Target Deck - 02

by Jack Murphy

  Along the main commercial ribbon, there was a residential area that Deckard guided the patrol through towards an open lot. The houses were small, single story affairs with windows barred up, hardly a single light shining through the windows. Many of the locals had fled the area long ago as the cartels heated up the plaza.

  Taking a gulp of water from his Camelbak, Deckard took them through the open lot, skirted around a condominium complex, and across another open lot. It was slow going, but worth the effort. Five men, no matter how good, wouldn't last long against the kind of fire power rolling around Torreon on this night. The mercenaries crawled through a dump and dashed across another road, nearing the airfield.

  Now they only had to cross three blocks to the airstrip beyond. Moving with his AK-103 at the ready, Deckard motioned for the mercenaries to push up alongside the houses on his right side where they disappeared into the shadows. As their leader took a knee, the other four men followed suit. In a few moments, they saw why Deckard had halted them. A half dozen cartel gunmen carrying American-made M-4 rifles were also out on patrol. They were well trained, maintaining noise and light discipline as they stalked through the neighborhood. The mercenaries waited several minutes after the enemy patrol passed before picking back up.

  The airport was surrounded by a double barrier, a concrete wall and barbwire chain link fence. The bolt cutters would be awkward on the fence so Kurt Jager found some thick pieces of cardboard in the trash outside one of the homes. The concrete wall was easy to scale, but then they had to lay the cardboard over the barbwire and shim their way over one at a time. Pat took a knee next to the fence to allow the others to step off his upper leg and pull themselves over.

  Inside the airport perimeter, the mercenary unit headed to the military base as several helicopters lifted off from the other side of the runway. Deckard looked at the twin lines of blue lights alongside the runway, the landing lights wavered and twinkled through the heat mirage coming off the tarmac.

  This was how they fought, warfare on the margins. They were slipping through a conflict, a fight to get to the fight.

  Finding an irrigation ditch, Deckard led the mercenaries down into it as he spotted guard towers looming in the distance, silhouetted against the dull glow of burning fires somewhere in the city. Getting down to the prone, the five infiltrators high crawled through the stinking mud and garbage. When they got within a couple hundred meters, he called Nikita forward.

  The sniper extended the bipod legs on his HK 417 rifle and turned on the Universal Night Sight attached to the rail system in front of his ten power scope. They were not close enough for Nikita to use sub-sonic bullets, they would bleed velocity to the point of ineffectiveness by the time the rounds reached their targets. With the suppressor in place, the bullets would dump some velocity as it was, going from super-sonic to a trans-sonic snap as they left the barrel. With a full-fledged war raging in the city, no one would notice a couple suppressed shots.

  An eight foot tall concrete wall with a couple rusty strands of barbwire ringed Militar No. 3 with large pre-fabricated circular guard towers facing outwards and spaced around the perimeter. They were the type used by American forces abroad. The concrete sections were poured and cured in country, then shipped out to Forward Operating Bases where each section would be stacked on top of one another with a crane. The modular tower system could then have a ladder placed inside that led to a platform at the top that included overhead cover.

  Nikita settled into a slow, rhythmic breathing pattern. At the bottom of his breath, he squeezed the trigger. The 417 snapped and he quickly transitioned to the next target. The gun let out another snap and both of the tower guards facing in their direction had been eliminated.

  Moving while crouched over, the mercenaries jogged towards the wall. This time it was Deckard that took a knee and helped each man hurtle over the wall. With the barbs on the barbwire only occurring every few feet, it was easy for them to use the wire as a handhold and avoid the sharp parts. With Pat sliding down the opposite side of the wall, Deckard kicked off the side of it, reached up to grab the wire, and then pulled himself over the top.

  His joints were sore and stiff, the wound in his thigh burning with the strain, even if the pain was dulled by the pills he had been taking. He could use something stronger from the aid bag he carried, morphine for instance, but the opiates would affect his situational awareness. They were cutting corners as it was, with his senses at half capacity or worse he was sure to get them all killed.

  Inside the military compound, they saw a few hangars, what looked like barracks, and some other outbuildings, but it was the warehouse that drew their attention. The mercenaries stayed behind a half empty water tank while they waited for a two man roving patrol to pass. Nikita made a hand signal to Deckard, asking if he should take them out.

  Deckard shook his head.

  Once the patrol has passed he looked over at the four mercenaries.

  “Let's hit the warehouse. If they are really moving war material through this base that is where it is going to be stockpiled until they can have it driven down to AMIZ.”

  Finding a row of palm trees, they used the shadows to disappear into and stay well away from any light sources until they came to the warehouse. Taking a knee, Deckard watched and listened, trying to figure out the best way inside. Across the airfield they could hear the thumping of another helicopter readying for takeoff.

  The military base was adjacent to the civilian airport and it shared the same runway. A taxiway led from the runway and right into the military base where there was a hangar prepared to receive aircraft. The warehouse itself looked locked up but Deckard noticed that high up on the side of the brick wall were a series of windows that had been canted open for ventilation. An old two and a half ton truck collecting rust alongside the warehouse would help them gain access.

  Hurrying across the open area, Deckard climbed up onto the hood, leveraging himself off one of the front tires. Once on the roof of the truck, he could reach up and grab the windowsill. Conducting a pullup, he took a quick look inside. The hot air blasted him in the face, but he instantly knew that he had found what they were looking for.

  “This is it,” he hissed as the other mercenaries looked up at him.

  With his AK slung over his shoulder, he pulled himself through the window and hung inside the warehouse. The heat accumulating inside was nearly enough to kill him on its own, the effect only exaggerated by the fact that he was wearing body armor and a helmet. An I-beam stuck out of the brick wall where it helped hold up the roof. Grasping the edges, Deckard straddled it with his feet and slid down to the ground. Pain shot up his leg when he hit the floor as he had aggravated his wound.

  The warehouse was absolutely packed. Down the center were two rows of armored vehicles. Along the sides were crates stacked nearly to the ceiling in some cases. There was pallet after pallet packed with boxes of ammunition, each box containing at least two ammo cans of 7.62 or 5.56 bullets. Others looked to be eastern bloc ammunition, 7.62x39 AK-47 bullets and RPG rockets.

  As his teammates slid down behind him, Deckard walked closer, examining crates with stenciled markings indicating that they contained AT-4 Anti-Tank missile launchers.

  “Damn,” Aghassi said. “I can't believe I'm seeing this.”

  “I'm afraid I can,” Deckard said.

  “These armored vehicles are straight out of Libya.”

  “Are you sure?” Deckard said, turning to face him.

  “Yeah, that is a Konkur,” he said pointing to a wheeled Armored Personnel Carrier.

  “It looks like a BRDM-2,” Deckard added.

  “It's a variant that was sold to Libya by the Russians. Look at the BMP-1 vehicles,” he indicated the tracked vehicles. “They still have the Libyan military color scheme on them.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Yeah, dude. I was on the receiving end of that 73 millimeter cannon more than once during the Libyan Civil War.”

&
nbsp; Pat walked over to a metal tub and cut off the lock with his bolt cutters. Opening the lid, he pulled out a dusty AK-47.

  “Look at this,” he said, holding the rifle out to them. “Check out the Arabic markings. This is an Iraqi Tabuk.”

  Deckard slipped off his assault pack and handed the explosive charges to Pat.

  “Wire this place to blow. There is enough live ammunition and explosives in this place to sympathetically detonate and render everything in the warehouse destroyed. Kurt, give him a hand and I will take the other two to find the base commander.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” Kurt said with a smile.

  “A combination of brand new American hardware and military hardware captured in the Middle East,” Deckard thought aloud. “What the hell is the point behind all of this?”

  “They are just flooding the country with all the guns they can get their hands on,” Aghassi said.

  “But who is they?” Kurt asked the six million dollar question.

  46

  Once outside, Deckard had an easy time locating the building that housed Militar No. 3's Commanding Officer. It was the only building with air conditioners sticking out of the windows. A single guard stood outside the door. Loading his magazine of sub-sonic ammunition, Nikita gifted the guard with a third eye. The only sound from the sniper rifle was the hammer striking the firing pin inside the gun.

  The guard dropped to the ground like an empty jacket. Deckard moved to the door and used Kurt's Hooligan tool to pry between the door and the frame, creating a decent working space. Working the pry bar deeper and deeper, he managed to pop the lock right out of the frame and the door swung open. Setting the tool down, he shouldered his AK and stepped inside.

  The first room was an office with a desk and computer sitting in the corner. The Mexican flag hung on the wall. The name card on the desk read that it belonged to General Gonzalez. Easing open the door to the second room, he found the General asleep in his boxer shorts, snoring while the air conditioner cycled cool air into the room.

  Slapping the General in the face, Deckard rolled him out of bed and onto the floor. His pot belly broke his fall.

  Nikita delivered a few kicks before Deckard and Aghassi grabbed him under the arms and helped him stumble through the door and into his office. Gonzalez hadn't even gotten a word out before they shoved him down into his swivel chair and put him in flexcuffs.

  “W-what is the meaning of this?” The general stammered. The commanding officer of the only military base in town had been working on his beauty sleep while the city fell apart around him. To Deckard, it was a clear signal that the escalating war raging just outside the base's walls was all part of the plan.

  “What's the meaning of enough American and Arab weapons to outfit an Army in that warehouse right next door?” Deckard answered his question with a question.

  “Are you mad?” The General spoke reasonably good English. “You're American, we got all that shit from you guys. You told us to store it for you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Who are you?” the General demanded. “Military advisers that the Yankees sent down to work with the military? Listen, we both get our orders from the same people. Call down to OBI, they will fill you in. You are making a huge mistake here.”

  “We are not military advisers,” Nikita said with his heavy Russian accent.

  The General's eyes widened as he looked at the mercenaries. An American, a Russian, and a Mexican looking guy working together didn't fit.

  “Mercenaries,” he said under his breath. “Who hired you? Los Zetas? The Templarios? I know Jimenez and Ortega are out of the game. Did the Sinaloa cartel send you? This doesn't make any sense.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking,” Aghassi agreed.

  “Where are the guns going?” Deckard demanded. Using the Hooligan tool, he pinned the General's chin between the pry bar and the steel spike at the end of it to help get his point across.

  General Gonzalez gulped.

  “The Arab shit is getting shipped out across the country to the cartels, the AK-47s, old PKM and RPD machine guns, RPG-7s, that sort of thing is all getting shipped to the Zetas and the Sinaloa cartel. It goes out from here and from AMIZ.”

  “Only those two cartels? Why not any of the others?”

  “Because that is not part of the plan. The Zetas and the Sinaloa are the two biggest players in the drug trade. The guns go to them, they wipe out the smaller cartels and consolidate their power. Then we let the Zetas and Sinaloa cartels fight each other for a while until they are both weak, that's when OBI will order us to cut off the supply of weapons and equipment to the Zetas.”

  “So the drug trade gets consolidated under one single cartel,” Aghassi stated the obvious.

  “Yeah, that's right,” the General confirmed. “The plan has never been to end the drug trade but rather to manage it. The cartels have split into too many factions and have gotten too violent. OBI has been calling the shots and deciding who lives and who dies.”

  “Why is the Sinaloa cartel being singled out to rule the drug trade?” Deckard asked.

  “They are the oldest cartel in the country with the deepest institutional ties. They also launder their money through Wall Street which ingratiates them to our neighbors up north.”

  “And you are just following orders,” Deckard asked, still holding the Hoolie tool under the Mexican Officer's chin.

  “I've worked for the Sinaloa cartel since I was a Captain so I was practically a shoe in. I've been promised a top spot in the cartel once this is all over in another year or two. Most of the players out there slinging bullets will be dead by that time and OBI is going to want some kept men running the show for them.”

  “And the dead piling up in the streets? The civilians caught in the cross fire? The families having their heads sawed off are just collateral damage?”

  “War is an ugly thing,” the General replied. “You should know that with all the wars the gringos start all over the world.”

  “What about the US Military hardware,” Aghassi cut in, seeing that Deckard was about to take the General's head off. “Is that going to the Zetas?”

  “No, that is for safekeeping. The heavy shit is being stockpiled around the country, under the control of trusted Generals. People like me.”

  “Then how did the Jimenez cartel arm themselves with American rifles and machine guns by breaking into a Zeta stockpile?”

  “I heard about that. That was no Zeta stockpile, it was a cache that belonged to the Mexican Marines. They were supposed to be safeguarding those weapons as a part of contingency planning.”

  “What contingency?”

  “In case one of the cartels became too powerful and completely overthrew the Mexican government, or the violence leaked into the United States to the point that a real crackdown was needed. Mostly though, those armored vehicles and missile launchers are for the coup.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “God damn, just let me go!”

  “What coup?”

  “In case CISEN, the CIA, OBI, whoever the hell,” Gonzales said nervously. “In case they can't keep the Mexican government under their control they will arm the cartels with heavy weaponry. You saw some of it in our warehouse. Armored vehicles, Anti-Tank weapons, Surface to Air missiles, and more. Then we have a re-enactment of the Iraqi insurgency. Same as Libya. Same as Egypt. Colonels will replace Generals, the government will be killed or forced into exile.”

  Deckard dropped the Hooligan tool. Even he was shocked by the balls on these people.

  “Who?” Deckard asked. “Who is behind the weapons trafficking and these contingency plans?”

  “I told you, I take my orders from OBI. I'm a made man and it isn't my place to ask questions.”

  “Where are you getting the guns from Gonzales?” Deckard yelled. “They are not just materializing via fucking magic!”

  “The planes come in during the middle of the night
. Civilian chartered aircraft. I never even see the pilots. Our forklifts pull up and start unloading pallets until the plane is empty. Then it takes off back where it came from. Sometimes they pick people up-”

  “What?”

  The General coughed, realizing he'd been so scared that he started running his mouth and had volunteered information.

  “Sometimes the same flights drop people off and then pick them up later.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “I don't know, I don't know!”

  Aghassi pulled his notebook computer out of the Kifaru Koala pouch he wore on his kit. Starting it up he played the beheading video uploaded earlier in the day from Torreon.

  “Yeah,” the General confirmed. “The guy with the scars on his forearms. He's been through here a couple times. Sometimes he has a team with him. Sometimes it is just him and one other guy. They come in at night, do their work, and fly out the next day.”

  “You knew that this was the kind of work they did?”

  “I suspected. OBI freezes the area to deny my soldiers from entering the area. These massacres occur, and the area is opened back up as this guy is getting back on the plane and flying out. We never speak to them, just provide vehicles for them as instructed from OBI. I don't think they speak Spanish or English. They look Arab.”

  The Arab.

  Deckard raised the Hooligan tool high over his head. The General closed his eyes, accepting what was coming. With a thud, the mercenary slammed the metal spike into the General's desk. Papers and office litter flew across the office as Deckard growled, upturning the desk and spilling everything on the floor. Walking away, Deckard flung the door open and walked outside.

  “Where is this Arab?” Aghassi asked.

  “Flew out this afternoon. They didn't say where they were going,” the General said around the sweat running down his face.

  “The next arms shipment. When is the next airplane due in?”

  Gonzalez didn't even hesitate in answering as his eyes shot to the clock hanging on the wall.