Countdown: The Liberators-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  Boxer chewed at his lower lip for a moment, then said, "In a way, we're not compromised enough."

  Stauer's eyes widened, incredulously. "Huh?"

  "I haven't told any of my contacts what's up. I need to, or eventually they're going to start asking questions and maybe interfering on general principle. You know Victor's reporting to the FSB. But he can only report what he knows, which is that men, arms, and equipment are being assembled for an operation. He or FSB could probably gather, based on the equipment list, that that operation will be in Africa. But since they don't know where, and since Russia has some interests in Africa, or thinks it does, they might want to stop us in case we are going to interfere with those interests. We need to assure them that this is not the case. Brazil doesn't know shit yet, I think. No," he corrected, "I'm sure they don't. But if they get a hint that an armed force of foreigners is being assembled on their soil they will certainly get difficult about it. And a surprise visit by Brazilian Marines would be a ‘bad thing,' marca registrada."

  The last warning, at least, wasn't a surprise. Indeed, the force was taking some pains to ensure the Brazilians stayed in the dark. The management team for the plantation they'd bought on what Khalid thought was his behalf had been reduced in numbers and the remainder segregated far away-thirty five miles-from the base camp. The camp itself was now, under the sergeant major's tutelage, quite well hidden despite the numbers of tents they'd set up. Supplies and personnel were to come in mostly by air from another country. And the trees were being cut in irregular patterns that tended to disguise the appearance of the field. And the really "dangerous" equipment would be offloaded to landing craft before the ship carrying it even reached Manaus.

  "So you think we should bring both the Russians and the United States in on this?" Stauer shook his head. "The idea fills me with dread."

  "Yes and no," Boxer said. "I think we should tell them slightly different stories . . . and slightly false ones. I'd like your permission to pass on to the United States Department of State that this is a Russian supported anti-piracy mission. They've had some problems with pirates in the area and so our folks shouldn't balk over that. We tell the Russians more of the truth, that this is a hostage rescue mission. If we have to be more honest about it, we can tell the Russkis just how we intend to rescue the hostage. All things considered, they'll approve. The United States would not."

  Stauer considered this, then said, "You can talk to the Russians, since they've already got reason for suspicion. Arrange to take Victor with you. Not a word to State. When do you think you should go?"

  "Probably in about five or six weeks," Ralph replied, accepting with good grace that Stauer had only taken his advice in part.

  "Fair enough. Now who else is reporting to whom?" Stauer asked.

  "None that I know of yet," Boxer replied. "But, once we get people here I'd like your permission to set up a cell under Bridges expressly to monitor any sat-phone traffic."

  "Done," Stauer agreed. "And while it's not your bailiwick, what do you think of Victor's proposal to send us a couple of trainers cum mechanics with the armored cars?"

  "From a training aspect I wouldn't have an opinion," Boxer said. "Not my thing. From an intel point of view, more expressly a counter-intel point of view, I don't think it will matter. After all, you're not announcing where we're going until we're all aboard ship and at sea. By then I can confiscate all the phones."

  "Speaking of communications devices," Stauer asked, "do we have commo up with The Drunken Bastard?"

  "We do," Ralph answered. "They've got a man aboard the Galloway. They'll be striking tonight or tomorrow."

  "Think the boy will be aboard?"

  "Almost no chance or I wouldn't have recommended we go ahead. But we ought to be able to find out where they dropped him off."

  Stauer nodded. "Yeah. Might be worth something." Stauer changed subjects. "What do you think about this proposal to replace the 90mm with that high velocity 60mm?"

  "I wouldn't do it now."

  "Why?"

  "We'll have the anti-tank guided missile Ferrets if there is any armor we have to worry about. And even if there is, there won't be much. We need the larger shell of the 90s to take care of technicals, buildings, fortifications, groups of infantry. Also, I checked. Nobody's ever mounted a gun that powerful in an Eland before and used it operationally. Hate to be the ones to discover that it deranges the turret."

  "Point," Stauer agreed.

  "And the two South Africans Victor wants to inflict on us won't know anything about the 60."

  "Also a point."

  D-107, near Tempe Base, Bloemfontein, South Africa

  It was evening over South Africa by the time Victor had his answer. With evening, the rats came out. From their table by a window in a small, moderately upscale restaurant the three, Boer, Bantu, and Russian, could watch the rats as they emerged. Streets quiet in the day became quite lively by night.

  "You're in," he told Boer and Bantu. "You're even wanted. But it's not a permanent posting. The organization involved is very ad hoc and temporary. It might, and I suspect it does, have unofficial ties to other organizations that may be more permanent.

  "The pay is standard for your rank, within the group. In this case it's a bit over three hundred thousand Rand, each, for the entire contract period, which is about three and a half months."

  "Shit, man," Viljoen said, "that's a couple of years' pay. What do you say, Dumi?" he asked of his partner. "We can find something, somewhere, if we have two years pay each to live on while we do."

  The black seemed disinclined to agree. Two years living expenses was not necessarily enough to start a new life somewhere else. Then, too, "What about our pensions?"

  Viljoen snorted in derision. "Love, there aren't going to be any pensions paid here soon enough, not in anything that has any value. Maybe if they offered a lifetime of free goat meat and mealie. But why do that when they can ‘pay' us in soon to be valueless Rand? And two years pay is over and above what we get for the noddy cars and ammunition."

  He turned to Victor. "We won't be paid in Rand, will we?"

  "No, USD."

  At about that time there was a commotion from the street. All three looked out to see a car stopped by another one with a crowd of angry men around the former. The car's doors were locked. No matter, some of the men produced clubs and stones with which they proceeded to smash in the windows.

  The man who had been driving the car was dragged out, the broken class of the window slashing his torso and leaving blood trails on the shards. The woman on the other side of the vehicle screamed as rough hands forced their way in and unlatched the door. She too, then, was dragged out. While the male driver was beaten by some of the crowd, others followed the pair dragging the woman off to somewhere. She screamed for a long time, but the police never came.

  All of the participants, on both sides, were black.

  "I'm in," said the Bantu. "This is no place for a civilized man, of any color."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  HOMICIDE, n. The slaying of one human

  being by another. There are four kinds of homicide:

  felonious, excusable, justifiable, and praiseworthy,

  but it makes no great difference to the person slain whether he fell by one kind or another

  -the classification is for advantage of the lawyers."

  -Ambrose Bierce, "The Devil's Dictionary"

  D-106, MV George Galloway,

  320 miles south of Reykjavik, Iceland

  In his little, not particularly comfortably fitting, earpiece Eeyore heard, "We're five miles behind you and closing at three quarters speed. We'll go to flank once you report that the radio room and bridge are secure."

  "Roger," he sent back. "I'm leaving now. I call; you come a-running."

  "Wilco," answered Biggus Dickus. "Good luck. Godspeed."

  Antoniewicz didn't bother answering that. He reached down, past the layer of television boxes he'd slept on, and
twisted open the rods that held the container's door shut. That made a little noise, a faint screech. Inside the container it sounded terribly loud. Outside, he was pretty sure, the sound would be lost amidst the sea splashing against the bow and the more distant noise of machinery. What he hadn't counted on were the sounds of male passion coming from somewhere very near the container. It sounded like, "Ana bahebak . . . ana bahebak . . . ana bahebak."

  With his NVGs on his face, Eeyore eased his head around the half open door and looked in the direction of the sound. Sure as shit, and the pun was somewhat intended, there were two of the ships complement-passengers or crew, who knew?-both bearded, with their trousers down around their ankles, one bent over the railing while the other, with both hands grasped tight to the former's hips, belabored his posterior. The one bent over the railing was playing with his own penis.

  If they'd just been crew, and unarmed, Antoniewicz might have just passed on. As it was, the Kalashnikovs he saw propped against the inner hull said, no, too dangerous to let them live.

  The laser aiming device was already on. With a mental shrug Antoniewicz lined it up on the head of the fucker, ignoring, for the moment, the fuckee. With both hands to steady the weapon, he squeezed the trigger until he was rewarded with a moderate felt recoil, the metallic snap of the slide, the phooot of contained gas being partially released, and the near disintegration of his target's head.

  Oddly enough, even with his brain destroyed, the target's hips kept pumping for a few moments longer, and perhaps even faster. Eeyore had the inane thought, Gee, I guess sex really is a mindless activity, after all.

  He padded forward quickly, then, just as the fucker's body started to go limp and crumble to the deck, took aim once again, this time at the one bent over the rail. That target's head was not visible, though it might have been to a taller man than Eeyore. No matter, he knew how to get a head up quickly. He shot the fuckee in the kidney. That produced pain so immense, so absolute and ultimate, that the fuckee could only draw air in and twist. As his head raised, the invisible laser lined up on it. The victim never even felt the shot.

  Antoniewicz bent down and grasped his second target's legs, lifting and letting the limp body splash to the sea below. He placed his pistol on the deck and grabbed his first victim, hauling the corpse up and pushing the torso over the side. Another bend and heave and that body joined the other in the North Atlantic. The salt spray was not quite enough to overcome the smell of shit-covered dick.

  Antoniewicz bent again and picked up his pistol, then gave a little mock salute. Once again, he turned aft toward the superstructure, the bridge, and the radio room. He reported this to the Bastard, with the comment, "Two tangos engaged and down. I'm not compromised."

  "Roger," came the answer, "we're about three miles out."

  As he walked aft, Antoniewicz wondered, What is it about the wogs, anyway? Is it that when women are held so far down that they're little more than animals, the men have to fuck each other to avoid the sense of engaging in bestiality?

  On the other hand, there's a fair possibility they were just gay. Shit, pun still intended, happens.

  The superstructure astern was well lit, well enough, in fact, that it was better for Eeyore to lift his NVGs off of his face and go on ambient light once he was about two thirds of the way back. His eyes were still adjusting from the NVG-induced purple haze as he walked forward. That haze kept him from seeing the expended brass-really thin steel with a faint brass wash on it-until he'd stepped directly onto some and suddenly felt his feet flying out underneath him. He hit, hard, knocking his wind out in a way that hadn't happened to him since he was boy.

  He lay there on the deck, arms overhead, gasping for air, and silently cursing, Fucking sloppy wog bastards; never clean up their messes. Dirty motherfuckers . . .

  Antoniewicz became aware of someone tall and skinny, bearing a curve-magazined rifle in one hand, standing over him, outlined in the light from the superstructure. He thought, simply, I'm fucked, while-far the worse-feeling, I fucked up, and unconsciously stiffened, bracing himself for the bullet he was sure was coming.

  Instead the man standing over him said something in Arabic to which Eeyore could only make gasping sounds in reply. Then he bent over, offering his other hand to help the former SEAL to his feet. Antoniewicz took the proffered hand with his own left-never mind the insult that offered, and let the Arab pull him to his feet. He then put his pistol's muzzle under the Arab's chin and pulled the trigger, exploding the head.

  A quick lift and push and that body, too, went over the side to splash into the North Atlantic.

  "Hold . . . up . . . a . . . minute . . . or five," Antoniewicz gasped into his radio.

  "You okay, Eeyore?"

  "Long . . . story. I'll . . . be. . . . okay."

  It feels a little dirty to shoot someone who was trying to help. Oh, well.

  It was a full five minutes before Antoniewicz felt able to continue forward in top form. Since he hadn't heard or seen sign of the Bastard he had reason to believe they'd understood and complied with the request for delay. While straining to regain his breath, he listened as best he was able for sounds from the superstructure. There seemed to be something like a party going on at the very bottom of the thing, just where it joined the lowest container deck. At least, the sound seemed like nothing else but a party. And, also, as near as he could tell from sounds, there were twenty-five or so partygoers in attendance.

  Mmm . . . too many for the submachine gun. Especially if they've got their weapons to hand. I think five frags-fragmentation grenades-ought to do for a room the size of the superstructure, especially given the metal walls and the ricochets.

  He flicked his Makarov on safe, then stuffed the silencer into his trousers. Unthinkingly, and perhaps somewhat illogically, he made sure the muzzle would, in the event of an accident, drive the bullet into his leg rather than his testicles. Then he walked to a spot just around the corner from the open hatch from which the party sounds emanated. Eeyore took from one of the pouches he carried two of the Russian hand grenades-RGOs-provided by Victor's cache.

  He straightened the pins of each then, holding one in each hand with his thumbs over the spoons, he took the rings in the index fingers of the opposite hands. He pulled his hands apart, taking the rings with them. Walking to stand next to the hatch, Antoniewicz released the spoon held down by his right thumb, hearing the snap of the striker and cap. He began to count-"one thousand. . . . two thousand"-as he bent over and bowled the grenade into the room. "Three thousand." He flipped the grenade in his left hand into his right, releasing the spoon in the process. He almost immediately hurled the grenade at the far wall. One of the RGO's nicer features was that it had an impact detonation ability, which was armed about a second after releasing the spoon.

  Both grenades went off within less than a quarter second of each other, shaking the walls and setting the partiers to screaming with shock and the agony of jagged wounds. In that enclosed space even the fragments that missed were likely to bounce off the steel walls until they buried themselves in something soft. By the time those went off, he had two more armed. These, too, he donated to the party, even while people screamed from the first salvo. Then he gripped the last one he intended to use, pulled the pin, and sailed it in through the opening.

  Eeyore pulled the submachine gun from its position across his back and pushed the muzzle through the open hatchway. He used the steel wall for as much cover as it would provide. Only a few men were standing, and those seemed stunned. For the rest, Hmmm . . . fewer of them than I expected. He fired at them, in turn-brrrp . . . brrrp . . . brrrp . . . brrrp-until all went down dead or wounded. Most of them seemed as much offended as surprised. Given the nature of the ammunition he was using, it was a fairly safe bet that even the wounded would soon be dead. Frangible was some nasty shit.

  "Come quick! Come quick! Come quick!" Eeyore shouted into the radio. "I'm heading to the bridge."

  The exterior steps on th
e port side of the superstructure led halfway up before terminating at a landing. From the landing, a hatchway led inward. Men, about a half dozen of them, were pouring from the doors into the central hallway that ran the breadth of the superstructure. They jabbered excitedly, some of them loading rifles in the process.

  Time for another grenade, Antoniewicz thought. He reached into the pouch, then pulled one grenade out, pulled the pin, released the spoon, and counted one second before tossing the thing inward and downward. It exploded before he could quite withdraw his arm. Eeyore gasped with the pain as at least one piece of hot metal penetrating the skin of his forearm, lodging in the muscle below.

  "Motherfucker!"

  He turned into the hatchway and ran down the corridor, firing two to three round bursts into each of the people therein. Their arms tended to flop around as they lost muscle control, even as the frangible bullets broke up inside their bodies. Halfway across was an opening. Upwards from that ran another set of ladders. Next to the base of those steps was what had to be the radio room.

  Eeyore shot the crewman laying on the deck in the radio room once more, to make sure. The crewman was laying face down, feet toward the floor, as if he'd been racing for the radio room when the grenade went off.

  The former SEAL changed magazines and fired enough rounds into the three radios as to be very certain they were dead. Then, with sounds of something like organization with a heavy admixture of anger growing below and outside, he raced up the central stairway to the bridge.

  Antoniewicz reached the top just as one of the crew reached out in an attempt to close and dog the hatch. Eeyore fired at the crewman, a long burst of seven rounds, causing the man's chest to ripple and pulsate under the assault, even as the ammunition broke apart upon entering his chest cavity to expand outward and ruin all the organs inside. Eeyore stepped over the body and found another man inside, this one reaching for a rifle.