, ammo and water. If the DIA brass ever found out that they’d hi-jacked a few kilos of product, there’d be hell to pay. But it was still a very tempting proposition. ‘Concentrate on the job, Shane. Let’s get this done and get our asses out of here.’ Mercenaries. The clue was in the name.
Two soldiers stationed themselves at the door to provide security and Mike quickly signalled the others to unload and prepare all of their explosives. It was time to turn the warehouse into one of the world’s most expensive bonfires. He was shoving a tube of nano-thermite explosive beneath a pallet when he heard the signal he’d been waiting for from the other team. They’d reached their target. The other guys were outside the heroin processing facility. The explosions had to be co-ordinated to create maximum confusion as both teams made their escape. They knew there would be people inside the smack factory but the DIA execs had issued clear instructions that there would be no prisoners. The assault team was tasked to kill everyone without exception inside the processing plant. That meant moving fast and taking down every single person in the building with their suppressed pistols. Then they had to blow the building and all its contents to the far side of hell. And make their getaway.
Mike had been thinking about the mission risks when he’d decided to add the base helicopters to the destruction list. Not that he’d mentioned it to the DIA brass but the prospect of being pursued by high-tech Russian military choppers could put a serious crimp in the team’s plans for a successful retirement in the Everglades. No. They had to go. Along with as many base personnel as possible. So Mike had packed extra explosives and extra ordinance to boost everyone’s chances of survival.
The warehouse team worked quickly and efficiently, placing their charges exactly as they’d rehearsed dozens of times in the Agency’s training facility. Despite the pressures and the obvious danger, they focused on their tasks and moved with practised ease. The timers were set to detonate in a cascade and the team planned to be well on their way before the first explosion kicked in. As they gathered at the warehouse exit, Ducane checked his watch. The mission was on schedule but he knew the factory team would have a more complex task if they came into contact with any opposition. Whatever was happening with the other team, it was time to take out the Russian choppers.
Mike gathered his men into formation and moved out, fully aware that time was running out and that the warehouse guards might be missed at any moment. They spotted the same two-man patrol they’d seen earlier, talking to two obviously bored guards next to a very large and intimidating Russian helicopter. The team was running short on time and Mike couldn’t afford to wait for the guards to move on. He signalled to his small group that they were going to move in closer to their target and eliminate all four sentries. Mike sucked in his breath. Fuck the subtleties. Things could get very noisy very quickly and he wanted his men out of the compound as soon as possible.
The team advanced in the subdued light of the helicopter landing zone and lined up their suppressed pistols on the guards’ heads. Mike clicked his microphone switch three times and the team opened fire, cutting down their targets in a hissing volley of low velocity .22 fire. The small, empty brass cases littered the dusty ground and Mike ran forwards with one other soldier to make sure the Russian guards were dead whilst the rest of the team collected the empty shell cases and policed up the area. The sentries were dead before they hit the ground, brains scrambled by the small rounds that tumbled around the inside of their skull cases without exiting. It looked brutal but it was mercifully quick. Mike didn’t even spare a thought for the bodies cooling at his feet. He’d opted for conventional high explosive charges that could be placed in the choppers’ engine intakes. That would guarantee the machines wouldn’t be flying that night. Or anytime soon. Mike pointed out a row of fuel bowsers on the edge of the landing pad. Two men ran over in a low crouch and parked their last charges amongst the fuel supply. Still no word from the other team but no sounds of a fire fight either. Time to get out. Mike gave the signal on his radio head set to the other team to confirm that his part of the mission was complete and that he was heading to the rendezvous. They were going to meet up at the spot where the second team had gained access to the base perimeter. If they needed help, it was the logical place for Mike’s guys to find them. Five minutes later and Mike was positioning his men alongside the cover of the perimeter sand bags, waiting for the second team to emerge from the darkness and then all hell broke loose around the heroin factory. Automatic weapon fire mixed with shouts and dogs barking brought Mike’s team to full alert.
‘Shit!’ The word was on everyone’s lips. Mike raised one hand. ‘OK. Listen up. Second Team’s compromised - but we aren’t. If they need a hand, we’ll go in and get them. The Russkis don’t know we’re here yet. Everyone stay frosty.’
The weapon fire intensified and Mike was sure it was getting closer. It was hard to tell. The acoustics channelled the sound in weird ways. Stay off the net. Don’t alert the enemy that there was another team inside the perimeter. ‘OK,’ Mike spoke clearly and calmly to his team.
‘Sounds like they’re getting c
loser. Stand by. Power up your night sights. We need to spread out and set up a firing line to shoot from the sides. You know our guys. They will not appreciate getting shot by their buddies. Select targets with maximum care. No friendly fire shit on my watch!’ Time always seems to slow down in a fire fight. Seconds turn to minutes and minutes to hours. The adrenaline rush had to be controlled, tamed and channelled, every man relying on the training drills that made combat behaviour automatic. Mike spotted two figures moving out of the gloom, running in low rushes, one man covering the other whilst his buddy scrambled back a few yards before turning to lay down suppressing fire. A heavy calibre machine gun opened up in the night. ‘Mike called out ‘Our guys. Hold your fire.’ Two more men appeared, one being helped by the other and then the final two, moving in the familiar pepper-pot rushes, covering their withdrawal as AK rounds started to chew up the dust. ‘Stand by!’ Mike shouted as the first two mercenaries reached the sandbags. ‘Shane! Jeff! Get forward and help the wounded guy. Everyone else get ready to cover them!’