PRIMAL Starter Box Set (PRIMAL Series)

by Jack Silkstone

“I know. Your friend Neeraj told me all about it.” She nodded to the officer holding him. “Get this piece of shit out of my sight.”

  CHAPTER 26

  CBI HEADQUARTERS

  “So, what’s going on?” Mirza sat opposite Sonia in her office. It had been three days since Prasad’s arrest and his frustration at being hidden away in a CBI safe house was riding him hard.

  He glanced at a dark-suited man sitting in the back with Major Jayaram, then looked at Sonia. “We’ve been over my evidence twice now. Don’t tell me you still don’t have enough to convict Prasad. He’s been arrested. You just need to make the charges stick.”

  “And I will. My colleague,” she motioned to the man in the suit, “from the anti-corruption branch is working on that. The case is developing nicely. But it’s going to take time.”

  The anti-corruption investigator shuffled some papers.

  “Then why are we back in here? What’s the problem?”

  “The problem is your safety.”

  “You think Prasad and his thugs might try to kill me?”

  “That’s exactly our concern. He’s a very powerful man.”

  “I get that. But we’ve got enough from the Chandni Chowk incident to put him away.”

  She shook her head. “No, he had the site swept. The bodies were cremated and his reports justify his every action. The case against him is going to revolve around yours and Neeraj’s testimony and the results of the internal affairs investigation.”

  “What about Atal? Is he safe?”

  Sonia looked at her brother.

  “The kid is safe,” said the major. “He’s with your mother just like you asked. They’ll have RAW protection until this thing’s sorted.”

  “And he’s going to school?” Mirza asked.

  “It would seem that your mother is a very,” Jayaram searched for the right word, “persuasive woman.”

  “He’s in good hands. And what about you, Sonia? Prasad also wanted you dead.”

  “Our family has a home in London. I’m heading there until the investigations team finishes their work. I’ll also have a protection element from the local police. So that just leaves you, Mirza,” she said softly.

  He shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I can take care of myself.” He moved to stand. “Is that all?”

  “Sit down and listen, Corporal,” Major Jayaram ordered. “I don’t think you understand the severity of the situation. Prasad has an extensive network of supporters; not only the Black Cats, but crime gangs with nothing to lose. These people don’t play by our rules, Mirza. Their only loyalty is to whoever has the fattest wallet. We can’t guarantee your safety whilst you’re in New Delhi.”

  “Then I can go back up north, rejoin the unit.”

  The major shook his head. “You need to be out of the country. At least until this cools down.” He stood, walked across to the desk, and handed over a document. “These are your deployment orders.”

  Frowning, Mirza stared at him. “Where are you sending me?”

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Sierra Leone?”

  Mirza shook his head. “No.”

  “It’s in West Africa and it’s going to be your home for at least the next six months. You leave in the morning. Good luck, Corporal.” The major nodded to his sister and left the office with the anti-corruption officer on his heels.

  Mirza read through the orders. The two-page document had him posted to Africa on a United Nations peacekeeping mission. He knew these overseas postings were prestigious and sought-after for their generous allowances. Usually only available to soldiers with the right connections or bribes. However, it was a regular infantry role and, to Mirza, sounded boring compared to his work in RAW.

  “It’s only for six months,” said Sonia.

  “I’ve never traveled this far from India before.”

  “It’ll be an adventure. When you get back, perhaps we could go out for dinner and you can tell me all about it.”

  Mirza smiled. “I’d like that. Just don’t forget while I’m away.”

  Sonia leaned in and kissed him softly on the cheek. “How could I ever forget my knight in shining armor? Just try to stay out of trouble.”

  CHAPTER 27

  UN MISSION HEADQUARTERS, SIERRA LEONE

  Mirza stood at attention before the colonel in charge of the Indian contingent. He tried not to stare at the obese commander. He couldn’t figure out how the man stuffed his bulk into the dress uniform. At a glance, it looked ready to burst.

  “So, you’re the new section leader.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The colonel studied him from head to toe. His pig-like eyes paused on the pencil thin mustache that Mirza now wore. It was all that remained of the beard he’d grown while in the SPEC-B detachment. His uniform had also changed. Now, he wore the heavy khaki of a line infantryman.

  “I hope you don’t think you’re anything special, Corporal Mansoor.” The colonel turned his attention to the file on his desk. “Because your record isn’t particularly impressive.”

  Mirza said nothing. Major Jayaram had doctored a record of service that included time spent in regular infantry units and made no mention of his work at SPEC-B.

  “In fact, I have no idea how you made Corporal, let alone snagged a posting to the UN.” The colonel cleared his throat. “Until you, every man in this contingent had been hand-picked by me. Every one of them a seasoned soldier with an impeccable record and a bright future.”

  Mirza watched as spittle flew from the colonel’s mouth and landed on his file. He had no doubt the man was a pretender, a bureaucrat who had wrangled his UN deployment through groveling, favors, and manipulation.

  “This posting is a great honor you don’t deserve.” The colonel sighed. “Obviously you have friends in high places, so I’m stuck with you.”

  Mirza remained impassive. He was enjoying watching the colonel establishing himself as an idiot.

  “Do you have anything to say?”

  Mirza shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “I’ve allocated you to our force protection company. You’ll be working with UN observers from a number of different nations so don’t embarrass us. I’m going to be watching you. Now get out of my office.”

  Mirza snapped his heels together and exited the air-conditioned building. The humidity hit him as he stepped out onto the wooden walkway linking the headquarters to the accommodation area. He slung his chest rig and AK over his shoulder then picked up his kit bag and pack, one in each hand. He felt disheartened as he shuffled across the weathered decking to the demountable box that would be his home for the next six months.

  “Hey, Corporal,” called out a tall, dark-haired man dressed in a camouflage pattern that looked like a jumble of jellybeans and love hearts.

  “You Corporal Mansoor?”

  Mirza spotted the three pips of a captain’s rank on the man’s shoulder, dropped his kit bag and saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  An easy smile spread across the captain’s face as he thrust out his hand. “I’m Aden Bishop, welcome to the team.”

  Mirza shook his hand. There was something about the officer’s manner that reminded him of Himesh. His accent sounded almost British but was flatter, broader. He was also more relaxed than a typical British officer. “Sorry sir, I can’t place your accent.”

  “I’m Australian, mate. Here, let me give you a hand with that.” Before Mirza could stop him, the officer grabbed the kit bag and slung it over his shoulder.

  Bishop pointed at the customized chest rig. “Nice battle bra. You make that yourself?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The pack looks like it’s seen some action as well. Let me guess, you part Nepalese? Done some work in Kashmir, Mirza?”

  He nodded. “A little.”

  The captain dropped the bag at the door to the soldiers’ quarters. “It’s good to have you on board. I’ll leave you to meet your boys. This lot will benefit from your experience. Any questions?
”

  Mirza shook his head.

  “And don’t worry about the Colonel, he’s all bark and no bite.”

  Bishop started walking away, paused, and glanced back. “Oh, by the way. We’re rolling out to the refo camps tomorrow morning. Orders are at 1900 hours.”

  Mirza picked up his gear with a smile. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

  ***

  THE END

  PRIMAL Inception

  CHAPTER 1

  KOSOVO, MAY 1999

  United States Air Force Captain Dean Ruckard, call sign Sledge, checked the fuel readout in his F-16 Fighting Falcon and grimaced. He still had over half a tank. Another twenty minutes patrolling the no-fly-zone before he would be wheels down back at base. Much too long, considering his bladder was at bursting point.

  He was tired and coffee had been a vital component of his pre-flight checks. The British supply officer he’d picked up last night hadn’t let him get a wink of sleep. He grinned behind his oxygen mask. They’d met at a bar in town and immediately hit it off. After a few drinks the energetic blonde had dragged him back to her room where they performed sexual gymnastics into the early hours of the morning. He was keen for another session tonight.

  Sledge was four weeks into a six-month tour and hoped the sexy blonde would help the monotonous deployment pass a little quicker. If last night was anything to go by that was exactly what she was going to do.

  He checked the fuel indicator again. The bird was shedding pounds but not fast enough. “Fuck it.” He activated the autopilot and reached for the plastic bottle he kept for such an occasion. It took a few moments to make the necessary adjustments and then… relief.

  “Shit.” The bottle was filling fast. It was less than an inch from the top when he gingerly extracted himself and screwed the lid tight. He unzipped the pocket on the calf of his flight suit and slipped the bottle inside. His crew chief would be pissed if he left it in the cockpit.

  The high-pitched wail of an alarm grabbed his attention. His eyes darted to the digital threat warning. The missile launch alarm was flashing. “Fuck.” He flicked off the autopilot, rolled the jet onto its back and searched the sky.

  Out the corner of his eye he spotted a thin line of white smoke. A missile was climbing toward him. He rolled back over, hauled on the stick and pushed the throttle to its stops. The afterburner thundered and g-forces assaulted his body as he rocketed skyward. He flicked the chaff switch and the jet shuddered as it spewed counter measures from under its belly.

  The aircraft bucked wildly as the missile ended its flight in a flash of flame and shrapnel. A warning tone blared inside his helmet. He glanced at the instrument panel and swallowed hard. Engine temperature was skyrocketing, thrust indicator tanking.

  He pushed the nose of the fighter over seconds before it stalled. “Any call sign, this is Geronimo 44, I’ve been vaped by a SAM. Systems are critical.”

  A hundred nautical miles away an E-3 AWACS responded, “Geronimo this is Big Eye, I have you on scope. Please confirm your situation.”

  “Big Eye, my engine is dead. Systems are failing. I’m gonna have to punch out.”

  “Acknowledged Geronimo. Am relaying to command. Check in when you touch down. Good luck.”

  Sledge pulled the doomed jet out of her dive and leveled off. Taking a deep breath, he reached between his legs and yanked the ejection handles.

  A deafening roar filled the cockpit as the canopy was blasted off and three thousand pounds of rocket thrust launched him, seat and all, skyward. A split second later, an explosive fired releasing him from the chair.

  He heard a tearing sound and looked up. For a moment he thought the chute had failed. Then it inflated, arresting his descent.

  He drifted toward a thickly wooded hillside. The trees rushed closer. Crashing through the canopy, he slammed into the ground. He lay on his back staring up at the pine trees and muttered, “I’m not getting laid tonight.”

  It took a few seconds to gather his wits before uncoupling the harness. He shivered. While there wasn’t snow on the ground, it was not far away.

  At least he had landed uninjured in the woods. He’d have half a chance at evading any Serbs trying to capture him. He discarded his helmet, pulled a Beretta pistol from his vest and racked the action. Then he removed the AN/PRC-112 survival radio from its pouch and turned it on. “Big Eye, this is Geronimo 44, over.”

  There was a burst of static.

  “You’re shitting me.” Sledge checked the device’s frequencies. They seemed right. He regretted not confirming them during the pre-flight briefing. His crew chief usually took care of the details.

  “Geronimo 44, this is Big Eye, over.”

  He almost laughed with relief. “Damn it’s good to hear from you guys.”

  “You too 44. How you doing?”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Roger, the SAM threat is keeping all our assets clear. Extraction is going to take some time, over.”

  “How long?”

  There was a pause.

  “There is a local asset on the ground. They’ll meet you at RV Whiskey Foxtrot. Marry up phrase is Slippery Ninja.”

  “I confirm RV Whiskey Foxtrot and Slippery Ninja.”

  “Affirm, Geronimo. We’ll be here if you need us. Big Eye out.”

  Sitting under a tree, Sledge pulled out his silk escape and evasion map and searched for the rendezvous point. This part of the briefing he had paid attention to. He had come down south of the city of Zubin Potok in an area heavily contested between the rebel Kosovo Liberation Army and Yugoslav/Serb forces. He located RV Whiskey Foxtrot. It was in the vicinity of a farm, only a few miles south. He folded the map, slid it into a thigh pocket and checked his watch. It was 1410 hours. With any luck he’d avoid the Serb forces, make the RV before nightfall, and find a warm bed for the night.

  ***

  The Soviet-era truck ground its way along a dirt track flanked on both sides by dense forest. It sat low on its springs, the wheels rubbing on the mudguards every time it hit a pothole. In the cabin, Vance, a barrel-chested bald-headed African American drove. Next to him sat a blonde-haired, square-jawed monster who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Marine recruiting poster.

  “You ever think we’re supporting the wrong guys?” asked the former-Marine, James Castle.

  “What makes you say that, buddy? The fact the Gray Wolves are a pack of low brow thugs, or that they lie to us on an almost daily basis?”

  “Both.”

  Despite being only a recent graduate of the CIA’s Clandestine Service Trainee Program, James was proving to be a very capable operative. The Albanians they were mentoring had taken to calling him Iceman, partly because of his resemblance to Val Kilmer in the movie Top Gun, and partly because nothing seemed to phase him. Ice-cold blood flowed through his veins, as one of the rebels put it, and Vance had to agree. His partner was as stone cold and dependable as they came.

  “They’re the lesser of two evils, bud. The Serbs want to kick them out, and the western world seems to think that’s unacceptable.”

  “Yeah I get that. I’m just not sure arming a bunch of thugs is the best way to bring peace and stability to the region.”

  “I hear you, brother, but one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, and the powers that be have decided the Albanians are the latter.”

  They were CIA paramilitary officers. Members of an elite unit within the agency’s Directorate of Operations, the organization the government used to fight its dirty wars. They usually worked behind enemy lines with rebel forces. In this case, the Kosovo Liberation Army.

  Vance was the senior operative, with over twenty years experience. While his area of expertise was Latin America, he had been transferred to Eastern Europe to assist with the Kosovo campaign. James, or Ice as Vance had taken to calling him, was on his first hit out with the Agency since being recruited from Marine Corps Force Recon.

  Vance crashed his way through the g
ears as he turned off the track onto an overgrown trail. “Damn this truck is a piece of shit.” He glanced out the window at the forest. “Where the hell is the security?”

  Ice wound his window down. “No sign of them.” He sniffed the air. “Can’t smell any cigarettes.”

  “Goddamn amateurs.”

  The pair had been working with this particular band of KLA guerrillas for nearly a month. ‘The Gray Wolves’, as they called themselves, couldn’t really be called a military unit. Discipline was non-existent, and basic security measures were often ignored. When he and Ice had left yesterday, to collect a shipment of weapons and equipment, sentries were posted to watch the intersection. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, the guards were nowhere to be seen.

  The truck’s balding tires slipped in the wheel ruts as Vance wrestled it up the trail to a clearing. A hundred yards ahead he made out the red-tiled roofs and white walls of a dilapidated farm. Home base for the Gray Wolves.

  The farm consisted of three run-down houses and a stone barn clustered around a muddy square. A dozen four-wheel drives and trucks were parked in the yard along with a rusted tractor. In the center was a smoldering fire around which a group of men was standing warming their hands. They wore a mix of clothing including heavy military jackets, jeans and camouflage pants. All had Yugoslav-made AK assault rifles slung over their shoulders, courtesy of the CIA.

  Vance parked the truck next to the barn and they jumped down from the cab. One of the KLA, a whippet of a man with angular features left the pack and limped across to greet them. “Welcome back, my friends.”

  Adem Barishna was the only man within the militia that Vance even slightly trusted. His limp was the result of a childhood accident and was the reason he had been relegated to managing logistics for the Gray Wolves. The other fighters called him the cripple.

  “What presents have you brought me?” Barishna’s near perfect English was delivered in a high-pitched voice that made everything he said sound like a complaint.