PRIMAL Unleashed (2) (10 page)

“Doing what? Shipping cargo around the world?”

Bishop cut him off with a laugh. “Mirza, I don’t ship cargo.”

“But you said you work for Lascar Logistics?” Mirza looked confused. He had always thought Bishop worked for Lascar, one of the world’s largest air freight companies.

Bishop started walking again, heading into the adjacent park, distancing them from the tourists on the wharf.

“Mirza I work for an arm of Lascar Logistics known as Priority Movements Air Lift, or as we call ourselves, PRIMAL.”

“So you do express delivery?”

“Not at all. We conduct clandestine operations across the globe targeting those who exist outside the reach of justice.”

Mirza stopped walking and stared at Bishop for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he shook his head in disbelief, “you said targeting those who exist outside the reach of justice?”

“Yes.”

“Like who?”

“Criminals, warlords, drug dealers, corrupt politicians, businessmen—the list is long, Mirza. It’s a full time job.”

Mirza eyebrows furrowed but his eyes gleamed. “What? Who? I don’t understand. Are you some sort of super government agency? Who do you work for?”

“PRIMAL works by our own rules, Mirza. We find injustice and we correct it. It’s that simple.” Bishop grasped his friend by the shoulder. “Remember Sierra Leone? It’s the same but without the red tape and political bureaucracies. That’s where the honor is, Mirza, bringing a little justice to the world.”

“Who funds your operations?”

“Let’s just say that PRIMAL has a very wealthy benefactor. The question is, Mirza, are you interested in joining us?”

The two men were standing at the end of the parkland where the open grassy area met a major road. Bishop extended his arm to flag a passing taxi. A cab darted out of the humming traffic and pulled in against the curb. As Bishop opened the door, he turned back to face Mirza.

“There’s a Lascar jet waiting at the airport. No doubt you have hundreds of questions, but this isn’t the place.” He gestured towards the waiting cab. “I’ll explain more on the plane. You in?”

Chapter 14

Lascar Island, South West Pacific

Any teenage gamer would have stood slack-jawed in awe had they found themselves in the PRIMAL Operations Room. The ‘Bunker’, as it was known, was crammed with computer workstations linked to high definition screens covering the bare rock walls of the room. The monitors displayed everything from satellite imagery to helmet camera feeds and real-time news footage. They were PRIMAL HQ’s situational awareness, the eyes into the world that allowed the Bunker’s staff to direct covert activities worldwide.

Everyone was busy at their terminals when Vance barreled into the room.

“Heads up, team. Orders Group in 2 hours,” the voice of the Director boomed.

Chen Chua, PRIMAL’s Chief of Intelligence rose to greet him. “The intel brief is good to go, Vance. We just have one new piece of information since your last update.”

“Outstanding. Give me the lowdown,” Vance said as he settled into his huge padded chair in the center of the room.

The slightly built Chinese-American raised a remote control and one of the wall screens displayed a digital map. “OK, we just completed a trace on one of the numbers communicating between Afghan and Ukraine. The handset was originally purchased by a Ukrainian firm, Antonov.”

Vance swiveled his chair to face the screen which had zoomed in on satellite imagery of an airfield. “You talking about
Antonov
, the Ruskies who make jets?”

“Close. They’re Ukrainian, not Russian. The imagery you see is of Antonov’s headquarters and testing facility just outside of Kiev. It seems Dostiger is using someone there as a front man. Similar to how PRIMAL uses Lascar Logistics as a cover.”

“Got it. So how did we trace the handset?” Vance asked.

“Our usual contact checked some databases,” Chua responded curtly. His agent within the US National Security Agency was one of his most sensitive sources. The ultra-secret government organization wasn’t aware that someone was accessing its information or its satellites, and Chua wanted to keep it that way.

Vance nodded. “Alright. Continue.”

Chua sat down at his terminal opposite PRIMAL’s leader. The desk was littered with energy drink cans and he quickly drank from one before continuing. “We’ve identified Dostiger’s front man at Antonov. It should provide us a solid lead.” Chua pressed the remote again and the screen switched to a biographical data slide with a link analysis diagram. “Bishop’s intelligence pack has already been updated. Additionally, I’ve had our agent, Ivan, move to the Ukraine to provide covert support. Everything is in place for Bishop’s team to go in.”

“Solid. Solid work, buddy,” Vance said, noting the dark circles under the Intelligence Chief’s eyes. “Is there anything else? What about the ‘Ghan?”

“Negative. Until we get Ice on the ground we’re not likely to get any new information.”

“I’m thinking we partner Mirza with Ice. From what Bishop tells me, he’s all over the Afghan piece.”

“He’s also fluent in Pashto.”

“OK, lock it in. What about the Dostiger file? You haven’t sent it to Bishop yet, have you?” Vance asked.

“No. I figured it would be better for us to brief him personally.”           

“Yeah. Good call, buddy, cuz when he finds out about Dostiger, he’s gonna lose his shit.”

***

The Gulfstream jet’s wheels screeched in protest as it touched down at the small tropical island
.
A cloud of birds took flight, startled by the roar of reverse thrust that echoed off the basalt cliffs. Like the battlements of an ancient castle, huge slabs of grey rock jutted out of the lush jungle that covered the slopes of a now extinct volcano.

Mirza had his face pressed to the window, his eyes wide. “PRIMAL is based here? It’s beautiful!” he exclaimed, looking out at the clear blue waters of the Pacific rolling in on a pristine white beach.

Bishop laughed. “Yeah, it’s our little piece of paradise.”

They taxied past a line of shabby demountable buildings and Mirza looked on curiously. Apart from the few old buildings, aviation fuel tanks and a large metal hangar built against the cliffs, the island was empty.

“So is this place your actual headquarters, Aden?”

“Yep.”

“It is very small,” Mirza observed. To an outsider the modest airfield looked like a refuelling depot for aircraft hauling freight across the Pacific Ocean.

“Just wait ‘til you see the facility.”

The sleek business craft turned off the end of the runway into the World War Two era metal hangar that butted up against vertical cliffs. As the aircraft drew to a halt, Bishop jumped to his feet, grasping his overnight bag.

“Welcome to Lascar Island, our home away from home,” he said.

As they stepped off the aircraft into the hangar, the oppressive humidity hit them. Mirza was glad Bishop had given him time to change into shorts and a T-shirt.

Two electric golf buggies were waiting for them on the concrete floor of the hangar, along with one of the most intimidating looking men Mirza had ever seen. He stood well over six foot five, with broad shoulders, massive arms and a trim waist. Mirza was a big fan of 80s action movies and he thought this man looked exactly like Dolph Lundgren in his prime: the same square features, even the short-cropped blonde hair and cold blue eyes. He looked like he had stepped straight out of a Marine Corps recruiting poster.

“Mirza, stop gawking and get over here and meet Ice.”

The Indian suddenly realized he had stopped walking and trotted forward, extending his hand to the behemoth.

Ice grasped his hand firmly, a broad grin splitting his chiseled features. “Mirza, buddy, it’s awesome to finally meet you. You wouldn’t believe how much this crazy bastard talks about you. Welcome to the team.”

“Thanks, Ice,” Mirza said. The American accent surprised him. He almost expected something a little more Eastern Bloc.

“No worries at all. Any friend of Bish is a friend of mine, and considering you saved his life, you go straight to the top of the pile.”

Mirza blushed and looked back at Bishop, who came to his rescue.

“Cut it out, you big dolt. You’re embarrassing him,” he said as he started up one of the golf buggies. “Mirza, I’ve got to report in, but Ice will show you around the facility and get you squared away before orders. Ice, we still on for sixteen hundred?”

“Yeah, buddy, no change.”

“OK, you kids, have fun,” Bishop said as he drove off.

Ice picked up Mirza's bags and dropped them into his buggy. “Got the warning order an hour ago. Looks like you and I will be banging into Afghan, how are you for HALO insertions?"

“I have over fifty jumps.”

“Should be fine, when we get some down time I’ll run you through the basics again.”

“I would appreciate that.”

“Don’t be overwhelmed, Mirza, just take it all in your stride," Ice continued as they jumped into his buggy. "Things tend to go down pretty damn quick when you’re on team. Have to be flexible and ready to roll."

They pulled away from the business jet and followed Bishop’s cart as it motored towards the rear wall of the hangar. As they drew closer, a split appeared in the middle of the massive wall. Hydraulics whined and two heavy blast doors slid back allowing the two carts to pass through.

Ice turned to Mirza as they passed through the gap. “Welcome to the house of PRIMAL.”

Chapter 15

PRIMAL Headquarters

Mirza sat in the cart, his eyes bugged out like golf balls as they drove into another, even larger aircraft hangar.

“A hangar inside a hangar?” he whispered.

Stretched out in front of him was a vast cavern carved deep into the solid rock of the volcano. It easily contained the two large transport aircraft that were parked inside amongst an assortment of equipment and supplies.

“Pretty impressive, hey? Best thing is it stays cool all year round,” Ice said as he drove across the polished concrete floor.

Mirza suddenly realized the temperature had dropped significantly; even under the brilliant lights on the roof, the cavern was still cool and dry.

“The Japs built part of it during World War Two,” Ice explained. “Abandoned it at the end of the war. Then we found it a couple of years ago, dug it out and moved in.”

“You couldn’t ask for a better hideout,” Mirza replied.

“We’re the only ones that know it’s here.”

“You’re surely joking. No one outside of PRIMAL knows that this exists?”

“Nope. Well, they know the island is a refueling and maintenance facility for Lascar Logistics, they just don’t know what else goes on here.”

“But what about radio traffic? Surely the Americans would pick it up with their satellites.”

“Well, I’m not a geek but from what I understand, it’s all routed off the island. The guys will brief you on what you need to know.”

Mirza whistled, “This must have cost a king’s ransom. Who pays for it all?”

“Let’s just say our little brotherhood has a very wealthy benefactor.”

Ice swerved the little buggy towards a large four-engine aircraft that Mirza recognized immediately as an
Ilyushin-76
heavy lift transporter. The Russian-built aircraft was a common sight at airfields all over the world, easily identified by its hulking silhouette and bulbous nose. With its high wings it always reminded Mirza of a vulture. They drove under one of the wings and pulled up at the rear ramp.

“Hey, Mitch,” Ice yelled as he led Mirza into the aircraft’s hold. “Get your ass out here. There’s someone you have to meet.”

A bearded face appeared over the top of the cargo.

“Hey, my good man, what’s up?” a distinctly British voice asked.

“Just showing the new kid around the block,” Ice replied.

“Hang on a tick then. I’ll jump over.” Mitch scrambled over and jumped down, landing next to Mirza. He wiped his hands on his flight suit and shook Mirza’s hand.

“Welcome aboard. Name’s Mitch.”

Ice explained. “Mitch is PRIMAL’s resident tech head. If you break it or you want it souped up, then Mitch is your man.”

From the neck up, the Brit looked like a geek; his ears stuck out from a shaved scalp and he sported a goofy grin that made his scraggly beard look a little comical. However, Mirza noticed that, like Ice, he was very fit. It was evident that the PRIMAL team took their physical conditioning seriously.

“Yeah, that is kind of true,” Mitch said. “I take care of all the team’s toys, although it does seem I spend most of my time fixing kit that this big goof breaks.”

Ice laughed. “Fuck you, man. You spend all your time messing about with your precious airplane.”

Mitch punched the bigger man in the arm. “How many times has your arse been on the wire, champ, and I’ve saved it with the Pain Train, eh? More than once, so pay some respect to the big girl. She’s got feelings too.” Mitch patted the aircraft’s aluminium skin like it was a living creature.

“The Pain Train?” Mirza asked.

“Yeah,” Ice responded. “PRIMAL’s specialist airborne platform. Looks like a run-of-the-mill air freighter, but Mitch has decked this baby out to do just about anything. She can jam radar, track aircraft, deliver bombs, drop supplies, and even launch drones. She’s an all-singing, all-dancing Special Operations support craft—state-of-the-fucken-art!”

“All that from one platform? That’s superb!” Mirza said as he inspected the aircraft.

“Well, if you like that, my good man, then you’re going to love this.” Mitch reached into the pocket of his grey coveralls and pulled out a small device. “This is a little piece of technology I custom-built myself. I call it iPRIMAL.”

“iPRIMAL?” Mirza said, staring at what looked like a large touch-screen phone.

“Well, actually it’s your combat interface, but iPRIMAL makes it sound sexier.” Mitch passed Mirza the device. “That little bad boy lets you harness all the power of PRIMAL when you’re not at home. It can access any information that we can feed over a satellite connection.”