Cancun excursion.
By now they were familiar with the airport. Deckard and his recon team had scoped it out before the main element arrived. It was a flat strip just outside the city, long enough for large international aircraft. The airport was surrounded by a chain link fence topped off with barbwire. Swinging around towards the main concourse, Deckard could see a gray colored Gulfstream V jet idling on the tarmac. It sported tail number N44982 but no other markings.
The mercenary grunted to himself. When the airplane wasn't flying assassins like him to do dirty deals for the CIA it was probably flying rendition flights from Yemen and Afghanistan to Poland and Estonia.
Deckard had already paid off the security guards so the front gate hung wide open, allowing the convoy to drive right onto the airfield. A dozen contractors stood milling around two pallets, waiting for their ride. The cargo plane from the States had dropped them off and quickly departed. None of them were armed and he had not dispatched a reception committee to meet them on time to issue out weapons. It was an oversight on his part and another indication that he needed some sleep and some time to gather his thoughts.
The driver of the lead vehicle slowed to a stop and Deckard pushed open the armored passenger door before stepping out into the oppressive night heat.
The silhouette of a powerfully built man walked from the pallets and shook Deckard's hand.
“Never a boring moment with you,” the contractor taunted him with the slightest hint of a German accent in his voice.
“You complaining?”
“Never!” the German laughed.
Kurt Jager was a former German GSG-9 Counter-Terrorist operator that Deckard had sub-contracted from another Private Military Company called GUARD. It wasn't his first collaboration with Samruk international. A skilled linguist, Kurt's grasp of the Russian language had been a huge help in interfacing with the Russian-speaking Kazakh mercenaries that made up the bulk of their troops.
“My boys will help you break down these pallets and pack the gear on the trucks. We're already carrying some dismantled communications equipment we pulled off an objective tonight so we'll radio for a deuce and a half to drive down here from our compound to help carry everything back.”
“Sounds good.”
“Did all the kit I ordered get put on those pallets?”
“Almost, some of the ammunition missed the flight but everything else is there. We also had one guy miss the flight. Some former SEAL named Webb.”
“Typical,” Deckard said shaking his head. “I'm assigning you and several other personnel to our FID cell.”
“We have a FID cell?”
FID, or Foreign Internal Defense, was a usually a mission where an Army Special Forces team would train indigenous guerrillas and lead them in combat operations. Now the mercenaries would perform the same mission working alongside the Zapatista rebels.
“We will make sure you have constant comms with our OPCEN but you'll be working for Commadente Zero.”
“You're kidding,” Kurt blurted. “You know I've have dealings them those guys in the past?”
“Well, let's hope they don't recognize you,” Deckard smirked. “I've got a plane to catch.”
16
Deckard came awake with a start.
“We are on final approach,” the co-pilot said.
“Already?”
“We can do DC to Kabul in twelve hours, baby. You slept right through landing and takeoff at Nassau. We picked up a package from the Agency for you,” the middle aged CIA pilot pointed to the closet built into the fuselage of the aircraft. “Might want to change into something else. You will scare the squares out in this tourist shit hole in that Soldier of Fortune getup.”
“Thanks,” the mercenary replied as he stood and stretched his back. It felt like a dozen joints popped all at the same time. His knees and lower back creaked, he was sore all over, and his quadriceps threatened to seize up due to dehydration. The two
By now they were familiar with the airport. Deckard and his recon team had scoped it out before the main element arrived. It was a flat strip just outside the city, long enough for large international aircraft. The airport was surrounded by a chain link fence topped off with barbwire. Swinging around towards the main concourse, Deckard could see a gray colored Gulfstream V jet idling on the tarmac. It sported tail number N44982 but no other markings.
The mercenary grunted to himself. When the airplane wasn't flying assassins like him to do dirty deals for the CIA it was probably flying rendition flights from Yemen and Afghanistan to Poland and Estonia.
Deckard had already paid off the security guards so the front gate hung wide open, allowing the convoy to drive right onto the airfield. A dozen contractors stood milling around two pallets, waiting for their ride. The cargo plane from the States had dropped them off and quickly departed. None of them were armed and he had not dispatched a reception committee to meet them on time to issue out weapons. It was an oversight on his part and another indication that he needed some sleep and some time to gather his thoughts.
The driver of the lead vehicle slowed to a stop and Deckard pushed open the armored passenger door before stepping out into the oppressive night heat.
The silhouette of a powerfully built man walked from the pallets and shook Deckard's hand.
“Never a boring moment with you,” the contractor taunted him with the slightest hint of a German accent in his voice.
“You complaining?”
“Never!” the German laughed.
Kurt Jager was a former German GSG-9 Counter-Terrorist operator that Deckard had sub-contracted from another Private Military Company called GUARD. It wasn't his first collaboration with Samruk international. A skilled linguist, Kurt's grasp of the Russian language had been a huge help in interfacing with the Russian-speaking Kazakh mercenaries that made up the bulk of their troops.
“My boys will help you break down these pallets and pack the gear on the trucks. We're already carrying some dismantled communications equipment we pulled off an objective tonight so we'll radio for a deuce and a half to drive down here from our compound to help carry everything back.”
“Sounds good.”
“Did all the kit I ordered get put on those pallets?”
“Almost, some of the ammunition missed the flight but everything else is there. We also had one guy miss the flight. Some former SEAL named Webb.”
“Typical,” Deckard said shaking his head. “I'm assigning you and several other personnel to our FID cell.”
“We have a FID cell?”
FID, or Foreign Internal Defense, was a usually a mission where an Army Special Forces team would train indigenous guerrillas and lead them in combat operations. Now the mercenaries would perform the same mission working alongside the Zapatista rebels.
“We will make sure you have constant comms with our OPCEN but you'll be working for Commadente Zero.”
“You're kidding,” Kurt blurted. “You know I've have dealings them those guys in the past?”
“Well, let's hope they don't recognize you,” Deckard smirked. “I've got a plane to catch.”
16
Deckard came awake with a start.
“We are on final approach,” the co-pilot said.
“Already?”
“We can do DC to Kabul in twelve hours, baby. You slept right through landing and takeoff at Nassau. We picked up a package from the Agency for you,” the middle aged CIA pilot pointed to the closet built into the fuselage of the aircraft. “Might want to change into something else. You will scare the squares out in this tourist shit hole in that Soldier of Fortune getup.”
“Thanks,” the mercenary replied as he stood and stretched his back. It felt like a dozen joints popped all at the same time. His knees and lower back creaked, he was sore all over, and his quadriceps threatened to seize up due to dehydration. The two
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