by Jack Murphy
Mousa clenched the latch and eased it open, his target making the decision for him. Any confederates were to be sanitized as well. He found himself in a small kitchen with a half-sized refrigerator and electric stove. A six pack of beer sat sweating on the counter, one bottle missing. The voices continued from somewhere deeper in the house.
“What are the vectors for transmission?”
“I don't know, I've been cut out of the loop, but it could be anything. The water supply is something they've looked at in the past.”
The assassin edged around the corner, looking into the living room.
Maurice stood talking, singing like a canary. Sweat rolled down his face in droves as he talked to a man still obscured behind the wall. He was revealing information for the first time that he had tried to convince even himself that he didn't know. Mousa knew what he had to do. His family had already been inoculated against what was coming, and so his loyalty had been bought and paid for.
Taking careful aim at the target's head, he sighted in just below the earlobe and stroked the trigger a half dozen times in a blindingly fast succession that he spent hours a day training for. The multiple shots blasted from the small pistol fast enough to appear as a single shot that plowed into the target, toppling him to the floor with a hollow thud.
Before he could shift his weight on the balls of his feet and target the second man, two bullets tore through the drywall above him and shattered the beer bottles sitting on the counter, spraying glass and foam in all directions.
The assassin cursed.
A professional.
Frank fired two snap shots from the hip before assuming a two-handed modified weaver grip on his pistol. Dark colored glass spun across the kitchen floor as he moved forward.
When a shoulder and half of a face appeared from behind the wall, he changed direction in mid stride, strafing towards the wall as several bullets coughed from the gun in the assassin's hand. The ex-soldier returned fire a second time, the blasts rendering him temporarily deaf, his shots reducing the door frame to splinters. Preparing to fire through the wall again, now knowing the shooter's position, he heard the killer's footsteps bounding back through the kitchen over the ringing in his inner ear.
Spinning on his left foot, he faced the second entrance to the kitchen as the door was flung open. The assassin rushed forward, eyes wide with surprise at being confronted face to face. Frank squeezed the trigger, his shot grazing the side of the assassin's head and taking off most of his left ear.
Recoiling in pain, his attacker darted to the side, firing just a moment too late as the American mercenary took hold of his wrist in a vise-like grip. Frank fought to bring the Glock 19 back into the fight as assassin reached for his wrist as well, wrenching Frank's gun hand away from him.
As the two jostled back and forth for control, the silenced .22 caliber pistol spat bullets that whizzed through the air with each trigger pull, punching holes in walls and demolishing a television set. Only a quick shift at the hips saved Frank as the assassin attempted to knee him in the groin in a bid to gain the upper hand. With the last shot expended, the assassin's pistol went dry.
Releasing his wrist, Frank struck his attacker with an open palm to the face before pushing him into the wall, sheet rock caving in under their weight.
Dropping the .22 to the ground, the assassin launched his own attack, a chop of his hand hitting him that instantly numbed Frank's wrist, causing him to lose control of his own firearm. The Glock went skidding across the floor.
The dark-skinned man pivoted and dived for the pistol.
Bringing a knee above his waistline, Frank stomped down on the assassin's hand just as his fingers wrapped around the pistol's grip. Screaming with new pain, the killer flung himself back around, blood leaking from what was left of his ear; he slammed down in a hammering motion at his leg.
Frank yelped as a blade sliced a shallow line through his calf muscle, a small knife appearing in the assassin’s hand from somewhere in the folds of his clothes.
Trying to get back to his feet, Frank ignored the pain and delivered a second kick to the assassin's face before bending over and dropping his heel down hard on his knife hand. Bones cracked as he came down, placing his knee on his attacker's neck.
The assassin thrashed under Frank's weight as he gripped the Glock and shoved the muzzle under the would-be killer's chin.
In that last moment, he was unable to determine if he saw resentment or relief in those dark eyes.
The 9mm round blasted through the assassin's skull, splattering the wooden floor with bone fragments and brain matter before his head dropped to the ground like a paperweight.
A friend had once called the city-state Disneyland with the death penalty. Adam shuddered to think what would happen if he was charged for espionage in a country that put such a premium on law and order.
Singapore was a Southeast Asian enclave of mixed ethnic groups, complicated investment schemes, and cutting edge technology. Stretching out on a narrow peninsula, Singapore acted as a choke point from the Indian Ocean into the Pacific, connected by the Malacca straits. High tech mercantilism existed comfortably alongside low tech piracy.
Billed as a luxurious tourist attraction at the southernmost tip of the Asian continent, Sentosa Island endeavored to attract wealthy expatriates with low tax rates, bank privacy laws, and modern conveniences. Taking the cable car in earlier in the day, Adam noticed that the fauna of the island may have been beautiful, but he couldn't ignore the black water washing up on the artificial beaches or the oil refineries on the nearby mainland.
Waiting for nightfall, he pitched a small rock, sending it arcing through the darkness where it bounced end over end into the landscaping in front of the target building.
The wireless data harvester, or slurper as it was called in the technical surveillance field, rolled close enough to the entrance of Information Technologies LLC that it would be able to pick up data as soon as employees began coming to work in the morning. The artificial rock was packed with expensive electronics that were capable of sucking data right out of the air, especially with people now so dependent on wireless networks.
The Colombian in Guinea Bissau had led him to a Turk in Ankara, who had in turn led him to an incarcerated Russian in Thailand. He got deeper and deeper, finally coming full circle, back to the Global Systems subsidiary in Singapore. Pooling information with Frank and Deckard, they realized that there were still a lot of blank spaces in their intelligence map regarding the enemy's order of battle, but the emerging picture chilled them to their core.
The slurper was disguised as a rock by coating the device with a plastic resin and airbrushing it a suitable grayish brown color. The battery would keep it operating for nearly a week while it harvested information from wireless routers, cellular phones, and any other devices that came within range. Addresses, telephone numbers, passwords and more would be sent to a repeater installed down the street before being bounced via satellite to one of Adam's encrypted email accounts.
They knew that several former CIA psychologists operated out of the Singapore office. Now it was just a question of discovering what they were doing there.
Opening his netbook, Adam connected to his own wireless network, quickly establishing contact with the repeater now synched up with the slurper lying next to the building. The screen already displayed some data, most of it, of course, useless.
Sighing, Adam began walking towards a cafe he had spotted earlier.
He had work to do.
Sixteen
The cavernous hanger sitting in an empty corner of Astana International Airport was now packed with sixty Iveco assault trucks, many still packed with plastic wrapping over the seats and partially incomplete with gun turrets and other components unassembled.
British mechanics and welders combed the hanger as the clang of metal on metal echoed throughout the open spaces and sparks flew into the air.
Deckard and Sergeant Major Korgan oversaw t
he delivery and installation of critical vehicle assemblies as they examined the trucks with the foreman from the British firm that produced them. The trucks had been put together in situ back in the UK, with only smaller components needing to be furnished and put together after transport.
Samruk's commander drank another gulp of coffee from a Styrofoam cup. He had been managing on only a few hours of sleep a night. The combat training had been completely turned over to his contractors, who were quickly working themselves out of a job. The Kazakh mercenaries turned out to be quick learners.
Once the umbilical cord was finally cut, he'd keep some of the Western mercenaries on the payroll to teach specialized courses in advanced communications, technical surveillance, and certain infiltration techniques. Of course they could also break their contract and sign on as soldiers, provided they were willing to accept a change in role and work under a Kazakh sergeant.
In a matter of hours the trucks would be completed, and he'd need the contractors to begin a new program of instruction that covered mobility training. Tactical off-road driving was a skill like any other, one that soldiers needed to acquire.
The Sergeant Major climbed up on the hood of one of the assault trucks and watched a welder use an oxy-acetylene torch. Korgan muttered something barely audible over the construction underway.
“He wants to know what the welder is doing,” Deckard told the foreman. He had been learning, as well, his Russian gradually improving beyond the level of a chimpanzee.
“Welding on the brackets,” the foreman said, pointing to the metal ammo can holders. “It will move with the entire turret, but this is just the mounting bracket for the can. You can have the links feed from whichever side you like.”
Deckard had familiarized himself with the vehicles, from front to back, and grilled the sales managers before placing the order. He'd even called the CEO and the senior engineer in the UK to get their assurances faxed to him on paper. Thankfully, they had delivered, if barely meeting the deadline stipulated in the contract. Over the years he had seen plenty of defense contracts and arms deals go bad.
The trucks were lined up in the hanger, like a legion of hulking Roman soldiers, waiting for orders.
They came painted in a kind of dull tan color that was pretty much standard for NATO forces operating in the desert. He would have them repainted as necessary.
The front end was fairly standard in appearance, looking like an Iveco LMV with armor plating and bulletproof glass made out of layered polycarbonate thermoplastics that surrounded the cab. Inside, the driver and passenger would sit with a communications suite between them. The metal rack with the mounting brackets was in place even if the encrypted radios themselves hadn't arrived yet.
On the front of the trucks was a heavy duty winch, dual visible and infrared headlights for driving under night vision goggles, and several antennas.
Directly behind the cab was the gun turret, fitted with a rotating ring that the gun pedestal itself rested on to provide three hundred and sixty degree coverage by the machine gunner. The gunner was left standing, unless he improvised a strap to sit on while the turret was rotated manually by depressing a lever. Storage space was provided for a half-dozen cans of ammunition.
Behind the gun ring were eight seats made of bulletproof ceramics that sat back to back, four on each side facing outward. The metal struts that also supported the gun turret ran over the top of the seats, providing some overhead cover, in case of rollovers and additional storage space, probably where most squads would place the spare tire. Running along the sides of the truck were two long storage compartments where the assaulters' boots would rest while seated. The metal shelves could house additional ammunition, fuel and water cans, military rations, or other mission-specific equipment.
Seat belts were provided as Basic Issue Items along with tow bars, tow straps, and jacks, but how the men used and carried them would be left to platoon SOPs and the recommendation of Deckard's instructors.
On each flank was an additional swing arm that could mount machine guns for the assault team to utilize while in transit, providing even more firepower. For the time being each pedestal would be fitted with a PKM machine gun, at least until they got their hands on something heavier for the gun turret.
The back of the truck provided some more storage space for recovery equipment and metal stirrups for any hangers-on.
He had seen lots of military vehicles over the years, but these were the most versatile assault specific trucks he had encountered. Four wheel, all terrain, day/night, long range, and with an emphasis on offensive capabilities, they even looked nasty.
While the welder continued his work, they watched another technician installing a larger antenna on the back of the truck. The jammer it connected to inside the cab created a twenty five-meter electronic bubble around the truck, preventing any signals from reaching any potential remote-detonated improvised explosive devices they might encounter. On the other hand there was not much they could do about command-detonated IEDs other than use tactical convoy formations and mount an effective counter attack.
With the final shipment arriving less then twelve hours ago, they would soon have enough trucks operational to have the entire battalion outfitted, with an additional three medical evacuation vehicles, one going to each company.
Korgan lit up a cigarette, blowing off industrial safety standards, but that was how they rolled and no one was going to say anything to him about it. The foreman glared enviously for a moment, then back toward Deckard questioningly. Finally, he lit up one of his own.
Deckard grinned.
He loved it when a good plan came together.
“To use a proper ramming technique, you need to slow down to about ten miles an hour.”
The Kazakh mercenaries, turned students, huddled around the sand table with open note books.
“As the driver slows down, he needs to look out over the center of the hood to make sure he is on target with the rear quarter panel of the blocking vehicle.”
Gordan demonstrated the desired result on the sand table. Lines had been drawn out in the sand to represent roads. Two toy cars were used to show the friendly assault truck and the enemy vehicle blocking the street. This was one of the few techniques Deckard had forbade the ex-Special Forces Team Sergeant from actually training the men hands on. The cellophane had just been peeled off the trucks, and the mechanics were not to earn their pay quite yet.
“If possible, make contact with the lighter end of the vehicle. The trunk will be easier to push, with the engine being the heavier portion in the front. Now at the last moment, just as you make contact with the blocking vehicle, accelerate and push through the blocking position.”
On the sand table he showed them how the blocking vehicle would spin around and out of the way, allowing the assault truck to power through and clear the blockade.
“Do you have any questions?”
The former Master Sergeant had taught the Kazakhs the Standard Operating Procedures on the sand table, having eaten up most of their morning covering down driver drills, down gunner drills, recovery drills, bailout techniques, and much more, breaking each drill down into easy-to-digest steps with model cars and plastic army men.
It may have looked amateurish, but the classes were not designed to insult the intelligence of the Kazakh soldiers. The same training methods were applied when teaching the soldiers of First World armies.
“No questions?” The translator repeated his request while he watched them put away pens and paper.
“Good, pack up and go see Kurt.”
Sitting down beside the recently completed barracks, Gordan gulped down some Gatorade as the Samruk soldiers began moving out with their NCOs to the next training station. The battalion would spend the week doing circuit training, moving from one station to the next.
They would be given a basic familiarization with the trucks and the recovery equipment by Richie, practice actual recovery methods of damaged vehicles wit
h Kurt, and conduct driving training with Mendez and Chuck, both on and off road. Next week came live fire drills, reacting to ambushes and IEDs, as well as conducting night driving training.
As the next group arrived around the sand table from Richie's station, Gordan set down the Gatorade bottle.
“The first subject we will cover here is pre-mission checklists,” Gordan began.
Five assault vehicles glided slowly and silently over cracked asphalt, running off battery power as they neared the objective.
Wind howled across the steppes, blowing through the brick buildings. A door slammed shut repeatedly somewhere in the distance, echoing through the empty streets.
Stopping, the assault trucks rocked gently on their suspension, and rubber soles of combat boots slapped against the street, quickly moving into squad formations. The mercenaries left the trucks behind, manned by the driver, gunner, and truck commander riding in the shotgun seat.
Splitting into two elements, the platoon moved down both sides of the street in columns, pulling cross coverage above on the buildings opposite of them, rifle muzzles sweeping across open windows and rooftops. The senior sergeant stepped it out with his men trailing behind as he led them towards the objective.
Moving tactically down three blocks, the assault squads followed their platoon sergeant as he made a left-hand turn down one of the side streets, the infiltration route having been briefed and reviewed hours before.
Reaching the objective building, the platoon sergeant halted the men and called forward the lead squad. All three squads were similarly outfitted with their standard kit, as well as specialized equipment for gaining entry. Individuals in each squad carried metal pry bars for manual entry as well as sawed off shotguns for ballistic breaching.
On this objective they needed to flood the building with as many assaulters as fast as possible, calling for a demolition breach with a dual-primed flex-linear charge, constructed by the mercenaries during the planning stage of the operation.