Genocide of One: A Thriller (7 page)

Up until now,
the tougher the assignment the better. Life-threatening situations and physical pain
only helped Yeager forget the painful realities of his life. But now, with his son
only a month away from dying, even the harshest training failed to dull the agony.

Back when he was in the army, it was nothing for him to go on endurance marches of
forty kilometers while lugging a forty-kilogram pack. But too much time on urban protection
detail as a private defense contractor had left him soft, lacking in stamina. The
group left the Zeta Security compound, hiked through hills over unpaved roads, and
by the time they’d gone ten kilometers, Yeager was out of breath. With each step the
heavy load on his back drained away his strength. The Southern Hemisphere sun, dazzling
in the northern sky, evaporated in an instant the sweat he needed to maintain his
body temperature. Just focus on the pain, he told himself as they marched in single
file, Yeager in the leader’s number two position. But from deep within him fragments
of memories—recollections of the hardships he’d endured in life—rose up and then faded
away.

Once, when he’d been seven—an age when he got upset at his sister for not playing
war with him—his father had driven the four of them to visit relatives in Arkansas.
They’d stayed at a motel along the way, and Yeager watched from the backseat as his
father checked in at the desk. Two adults, a counter between them, just chatting.
The billfold his father took out of his back pocket. The pen he was given to sign
with. Yeager wondered when he would grow up to be a father, too, and do what his dad
did.

But this adult he’d looked up to had abandoned his family. His mother had had to go
to work as manager of a supermarket warehouse, a single mom struggling to raise her
two children. When Yeager, just before graduating from high school, announced he was
enlisting in the army, his normally strong mother looked defeated. At eighteen, Yeager
couldn’t understand the feelings she’d stored up in her heart for her son. It was
only years later, when his own son was in a life-or-death struggle, that he began
to understand what she’d gone through.

Ever since he could remember, Justin knew there was an enemy out there ready to snatch
away his life. He knew, too, that he would have to fight this enemy alone. And that
one day his strength would be exhausted, and he would die.

Whenever Yeager went to visit his son in the hospital he’d load up with toys—model
cars, a laser pistol, the latest Transformer. He hoped to see his son happy, even
for a moment. But Justin, permanently connected to an IV drip, never seemed to enjoy
his presents. He’d hold a robot in his tiny hand and stare at it with sunken eyes,
as if holding it was a painful duty he had to perform.

The scene left Yeager sensing the fragility of life. Five years from now only that
plastic robot would remain behind. Justin would be just a memory.

More than anything in life, Yeager wanted to see his son smile. See him healthy and
playful. Justin could spill his cup of milk on the table, scribble all over the walls
of their house. He’d play catch with Justin whenever he wanted. If only he could be
like other children, healthy again…

“Yeager.”

Hearing the accented English, Yeager looked up. Mick, on point, had come to a halt.

“How about a break?” Mick suggested, though he didn’t look like he needed one. Garrett
and Meyers, though, bringing up the rear, looked worn out.

“Sounds good,” Yeager said. “Let’s take ten.”

They got under the shade of a tree and lowered their backpacks. They cursed their
aching bodies and the training, though with few of the swear words typical of soldiers.
The members of this makeshift team, Yeager realized, were surprisingly well mannered.
Normally he’d expect at least a couple of them to spew out a slew of four-letter words.

“I’m a little worried about this mission,” Meyers said as he tugged off his trekking
boots and slapped Band-Aids on his blistered feet. “Even when I was in the air force
I never got real jungle training. I can’t figure out why they picked me.”

“Must mean it’s an easy mission,” Garrett said.

Without any details yet about their assignment, Yeager had no comment. “Mick, have
you had any jungle training?” he asked.

“Yeah.” The Japanese former Foreign Legionnaire nodded.

Garrett, the onetime marine and Force Recon member, should be used to operations in
jungles as well. Yeager turned to Meyers. “What you need to fear in the jungle isn’t
wild animals but insects and smaller creatures. Mosquitoes can give you malaria, and
fleas can lay eggs under your toenails. Snakes and scorpions, bees and spiders. You
get bit, you could die. So the first thing is to make sure you use enough insect repellent.
Not just on your skin but on your clothes, too. And you have to use a mosquito net.”

“What about when you sleep? Do you use a tent, like when you bivouac?”

Yeager turned to Garrett. “How’d you handle it in the marines?”

“We, ah…” Garrett hesitated a moment. “We used a combat tent.”

“A combat tent? In the jungle?”

“Only when we could get enough supplies,” Garrett explained, unruffled.

“What we did was tie together tree branches to make a hammock,” Mick interjected.
“If you’re up off the ground you don’t worry about snakes and centipedes.”

“That’s what the British Special Air Service does, too,” Garrett said.

Was Garrett really Force Recon? Yeager was starting to wonder. Some private defense
contractors misrepresented their backgrounds, exaggerating their level of experience.
The problem was, lies like that might get them killed. In a four-man team, if one
member couldn’t carry his weight, their fighting effectiveness was down by 25 percent.

Garrett looked so calm, though, that Yeager wasn’t sure. Garrett wasn’t the conceited
type, but was too quiet and low-key to be a typical marine. From now on Yeager would
keep an eye on the man’s skill level.

The endurance march went an hour over the scheduled time, but they managed to finish.
“It’s your first one, so I guess that’s to be expected,” Singleton said as he welcomed
them back to the training facility. He was clearly none too thrilled by their performance.

With great relief the four of them threw down their backpacks in their quarters and,
without changing clothes, proceeded to the next item on the schedule.

Behind the Zeta Security headquarters building was a massive stretch of open ground
crossed by a runway and bordered by airplane hangars and other training facilities.
When Yeager and the others exited the rear of the headquarters they saw a forklift
used to load cargo onto military transport planes. This was the first time they’d
seen any personnel here other than Singleton. Yeager knew they were deliberately being
kept isolated. The operation they were training for had to be a top-secret mission.

“I’d like to distribute your weapons now,” Singleton said, and led them into a concrete
warehouse.

The weapons storage facility was amazingly well stocked, not just with heavy artillery
and small arms but also with rocket launchers, trench mortars, and parachutes used
in airborne operations. In the hot zones they were used to, most people used weapons
made in Eastern Europe or China, but here was a truly impressive array of weapons
from around the world, including Western countries.

Singleton stood in front of a locker filled with assault rifles. “As I said before,
your primary weapons will be AK-47s or hunting shotguns. Pick either one. Your backup
weapon is a Glock 17.”

Mick, their point man, picked a shotgun, but then turned to Singleton. “What is the
possibility of…contact in the jungle?”

“Extremely low.”

Mick returned the shotgun to the rack and exchanged it for a Kalashnikov.

The men were all outfitted with tactical vests, eight spare magazines each, and leg
holsters for the 9mm semiautomatic Glocks. Yeager was filled with his usual sense
of childish pride. It was a kind of inborn disease among men, he mused, that being
outfitted with deadly weapons was all it took to feel omnipotent.

Singleton also distributed a military pouch to each of them. “Night-vision equipment
and a silencer for your Glocks,” he explained. “You’ll be practicing a nighttime assault
later this evening.”

This was the first hint of detail about the operation he’d given them. Was the target
an anti-US insurgent camp?

“Okay, time to hit the practice range.”

There was an outdoor firing range on the opposite side of the runway. Yeager and the
team shot at human-shaped targets as they did zero-point adjustment of their AK-47s—fine-tuning
the rear sight so they were able to hit their target a hundred meters away, precisely
where they aimed.

They moved on to training for a firefight. In both standing and prone positions they
practiced shooting at human-shaped targets that popped up automatically around them.
Yeager kept an eye on Garrett’s skills and saw that he was perfectly adept. He was
smooth, too, at reloading, and seemed to have had all the requisite training. So what
was his background, anyway? Why did he have to lie about being an ex-marine?

Once they had used up their ammo, they were told to reassemble after sunset for night
training. Then they went off to the dining hall, in the headquarters building, for
a dinner break. While the four of them ate, they didn’t see another soul. No one was
in the kitchen, either. The meals were already laid out for them when they arrived.

Exactly an hour later they reassembled for nighttime assault training. For this they
were loaded in a van and driven to a different training area. There was still some
residual light left in the west when they set out, but by the time the van came to
a halt it had been swallowed up in darkness. In the headlights of the van Yeager saw
a building, the kind of shoot house used in hostage rescue training.

“Night vision gear on.”

At Singleton’s direction, they tugged on their goggles. The small amount of light
around them was electrically amplified so that everything glowed in a green phosphorescence.

“Silencers on your Glocks, gentlemen.”

The four men swiftly obeyed.

“Follow me.”

Flashlight in hand, Singleton moved around behind the shoot house. It was in a square
lot, a hundred meters on each side, and also in the lot were twelve domelike structures,
lower than a person’s height. The structures were reminiscent of igloos, and each
had a hole in front that looked like an entrance.

“Here’s what you’re doing,” Singleton said, his voice hushed, perhaps because of the
surrounding darkness. “Consider those structures as tents. There are three or four
targets in each. Assume they’re asleep. Use your Glocks, with silencers, and take
the targets out as quickly as you can.”

Meyers shuddered slightly, but that was all the emotion anyone showed. The director
of operations looked appraisingly at Yeager and the other three in turn. In the greenish
glow of the night vision goggles, Singleton’s face resembled that of some cruel, bloodthirsty
killer.

“You have three minutes to decide on your plan and execute it.”

Singleton, stopwatch in hand, stepped aside.

“We’ll come at them from all four sides,” Yeager immediately decided. The spherical
tents formed two lines facing each other, six on each side. It was most efficient
to attack each row from both the left and right.

“Can I ask a question?” Garrett said. “How should we handle it if anyone escapes?”

Yeager was upset with himself at this oversight. Even with the silencers the Glocks
would make a sound—enough of a noise that nearby animals in the jungle at night would
flee. “Good point. Two of us will attack from the north. The other two will stand
in the open space and to the south and take out anyone who escapes.”

“Who will lead the attack?” Meyers asked.

“I’ll do it,” Mick quickly replied.

Yeager, the team leader, instructed the others. “Garrett, you’ll be in the open space.
Meyers will stay on the south side. Mick and I will take care of the targets.”

“Roger that,” Meyers said quietly.

“Take your positions.”

The team members dispersed to their assigned positions, trying to make as little noise
as possible.

I’ll have to kill about twenty people, Yeager calculated. It really is a dirty job,
as they said. But who were the targets? Terrorists who’ve infiltrated the Congo? He
figured he’d just have to believe what the executive from Western Shield had told
him—that he’d be doing a service to mankind.

Yeager reached the tent on the end. Garrett and Meyers were already in place, waiting
for the go sign. Yeager looked over at the other row of tents and through his night
vision goggles saw Mick racing forward, crouched low, Glock in hand, ready to strike.

Yeager lowered his arm to signal the others to begin. He made sure that Mick had started
and then slipped into the nearest tent. The entrance was at chest height, so he had
to lean over, as if peering into a cellar. As soon as he saw human figures inside
he pointed his weapon at them. But his trigger finger froze. They were mannequins
of children. Small figures, from infants to those that looked about ten years old,
were sprawled out on the ground.

From behind he heard the low, muffled report of four shots. Mick must have shot the
people in the first tent. Despite the high stress, Yeager’s finger moved reflexively.
Fifteen years of army training had transformed his brain and his body so that in combat
he was a merciless killing machine. Yeager’s shots couldn’t have been more perfect.
Shot right through the middle of the forehead, the child mannequins jerked like living
beings, then were still.

Mick had finished with two tents already and was starting on the third. Like an athlete,
with no wasted motion, Yeager sprang to his next target. What started as training
became a competition to see who could kill the quickest. Yeager played catch-up as
both he and Mick sprayed the mute children with bullets. By the time he finished with
the fourth tent he’d used fourteen bullets, and as he sped to the next one he quickly
slammed in a fresh magazine. Eight shots later he’d dispatched the eight figures in
the two remaining dwellings.