by Jack Murphy
“Sometimes meetings of state, or traditional music, but this space was constructed by the British architect Lord Norman Foster as a meeting place for the world's religions. All of the leaders of the world's religions met at a three-day forum for a roundtable discussion several years ago.”
“I see.”
“Please enjoy the rest of your visit, sir.”
Finally he found the stairway that wound around the inside of the pyramid up to the apex. While making his way upward, Deckard considered what he was seeing. The public was entertained in the darkness of the opera while the world's religious leaders met for some kind of reconciliation around a sun pictogram.
Being a student of war also meant being a student of history, and as Deckard recalled, a scholar had once said that the pyramid was the perfect symbol of the secret doctrine, as well as the mystery schools that taught it.
Taking a small elevator the rest of the way to the top, he stepped out into the capstone level of the pyramid. The center of the room was left open with a circular table constructed around an oculus. The walls that reached up to form the point of the pyramid were all glass, now allowing him to see Astana lit up in the darkness. The city glowed, golden in the night.
Looking up he could see that the panels of glass at the very tip of the pyramid had been stained yellow and streaked downwards as rays of light.
It hit him like a sucker punch.
That was what the pyramid and really the capital itself was built to honor.
Not the peace and reconciliation of the world's religions but worship of its single oldest religion.
Sun worship.
It was a good thing he had brought his bag of tricks with him because it took the better part of twenty minutes to pick the door lock and then the dead bolt, and then another ten minutes for him to find the switch contact on the magnetic alarm and bridge them at the splice point. Finished, Deckard eased open the door, hoping that there wasn't a tertiary system like motion detectors in place.
Seeing no sign of motion sensors or pressure plates under the area rug in the room, he stepped inside the lobby and closed the door. Behind the secretary's desk in large raised letters was the company name, Samruk International along with its logo, the bird of Kazakh mythology.
Getting into the offices required a numerical code for the keypad at the door. Blowing a small portion of talcum powder on the keypad, the former soldier could see which buttons had fingerprints on them. Four digits, three, seven, six, and nine. With the design of this particular keypad lock it actually didn't matter which order the user entered the digits in. Pressing each of the digits with fingerprints on them Deckard twisted the knob and opened the door.
Making sure to wipe the talcum powder off the keypad with his sleeve, he closed the door and proceeded into the offices. While the three old men at the Grove had placed Deckard in charge of Samruk's private army, he was not made privy to what was going on at the corporate level. That was going to change tonight.
Samruk had been established not long after Kazakhstan declared independence and although it was a private enterprise on paper, it was well known that Samruk was owned by powerful men in Kazakhstan's government, not to mention some of its larger financial institutions. Past dealings had been legit for the most part, mostly executive protection work for the politicians and bankers who had started the company.
This recent rapid expansion into a full-blown private military company at the behest of the old men back in the US showed who the real puppet masters in Astana were. The remaining question was, to what end?
A row of file cabinets lined one wall, packed full of corporate documents. Sticking a switchblade above one drawer, he unlatched the gang lock easily enough. Turning on a red LED flashlight, Deckard browsed through the documents. Although they were mostly in Cyrillic, he was able to tell from the numbers involved and what English nomenclature there was that he was looking at tracking forms for the equipment he had been ordering over the last few weeks.
Putting the files back in their correct place, he sat down behind one of the computer terminals. Moving the mouse, he watched the screen light up, taking him directly to the corporate website's log in screen. Deckard noted that since they were using the web rather than a local area network that meant that their data was being stored off-site.
A SQL injection attack was enough to get him into the system, but now he had to queue up individual files, one command at a time. Reaching into the backpack he brought along, Deckard pulled out a USB drive and stuck it into the computer. After a few hiccups he got the keylogger installed on the corporate server.
Retrieving the USB drive and closing out of the system, he began installing eavesdropping devices around the offices. Wireless cameras went into the light fixtures, which would draw electricity from the existing power lines. The fiber optic cameras were simple but effective. Letting himself into the executive offices, he planted several wireless listening devices in desks and briefcases left laying around.
Heading back into the main offices, Deckard used his Leatherman multitool to unscrew one of the electrical outlets to install another fiber optic camera, which would look out through the socket panel. He wanted audio and video of everyone who worked at or visited the offices. The camera went in easy enough, but Deckard found himself cursing under his breath as a piece of sheet rock fell away when he tried to screw the panel back on.
Finding the nearest bathroom, he began looking underneath the sink for something to repair the damage he had done to the wall. Behind a bottle of bleach was someone's half-used tube of toothpaste. Grabbing it and a handful of toilet paper, he mixed the two together, mashing it up into a paste.
Using a wad of the paste, he was able to stick the piece of sheet rock back into place. Checking over his work with the red light he was convinced the damage would go unnoticed to the casual observer.
The outlet panel was almost completely screwed back on, when Deckard heard the office door abruptly open and the lobby fill with laughter. Cursing a second time, he gave the multitool a final twist and crouched behind a desk as the door to the offices was opened and the lights flipped on.
Now he could hear both a man and a woman's voice.
Great.
The two continued to giggle to themselves as they stomped around the office on heavy feet, obviously drunk. The Samruk executive had probably picked the girl up at a bar somewhere and brought her to the office because he was married.
Peering from behind the desk, Deckard saw the drunken couple engulfed in each other. A moment later the rhythmic slapping of skin on skin began that had the former soldier rolling his eyes.
Why did this sort of shit always happen to him?
He waited to make sure they were fully distracted before making his move. It had to be now or never because it didn't sound like the executive was going to last much longer. On the balls of his feet, Deckard crept to the office door and slipped out before his ears began to bleed.
Seven
Camouflage clad soldiers had been scurrying all over the compound since well before dawn. A detail of men had been woken up and sent down to the airfield in Astana in the early morning before the aircraft arrived and were now beginning to trickle back in on several deuce and a half trucks acquired on the local market.
Deckard observed the scene for a moment before moving on. His second in command, Djokovic, was supervising the equipment breakdown and the issue to the troops. After signing for the pallets and moving them into the warehouse, the platoon that had been detailed began breaking down the shipping containers.
Cracking open the metal frame door, he watched another platoon literally running back from the range. A massive front was moving in from the west. A Central Asian sandstorm that would literally turn broad daylight into a bizarre kind of twilight. In their hands were the brand new AK-103 rifles that they had been out zeroing and grouping with until the sandstorm moved in.
The AK-103 was chambered for the same 7.62x39 round as its
predecessor but included a folding stock, flash suppressor, and had the wooden furniture replaced with a composite plastic. The fore grip heat guard was also replaced with a rail system, and rifles would soon be fitted with the holographic reflex sights that had arrived.
Deckard made a mental note to get a field report on the new rifles from the platoon sergeants in order to ensure that the rifles and ammunition were functioning properly. Turning back inside, he was glad the contractors had finished repairing the roof because in a few minutes a wall of sand would be washing over the entire compound.
As the pallets were broken down, the troops sorted the equipment out item by item and stowed them in green kit bags. Once everything was broken down and accounted for, each soldier would be issued one of the kit bags, which would contain his four uniforms, two woodland and two desert, spare AK and Glock magazines, M-23 chest rig, jungle and mountain boots, compass, boonie caps, t-shirts, socks, poncho, poncho liner, rifle sling, pistol holster, camelbak water bladder, Ka-Bar fighting knife, rucksack, and a few other odds and ends, all of which they would sign for from the new quartermaster.
Dastan had been in Alpha Company until last week when he broke his ankle during morning physical training, a Sambo match that got a little too heated, from what he had heard. Deckard had the injured Kazakh mercenary driven into the capital for medical treatment, even while his platoon sergeant argued that it was his own fault that he got hurt. But Deckard knew there was a perfect job opening for a broke dick soldier and kept him around.
Dastan had just been voluntold to be the new supply sergeant.
With this shipment also came most of the mortar systems, some of the sniper systems, and many of the grenades he had ordered. The PKM machine guns were due in next week, and hopefully the rest of it wouldn't be far behind.
Most of the instructors and translators he had hired were already in London signing contracts and non-disclosure agreements with a Samruk legal representative and would start filtering in within a few days. Everything was coming along nicely.
Just in time to have the rug pulled out from under your feet, Deckard thought.
“Where is Adam?” Deckard asked.
“Fucking dead hookers, for all I know.”
“Good to see you too, Frank.”
“What do you go by these days? Brown? Roberts?”
“O'Brien,” Adam said, walking up behind the two. “Head of operations for Samruk International.”
The ground crew was surrounding the 737 out of London, preparing for refueling while the passengers walked down the movable stairs pushed up to the side of the aircraft. Dozens of instructors had been brought in to conduct more advanced training with the Samruk troopers and a few had been hired full time to fill specialized positions. Two of those were the black bag operatives, Adam and Frank.
“I don't actually maintain any official title that I'm aware of.”
“So what kind of operation are you running here?” Frank asked. The ex-Ranger was almost as wide as he was tall.
“Your favorite kind; I'm making it up as I go along.”
“Nice.”
“I've got a couple guys I want you to train as technical surveillance specialists.”
“That all?” Adam seemed skeptical.
“No, I'll brief you on extracurricular activities later.”
“I thought so.”
The two intel and recon boys threw their gear bags on the back of one of the deuce and half trucks before climbing up the tailgate. Both were highly talented operators, and Deckard happened to know that both needed the money, which was substantial, with him offering eight hundred to twelve hundred dollars a day of Samruk's money, depending on the experience level of the operator. Bonuses would be based on tangible improvements in the mercenaries they would be training.
Deckard squinted, looking across the tarmac at two other trainers heading towards one of the other trucks. One of them looked like the largest Rastafarian in the world, standing at about six foot four with dreadlocks and a beard. He had one load out bag rolling on wheels in one hand and a cooler also on wheels in the other. Had to be a full of beer, Deckard thought, shaking his head. Only in the SEAL teams do you find people like Charles Rochenoire.
The shorter man next to him was Kurt Jager, a former German GSG-9 counter terrorist operative. Both men were on loan to Deckard from GUARD, an American based private military corporation.
A few dozen other trainers carried their bags to the awaiting trucks, some of them seconded to Samruk via subcontract from other PMCs, while some were strictly freelancers that he had crossed paths with in the past or knew by reputation. A few months with these guys, and Samruk International would be up to par with other elite light infantry units, such as US Army Rangers, Princess Patricia's Canadian Light Infantry, and British Royal Marines. If Deckard had his way, Samruk would even surpass those units in a few key areas.
Now that the trainers were here, Deckard could focus on other priorities.
The keyloggers he had installed in the Samruk Corporate offices had begun dumping data into his email account on regular intervals, and what they had revealed was interesting to say the least.
The translator looked terrified as he literally watched a black man get red in the face.
“Do it the way I taught you!” Charles Rochenoire screamed, while grabbing the Kazakh soldier by his collar and lifting him off the ground.
The Kazakh translator was barely out of his teens when Deckard had found him on monsterjobs.com and contracted him to translate for his military trainers. For the first time in his life the young man was thankful his parents made him learn their mother language, even though they lived in San Diego.
Omar translated as quickly as he could into Kazakh, not wanting to incur the wrath of the ex-SEAL.
The Kazakh mercenary seemed to get the point before he was finished. Pulling out a fresh magazine from his chest rig, the Kazakh turned the magazine sideways, using it to depress the magazine release on his AK and pushing forward, unseating and dropping the empty magazine to the ground. Now he stuck the fresh one into the magazine well and rocked it backwards until it locked into place. Chambering the first round, he began laying down a suppressive fire while his buddy bounded forward to the next wooden barricade.
“Better,” Rochenoire belted out, a rare word of encouragement.
It was the contractors' first day out on the range with their new charges, and so far they had been impressed. The Kazakh mercenaries were good, they just needed some polishing before moving on to more advanced material.
Jager was alongside the other Kazakh, yelling at him while they completed the stress range they had set up. Rochenoire couldn't help but think that Jager sounded like some kind of Reich's marshal, yelling with his German accent. Finally the Kazakh got into the prone and began sending rounds downrange into targets, cueing in Rochenoire's new protégé that it was time for him to move.
“Get up! Get off your ass, let's go!”
Omar snapped to attention, echoing the words in Russian.
It was nice to be working with military-grade explosives for a change.
The stuff he usually got left scars.
The table was covered with explosives and different types of charges he had constructed the night before. The Kazakhs had seemed apprehensive at first, not so much about working with explosives but about working with the Englishman who was to serve as their instructor.
Richie looked ten years older than he actually was, a combination of hard living and cheap cigarettes taking their toll. He hadn't spent a single day in the military, but the Kazakhs were quickly learning that he definitely knew what he was talking about.
“And this?” he said, pointing to an item on the table.
“PETN!” someone shouted.
“This?”
“RDX!”
“Good.” He pointed to another.
“TNT!” several shouted. They were starting to like this.
“What about that one?�
��
“C4.”
“All right then.”
Richie grabbed an initiation system, twin green wires running from it and out onto the steppe.
“Direct your attention to the auto,” he said, pointing to the rusting car hulk about three hundred meters out. The translator began relaying his instructions, but before he could finish, Richie had twisted and pulled the pins on the initiation system.
The car exploded, a shock wave kicking up dust in all directions. Richie frowned as something come loose during the explosion. He dodged to the side at the last moment, as the spinning car door came rolling end over end right past him.
“That is why you use 'P' in your demolition formula,” he announced, shrugging off the near miss. “'P' for Plenty.”
The Brit was familiar with both military and improvised explosives. The improvised part began when he was a young man blowing open safes in and around London. He had gotten his hands on military demo in places like Colombia and Liberia over the years, but truth be told, a fair amount of improvisation was used there as well. Typically, you don't use anti-tank mines to bring down a bridge.
He would train the Samruk mercenaries on basic demolitions, to include breaching doorways and destroying enemy equipment. He would also spend extra time with a few who showed particular interest or talent, showing them everything from steel cutting charges to remote detonators, homemade explosives, and more.
“Now direct your attention to the paper targets out at one hundred meters.”
The Kazakhs cringed, not knowing what shrapnel would come flying their way this time.
“If things go pear shaped you have to be ready to make a field expedient claymore mine. It can be built from a coffee can with some explosives, and scrap metal or nails or both as projectiles.”
Richie picked up another initiation system, the green wires leading out towards the targets in the distance.