Gray Matter Splatter (A Deckard Novel Book 4) (2 page)

Highway 70 was long and lonely at three in the morning, which was
exactly why the convoy was traveling on it. Five blacked-out SUVs
surrounded a tractor trailer truck that cruised along just over the
speed limit. The Department of Energy vehicles only traveled in the
dead of night when transporting highly sensitive cargo. Just behind
the convoy, and several hundred feet up in the air, a Little Bird
helicopter provided overwatch.

The contractors were locked in the back of the truck with
the cargo; the final line of defense. They wore OD green flight
suits, body armor, and had HK416 rifles slung around their necks. The
reality of their job was that it was boring as hell. For the most
part, they spent their days qualifying out on the range until getting
the occasional long-distance transport job. Despite the mundane
nature of the work, the cargo was so sensitive that the U.S.
government hired the best to ensure its safety.

The highway they were on cut straight through the state of
Missouri as they drove from one secure DOE facility to the next. The
ex-Ranger chugged some more water and sat patiently. It was during
times like this he missed the excitement of rolling out on midnight
raids with 2nd Ranger Battalion.

There was no way he could have known that tonight would be
hairiest mission of his career.

Jake was rocked back in his seat as the entire vehicle shook, his
rifle swinging up and smacking him in the face, opening a ragged cut
above his eyebrow.

Outside, the entire highway split into pieces and rose up into
the air. The two SUVs in the lead floated into the night like
Matchbox cars, turning sideways and then upside down before gravity
could inevitably bring them back down to the ground. The tractor
trailer driver slammed on the brakes, then jerked the wheel in a
desperate attempt to prevent the truck from jackknifing.

Several more improvised explosive devices were detonated, taking
out two more SUVs. The remaining escort vehicle slid to a stop as the
first two, which had been propelled into the air, crashed back down
in a rain of debris. The doors on the surviving SUV were flung open,
and more contractors in OD flight suits jumped out just as a linear
ambush along the side of the road initiated with fully automatic
fire.

The pilot of the Little Bird pulled hard on the stick, bringing
the agile little helicopter back around on the convoy. The two
contractors riding on the external pods attached to the side of the
Little Bird spotted the muzzle flashes coming from the treeline, but
they could not identify any white-hot thermal signatures on their
forward-looking infrared systems.

The pilot clicked his mic to transmit over their secure
communications net.

“Prairie Fire! I say again, Prairie Fire!”

The distress code was the final word the pilot was able to
get out before a SA-7 surface-to-air missile slammed into the side of
the helicopter. The Little Bird was knocked out of the air and
crashed into the forest on the opposite side of the highway in a
brilliant ball of red and yellow fire.

In the back of the tractor trailer, Jake wiped at his forehead
and tried to blink blood out of his eyes. As he reached down and
undid his seat belt, he realized that he couldn't hear anything. His
ears were ringing, but he wasn't sure why.

The other contractors were coughing and struggling with
their seat belts. A few of them fell out of their seats as they tried
to stand. Jake struggled to his feet and jacked a round into the
chamber of his HK rifle.

Over the ringing in his ears, he could now make out the staccato
bursts of gunfire from outside. Rounds were thudding into the side of
the truck. Thankfully, the armored cargo compartment kept them safe,
at least for the time being.

Their team leader, a retired sergeant major, was already barking
orders as the other contractors racked rounds into the chambers of
their rifles. He was pointing to the door at the end of the
compartment.

Even though he couldn't hear him, the message was clear to Jake.

They were the last line of defense.

* * *

Deckard set down his second cup of coffee and opened a laptop
computer. The reality of running a private military company was that
there was a lot of boring logistics planning to be done. Samruk
International had expended a lot of human and financial capital
lately. He had been reduced to selling off two of the company's
mammoth An-125 cargo jets. Now they only had the one An-125 and two
C-27Js left in their aviation wing. At least the C-27s had been
bought dirt cheap. The U.S. Air Force decided they didn't want them
anymore after wasting millions of taxpayer dollars to build the
aircraft.

They had taken the oil security contract in the Arctic to
keep the revenue coming in. Maintaining a small private army wasn't
cheap, and this wasn't the way most companies did business; usually
they just hired independent contractors from job to job. Deckard was
instead running a de facto military unit, and he wanted to keep his
team intact.

However, as it turned out, there could be many interesting
tasks rolled up under an oil security contract. Not only could those
tasks include static security around offshore oil rigs, they could
also involve training other security personnel, and maybe even
killing off those who would threaten the business interests of said
oil companies—threats like the Russian mafia, who had recently been
acting like Arctic pirates.

Deckard's office door swung open again. Rochenoire looked at him
with a grin.

“We got the green light,” the former SEAL announced.

“No shit?”

“No shit.”

“Everything is prepped and pre-staged, correct?”

“You know it.”

Now it was Deckard's turn to smile.

“Spin the boys up.”

The giant black man turned around in the doorway.

“Drop cocks, grab socks. It’s a go!”

Deckard flung open his gear bag and began donning his kit. The
first layer was thermal clothing, over which went a cold-weather
shirt, followed by a bare plate carrier, and then his parka. Over his
clothes he wore the new Samruk uniform for their Arctic contract: a
winter camouflage pattern made by PenCott called SnowDrift. Finally,
a chest rig loaded with ammunition and grenades went over his chest.
Picking up his AK-103 rifle, Deckard walked out into the the
warehouse.

About 80 mercenaries were going through the same routine, kitting
up for combat. The mission had been planned and re-planned for weeks.
They were just waiting on approval from the Russian government. Mob
ties ran deep in the halls of power, and getting the political ducks
in a row took some time. At the end of the day it was all about
business, and the pirates were costing both the government and
private industry millions of dollars in extortion fees. Someone had
finally gotten fed up.

Using a private military company that had a Kazakh face rather
than an American one made the job more politically acceptable, and
kept the Russian military out of the firing line when things went
pear-shaped, which, of course, they always did.

“What about the new guys?” Kurt Jager asked as he spotted
Deckard walking out of the office. The former GSG-9 commando spoke
perfect English, leaving no hint of his German nationality.

“Take them along. It will be on-the-job training. Keep them
with the security elements so they can observe how we do things
without getting them overly involved on their first op.”

“Got it.”

Deckard slung his rifle and pulled a white watch cap over his
head. Pushing open the door, he pulled his hood up as well. The
sunlight stung his eyes. As outlined in the stipulations of their
contract, Samruk International was based out of an unused warehouse
leased to house oil-drilling equipment, and the occasional private
army.

The wind swept snow across the desolate coastline, the cold
already stinging Deckard's cheeks. By the end of this deployment he
knew they would all be sporting lumberjack beards just to try to keep
themselves a little bit warmer.

A few hundred meters away was their new ride. It was a
monstrosity of a ship, a chimera that never should have existed, but
did thanks to a failed U.S. Navy and Marine Corps experiment gone
awry. But just like the C-27J airplane, Deckard saw an opportunity to
purchase some hardware that fit his needs at bargain basement prices.

Renamed the Carrickfergus, the ship was one of a kind. Sharing
the characteristics of both a barge and a catamaran, the ship rested
on two massive pontoons, with the bridge of the ship, housing the
captain's control center, joining the double-hulled design. On top of
each hull were two passenger compartments.

It was big, it was blue, it was ugly, and it wasn't even
that fast.

But it was an icebreaker with a cargo deck that lowered from the
center and accommodated beach landings. During travel, the deck would
be raised, then lowered again along with a ramp when the vehicles
onboard were ready to drive up onto the shore. Currently, the deck
was lowered and waiting to take on the passengers. Under tarps were
eight Iveco assault vehicles, six snowmobiles, a few kayaks, two
Zodiac boats, and a small Conex container filled with ammunition.

“Let's go!” Frank yelled, ushering the mercenaries out the
door. The former Ranger was about as wide as he was tall and had been
with the company since the beginning.

The Kazakh mercenaries were led out in an orderly fashion by one
of the two platoon sergeants, a man named Fedorchenko. He had started
with Samruk as a corporal after being recruited from a Kazakh special
police unit. Since that time he had more than proved his mettle. He
had been leading a platoon since Mexico and had done an outstanding
job.

Integrated into the platoons of Kazakhs were Westerners
from units as diverse as the Polish GROM and the French Foreign
Legion. Initially, they had been the trainers and mentors, but now
they were assaulters fighting alongside their former students who
were every bit as good as they were.

The mercenaries boarded the Carrickfergus and began climbing up
to the passenger compartments. Inside, the seats had been torn out
and the space converted for military purposes. Gear and weapons were
everywhere; white boards with task lists scribbled on them were hung
on the walls; and the soldiers’ individual equipment, bags, and
boxes of military rations were neatly stacked on plywood shelves they
had constructed. The ship was set up not just as a means of
transportation, but also to act as a mobile staging ground.

The Carrickfergus was designed to accommodate 130
passengers. There was enough room for two platoons of mercenaries,
plus Samruk's intelligence, mortar, recce, and headquarters sections,
but it was still cramped inside. Deckard walked up the ramp and
climbed up the ladder to the bridge as the captain began raising the
deck, preparing to get underway.

The ship was a hulking beast at 59 meters long, and looked
like it had been cobbled together from the leftover parts of other
ships. As Deckard reached the bridge, the twin motors that powered
the hydraulic system for lifting the deck switched off as it was
locked into place. Walking inside the bridge, he was confronted by a
dizzying array of dials and instruments on several consoles.

The old salt who captained the Carrickfergus stood behind the
helm. He wore a battered old sweater, out from which his beer belly
swelled, revealing a stained white T-shirt underneath. His beard was
almost fully gray and his shoes were a beat-up pair of loafers.

“Hey Deck!” he exclaimed. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thanks Otter.”

They had been calling the captain by his sea name long enough
that no one really remembered what the real name on his file was
anymore.

“Time to go kill some commies, huh?”

“Organized criminals,” Deckard carefully corrected.

“Same difference,” Otter said as he grabbed the wheel
with one hand. In the other was a coffee mug that looked like it
hadn't been washed in years. Unlike Deckard’s coffee, Otter's was
always spiked with something a little more fun.

“Can you get us to the beach landing zone without killing us?”

“We'll find out,” the captain chuckled.

The four diesel-fueled engines churned and the Carrickfergus
began reversing out into the icy waters. This close to shore, there
wasn't much ice to cut through, but they would still be traveling
relatively slowly. The ship's top speed was only 20 knots. By
comparison, most commercial shipping vessels traveled at 25 knots,
although many of them deliberately slowed to 20 to keep fuel
consumption down.

Deckard swept his gaze across the ocean and was greeted with a
sight that would have been impossible just a few years ago. A half
dozen commercial cargo ships, loaded with Conex containers or sitting
low in the water because they were filled with oil, could be seen in
the Arctic with the naked eye.

With polar ice melting, a new trans-Arctic sea route had
been opened. The opening of the northeast passage in the spring and
summer months in Russia was already saving European companies
billions of dollars and cutting days off their shipping times to
Asia. Ice cutters were now sailed through the northeast passage all
year long to keep the routes open.

The opening of the northwest passage in northern Canada
was having a similar effect on commercial shipping. More than that,
the melting ice was also opening up the region to other commercial
ventures. From oil drilling to the mining of rare earth minerals, the
Arctic Circle was now ripe for the taking.

But with that came Arctic sovereignty disputes, and the further
militarization of the Arctic as great powers like Russia and the
United States eyed each other from across their frozen shores. Of
course, with the advent of commercial interests in the Arctic, along
came crime. That was what brought Samruk International to the Arctic
in the first place.