Swords of Exodus

by Larry Correia

  “John Hawkins,” he said. “People just call me Hawk. I’m with Vanguard Strategic Solutions International.” He handed me a business card. “When you get out of the Air Force, you give me a call. I’ll put you to work making four times what they pay you for this.”

  I nodded jerkily and put his card in my pocket as we arrived on the lower level of the mosque. My heart dropped into my stomach when I took in the carnage.

  The air was dirty and stunk of burnt powder. Several dead bodies were scattered on the floor in pools of blood. Several more Afghans were wounded. Only a couple of the Afghans had been armed, but they’d used the civilians seeking shelter in the mosque as human shields. I didn’t know whose rounds had struck who, but it didn’t make any difference to those that had been hit.

  “Holy fucking shit.” One of the Cavalry soldiers appeared in the doorway. He turned and yelled for a medic. The same medic that had been treating Chambers pushed past him and ran to a wounded Afghan man. I left Hawk where he stood and approached the medic, stepping over bodies as I went.

  “What happened to Chambers?”

  He took a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m sorry, man. She didn’t make it.”

  I nodded at him as my chest tightened, but I couldn’t choke out any words. I knew he’d done the best he could. I wasn’t angry at him. I just needed air. The mosque felt as if it was suffocating me. The air stank of death. The wounded survivors stared at me with wide eyes. The dead seemed to be staring at me too.

  Stepping back out into the sunlight, I leaned against the wall of the mosque and slid down to the ground. I unsnapped my helmet and set it on the ground next to me. I took off my safety glasses and buried my face in my hands. People came and went past me, but I paid them no mind.

  After a few minutes, I was tapped on the shoulder. It was Captain Drake. I immediately came to my feet. “Relax, Valentine,” he said calmly. “What the hell happened?”

  He listened quietly as I explained, his face a mask.

  When I was finished, he simply nodded. “We got a problem. You ran off with some civilian contractors without orders from any of my NCOs. There are a bunch of dead civilians in there. You’ve been briefed on the ROE. You know how this is going to play out, don’t you?”

  I felt like I was going to throw up. My partner was dead and I was probably going to be court-martialed. This day couldn’t have gone any worse. At that moment, if I could’ve gone back in time and taken that bullet for Chambers, knowing full well that I was going to die, I would have done so.

  But there is no going back, is there?

  The Cavalry officer put his hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry about Airman Chambers. And between you and me, that was some impressive shit you pulled off there. I can’t believe some Air Force puke can shoot like that. I’ll vouch for you when the time comes. I’ll tell them the truth, but I’ll vouch for you.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  He left me alone.

  In the distance could be heard the sound of a helicopter.

  The room rattled slightly as an outbound C-130 took off. I stood at the position of attention in the office of Colonel Christopher Blair, the commander of the 521st Air Expeditionary Wing. I had on a clean uniform and was freshly shaved. I was in enough trouble without going in front of the Wing King looking like a bag of ass. The colonel told me to stand at ease after he sat down. I relaxed a little and moved my hands behind my back.

  “Senior Airman Valentine,” he began, folding his hands on his desk, “I’m afraid I’m in kind of a bad position here. On one hand, your actions in the village of Murghab were commendable. You advanced under fire and without support onto an enemy position, and cleared that position with almost no help. Senior Airman Chambers was killed by an enemy sniper team, and your actions resulted in that sniper team being neutralized. On the other hand,” he gestured at the computer on his desk, “your actions, while not technically insubordination, did involve you disregarding your chain of command, standing general orders, and the rules of engagement. Furthermore, you were aided by employees of a PMC, which is to say, civilians. As a result, six Afghan noncombatants were killed and four more were wounded.”

  “Sir, the enemy personnel in the mosque were using those people as human shields. They were also firing indiscriminately through the crowd.”

  “So the report says. That works in your favor. Not working in your favor is the fact that you and these two civilians entered and cleared a mosque without any Afghan personnel with you, which is a violation of the current ROE.”

  “Sir, we were under direct, immediate, and lethal fire from that position. Half our ANA had either been killed or run away. The ones that stayed were shooting up the entire village in a panic. They were useless.”

  “Also noted, Airman. Now listen to me. You stirred up a shit storm. An epic shit storm. The Afghan government is calling for you and the contractors from Vanguard to be put on trial by an Afghan court. There is no way that is going to happen, but they’re incensed, to say the least. Worse, the Army wants to crucify you. A lot of people who weren’t on the ground with you say that you’re an undertrained Air Force kid with no business being in their battle space. They say you blatantly disregarded the ROE, killed a bunch of civilians, and they want you court-martialed. You committed the mortal sin of creating headaches for staff officers somewhere.”

  “Sir—”

  “Now, before you get too upset, the Cavalry unit you were with spoke very highly of you and Airman Chambers. They said you two had been a valuable asset to them on other missions and that you made the best decision you could while under fire.”

  “What does the Air Force say, sir?”

  “I’m going to be honest with you. Some people above my level are telling me to throw you under the bus, recommend you for a court martial, and wash my hands of you. If word of this gets out, they say, it’ll reflect badly on the Air Force, and the last thing we need is more bad PR.”

  I took a deep breath and lowered my head slightly. I was going to Fort Leavenworth. I could already see it.

  Colonel Blair ignored my moping and continued. “It’s more complicated than that, however. You also uncovered the first concrete evidence we’ve had that Iranian special operations forces are in Afghanistan. The Afghan government has been denying this for years, even though we’ve suspected all along they’ve been dealing with the Iranians on the side. That causes nothing but headaches for the brass and their bosses on the civilian side. So as much as they want you crucified, they want this thing quashed so they can deal with it on the down-low. It hasn’t gone public yet, but it will if you’re put on trial. And believe it or not, there are a few people on the Air Force side who are willing to go to bat for you.”

  “So what’s going to happen to me, sir?”

  “Right now? Nothing. Your leadership put you in for the Combat Action Medal, which I intend to sign off on. You’ve earned that much. But you’re not going out on any more missions with the Cav, or anyone else. You’re not even going to stand watch. I told your squadron commander to put you in the armory or some other place out of sight. You’re going to stay there, keep your head down, and finish out your deployment without any more incidents. You lost your partner out there. Take some time for yourself. Believe me when I say I don’t want to see your name come across my desk again. Your term of enlistment is up in, what, a year?”

  “About that long, sir.”

  “Right. You’re going to just get out. As a matter of fact, you’re not going to be allowed to reenlist, but in exchange for you quietly getting out of the Air Force and keeping your mouth shut about this whole thing, you’re not going to be court-martialed. Your punishment will be handled administratively, and this verbal counseling session will suffice, as far as I’m concerned.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Look,” the colonel said, his demeanor softening. “I’m sorry about Airman Chambers. The official notifications have all been made, but I’m still workin
g on the letter to her parents. We lost one of our own out there, and you were in a bad situation. I don’t think what’s happening to you is right. I think you should be getting the Bronze Star instead of punished. But there’s not much else I can do for you. The best thing you can do is go along, get along, and just leave the military behind.”

  “I understand, sir,” I said quietly. “Thank you.”

  Hours later, as the Sun sank slowly over the horizon, I found myself wandering the base alone, reflective belt around my waist.

  I found a good spot where there wasn’t too much background noise, and pulled one of my unit’s satellite phones out of my pocket. I unfolded the antenna and, in the failing light, strained to read the card in my hand.

  John Hawkins, Director of Special Tactics Training, Vanguard Strategic Solutions International.

  I wasn’t getting out for almost a year. I wondered, is it too soon to call? What the hell, I thought. It’s worth a shot. That phone call changed my life.

  LORENZO

  Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia

  Seven Years Ago

  Hari Merdeka is Malaysian Independence day, and this particular one was one hell of a party. The place was packed with the rich, famous, and powerful, all struggling to hear each other over the extremely loud band. The crowd was Malay, Indonesian, Thai, Indian, Chinese, with a smattering of Westerners, all of them wealthy, many of them distracted by the huge fireworks over the city, and the remainder were schmoozing or cutting deals. For a supposedly Muslim country, there was a surprising amount of very expensive alcohol being consumed, and most of the beautiful women gyrating on the dance floor were thousand-dollar-an-hour prostitutes.

  The restaurant was forty stories above the street, suspended at the intersection of two ultramodern buildings. It was a five-star luxury establishment, most of which was currently open to the night air, a veritable hanging garden over the busy street below. The massive Petronas Towers were visible through the rooftop tropical forest. Occasionally, a really bright firework would illuminate the catwalks above us, and you could just make out the shadows of the guard force stalking about, watching the crowd.

  Security was tight, but fragmented. There were private guards for some of the more important people, and the perimeter staff made up of hotel employees. I had passed through two sets of metal detectors to get to this point. The food in the dinner cart I was pushing had been tasted by three separate people to check for poison. The guards had forced the chef, his assistant, and the waiter who would be delivering it, played by yours truly, to try some. The foie gras had been delicious.

  I passed swiftly between the kitchen and the private dining area, with two black-suited men flanking me. They had patted me down before I had picked up the food, just to be certain, and they kept an eye on me the entire time. They were big for Malays, thick with muscle, shoulder holsters poking out from their unbuttoned coats. This particular private dinner party was a little on the paranoid side.

  You would be too if you had stolen from Big Eddie.

  Another guard was waiting, and he held open the heavy wooden double door for me and my goon escort. Away from the teeming crowd, the screeching pop band, and the Japanese businessmen eating sushi off of naked chicks, the private dining area was silent, almost peaceful. The roof on this section had not been retracted, and the restaurant had been decorated in the manner of a Zen garden, with lots of those funny little trees and sand with designs drawn in it.

  It was a large room, normally capable of holding fifty diners, but tonight there was only one group allowed inside. The proprietors knew that these people needed privacy to discuss their business.

  This latest guard held up his hand. I had been through this a few times tonight, to take their orders, to bring their drinks, I knew the drill. I left the cart, and raised my arms for yet another very thorough pat-down. The first two guards did one last check of the large dining cart, lifting up covers and steaming trays, looking under the fabric, probably checking to make sure no guest had managed to stick a bomb onto it in the minute it had taken to walk here from the kitchen.

  Grimacing as the guard checked what would be a very uncomfortable place to carry a weapon anyway, I thought about the plan and tried to look as unthreatening as possible, which is actually pretty easy when you’re as forgettable as I am. Tonight I was wearing a tuxedo like the other staff, but with the red sash of the chief waiter. My ID said that my name was Pard and I was a resident of the Salpeng Valley and its Tamil minority and I had worked here for five boring years. Being just another nobody was my specialty.

  “Smells great,” grunted one of the guards as he finished checking the food.

  “Well, you’re eating noodles when you’re off shift, so don’t dwell on it,” said the other as he straightened my sash and patted me on the shoulder. “You’re good. Make this quick and get out of here. The boss is talking business.”

  “Of course, sir.” I rolled the cart toward the diners. Only one guard stayed at my side, the other two took up positions back outside to dissuade partygoers in search of privacy. The heavy door closed behind them.

  The dinner party consisted of two men and a woman. The males were Indonesians in very expensive suits. The woman was a stunning blonde in a slinky black dress. They were seated on thick cushions around a short table. Another guard stood at attention a few feet behind his principle, the Browning Hi-Power in his shoulder holster plainly visible under his open coat. Only the guard noticed my approach. I slowed, but he nodded for me to continue. Ever subservient, I dipped my head, rolled the cart into position, and began removing steaming lids.

  The woman was speaking. “Big Eddie will not tolerate you operating in the Strait of Malacca without his permission. That last freighter you hijacked belonged to him, and he is not pleased.” Her voice had a slight European accent. “This is not a fight you want to pick.” She really was a looker. Her hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, revealing a very perfect neck. She had movie-star looks, a body better than any of the professional girls at the party, and the eyes of a serial killer. I knew her very well.

  The man laughed. “Katarina, please, I’ve had far too pleasant an evening to entertain idle threats. My people have controlled the Strait from Selenor to the sea for ten generations.” His name was Datuk Keng and he was a pirate. He didn’t look like a pirate in the traditional sense, lacking parrot, eye patch, or wooden leg, but believe me, he was the real deal. Keng had approximately three hundred men under his direct command, and they specialized in taking down merchant cargos, selling the boats, and holding the crews for ransom. “You can tell Big Eddie that if his ships are to pass through the Strait, then he must pay for protection like everyone else.”

  “Our records indicate that Big Eddie owes us twenty-five million in passage taxes.” The other man at the table was Keng’s assistant. Even pirates need accountants nowadays. “Ten thousand per shipment, plus interest and penalties for sixteen months of noncompliance.”

  “You really think you can extort money from someone like Eddie?”

  “Ahh . . . dinner has arrived,” Keng said merrily. “Ms. Katarina, I’m the king of this world. I can do whatever I want. Take that back to your employer, and tell him that twenty-five million is my final offer.”

  I placed the first dish of five-star goodness in front of Datuk Keng and made eye contact with Katarina.

  “Smells wonderful,” she said. Translation: Negotiations failed. Time for violence.

  Two guards behind me, two more outside, but they were bored. This was just another meeting. They were pirates, tough guys, brutes. This standing around stuff dulled the senses, and I was just the submissive little waiter, whom they had dealt with all night long. Complacency kills.

  “I must implore you one final time, don’t force this issue with Big Eddie, or he will kill you.”

  Datuk Keng scowled, all pretenses of cordiality gone. Now I could see the man who plundered ships and murdered sailors. His face creased with rage. “You
dare threaten me? I’ll make this quick—”

  I moved with lightning speed, reaching into the nearest guard’s coat. The problem with shoulder holsters? The guy standing in front of you can draw your gun faster than you can. I popped the snap, yanked the Browning, and tossed it to Katarina.

  She caught the Browning by the grip and leveled it at Keng.

  “I’ll make it quicker.” BLAM.

  Datuk Keng’s head snapped back in a spray of red. The guard tried to hit me, but I blocked it with my elbow, grabbed him by the tie, and fell, choking off his air and taking us both to the ground. That’s why I won’t wear a tie.

  Katarina brought her hands together smoothly and pointed the gun at the second guard. He froze, hand on gun. She smiled. There was no question how that was going to play out. He raised his trembling hands slowly, aware that the only reason he wasn’t dead was because we didn’t want to make any more noise.

  I rolled, sprang to my feet, grabbed a serving platter, and smashed the second guard in the head. He went right down. Then I kicked them both repeatedly in the face—tuxedo shoes are not the best for beating people senseless—until I was sure neither would be causing any trouble. One quick glance at the exit wound on the back of Keng’s skull told me mission accomplished, now to get out of here in one piece.

  I removed the other Browning from the second guard’s belt and two spare magazines from his offside, stuffed those in my pocket, grabbed his radio, and headed toward the door. We had no idea if the room was insulated enough to dampen the sound of a gunshot.

  Katarina placed the 9mm muzzle against the accountant’s head. He began to whimper and plead for his life in Indonesian. “Listen to me very carefully.” Her voice was utterly cold and distant. “Big Eddie wants his money. You will repay him triple the value of his stolen cargo. You will also pay him ten percent of all future takes. You will clear every attack with us from now on. Or we’ll burn your little pirate kingdom to the ground. We can find you anywhere. We can reach you anywhere. You work for Big Eddie now. These negotiations are closed. Do you understand?”