Target Deck - 02 Page 5

  A bullet exploded at Deckard's feet, wooden splinters sent tearing into his pant leg. Rolling behind a forklift, he came to a knee as a cascade of auto fire clanged off the metal framework of the heavy lift vehicle.

  “You okay down there Six?” Fedorchenko came up on the net.

  “I'm not dead,” Deckard replied into his radio.

  Peering from behind his cover, he saw the trigger man who had been shooting at him disappear down into the mast of the midget sub. Metal on metal sounded as the port hole slammed shut. White water churned behind the sub as it began to pull away from the dock.

  “We're trying to flank around but we have to hack through the jungle to get to you.”

  “See you soon,” Deckard terminated the transmission and broke from cover in an all-out sprint.

  Boots pounded across the sinking dock, the sub quickly picking up speed as Deckard chewed up the ground between himself and his target. Unfortunately, he was running out of dock. The pier was about to end as he vaulted into the air. Weighed down with nearly forty five pounds of weapons, ammunition, and body armor, he managed more of a leap than a jump, coming down hard on the metal fuselage of the submarine. Slipping, his feet splashed into the water as he found purchase, grabbing a hold of a periscope that snaked from the top of the sub.

  Pulling himself up onto the submarine, he moved towards the mast sticking from the center of the giant metal cylinder. It was amazing that cartel engineers were able to put together a functioning midget sub in a dry dock somewhere deep in the Colombian rain forest. It looked like something straight out of a WWII movie. The porthole was tightly secured he discovered, grunting as he gave the handle a few tugs. Inside he could hear frantic voices arguing in Spanish.

  Looking over his shoulder, Deckard could see his platoon of Samruk soldiers at the edge of the bay, looking out to sea as their commander grew distant, the submarine making haste for the open ocean.

  “Six-” the Kazakh platoon leader's voice crackled over the radio.

  “I've got an idea.”

  Deckard wasn't carrying any breaching charges or other explosives aside from a couple flashbangs and fragmentation grenades. He had one chance to improvise something before the sub filled its ballast tanks and plunged beneath the waves. Unzipping his med pouch, the American pushed through his tourniquets, bandages, and celox gauze before he tore free a plastic IV bag full of Hextend fluid. The IV was meant to be given to gunshot victims to help boost their blood pressure after massive blood loss.

  Deckard had other ideas.

  Tearing a flashbang from its pouch, he used a roll of white medical tape to secure it to the IV bag, wrapping several lengths around the two items to hold them together. Pulling on the hatch, the mercenary commander did his best to identify where the locking mechanism was located. Placing the IV-flashbang satchel over it, he taped it in place on the hatch with more medical tape.

  He had created an improvised water impulse charge. Normally, C4 plastic explosives would be used in conjunction with a container of water. Water didn't compress under pressure so when an explosive charge was placed behind it, the force of the detonation pushed the water straight through anything in its way. Holding the satchel in place, Deckard yanked the pin from the flashbang and ducked behind the submarine's mast.

  The flashbang went off with a shock wave that would have left him bleeding from the ears if he hadn't been wearing hearing protection. Looking over the lip of the mast, Deckard saw that his MacGyver antics had paid off. A ragged hole had been blasted through the hatch. Flinging it open with one hand, he kept his distance as gunfire shot up and out of the porthole.

  Dropping another flashbang down into the darkness, Deckard waited for it to detonate before throwing his weight over the lip and down the ladder leading into the sub. The interior stank of the sulfur residue left behind by the flashbang in the enclosed space.

  The inside of the sub was poorly lit, several yellow bulbs mounted on the ceiling and running the length of the sub barely illuminating anything at all, especially now that several had been shattered by the flashbang.

  The shadow of a man stumbled towards Deckard. He was having a coughing fit. Holding the side of his head, he ran into the ladder. He had been completely disoriented by the blast inside the enclosed compartment. Deckard grabbed the cartel man by the collar and slammed in into a bulkhead, knocking him unconscious.

  The air shifted, something moving behind him. Twisting at the hips, Deckard shot his foot out in a mule kick to his rear, catching an approaching gunman in his mid-section. Doubled over, he stripped the pistol from the would-be killer's hands and drove his knee upwards and into the man's face.

  Two down.

  But midget submarines sometimes have a crew-

  Gunfire sparked off metal, bullets ricocheting down the sides of the metal submarine as the rounds found flat surfaces to ride along.

  -of three.

  Deckard didn't bother to transition to his rifle or snatch for the 1911 he carried in a holster at his hip. Using the black pistol he had relieved from the second submariner, he pointed the muzzle deeper into the sub where he had seen the muzzle flash of the enemy gunman.

  Dropping to a knee, he felt the angry bite of hot metal chopping through the air just above his head.

  Milking the trigger, he squeezed off a three round burst from the Glock pistol he held. The enemy yelped, dropping his weapon. Rushing forward, Deckard had to high step it across the metal catwalk that ran down the length of the sub. He caught the Colombian in mid-reach as his bloody fingers stretched for the Ingram MAC-10 submachine gun that he had dropped.

  Captain Nemo.

  Deckard never gave him the chance. A final shot echoed inside the submarine and the cartel submarine captain sprawled out on the catwalk with a bullet hole in his forehead.

  Dropping the Glock's magazine, Deckard racked the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber before casting the pistol aside.

  Samruk International was expanding its capabilities with a fledgling brown water littoral Navy.

  11

  Black smoke spiraled into the blue morning sky as the mercenaries cleared the jungle and began making their way back to their assault trucks. Each of them was a little lighter than they had been on the way in to their objective, having drank water and expended ammunition before, during, and after they trashed the cartel's hidden submarine base.

  It was a skill set that they had been trained on in Kazakhstan, honed on the battlefield in places like Afghanistan and Burma. Destruction was what they did, it was what they were good at. There were two kinds of violence in the world. There was the senseless killing perpetrated by terrorists, politicians, and cartels on one hand but on the other there also existed a type of creative destruction wielded by those who stood in their way. These days, it seemed that the former was far more common than the later.

  The mercs walked in an extended wedge-shaped formation. This distribution gave them the most versatility in a firefight as each man could fire to his flank without risking injury to his teammates. The point man raised a fist into the air, halting the patrol.

  “I've got contact up here,” the point man whispered into his throat mic.

  “Enemy?” Fedorchenko asked.

  “Maybe,” came the reply. “They're armed.”

  Deckard ran up to the front of the formation to get a better look. He felt the fatigue in his body. He needed to get some rest. The grind of back to back operations would take him down eventually.

  Standing across the rocky terrain was a line consisting of a dozen gunmen. They stood stoically in their olive colored fatigues. Balaclavas concealed their faces while they held a variety of rifles at port arms, motionless in the morning heat. Even at a distance of a hundred meters, Deckard could tell that several of the smaller gunmen were actually women.

  “Who are they?” Fedorchenko said as he moved up from behind him.

  “Zapatista rebels. Usually they stay in their home turf, farther south in Chiapa
s.”

  “Why don't they open fire?”

  “Because they are putting on a show,” Deckard said sardonically. “Tell the boys to lower their weapons. These guys are here to deliver a message; not get into a dust up with us.”

  The Kazakh Sergeant began barking orders. The men quickly arranged themselves into a defensive perimeter, their weapons kept at the ready just in case things went hot.

  “I'm going to go meet with them, Fedorchenko,” Deckard told the Platoon Sergeant. “If I'm not back in ten minutes, or you hear gunfire, I'm probably dead. That would be your queue to bound your men up and assault right over these assholes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  A faint trace of a smile crossed the commander's face.

  “Sure,” Deckard said with a shrug. “Why not.”

  As he began walking towards the Zapatista rebels the Kazakh Sergeant looked to his men, signaling for two of them to accompany their commander. Ravil and Nuro picked up and trailed behind Deckard acting as a small security detachment.

  Squinting in the morning light, Deckard scrutinized the rebels. They wore military fatigues with well-worn black leather boots. Their non-military status was flaunted by the wearing a jewelry, most of them adorned with traditional Mayan necklaces and bracelets. The web gear they wore was positively ancient, probably leftovers from one of the dirty little wars that the United States fought in Central America during the 1980's. In their hands were mostly aging American made M-16 rifles with a few Kalashnikov's spread out between them.

  None of the rebels moved a muscle as he approached.

  “Let us pass,” Deckard said, his mind struggling with the words as he transitioned from Russian to Spanish. “Our fight is not with you.”

  “We want to talk to the one who is in charge,” the rebel directly to his front spoke, his mouth moving under the balaclava.

  “That's me.”

  The two accompanying Kazakh mercenaries looked at each other in confusion, the conversation lost on them.

  “Come with us.”

  “Come with you where? Who the hell are you?”

  “We are the forefront of the revolutionary movement!” the rebel burst out.

  One of the female Zapatista's took him by the arm, speaking in rapid Spanish in an attempt to calm him.

  “Please come with us,” she asked Deckard. “It is only a short way. Our commander would like to meet you.”

  “Very well,” Deckard said before clicking the transmit button for his headset and speaking in Russian again. “I'm going to be going a short way down the hill to meet with one of the rebel leaders. Same rules are in effect.”

  “Roger Six, stay in touch. I'm getting tired of you freelancing on us,” the Platoon Sergeant responded.

  The rebels moved on either side of the three Samruk mercenaries, leading them down a narrow foot path. The rocky terrain wasn't nearly as difficult to negotiate during hours of day light as it had been during the dark on the way in. Deckard kept his AK-103 at the low ready while stepping over the rocks until the group had descended down the hill. Rounding a rock formation that was jutting from the side of the hill, they came upon a hasty camp fire, a half dozen vehicles surrounding the camp in a semi-circle.

  The Zapatista rebels stepped to the side to allow Deckard to enter the camp. Striding into the middle of the rebel camp confidently, the American's eyes swept the area for threats. A male rebel joked with a female rebel near the rusted out Toyota pickups. Four more fatigue wearing Zapatistas played a game of cards on the hood of another truck.

  “Green hat go,” a man said to Deckard.

  He sat in the center of the camp, outfitted in the same uniform as his comrades. Pistol and shotgun cartridges were strung into his web gear like a pistolero from times gone by. Behind the balaclava, Deckard could see the crows feet at the corners of his dark brown eyes. A nickel plated revolver rode on his hip, his fatigue jacket left open where a blue neckerchief was tied around his neck.

  “Do you know what that means?” the rebel spoke to Deckard in nearly perfect English.

  “Supposedly it was a slogan used by Mexicans during the Mexican-American War of 1846. American soldiers wore green hats at the time. This is where the word gringo came from.”

  “A popular explanation,” the Zapatista laughed. “But it is more likely that the word referred to the Irish of the St. Patrick's Battalion. Even before that in the 1700's, the Spaniards used the term to describe people who couldn't speak Spanish very well, especially the Irish. Irish need not apply, that is from America, is it not?”

  “From our past, yes.”

  “You know something of history,” the Zapatista said. “That gives me a small measure of hope.”

  Deckard said nothing.

  “Hope that we can reach an agreement,” the rebel elaborated. “As you can imagine, we are concerned about a military unit of mercenaries led by gringos invading Southern Mexico. We are all a little on edge given the Mexican military's excessive measures in both Oaxaca and Chiapas.”

  The Mexican military had cracked down on the Zapatista rebels on a number of occasions, engaging in a wanton slaughter as the rebels fled into the jungles of the Yucatan. Then there was the suppression of peasant uprisings in Oaxaca, all with US tax payers footing the bill a number of years ago.

  “These soldiers you bring with you, they are brown, but they sure as hell are not Mexicans.”

  “Outsourced,” Deckard said hooking a thumb over his shoulder as the black smoke still rising over the submarine base behind him. “You communists don't get it. Globalization isn't all bad.”

  The rebel leader bawled, laughing out loud, still giggling as he attempted to light his pipe.

  “Gringo, you've got a lot to learn,” he lectured. “Our movement isn't just communists but you see, we are also anarchists, socialists and libertarians. Everyone who opposes the current oligarchic power structure imposed on us joins with the Zapatista movement. We are the only game in town as you say. Together, we are not the fiendish communists your press would make us out to be. We just want the right to farm our own land without the exploitation of government and corporations, the two of which are nearly impossible to tell apart since this great new deal was imposed on us, you know it, free trade. NAFTA.”

  “I took down Ortega, now I'm here to take down Jimenez,” Deckard stated. “And anyone who gets in my way. I really hope that you won't be one of them.”

  The men playing cards looked up, the game interrupted as hands suddenly got a little closer to firearms slung over backs or holstered on hips. The blue smoke from the rebel leader's pipe hung in the air for a long moment. Deckard swallowed. He'd flopped his dick on the table and hoped it wouldn't get pounded with a brick.

  “You can call me Commadante Zero,” the Mexican said, waving dismissively.

  “Black,” Deckard gave an alias for an alias.

  The Zapatista rebels went back to their game of spades.

  “Tell me gringo, do you work for the Yankee intelligence services?”

  “No.”

  “Not anymore?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “What happened?”

  “I didn't feel the love.”

  Commadante Zero laughed.

  “You and me both. So if you are not an agent of imperialism than what brings you south of the border?”

  “A call for help.”

  “America has already helped us enough, but thank you just the same.”

  “It was a cop, one of the good ones. He would have gone to you if he thought your movement could mount an effective resistance against the cartels. The Zapatistas have been weak since you were chased back into the jungle by the Mexican military. You of all people know this. Your troops carry rusted, shot out weapons. When was the last time they did any hard military training?”

  “As you can see, we don't exactly have the budget of your Defense Department, or your mercenaries in this case. We are a people's movement.”

  “What
if you could be more?”

  Cammadante Zero took another puff from his pipe.

  “I'm listening.”

  “I can provide trainers, commandos who have seen war the world over. These men are experts in unconventional warfare. We can issue your men the modern weapons we capture from the cartels.”

  “But?”

  “But this communism nonsense still bothers me. Marxism died a long time ago and isn't coming back. I don't hold any illusions about what Southern Mexico will look like after we leave but I need your assurance that you will lead your people into something that resembles a democratic process. Replacing an oligarchy with an autocracy is unacceptable to me.”

  “I thought you were a gunslinger,” the rebel leader said with a nod. “I had no idea that you were an idea man. I'm happy to hear that we think along the same lines.”

  “Don't play me on this.”

  Commandate Zero looked up at Deckard.

  “Why don't you sit down for a moment.”

  “I've got work to do.”

  “It will take your men at least another half hour to finish hiding that submarine that you captured.”

  “You've got eyes and ears,” Deckard inferred.

  “Yes,” Zero said. “We have them everywhere.”

  12

  Deckard grounded his kit in their newly acquired gear room. After setting his rifle down, he ripped the Velcro cummerbund from his plate carrier and lifted it over his head. He was drenched in sweat and covered in black soot. While first platoon was out taking care of business, second platoon had been preparing the Ortega compound as their headquarters, getting everything ready for ongoing operations. One of the garages had been emptied, cleared out to make way for a load out room.

  It was only by sheer chance that he was able to effect a marriage of convenience with the Zapatista rebels. He had proven his bonifidis to the rebels by taking down Ortega and striking out at Jimenez. The populist movement hated the cartels and the violence they brought to Mexico just as much as anyone else who wasn't entranced by the romanticism that surrounded the drug lords.