Warlord: Dervish (15 page)

Jason was considering what she meant by it when she used her palm to wipe it away. Deirdre stepped back, away from him, crossing the room to another shower stall. Jason stood facing the tiles, sporting a full erection, not necessarily wanting to turn around and let her see it.

Whatever her intent, it hadn’t been romance.

When the lights in the barracks dimmed that night, Jason lay on his mattress staring at the ceiling. Deirdre hadn’t said anything further in front of the others about the shower and he hadn’t been able to get her alone to ask.
Diogenes
she had written on the wall. Jason knew that Diogenes was one of the world’s largest and most powerful corporations. Also some character from Greek myth or history.

He remembered the aerostat in the sky above the checkpoint in Iraq. A Diogenes blimp. He knew the company had numerous deals with the Department of Defense, supplying everything from information and intelligence to food and firearms. Dr. Kaku—just thinking about the man made Jason feel unpleasant—had shown Jason photos from the aerostat. Hadn’t he?

Jason couldn’t remember if that part was real or imagined.

Everyone around him appeared to be asleep. Hahn had changed beds for the evening and Jason didn’t know where she was. He couldn’t hear anything from the mercs’ side of the room. He didn’t think a guy like Snork was going to let what had happened last night go, even though the fat mercenary had been the one who’d instigated it. If he were Snork, and if he wanted to get Hahn, he’d wait until they were out in the field. Easier there.

Bronson snored beneath him.

Jason was close to sleep. Sometimes when he was about to drift off, snippets of conversation entered his head. When they did, he knew he was going to fall asleep because he wasn’t willing the voices or what they said. They came on their own. And as he lay there in the barracks with no true clue to where he was, he thought he heard someone call his name.

Jason
.

He sat up and looked around. He couldn’t see much because the room was dark, the feint glow of the recessed ceiling lights doing little to dispel the dark. Ahmed was facing in the opposite direction and Jason couldn’t make out his face. He leaned over, the mattress squealing slightly, and looked down on Bronson whose mouth was open, snoring.

Instead of succumbing to the lure of sleep, Jason swung his legs over the bunk and eased himself to the floor, trying to make as little noise as possible. He padded across the cool linoleum in his bare feet. The blinking green light of the camera on the wall above the double doors beckoned him. Jason walked to it, passing a group of bodies huddled on their bunks—the mercs—none stirring. The blinking light grew faster as he neared the camera. It was solid green when he was standing under it, looking up at it.

He looked into it, knowing someone was looking back at him someplace else. The camera appeared unremarkable. Black lens, a solid grey body. It looked like every other camera mounted on the walls in the complex, like many security cameras he’d seen before. And then Jason noticed it: a decal on the side of the body housing. A lantern with rays of light shining out into the surrounding area.

He knew the logo.

Diogenes Incorporated.

A few things clicked in Jason’s mind…Deirdre pressed up next to him naked in the shower, writing what she had on the misted tiles…earlier in the day telling him not to be such a cynic, Jason feeling at the time that there was something to the comment that wasn’t connecting.

Diogenes the Cynic.

Jason remembered what little he knew of the historical figure, the myth about him wandering the streets in Greece with his lantern, looking for an honest man. He was again left with the feeling that something was going on, that there were events unfolding and forces at play that he remained ignorant of. He couldn’t make sense of it.

Pushing through the double doors, Jason headed for the bathroom. He would urinate, return to his bunk, and try to sleep.

Redtide International, LLC

From Wakipedia, the subscriber-driven encyclopedia

Redtide Intl., LLC

Type:
Private military security firm

Industry:
  Private military and security contractor

Founded:
  2007

Headquarters:
  Smithfield, North Carolina, USA

Area served:
  worldwide

Products:
  law enforcement training. Logistics, close quarter training, and security services

Services:
  Security management, full-service risk management consulting

Revenue:
  Unknown

Operating income:
  Unknown

Net income:
  Unknown

Employees:
  Unknown

…7 Litigation

7.1 Litigation over actions in the middle east

Redtide International has played a substantial role during the Iraq, Afghanistan and Iran wars as a contractor for the United States government. Redtide has also provided support personnel and security consultation services in Libya, Egypt, Bahrain, Tunisia, Syria, and Saudi Arabia. In 2011, Redtide attained its first high-profile contract when it won a $56 million no-bid contract for….

For work in the region, Redtide International has drawn contractors from their database containing “37,000 former Special Forces operatives, soldiers, and law enforcement agents,” including both U.S. and international talent….Between 2011 and 2013, Redtide security employees were involved in 323 shooting incidents; in 202 of these cases, Redtide employees fired first. 53 staff have been fired for violations of Redtide’s drug and alcohol policy….

In April, 2013, Redtide contractors killed over thirty Iraqi civilians and destroyed a Mosque…

Evil Never Sleeps

Bronson was up on the .50 cal., Jason behind the wheel of the up-armored Humvee. Aguilera sat by himself in the rear, amid lashed-down crates and ammunition boxes. Their vehicle was the fourth and final in a convoy comprised of two High-Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles and two Strykers. To Jason, it seemed two to three vehicles too many for fourteen men and women, but it was a mixed blessing. He didn’t have to ride with the four mercenaries—they had a Stryker all to themselves—and he didn’t have to ride with Letitia. She was in the other Humvee with Deirdre, Hahn and Ahmed. Lucky them.

There was
a lot
that didn’t make sense to Jason. He tried to concentrate on the road, to steer the Humvee safely among the trail that slalomed between boulders and stunted scrub pines. But, for instance, why hadn’t Hess made Ahmed ride with him in the lead Stryker? Did the Major and his guys have an understanding of the local language and thereby no need of Ahmed? And just what the hell might the local language be? Jason couldn’t glean where they were based on the surrounding terrain. Rocks, sand, sparse trees, mountains. He assumed he was somewhere in the Middle East, but for all he knew it could be the American mid west.

They’d come to in the cargo hold of a C-130, presumably after it had just touched down.
Presumably
because Major Hess and his men had done the rousing, yelling at them to get up and get at it. Jason figured if they’d all been sleeping—and they’d all been sleeping—then they must have been drugged. He could see himself nodding off on the flight over, but he couldn’t imagine a guy like Fleegle would sleep en route to a mission. As they’d been disembarking the Hercules, driving the wheeled vehicles down the cargo ramp, no one—no pilot, no crew members—emerged from the flight deck.

His eyes scanned the sides of the road beyond the ballistic windshield of the Humvee, looking for anything suspicious, anything out of place. They’d come off the plane in full battle rattle, armed and armored. Whoever was bankrolling this operation didn’t seem like they were trying to hide who Jason and the others were or where they were coming from. The digitalized camo fatigues they wore were standard issue.

The choice of carbines was somewhat reassuring. He was familiar with the Colt M4 from his time in Iraq. Everyone’s rifle had all sorts of accessories hanging off the rails. Jason’s had an M203A1 grenade launcher hugging the barrel. Riding above the receiver was an Aimpoint CompM2 red dot reflex sight. He liked having the Beretta M9 holstered on his hip; from his experience, only officers were issued pistols. Here they each had one one.

Bronson had pointed out to Jason that they were all carrying M4s, except for Hahn and Drooper who had SAWs, and the three other mercs. The Redtide men handled AK-47s with GP-31 underbarrel 40mm grenade launchers. Snork woke up to his M24 bolt-action sniper rifle like a kid waking up to the best present under the Christmas tree.

The Humvee lurched under Jason, its suspension jolting as a tire bounced out of a depression.
Calling it a trail or road
, he thought, clutching the wheel with both hands,
was generous
. Hess had told them they were heading into Pakistan. Is this what Pakistan looked like? Jason had nothing else to go on until something presented itself that proved otherwise. They hadn’t seen anyone in the hour they’d been driving. No people, no goats, not a thing. Nada, zero, zip.

The seat next to his was empty. Aguilera had chosen to isolate himself in the rear. It was kind of weird. Jason didn’t think he had anything to worry about from the Marine, but he didn’t know. When he could, he spared a glance back at the guy and there he was, always doing the same thing, drawing the edge of that Ka-Bar over a whetstone. Aguilera didn’t seem interested in the crates of ordinance around him. He caught Jason looking back at him once and smiled, a grin that unnerved Jason more than he liked to admit. Jason hadn’t looked back since.

Their four vehicle convoy passed between ten-story mountainous walls on either side of the riverbed, a decidedly uncomfortable place to be. Great place for an ambush. Hess’ Stryker sped along as fast as the land allowed. Was the Major concerned about an attack? Seemed like Hess had been throwing caution to the wind. Maybe he knew something about the area that he wasn’t sharing. Jason sure hoped so.

Any second he expected to see the white smoke trail of an RPG rocketing down at them. Or the flash and rattle as something detonated under him. Jason thought about Rudy, the way the kid had been shorn of limb and melted into his seat, still alive. Though his hands were gloved, Jason knew they were white on the wheel.

The overhanging cliffs gave way to gently sloping planes which leveled out before giving onto more mountains in the near distance. Hess had ordered complete radio silence. Which was another thing that made little sense, because one of the first things Jason had done was check the radio in the Humvee and it didn’t appear to be operational. Why would everything—their weapons and equipment, the vehicles themselves—be top notch, but the radio didn’t work? Jason wanted to ask Bronson and he could have, because they were both wearing their headsets and comms
within
the Humvee were up, but he didn’t, because he didn’t know who else might be listening.

Sunlight glinted off steel and Jason shivered, expecting the crack of a sniper’s rifle or the
KRUNK
of a mortar. Neither came. He squinted through his wraparound sunglasses and the windshield. The sun was between himself and whatever it was reflecting off of, so he couldn’t make it out distinctly.

It was warm in the Humvee and hotter than hell outside it.

“Ho, Jay!” Bronson yelled over the intercom. Jason had already seen the Stryker in front of them pull over. Hess’ eight wheeled truck pressed on in the lead and Jason wasn’t sure what to do. Bronson pounded the flat of a hand on the roof—“Pull her over, Jay!”—so Jason wheeled the Humvee around, pulling it to a stop across from the mercs’ Stryker, facing in the opposite direction.

The four mercenaries were already out, staring off across the plane. They didn’t look worried about taking any fire. Jason shifted the Humvee into park and climbed out into the heat, taking along his M4. Aguilera had sheathed the Ka-Bar, his own carbine in hand.

Jason stepped over to the man who called himself Fleegle. All of the mercs had painted black tiger stripes on their faces. Fleegles’ face looked funny, all that grease paint except for the upside down U of hair framing his mouth. “What’s this?”

“Tank graveyard.” Fleegle fit a cigarette to his mouth.

Dozens of shattered tanks rested on the plane, buried up to their treads in sand and dirt.

“T-72s.” Bingo identified them.

The men and women from the Humvees and the Stryker stood looking over the derelict armored vehicles. The rusted tanks and wrecked armored personnel carriers were long abandoned, entombed to varying depths in grass and sand. A skeleton jutted out of the turret in one tank.

“I saw some of them in Iraq,” said Bronson.

“They’re Soviet-era.” Fleegle drew deeply from his cigarette. “Look at the markings.”

“You think we’re in Afghanistan?” Jason asked.

“Ain’t you the bright one?” quipped Snork.

“Hey, Snorky main.”

“What do you want,
Bronson
?”

Bronson said what he said next very quickly. “
Homo-say-what
?”

Snork looked at him, perplexed. “What?”

“What I thought.”

Bingo laughed as Snork turned red.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Major Hess was standing outside his Stryker. “What in the hell—do you think—you are doing?”

Jason made to turn and follow Bronson back to their Humvee, but Fleegle reached out and stopped him. “Wait.”

“Why?”

“Watch.” Fleegle nodded towards the Major.

“Chop-fucking-chop, ladies and gentlemen,” the Major yelled. Fleegle’s men, Aguilera, Ahmed and Deirdre, Letitia, even Hahn, all were getting back into their vehicles. “Let’s get this show—” the sun reflected off Hess “—on the fucking road—” and as Jason watched, the Major’s body shivered, a ripple that ran nearly instantaneously up and down his figure “—most ricky-tick!”

Jason blinked.

“You saw it.”

“Yeah.” He was confused. “But what’d I see?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out.”

“Sometime today people!” Hess yelled.

As Jason trotted back to his Humvee, Fleegle reached up to his mouth, gripped his cigarette between thumb and forefinger and took one last drag before tossing the butt. He stared at the Major, and the Major was yelling, but the Major didn’t seem to be yelling
at him
. The Major wasn’t even looking at him. One of the Major’s men was watching him closely though, guy up on the Stryker’s Mk-19. Fleegle released the smoke from his lungs, tilting his head towards the man on the grenade launcher, letting him know he’d noticed the man staring.

As Jason got back into the Humvee, he saw Aguilera was on the fifty. He expected to find Bronson in the passenger seat but was pleasantly surprised to find Deirdre there. Bronson rode in back.

“What were you talking to Fleegle about?” She asked as Jason pulled back into line. He liked the sound of her voice, her accent.

“He think we in Afghanistan?” Bronson leaned forward so he could take part in their conversation.

“Well,” Jason considered watching what he was going to say but decided what the hell. If Hess had their Hummer miked, he had their Hummer miked. “He thinks that’s what they want us to think…”

“Those were Russian tanks, right?”

“Sho’ looked like it.”

“Got tired of the company?” Jason referred to Deirdre’s vehicle switch.

“Letitia isn’t the most pleasant person in the world. Hahn doesn’t speak English, and the only person who can translate for her hates her guts.”

“What’s Ahmed got against Hahn?” Bronson wanted to know.

“Only about two thousand years of history.”

Jason looked at the truck in front of them. “I don’t trust those guys.”

Bronson scoffed. “I don’t trust them either.”

“That jerk reminds me of my ex-husband.”

Intrigued, Jason asked, “Which one?”

“The fat one.”

“Snorky?” Bronson didn’t sound like he believed it either. “Dee, you was married to a guy like Snorky?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Remind me why you’re here again, Deirdre?”

“Well, Jason, I reported on some high-level shenanigans involving your government and some of its most cherished corporations. At least that’s why I think I’m here.”

“No. I mean why are you a reporter?”

“You mean, why aren’t I at home popping out babies and waiting for my man to return from work?”

“Something like that.”

“I guess I just never met the right man.” She feigned wistfulness.

“Is that the answer you wanted?”

“Me and my girl, we was gonna get married,” Bronson didn’t fake his, “before I deployed. We thought it’d be good for Chandra.”

“Who’s Chandra?” asked Jason.

“You don’t remember I told you?”

“I don’t remember.”

“My baby girl.”

“You got a daughter, Bronson?”

“Yeah I got me a daughter, Jay. Told you that before, main.”

“So,” Deirdre pressed, “did you two tie the knot before you shipped out, Bronson?”

“Nah, we didn’t. But now I’m thinking we should’ve.”

“Why’s that?” Jason watched the sides of the road.

“I don’t know, Jay. It’s the way my grandma raised me, main. I don’t want my little girl growing up with no daddy.”

“Chandra has a father, Bronson,” Deirdre reminded him. “You’re her father. Whether you’re married to her mother or not doesn’t change that.”

“Yeah, I know, Dee, but I’m old fashioned I guess is what it is. It woulda been betta I married her moms ‘fore I shipped out.”

“Lots of people are having kids these days without getting married.”

“Yeah, but Chandra ain’t lots a people. She my baby girl. We get back from this, I’m a do her right, marry her moms, put things correct on that front.”

“Well,” said Jason, “if Hess ain’t bullshitting us—and that’s a
big
if—maybe you’ve got a chance to make things right for Chandra in the next couple of days. You lend a hand in wiping out the top shelf of the terrorism industry, who knows what kind of carnage you’ll be averting down the road.”