Target Deck - 02 (10 page)

“Our other prisoner did start naming some other local heavies,” Pat added. “They are low hanging fruit but it's a place to start.”

“I don't really care if it's a dry hole at this point. We need to keep up the momentum while we work on developing some better targets and start filling out this chart,” Deckard said pointing to the cartel organization chart. There were a lot of blank slots. “Sergeant Major?”

“Second Platoon is conducting rehearsals and Pre-Combat Inspections as we speak,” the Kazakh reported.

“This isn't a time sensitive target so roll when the men are ready.”

“Understood.”

“Sounds good, Sergeant Major. Make sure the men are getting at least five hours of sleep between guard and combat rotations.”

“We are working out the schedule,” he responded in his thick Russian accent. Korgan had been the first Samruk International member that Deckard had met when he arrived in Kazakhstan for the first time and had liked the man immediately. There had been a Serbian Executive Officer whom he had a different opinion about, but that problem had been resolved.

“There is one more thing,” Cody said in a hushed tone.

“What's that?” Deckard said prompting him.

“The
nacrocorridos
about Jimenez.”

“I told him that it is nothing to worry about,” Samantha said shaking her head. “We already know that he's an asshole. We don't need to waste time worrying about his crappy folk music.”

“These songs are unique,” Cody insisted.

The
narcocorridos
were type of Mexican folk music that had become massively popular throughout the country and even into parts of the United States. The songs glorified the violence of the cartels and extolled the virtues of the quick thinking gangsters as they outwitted the authorities. They portrayed cartel leaders as Robin Hood type characters that the peasant class could relate too. They might have sounded silly to gringo ears but they were no laughing matter in Mexican culture. Gangsters even hired musicians to write songs about them, the most powerful cartel leaders paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for a hit tune composed from a romanticized version of their life story.

“The
nacrocorridos
that Jimenez had made about him are flat out creepy,” Cody went on without pausing for breath. “They talk about him skinning people alive, raping dead bodies, weird shit man. Some of them are even about how he worships the devil. The songs refer to him as The Beast.”

“He is trying to make people scared of him,” Samantha stated.

“I don't think so. These folk songs are supposed to help the locals relate to cartel leader. They are to make him popular in the eye of the public.”

“I don't think songs like this would make him very popular amongst a very Catholic Mexican public,” Deckard said.

“I'm just sayin',” Cody continued. “Watch your back out there.”

With the briefing adjourned, Deckard followed Frank out into the courtyard. Everyone was quiet for a moment and all of them were taking advantage of it to catch their breath. Samruk hadn't even been on the ground for a full twenty four hours and they'd already killed one cartel, pissed all over another, and formed an alliance that the US State Department would certainly frown upon.

The Kazakh mercenaries that stood at the sandbagged positions near the gate began getting restless. They aimed down the sights of their rifles at something approaching on the other side of the wall.

Frank's cell phone began to ring.

“Yeah,” he said, taking the call. “Cool. Got it.”

“It's okay,” Frank yelled to the gate guards. “He's one of us. Open the gates!”

Deckard hurriedly translated into Russian before they had a shoot out on their hands.

The mercenaries nodded before one of them climbed down the ladder and swung open the gates. The gates were still a mess since they had blasted their way in earlier but an ad hoc repair job held them closed for the time being.

As the gates parted, Deckard could see a cloud of brown dust roll in along with a beat up 1990's model Saturn sedan. The muffler was being dragged in the dirt behind it. Once the rust bucket came to a halt in the court yard, the Kazakhs swung the gate closed and resumed their post.

“Goddam piece of shit,” the driver coughed out as he slammed the door shut.

Deckard frowned as he and Frank walked over to the newcomer. The car had American license plates.

“Did you drive here?” Deckard asked.

“Sure did,” the driver turned around to face him. He had to look up at Deckard to see him. The newcomer was short with a mop top of black hair and a gnarly looking mustache. “I hit the road an hour after Frank gave me a call about some hot action south of the border. Drove all the way from Oklahoma.”

“You know I would have flown you in, right?”

“Can't do it brother. On the no-fly list.”

“You're fucking kidding me.”

“Well not me but some dude with my name is and those costumed clowns that pretend they are security guards give me a hell of a time whenever I try to fly.”

“What's your name?”

“Ahmed Aghassi.”

“I don't remember seeing him on the target deck.”

“He was some Iranian fuck hiding up in the mountains of Afghanistan who was advising Al-Qaeda cells throughout the country.”

“Tell him the fucked up part Ghassi,” Frank interjected.

“I was on the mission that killed him,” Aghassi said as his eyebrows bobbed over his eyes.

“So you waxed some Iranian with that same name as you out in Afghanistan?”

“Yeah.”

“And his name is still on the no-fly list?”

“Takes a while to get the names of dead terrorists taken off the list,” Aghassi muttered. “Years apparently.”

“What the fuck?”

“You said it brother.”

“Alright,” Deckard said. “Frank vouches for you so let's get the job interview out of the way. Who the hell are you really?”

“Everyone calls me Ghassi. I grew up speaking Farsi at home-”

“Where is home?”

“I told you already. Oklahoma.”

“Which is where you drove from.”

“Yeah, so it's like this, my parents emigrated from Iran and I grew up in the States. I joined the Army as an interpreter and learned Arabic in DLI as a third language-”

“Frank told me you spoke Spanish.”

“I do, I picked it up in High School. So some computer program picks my name out of a hat because of my background and language skills and the next thing I know I get approached by some shady dudes at work. That was how I got recruited to the Intelligence Support Activity.”

Deckard nodded for Aghassi to continue. He had worked with ISA numerous times when he was in Army Special Operations units. They did intelligence and reconnaissance work, mostly for SEAL Team Six and Delta Force. Frank had also served in that unit after a stint in the Ranger Reconnaissance Detachment or RRD, although Deckard still suspected that Frank must have lied his way through the battery of psych evals he was required to take as part of the entrance exam.

“You know the deal. Afghanistan, Iraq, and a few other places. I probably worked the intel piece for a few of your missions,” he said to Deckard. “I got out a couple years ago and did contract work.”

“Where?”

“Back in Afghanistan. I lived as a
kuchi
with a native family.”

“Bullshit.” The
kuchis
were nomadic people who roamed the wastelands of Afghanistan.

“No really man. I spoke the language, I'm brown, and with a Bin Laden beard I look just like one of them. I had a female Afghani intelligence agent pose as my wife and we took in a couple orphan kids to travel with us in our caravan to complete the picture. We moved all over Southern Afghanistan collecting intelligence for our clients.”

“Sounds pretty rough.”

“You got no idea man, I feel like a stranger in my own country every time I return home.”

“Okay,” Deckard said making a decision. “You're hired. I'll give you a couple hours to come up with a list of what you need and then you can interface with Samantha, our local police liaison, and you can start working on building an intelligence network-”

“That's cool. I will coordinate with her and whatever sources she has. For now just give me a new car and I'll roll.”

“What?”

“Here you go hoss,” Pat said walking up from behind as he tossed a set of car keys to Aghassi. “Take the white Toyota, it will blend in on the streets here.”

“Thanks bud.”

“You sure about that?” Deckard asked Pat.

Pat shrugged.

“Let's see what he can do.”

13

A triple strand of det-chord formed a flex linear charge that was affixed diagonally across the front door of the single story building that served as living space and a headquarters for one of the many drug gangs that inhabited Oaxaca City. It exploded in a shower of debris that woke people from their beds several blocks away. Mothers hid with their children under beds. Mexico was a war zone and they knew what would come next. This was their reality.

Deckard stepped out of his Iveco assault truck as he watched four Samruk International assault teams storm the compound, swarming through the now empty door frame. In moments, it was all over. Not a shot had been fired.

“Six this is Zhen,” the Platoon Sergeant's voice crackled over his
MBITR
radio. Zhenis had received a battlefield promotion to his rank like Fedorchenko. Now Zhen ran second platoon while Fed ran first.

“Go ahead.”

“Objective secured. Five fighting age males, no civilians. Initiating our search.”

“Roger that, Zhen.”

“Zhen out.”

Deckard changed channels and reported their status up to Cody back at the OPCEN. Samruk functioned very well on a system of merit based ranks in which those with greater responsibility drew higher pay. However, they didn't have any real Officers in the Private Military Company. It was a Sergeant's game and they liked it that way. Still, Deckard now found himself playing the role of Platoon Leader while Zhenis was busy leading his men.

Deckard had to be the one thinking several steps ahead. Where were they going next, how would they get there, and how would they respond to any roadblocks thrown up in their way? This was his responsibility.