by Jack Murphy
As he gripped the antenna mast and pulled himself on top of the tank, he saw over his shoulder that Fedorchenko’s employment of smoke grenades for concealment had worked, confusing the tanks while Samruk’s Gustav gunners began wreaking havoc. It looked like they had already scored a mobility kill against one tank as it spun in circles on one tread. The other looked permanently decommissioned.
The tank cut a turn underneath him, nearly throwing Deckard off as he hugged the antenna mast. From the sensor array, he knew immediately what he was looking at. It was not a manned battle tank, but rather a deadly remote-controlled one. It was an unmanned vehicle, receiving signal commands from the antenna he clung to. The Russians called such a tank a Mobile Robotic Complex, and this particular model was nicknamed the Wolf-2. Good for protecting Arctic infrastructure since robots never got cold the way soldiers did.
Since it was a robot, Deckard knew he didn’t have to actually destroy the tank. All he needed to do was make it blind and deaf by disabling its sensor array. Robots were a lot easier to game than human beings since they operate within such strict programmed parameters, much the same way he easily got underneath the attack angle allowed by the mechanics of the machine gun turret. A human operator would have known better.
The tank was circling around, scanning for more targets. Deckard climbed across the top of the vehicle as it sped across the runway, moving toward the radar dishes mounted on the turret. Reaching for his chest rig, he began freeing a hand grenade when the Wolf-2's radar locked onto a target. The entire gun turret swung around to fire.
Deckard hardly saw the DShK barrel coming as it slammed into his chest. Picked up off his feet, his legs dangled in the air off the side of the tank as the barrel began spitting fire.
* * *
Nikita threw himself through the doorway as automatic gunfire ripped the walls down around him. Between bursts, he could hear the clank-clank-clank of the tank treads, then another burst of anti-aircraft rounds that poked holes about as big around as his thumb through the walls of the barracks.
First, Fedorchenko’s platoon got hit out on the airfield, and then a minute later, Sergeant Shatayeva’s platoon began getting pounded at the abandoned barracks. The soldier housing complex was made up of adjoining compartmentalized containers that had been elevated on stilts to keep them above the snow and ice. The barracks had already been torn apart when they got there, the gory remains of frozen Russian soldiers decorating what was left of their living quarters.
Now the entire complex was being turned into a giant gerbil maze filled with Samruk mercenaries trying to find concealment as the tank’s radar-guided machine gun sought them out from below. Nikita cursed himself as he came up on a knee. He poked his head out, thinking that his camouflage uniform would keep him from being spotted.
It was called chromacamo. Extremely expensive and only available in limited numbers, chromacamo was a type of ‘smart’ camouflage that changed color to match the the soldier’s environment. Nikita had first experimented with it during a mission to Mexico, but now the entire sniper and recce section made use of it.
Camouflage worked great at keeping the sniper concealed from drug traffickers, terrorists, and enemy soldiers, but this was a different ball game. The thermal and radar system on the automated hunter/killer tank below skipped right past the optical illusion created by camouflage. It was designed to deceive the human eye, not a robotic one.
The radar or thermals on the mobile robotic platform must have picked up on something, because another long burst of autofire began tearing through what was left of the facade holding up the roof. Nikita rolled left with his HK417 rifle in his hands as more holes were punched through the floor. The entire barracks was disintegrating right out from under him.
Climbing through a ragged hole in the far wall, Nikita escaped out the back. A narrow catwalk led him to a metal ladder. Slinging his rifle, he began to scale it up to the roof. The tank was on a warpath, and running away would just earn him a bullet in the back. Up on the roof, he caught a gust of arctic wind to the face, snowflakes whisking over his goggles. Then he caught sight of a dozen other mercenaries up on the rooftops of the adjacent buildings. They were all lying low without adequate weapons to address the problem below.
One of the American mercenaries was on the radio, hissing into the mic to the mortar section that had been getting set up near where the Carrickfergus made its landing. Not that calling in a fire mission was even possible. They were just meters away from the tank below and mortars rounds would rain down right on top of them.
Nikita crept to the edge of the roof and risked a glance down. The tank was still clanking between the barracks buildings. It locked on to something for a second and let off a couple of rounds. They could always wait around for the tank’s magazine to empty as it lit up suspected targets, but who knew how many friendlies would be killed in the process?
With 7.62mm rifles, they might be able to take out the thermal and radar targeting sensors if they focused enough coordinated fire on them. But from their vantage point, he had a better idea.
“Grenade,” Nikita said to the others. They looked up at him as his uniform changed colors from white to gray, matching the metal roof of the barracks. Each of the mercenaries yanked the pin on a hand grenade.
“Now!”
A dozen hand grenades rained down on the robotic tank below. Blast after blast ripped across the tank in a shower of sparks and brown smoke. Some detonated harmlessly in the snow but others landed on top of the tank. The armored portions were unaffected, but several blasts left the radar ears on the side of the gun turret torn to shreds.
The tank drove along in short, stunted bursts, rocking to a stop, trying to lock onto targets, then driving along for a few more meters. The computer brain inside the vehicle was unable to function properly with its eyes and ears taken out.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the American mercenary yelled over the wind to Nikita. “Then mortar this place with Willy Pete,” he said, referring to white phosphorus rounds that would burn everything to the ground.
Nikita paused for a moment. The veteran sniper was realizing that his old tactics and techniques were not working anymore. The environment was different. The enemy was different. The rules had been changed without anyone telling him and he wasn't adapting fast enough.
“Da,” Nikita replied. “Burn it.”
* * *
Deckard clung to the DShK barrel as it flung him through the air. He almost slipped off again when the gun turret lurched to an immediate stop and opened fire. Looking behind him, Deckard hopped backward and landed on the front of the tank. His chest was tight, like someone had just whacked him with a baseball bat. Actually, it had been a machine gun barrel, but he would worry about how black and blue he was some other time.
Initially, he had planned to destroy the antenna mast. Interrupting communications between the tank and whatever control mechanism it had might do the trick, but now that he was in front of the tank, he had access to an even better target. In front of the gun turret, below the barrel, was an ammunition drum loaded with the 12.7mm machine gun rounds that fed into the DShK on a metal-link belt.
Reaching into a pouch on his chest rig, Deckard produced a door charge. The segments of explosive cutting tape were designed for punching through doors so that assaulters could rush inside and clear a building. It would do a good number on the tank turret, too.
Peeling the plastic strip off the adhesive glue on the back of the charge, Deckard slapped it onto the ammo drum. The DShK ceased firing, then scanned for another target, causing Deckard to duck under the barrel before his head was taken off. Working quickly, he strung in the initiation system, a line of shock tube connected to an ignitor with a pull pin.
Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the tank he was on had locked onto Fedorchenko’s position. In a few moments he would probably be lit up by his own men when the tank started shooting at them. Two burning tank hulks lay in front
of the platoon already, and he had no doubt they were already shifting fire to the third one.
Deckard put his finger through the pin on the ignitor and rolled off the side of the tank.
His boots came down first, absorbing some of the shock. Then he landed on his side, bouncing painfully on the ice. Twisting and turning the pin on the ignitor, the chemical reaction in the shock tube caused it to blink neon blue for a microsecond.
The turret blew sky high.
Deckard cringed as the DShK actually separated from the turret and went spinning through the air. The tank rolled to a halt, and what was left of the machine gun landed somewhere behind him. Under his jacket, Deckard was saturated in sweat. He struggled to catch his breath as he got up and examined the damage. There were three smoking tank husks out on the airfield. The other two must have gone to hunt down his guys at the barracks. At least he didn't hear them shooting, giving him some hope that they had already been taken out.
“Both platoons,” Deckard said into his radio, “ACE report.”
ACE was a military acronym that stood for ammo, casualties, and equipment. It was a very brief report that small unit leaders sent up to higher to inform their leadership of how much ammo they had left, anyone who had been killed or wounded, and the state of their combat gear and weapons. As he waited for the reports to roll in from his platoon sergeants, Deckard walked toward Fedorchenko’s position. They had found refuge in a small depression, in which they had masked themselves with smoke grenades and fired anti-tank weapons. Still, Deckard knew it was going to be bad. He had seen the aerosol spray of blood in the air from a distance.
“Second Platoon,” Shatayeva reported in from the barracks. “Five magazines per man, two KIA, up on weapons and equipment.”
Deckard took a deep breath as he neared the lifeless bodies of his men lying strewn across the airfield.
“First Platoon,” Fedorchenko’s voice said over the net. “Four magazines per man, seven KIA, one Gustav destroyed.”
Deckard stood in front of the first body he came across. Among the newer group of guys, Marty had also been cut in half by DShK fire. He’d been a good dude who had previously served in 1st Ranger Battalion. Now he lay on his back with his arms sprawled out, bent at the elbows like claws. His mouth was left ajar, with ice clinging to his short beard. There was nothing they could have done for him.
Not far from him was another corpse. Deckard knelt down next to him. Frank had been with Samruk International since the beginning; he’d been one of Deckard’s first hires to the company. He had been a special operations legend, at least among those in the know. He’d served in the Ranger Regiment’s Ranger Reconnaissance Detachment and then the Intelligence Support Activity, where he had pulled off some very hairy assignments.
Only to be snuffed out in an instant on the Arctic tundra.
“Deckard.”
Standing up, he looked over to see Pat approaching.
“It’s Frank.”
“I know. We just got our asses kicked.”
Deckard looked back down at the body.
“They laid a trap for us and we walked right into it. Whoever they are, they’re damn good. They hacked those robotic tanks, had them turn on their own operators, and then had them lie in wait for whoever gave chase. Listen, Deckard,” Pat continued. “I know you’re in a bad place right now, but you’d better reach on down and grab your balls because this shit over the last twenty-four hours just got real.”
Deckard opened his mouth to say something, but Pat was already walking away, his legs from the knee down disappearing into the the swirling snow that gusted around them.
Chapter 6
“It’s him.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” the mage answered. “See for yourself.”
The fur was flung off of the portal. It revealed an image of a man climbing on top of a tank. Snow-covered crags poked up behind the tank before the background gave way to broken sheets of ice out on the ocean.
“This is the one we have spoken about?” the necromancer asked.
“It is him,” the mage answered, not leaving any room for further argument. “He struck down one of our conjured familiars on his own.”
“It seems that everything we have heard of him is true,” the druid said cautiously. “He could makes the situation...complicated.”
The mage tossed the fur back over the portal, casting away the image.
“It is of no matter. The plan enacted by our dark lords bloodied his nose, and he won’t be able to pick up our trail again. Even if he does, it will be too late.”
The druid cast a spell and was suddenly awash in a swarm of what looked like blue fireflies. The restoration spell increased his magicka to its full level.
“This day is too important to have our focus drawn to one particular point in the overall operation,” the druid said as he shot a look at the mage. “Too important to let a variable like this upset our plans.”
“It is taken care of,” the mage assured him.
“Let us hope,” the necromancer said as he rubbed a talisman between his thumb and forefinger. “Let us hope.”
* * *
Russian Arctic
The Carrickfergus chugged passed Kotelny Island, crashing through sheets of ice on its way. Deckard sat on the bridge watching the scorched island slide by. The sting of defeat overwhelmed the physical pain he felt in his chest where the machine gun barrel had slammed into him. They had lost nine men on what should have been a straightforward post-battle assessment of the island. The bodies of their dead had been bagged up and put down in the bottom of the ship with the ballast for the time being. The Samruk mercs had loaded up and quickly evacuated the island.
Knowing it was futile to hold off on making the call, Deckard picked up the satellite phone, even though talking about what just happened was the last thing he wanted to do at that moment. He dialed the number for Xyphon’s head of security.
“This is Eliot.”
“I lost them,” Deckard said. “Whoever they were, they hacked into six automated tank systems that were left present on the island in standby mode. As near as I can tell they used the tanks to massacre everyone on the island, then sent them back to their garages to wait for anyone else to show up on the island. It was a baited trap and we walked right into it.”
“Did you lose anyone?”
“Nine.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Deckard.”
“We took a close look at the airfield, though. There was no sign that an aircraft had landed or taken off on that airstrip in a while. We would have seen some tracks.”
“Which means they are still on the water. Makes sense, seeing that they don’t have total control over the airspace. It seems like they are using an anti-access/area denial strategy, shooting down just enough aircraft to make the Russians squeamish about sending more.”
“Whatever the case, they are long gone. I fucked up.”
“There was no way you could have known, Deckard. You’re not out of the game yet. Not if you still want in.”
“What is it?” Deckard asked as he sat up straight in his chair.
“Can you do VTC?” Eliot said, referring to a video teleconference.
“Yeah, we can do that via satellite.”
“Good. Call this number.” Eliot then read off a string of numbers that Deckard wrote down on a coffee-stained yellow legal pad Otter had left lying around.
“Who is this?” Deckard asked as he finished writing down the numbers.
“Uncle Sam has been looking for you, Deckard. The chess pieces are shifting very rapidly back in the United States right now.”
Deckard hung up and opened a laptop computer. Bringing up the VTC program, he dialed up the number Eliot had provided. It took a minute for the connection to kick in before the video suddenly clicked on.
On the screen, Deckard saw four men sitting around a table.
“Deckard,” the man in the center of the table said. “We’
ve been trying to get ahold of you for hours.”
“This isn't exactly a Skype call from your local Starbucks,” Deckard replied. “What can I do for you?”
“Mr. Deckard,” the old man with the reading glasses perched on his nose began, “we represent a compartmentalized special-access program folded within the national security infrastructure of the U.S. government. We would like to discuss with you certain terms of employment and the legalese required therein. Your company would complete the terms of service on an operationalized basis pending certain approvals and exemptions—”
“OK, OK,” Deckard interrupted. “I have no fucking idea what you're talking about.”
“Goddammit,” another old man on the teleconference muttered, “I fucking told you, Craig, shut your fat fucking face.” The man wearing a black trench coat stood up and walked in front of the camera, standing in front of Deckard and blocking out the view of the other three men at the table.
“Listen,” he said. “The bad guys stole something from the Russians, probably something nuclear, and we can’t let it fall into the wrong hands.”
“I’m following.”
“What we have acquired for you are letters of marque and reprisal, signed by the president of the United States of America. You just became the first sanctioned American pirate in over two hundred years. As a privateer, you are entitled to raid enemy vessels designated by the U.S. government, for pay, and we can also provide you with whatever intelligence support we can from here.”
“I’ve got wood.”
“I was hoping you would say that. Your mission is simple, Deckard. Stop the enemy from getting away with the device they took from the Russians. That is your target. Kill everything between you and it.”
“They must be heading east, but we lost their trail.”