Drone Threat

53

The air buzzed with flies. Hundreds of them, thick as thumbs.

Pearce stared at the corpses, their faces covered by swarms of bluebottle flies already eating away at the soft tissues, laying eggs in the moist cavities of mouths, noses, and gaping wounds where the skulls had been broken open by the bullets.

The twenty-four Shia recruits lay in a rough line along the low, blood-spattered wall, their fresh uniforms smeared in gore and dust.

Pearce, Early, Luckett, Rowley, and Tariq had pulled up their shemaghs, covering their own mouths and noses against the stench. Their weapons were unslung.

Pearce knelt down next to the young Shia lieutenant and brushed the flies off his face with a gloved hand. The Iraqi soldier was just a few years younger than Pearce. They’d grown close over the last few months. He told Pearce he wanted to be an architect but decided to serve his country instead. “All because of you brave Americans. You gave us hope.”

Pearce pulled off one glove and laid it across the lieutenant’s half-eaten eyes, his lifeless face turned toward heaven.

“Damn flies always show up out of nowhere,” Early said.

Pearce rose, wanting to say something smart-ass, but couldn’t. He stood, frozen and numb. He glanced over at Tariq. The hardened Kurd’s glaring eyes were wet.

“They were lined up and shot, execution style,” Rowley said.

“It’s a low wall. Made them kneel down first,” Pearce said.

Early shook his head. “Poor bastards. I liked ’em.”

Pearce said. “Good men, bad war.”

“Who did it?” Luckett said, scanning the low roofs.

“Who do you think?” Tariq’s wet eyes blazed.

Pearce thought he should pray or something but he didn’t have the words. “Let’s pull tags and cover them up, then haul ass. We’re nothing but targets out here.”

The empty 6x6 cargo truck pulled out of the wide warehouse door and sped away. Two of Majid’s foreign mercenaries, the Brit and the South African, stood outside, guarding the entrance.

A Humvee raced past the 6x6 in the opposite direction, heading straight for the warehouse. Luckett was driving and Pearce was riding shotgun. Luckett stomped the brakes and skidded to a stop just feet from one of the scowling mercs.

Pearce turned toward the others in the Humvee. “Wait here — and stay frosty.” He looked at the open machine-gun cockpit, then at Tariq. “Stay off that fifty unless I whistle it up. Understood?”

“Let me go with you. I translate.”

Pearce grinned, shaking his head. “You’re a hothead. I need you to stay put.”

“You need me in there. I fight with you.”

“Trust me, I know when I need you. Not now. Later. Got it?”

Tariq nodded reluctantly. “Got it.”

Pearce and Early exited the Humvee, leaving their rifles behind but not their holstered pistols. They nodded at the merc standing closest to them. The South African looked them up and down, ignoring the gesture as he lit a cigarette.

Early grinned wide and pointed a thick finger in the merc’s direction. “Fuck you too, buddy!”

The South African shrugged dismissively as he took a long drag.

Pearce marched into the cool, dark air of the massive concrete warehouse recently built by the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers. General Majid stood in the center of the floor, watching a forklift carry a loaded pallet toward him. The forklift driver was one of the two Russian mercs in Majid’s employ. The leader of the mercenaries, a short and wiry Aussie, stood next to Majid. When he heard boots clomping behind him, he turned around. He lowered his rifle down to his side in a non-threatening gesture but stepped toward Pearce and Early.

“State your business, gents.”

Early turned to Pearce. “You want me to toss this shrimp onto his barbie?”

“Ha, ha. Like I haven’t heard that one a million times,” the Aussie said. His unshaved face wasn’t smiling.

The Russian lowered the pallet down right in front of Majid, then killed the forklift engine and jumped off.

“Need a word with the general,” Pearce said.

The Aussie shrugged. “As you can see, he’s a little busy at the moment.”

Pearce stepped into the man’s face. “Won’t take long.”

“Mr. Pearce! Come!” General Majid smiled and waved them over.

“Sorry, Barbie,” Early said, bumping into the shorter man as he pushed by, following Pearce.

Pearce and Early approached the pallet. It was a four-foot cube of newly printed American money. Majid cut open the plastic with a knife. The smell of fresh ink and currency paper filled the air.

The Russian glared at them through his mirrored sunglasses. Pearce could hear the Aussie behind them whispering into his comms.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Majid asked.

Early nodded at the pallet. “Nice stack of Washingtons you got there.”

“Development funds, courtesy of the American government. Very generous.”

“Developing who, I wonder?” Early shot back.

Majid picked up one of the cash bundles and riffled through it. “The people of my district, of course. Schools, roads, farming — my country has been destroyed by the war. This is how we rebuild.” He was quick to add, “We are grateful, of course.”

Pearce knew this wasn’t the first delivery of cash to the general in this quantity. He also knew that very little of it would actually make it to the people it was intended for. He didn’t really care. It was all Monopoly money anyway, given the way the U.S. government just printed it out of thin air.

“Yeah. Of course,” Early said.

Pearce pulled his shemagh out of a large cargo pocket, bundled up and tied off.

Majid tossed the cash back onto the pallet, curious.

Pearce handed the shemagh to the general.

Majid glanced at the bundle in his hand. He weighed it and shook it. Metal jostled inside, like coins. “What’s this?” Majid asked, intrigued.

“The dog tags of the twenty-four Shia soldiers in your command. They were butchered not fifteen klicks from here, at a village just north of Al-Awja.”

“I know it well,” Majid said. “I’m sorry to hear this.”

“You look like you could cry,” Early said.

The general ignored him. “Their families will be notified, of course. Are they buried?”

“No. We just covered them up.” Pearce knew the Muslim requirements for burial of the faithful. It would have been inappropriate for the five non-Muslims to do so.

The general handed the bundle to the Russian mercenary. “Take that to Major Raghif and tell him to organize a burial detail immediately.” The Russian nodded and turned on his heel, heading for the doorway.

“Those Shia recruits that we were all so proud of a few days ago are now all martyrs for the cause,” Pearce said.

“A terrible tragedy. It must have been AQ again.”

Pearce shook his head. “AQ hasn’t been active in this area for weeks, General.”

“Then Baathists. Or even Syrians.”

“Not likely,” Early said.

“Then who?”

Early’s eyes narrowed. “Good question.”

“I don’t like the tone of your voice, soldier,” Majid said. Another Humvee driven by the other Russian merc pulled up behind Tariq’s vehicle. Barnes, Majid’s American mercenary, stood in the machine-gun cockpit, hands on the weapon.

Early started to say something but a gesture from Pearce silenced him.

“Who sent them to that village? Whose command were they under? And why wasn’t their disappearance reported earlier?” Pearce asked.

“Excellent questions. I shall look into them myself.”

“Good. Because when I report this back to my people, they’ll want answers.”

“What are you implying?”

“They were good men. Your men. And now they’re dead. They deserved better.”

“There are a lot of dead Iraqis around here, Pearce,” the Aussie said. “Hundreds of thousands. A lot of them killed by your people. What’s a few dozen more?”

Majid’s eyes narrowed. “So many things you arrogant Americans don’t understand. Long after you leave, we will still be here, and there will still be war, and the Shia will butcher us if they come to power. You want answers? You don’t even know the right questions to ask.”

Pearce felt the heat rise in the back of his neck. Maybe he didn’t know all of the right questions. But a bullet in Majid’s merciless face had to be the right answer, didn’t it? Pearce’s training pushed the thought away.

“You and your men have been reassigned to Baghdad. Why are you still here?” Majid asked.

The day after Chandler left, Pearce and the others were ordered back to Baghdad, but Pearce managed to put it off for two more weeks, promising to deliver a major intel score. “Another week and we’ll be out of your hair, General.”

“I want you gone now. For your own good. Now get out of my sight!” Majid turned and waved a dismissive hand.

The Aussie merc behind them racked a round in his rifle. “You heard the man.”

Pearce and Early turned around. The other two mercs from outside were approaching, rifles up. The smiling American in the Humvee kept his hands on the machine gun but didn’t move.

Early glanced at Pearce. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah, I am. But this isn’t the time. Let’s roll. This place stinks.”

It was late. Pearce sat alone in the mess tent, working on a hamburger and Coke, thinking about Majid and the dead Shia while Early and the others grabbed some shut-eye.

Barnes, the American merc, dropped down opposite him at the table with a tray piled full of food. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of weed. His unshaved faced was specked with silver stubble.

“Mind?” Barnes asked.

“Would it matter if I did?”

Barnes chuckled. “No.” He picked up one of his two cheeseburgers and took a huge bite.

Pearce glanced around the mess tent. A lot of empty tables. “So I take it this is a social call.”

Barnes chewed with his mouth open. It took a minute before he could swallow. “Yeah. A social call.” He popped his soda can and took a swig.

“So start socializing,” Pearce said.

Barnes slammed the can down on the table. Saw the disdainful look in Pearce’s eyes. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“You, and asshole mercs like you.”

“You judging me? You don’t know shit. I been wasting hajjis since before you were learning how to jerk off.”

“This isn’t just about killing jihadis. We’re trying to build a democracy in this godforsaken country, remember?”

Barnes laughed, a barking smoker’s rasp. “You think you’re all that ’cuz you’re in the Cock In Ass club? CIA don’t mean shit out here.” The merc stabbed a crooked finger on the table. “You’ve been here six weeks. I’ve been here six months. You don’t know the score. But I can fill you in.” Barnes took another bite of his cheeseburger.

Pearce studied the scars on the side of his face. Barnes was an apex predator in a Mad Max world. Cunning and lethal.

“Fine. Fill me in.”

Barnes finished chewing and swallowed again. He leaned in close. The dope smell was intense. “You won’t stop nothing. You won’t change nothing. You won’t do nothing but maybe get yourselves killed. So take my advice. You and your buddies — clear out. Now. Like the general said.” He grabbed a half dozen french fries and shoved them into his blistered mouth.

“We’ll leave when we’re good and ready.”

Barnes took a long pull of soda. Pearce watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he guzzled it.

“What were you, Barnes? Army? Marines?”

Barnes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Burped. “Delta, not that it matters.”

“You swore an oath.”

The merc rolled his eyes. “You don’t have time for this Boy Scout bullshit. Grab your gear right now and get rolling.”

“You swore the oath. That’s still gotta mean something.”

Barnes leaned forward, glaring at him. “I ain’t in service no more. The oath don’t mean shit. I quit it.” He flashed a card dealer’s smile. “I make three times as much as you, maybe four.” He winked. “And then some, if you catch my drift.”

“Yeah, I think I do.”

“I kill the same ragheads you do, get the same rush you do when I do it. But I don’t got no ‘rules of engagement’ and I don’t do no ass lickin’ like you chumps gotta do.” He leaned back, smiling. “And, brother, it’s all tax free. If you had any brains, you’d quit, too, and get with the program.”

“You gave your word.”

Barnes’s worn face darkened. “I gave blood, too. Who gives a shit?”

“You’re a hired gun.”

“And you aren’t? Shit. You just don’t know who you’re working for. You’re just a two-bit grocery clerk.” Barnes shoved the tray of food away and stood. “See you around, Boy Scout.”

“Just tell me one thing, Barnes. Why the warning?”

Barnes shook his head. He looked almost hurt. “I’m an American, aren’t I?”

Pearce awoke.

The cold steel of a Beretta 9mm barrel pressed against his forehead.

He focused his eyes. Saw the Aussie’s twisted grin on the other end of the pistol.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart.”

Pearce tensed for a moment, ready to slap away the pistol and lunge at him. But he caught sight of the two Russians on the other side of the room, pointing their weapons at him, too.

“Don’t even think about it,” the Aussie said, stepping back. He kept his pistol pointed at Pearce. “Get dressed. We’re going for a little ride.”

“What about the others?”

“They’re already downstairs. Except for the Kurd. Where is the little bald Turkish?”

“I sent him home yesterday. He’s done.”

“Lucky him.”

Three vehicles bounced along the dusty track heading for God knows where. A sliver of pale moon hung low in the dark predawn sky.

At least they didn’t blindfold us, Pearce thought. He was cuffed and seated on a bench in the back of a covered 6x6 along with Early, Luckett, and Rowley. Barnes was driving. The Aussie sat in back with them, holding his pistol on them, clearly enjoying being in charge. They were in the middle of a three-vehicle convoy. The Humvee leading the way was manned by the Brit and the South African. The Humvee trailing Pearce’s vehicle carried the two Russian mercs along with two of Majid’s Iraqi soldiers.

Pearce sat in the rear near the open flap. His ass was sore from all the bouncing on the unpaved road and the heavy springs in the truck. Seemed like the wild broncs he rode in Wyoming didn’t buck half as bad as this, he told himself, trying to keep up his humor in the face of his impending execution. He watched the headlights of the tailing Humvee a hundred yards back jerk up and down as it hit the same holes in the road they did. He imagined the Humvee in front was just as far forward as the one in the rear and bouncing just as hard. Pearce glanced up into the early-morning sky. The stars were muted by a veil of haze. It wouldn’t be light for another two hours. There was just enough moonlight on the gently rolling hills and scrub to let him know they were out in the middle of nowhere.

“How much longer?” Pearce shouted over the din.

The Aussie checked his watch, grinned. “Time enough to pray or piss, if you do it quick.”

Pearce glanced back at the trailing Humvee, calculating. If he jumped out and could hit the ground on his feet, then roll to the side, he just might be able to get out of the way fast enough before the Humvee would slam into him—

WHOOSH! Pearce saw the rocket’s flaming tail slam into the trailing Humvee. It ripped apart in an explosion of fire and shrapnel. The shock wave hit Pearce in the face just as the 6x6 slammed on its brakes, tossing everyone forward, including the Aussie, who hit the deck and dropped his pistol. Early saw his chance and fell hard on the smaller merc, who grunted in pain as air blasted out of his lungs from Early’s massive bulk. Pearce leaped to his feet and swung his boot hard into the Aussie’s gut and he cried out again while Luckett kicked the merc’s pistol out of arm’s reach.

“What the hell happened?” Early asked, still lying on the Aussie. “And why are we still alive?”

Pearce wondered the same thing. The Humvee in front obviously was hit, too. Why weren’t they?

Three Toyota Hilux pickups swerved into view, machine guns firing. A few shouts up front were quickly cut off. One of the pickups skidded to a halt just behind the 6x6. Its headlights blasted into the back of the truck. Pearce lowered his gaze against the intense light. He made out the figure of a man leaping out of the Toyota and heading for the truck. A moment later he climbed into the 6x6, brandishing a knife.

“About time,” Pearce said. He and Tariq had worked out a plan for the Kurd to gather his own men and keep an eye on the compound. His second father and CIA mentor, Will Elliott, had taught him a long time ago to always have someone watch the back door. Pearce was glad he’d listened to the old-school CIA fighter — and his gut.

Tariq smiled. “Better late than never, yes?” He cut Pearce’s PlastiCuffs. Pearce rubbed his sore wrists as Tariq proceeded to free the others. Kurdish voices crackled on Tariq’s shoulder mic.

“All secured. No survivors.” Tariq nodded at the Aussie still on the floor and pulled his .45-caliber pistol. “Except this one.”

Pearce put a hand on Tariq’s weapon. “No.”

“We can’t leave any witnesses.”

“Majid will hunt you down, Pearce. You and your mates. Let me go and I’ll talk him out of it. I swear.”

Pearce leaned over and picked the Aussie up by his lapels, standing him on his feet. “You can do that?”

“Sure thing.”

“But you wouldn’t.”

“I would, mate! I would! I don’t owe that man a thing. It’s my skin I’m worried about.”

“Waste him. We can take our chances,” Early said.

“It wasn’t personal, mate! It was just business. Following orders, that’s all. I can follow orders. You tell me what you want me to do, I’ll do it. It’s a contract between you and me, and I keep my contracts. You’ll see.”

“How do I know I can trust you?”

“Trust me? You own me.”

“Prove it,” Pearce said.

“How?”

“Call Majid. Tell him you did the job. That will give us time to get out of here.”

“Sure thing.”

The four Americans, Tariq, and the Aussie climbed out of the back of the truck. Pearce surveyed the damage. The wreck of the Humvee up front was still burning by the side of the road. The Humvee behind them was closer. The heat from its flames tingled on his skin in the cool air. Bodies were strewn about in the dust, tossed from their vehicles after the explosions or shot by the Kurds. Barnes’s corpse was just ten feet away, cut down while trying to run away into the dark.

The Aussie looked at Tariq and pointed at his inside pocket. “I’m reaching for my phone.”

“I prefer you reach for a gun.” Tariq grinned. “Then I kill you, fair and square.”

“A phone, mate. It’s just a phone.”

The Aussie pulled out his phone and dialed Majid. Tariq pressed his pistol against the Australian’s head, flashing a smile, daring the merc to screw up the call.

The Aussie spoke to Majid, calm and collected. “Yeah. It’s done. All of them. We’re burning the bodies now. Thank you, sir. See you soon.” He hung up. Turned to Pearce. “Satisfied?”

“You think he believed you?” Pearce asked.

“I know he did.”

“Good.”

Tariq’s pistol cracked.

A fist-sized glob of brains and bone erupted out of the back of the Aussie’s head as more than four hundred pounds of foot energy pushed the .45-caliber slug through his skull. His wiry corpse tumbled into the dust, twitching as it bled out.

“Damn it!” Early said. “How about a little warning next time?” He wiped away the gore splashed onto his camo shirt.

Everybody’s ears rang from the stinging pistol retort.

Tariq spat on the corpse as he holstered his pistol. “We cross the border into Kurdistan, be in my village before sunrise if we leave now.”

“The Aussie was right,” Rowley said. “Majid will hunt us down when he finds out we’re still alive.”

“He won’t,” Pearce said.

“How do you know?”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“How?”

Early loaded a wad of chaw in his lip. “Don’t wet yourself, Rowley. He’ll take care of it.”

Tariq grinned ear to ear. “And if Majid does find out? Let the bastard come to my village. We will welcome him. Ha!” He spat in the dust.

“He won’t,” Pearce said. “Let’s saddle up and roll.”

Congressman Chandler opened his secured server. His contact in Baghdad confirmed that Pearce and the others had finally reported back in, a week late. The debrief indicated that the four Americans had followed a lead that took them to Kirkuk. The contact further indicated that Pearce and Early were being reassigned to JSOC for special security work in Baghdad’s Green Zone. Chandler was grateful that Pearce and his friends were finally out of the way.

Chandler took a sip of heavily creamed and sugared coffee and scrolled through his classified news feeds. He came across a CIA report. He set his cup down. Chandler couldn’t believe his eyes. The CIA report indicated that at least forty members of General Majid’s command had been butchered in fierce fighting in the district over the last few weeks, including, apparently, the twenty-four Shia recruits he’d helped swear in. “Too bad,” he whispered to himself, clucking his tongue. He took another sip of coffee and read further. He nearly spit it out of his nose.

Majid was dead. Killed by a bomb in his palace. His private office incinerated. No evidence left behind.

Chandler swore under his breath as he pulled open a desk drawer and lifted out his private secured laptop. His door knocked. “Just a moment, please.”

The door pushed open. His secretary poked her head in. “Sir? The Sisters of Perpetual Help are here for your nine o’clock.”

“Not now!”

The secretary saw the crazed look in her boss’s eyes. She blanched. “Yes, sir.” She closed the door in a hurry.

Chandler typed in the password. Majid’s Cayman Island bank account screen pulled up.

Zero.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Chandler thought. All that money, gone. Only he and Majid had the password for the account. Whoever took it must have tortured the general for it.

Just what a terrorist would do.