Alpha Contracts Page 3

  On the video a gun crew was manning a Russian KShKM 12.7 mm machinegun. It was mounted in the back of a Toyota pickup truck. You could hear the soldiers talking among themselves for a moment then someone yelled, “Adhhab!” a voice yelled. “Go!” The truck lurched out from around the corner to where there were three of the alien MinSha in their complicated body armor. They were going through a crashed truck, curiously examining the contents and showing each other items. The KShKM opened fire with its distinctive “Cha-cha-cha” rate of fire. The gunner was good, and he worked it across the entire group. There were bright sparks, and one of the aliens tumbled away. The gunner and his crew started cheering, “Allahu akbar!” over and over.

  An instant later the MinSha popped up behind the truck, and there were a few flashes of brilliant light. A single scream followed, and the camera fell to the ground and rolled over to stop on the pavement. A moment later an alien’s armored foot went by.

  “Saeidni, saeidni.” Help me, help me, someone called. There were a series of snapping whines, and the voice went silent.

  “Did you see that?” Jim asked, then backed up the video. He froze it just before the aliens started to take fire and advanced it one frame at a time. Over the next minute hit after hit was visible. One huge round could clearly be seen bouncing off an alien’s helmet. “Jesus Christ, Ted, did you see that?”

  “Yup,” the other man agreed.

  “And you’re still interested?”

  “Yup.” Jim grumbled and looked back at the papers. One contract caught his eye. “Commercial Security–5.5 million.” A security contract worth a quarter of a trillion dollars. He put the paper down and narrowed his eyes in thought.

  “Uh huh,” Ted said.

  “What?”

  “I know you, Boss; you’re starting to think.” Jim glared at him. “You know why I don’t think it’s crazy? In 1979, the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan, which had arguably the technology equivalent of 1940. By 1989, one of the most technologically advanced nations in the world gave up and left. They’d suffered 15,000 casualties and had 53,000 wounded. They’d also lost 450 aircraft and 147 tanks!”

  “Yeah,” Jim conceded. “And the Mujahedeen had lost about 100,000.”

  “True. But by the end, the Afghans were inflicting more casualties than they were suffering. They learned. What if we learn before?”

  “The U.S. military is acting on this?”

  “They’re sure their superior training will win the day,” Ted said. “The brass considers the alien mercs just that, part-time posers.”

  “All this Union has is mercs,” Jim mumbled; “there aren’t any militaries. They won’t be posers.” Jim thought again for a few minutes while Ted waited patiently. “If I were to be interested in one of these contracts—” he said, looking up and seeing the huge grin on his XO’s face, “—not that I’m saying I am, but if I were—how would I go about getting it?”

  “There will be a bidding process in three weeks. I don’t have all the details yet.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Let’s take a trip.” Jim got up and headed for the door. His wife heard him and looked up from her computer.

  “Where are you going, dear?” his wife, Lisa, asked.

  “Iran.”

  * * * * *

  Cartwright’s Cavaliers - 4

  Even with the 7,600 km range of the Ilyushin IL-76, it took two hops for Jim to reach the Persian Gulf. They landed in Lisbon, Portugal for a day. It was there Jim had the idea he hoped would get them into Iran. He brought out the Cartwright’s International charge card and bought 20 tons of relief aid in the form of water, MREs, and medical supplies.

  “Going into the aid business?” Ted asked as the trucks started to arrive.

  “Goodies for the natives,” Jim said as he checked items off his order.

  “I can’t believe we’re going back to the fucking sandbox,” Nina complained as she grudgingly helped the loadmaster stow pallets.

  “You’re just pissed the boss wouldn’t let you take a ma-deuce!” Jake laughed. She patted a big hardcase.

  “I got my Barrett,” she said, “which is better than that poodle-shooter you like.” Jake’s eyes narrowed. He had two of his beloved H&K MP-5s in a case by his seat. His were in .40 caliber, but the 9mm variant was often referred to as a poodle-shooter due to the 9mm’s notoriously poor stopping ability.

  “Any response from the Iranian State Department?” Jim asked Alex.

  “No sir,” Alex replied. “Emails aren’t bouncing, but with Tehran glowing in the dark, I think the lights are on in DC but nobodies home.”

  “All this shit is going to play hell with the plane’s performance,” Slim complained. He stood in the cockpit door, cowboy hat pushed back, looking distastefully at the pallets being secured.

  “Just make sure we’re gassed and ready to lift off,” Jim told him. The Texan nodded in acknowledgement. Jim had a hard time imagining him flying F-18 Hornets, even though he hadn’t flown a fighter in 25 years.

  Two hours later, the Ilyushin taxied down the runway and took off into the afternoon sky. Six hours later they were over the Persian Gulf, and Jim was yelling into the radio.

  “What do you mean we can’t land? I’ve got 20 tons of humanitarian aid, and you have starving people!” The person responding was using heavily-accented English.

  “It does not matter what you have, American. You may not land in the Islamic Republic of Iran without clearance.”

  “And who the fuck do I get that from when Tehran is glowing in the dark?” As soon as it was out of his mouth he regretted it.

  “Any attempt to land will result in your plane being shot down. You are denied landing.”

  “Fuck!” Jim yelled, throwing the headset onto the little desk.

  “Told ya,” Slim said. The plane was on autopilot, and he was half turned around in the cracked and faded chair, watching as the owner of Cartwright’s International got madder and madder. Ted caught the copilot passing Slim a $50 below Jim’s view. “Y’all better decide where you want to go, because we’re getting down to bingo fuel, and this crate glides about like a Chevy Nova without its doors.”

  Jim picked up a map from the navigator’s desk and eyed it, running his finger along their course. He grabbed the radio again and dialed a frequency.

  “I’ve got a friend,” he said as a traffic controller came on. He spoke for a few minutes and eventually got the person he wanted. Luck was with him this time. “We can land in Dubai,” he said. Slim nodded, spoke to the copilot, and the plane made a turn to the south. Thirty minutes later they were taxiing down the runway. In the distance, huge A-380 aircraft and other luxury jets lined the terminals.

  Jim ended up spending almost a week in the United Arab Emirates while his legal department dealt with what remained of Iran’s diplomatic apparatus. All the while, he complained and fumed.

  “We’re a registered military contractor with the U.S. Government,” Ted reminded him. “Did you just expect them to let us land?” Jim glared at him. “Even with a plane full of hastily-bought bribes?”

  Finally, they were back in the air for the two-hour flight across the Gulf of Oman. As they approached the shore, the horizon took on a hazy look. Most of Jim’s team crowded behind the cockpit to look out the plane’s wide cockpit window.

  “The fires have been burning for six months,” Slim said. As they got closer, some of the smoke plumes resolved into individual funeral pyres. He pointed to a few. “Bandar-e-Jask, Poshti, Gurdim,” he said. “Chabahar is the only area they left mostly intact.”

  “Then they landed troops,” Ted said. Slim nodded. A minute later a solitary F-14 pulled up alongside. Iran’s green, white, and red emblem was clearly visible on its tail.

  “This is the Iranian Air force. American aircraft, identify yourself,” came the voice over the cockpit PA.

  “Iranian Air Force aircraft,” Slim said into his headset, “this is N-3339, private U.S. aircraft licensed to Cartwright’s Inte
rnational, arriving with civilian aid.”

  “Do you have landing permission?”

  “Yes,” Slim said and slowly read the numbers off a form Jim had.

  “American craft N-3339, do not deviate from your flight path while I verify this information.”

  “I wonder how many of those they have left?” the copilot asked, gesturing toward the F-14 with her chin.

  “One?” Slim said. The flight crew chuckled at the dark humor.

  “American aircraft, your landing right is approved. Follow me to land at Konarak. Any deviation or attempt to land elsewhere, and I will shoot you down.”

  “Friendly,” Jim said.

  “Understood,” Slim replied simply and turned the transmit off. “Okay, Boss, now what?”

  “Now land.” He said. I’ll make the rest up as we go, he thought.

  The Konarak airport didn’t look much better than the rest of Iran. Many of the buildings were gutted wrecks. Jim spotted two CH-47 Chinook helicopters ruined on the ground. One looked like it had flown into the tarmac; the other appeared to have been cut in half with some kind of weapon.

  “Fuck, look at that,” Nina said, pointing at the latter helicopter.

  “Laser, I bet,” Alex said.

  “They didn’t have a chance,” Jim agreed.

  The runway wasn’t in bad shape; the plane only bumped a few times over repaired potholes. As they reached the end and turned onto the taxiway, a pair of big army trucks pulled alongside to escort them. Both had KShKM machine guns mounted on the roof, with gunners sitting behind them holding their handles. They didn’t point the weapons at the Ilyushin, but it wouldn’t have taken a half second to change that.

  They were directed to taxi to one of the few remaining hangars, where Slim set the brake and shut down the engines.

  “There you go,” he told Jim. “Hope y’all got a plan.”

  “I will by the time I need one,” Jim said.

  “Better work fast,” Ted said, gesturing outside. The military trucks were disgorging hundreds of men who were, quite literally, surrounding the plane in a ring of armed soldiers. “Iranian Guard,” he said, “I figured they’d all be toast.”

  “Drop the ramp,” Jim ordered. “All weapons locked in the armory. Nothing more than a knife, understand me?” He looked directly at Nina when he said the last. She scowled but nodded in understanding. Jim headed to the back of the plane where the hydraulic motors were whining, and the ramp was slowly going down. Outside stood a man in dress uniform, ramrod straight, with two more men standing behind him, one to either side. Further back was an entire squad of men, all holding battle rifles at port arms. He looked the reception, took a breath, and began walking down the ramp.

  The people waiting there for him came to even stiffer attention. Jim summoned his best West Point training and marched up to the man in the lead. On his shoulder boards were three suns, which he remembered was the Iranian rank of Colonel. Then he realized just how short the guy was. He couldn’t be 5’ 4” tall! Jim’s 6’ 2” nearly towered over the colonel, and yet the man didn’t seem intimidated by it in the least.

  “Colonel Kuru Shirazi,” the man said, bringing his right hand up in a salute. Jim let a little of his breath out.

  “Colonel,” Jim said and returned the salute. “Captain Jim Cartwright, U.S. Army, retired, now commander of Cartwright’s International.”

  “Welcome to the Islamic Republic of Iran, Captain,” Kuru said, dropping the salute at the same instant Jim did. He glanced past Jim to Ted.

  “This is Gunnery Sergeant Theodore Oxnard, U.S. Marine Corps, retired, my XO.” Kuru nodded to Ted, who nodded back. Jim knew Ted was probably having a bad case of deja vu, being in Iran of all places. A long time ago the man had fought in Iraq against Iranian insurgents.

  “And this is Second Colonel Farrokh Jahandar, my XO, and Captain Samir Rajavi.” Both men saluted smartly, though perhaps with a bit less aplomb.

  “Pleasure,” Jim said as he returned their salutes.

  “Now, Captain Cartwright, perhaps you can tell me what you are doing in Iran?”

  “We’re bringing aid,” Jim said and gestured to the nearly full plane.

  “Were that so, Captain, you could simply have left it at the international aid staging center area in Muscat. Surely you noticed Oman as you flew over.”

  Jim considered his options, just as he’d been doing the entire week he’d spent getting here. Bluffing was one option, though something told him Colonel Shirazi would not be an easy one to bluff. He could try intimidation, but there again, the Arabs were not the easiest to intimidate, especially when you weren’t doing so from a position of power. He could also try bribery. Looking around the remnants of the Konarak airport said that throwing money at the man probably wouldn’t work. Most Iranians were unhappy with America at least partly for their wealth, and that they perceived the wealth came at the Arab world’s expense. That only left one viable option.

  “We came to find out how you killed the MinSha soldiers.” Ted openly gawked at Jim as Colonel Shirazi regarded his opposite with an unchanged curiosity.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes. All anyone seems to have seen is the aliens kicking your asses all over the country.” Shirazi stiffened, ever so slightly. “I’ve spent the last week watching every single minute of video I could find on the ground fighting. Forget the air battle or armor; they walked over those with lightning speed.”

  “Indeed,” Shirazi agreed with a growl.

  “I mean the small unit action. From what I saw, you did everything you could with what you had; mostly out-of-date U.S. hardware dating back before the revolution and antiquated Soviet shit. Every single video shows you out-matched and swept aside.” Shirazi’s gaze was laser intense now, but Jim bulled ahead, his course set. “And still, you held this airbase, and you inflicted casualties.”

  “And why are you looking for this information?” the colonel asked.

  “Because we’re considering taking one of the mercenary contracts, and unlike the other American outfits, we don’t think the aliens will be a walkover just because they aren’t a regular military unit.”

  “That is very intelligent of you,” the colonel said with a nod. Jim stood in the Iranian heat and felt the sweat rolling down his back. He hated wet underwear. Eventually the colonel spoke again. “While this plan is admirable, I fail to see what it does for me.”

  “Don’t you want to see someone get a little payback?”

  “I care not who else might hurt the aliens.” Jim frowned a little. “I want to be the one to hurt them.”

  Ah, Jim thought, that makes sense. Revenge has always been a well-developed Middle Eastern instinct. “I’ll tell you what, Colonel Shirazi. Give me and my men access to your people who fought, show us any recordings you have, and we’ll share our conclusions with you.”

  “And the supplies,” Shirazi said, nodding toward the loaded plane. “Since you brought them this far, it would be a shame to have to carry them all the way back home again.”

  “Of course,” Jim said, bowing.

  “Come out of the heat, my new American friend, and let’s have some tea while we discuss this further.” Jim grinned. He had his foot in the door.

  * * * * *

  Cartwright’s Cavaliers - 5

  “You didn’t tell him everything.” Jim looked up at Ted as the older man dropped into the seat next to him. He passed his boss a cup of coffee, which was gratefully accepted. Ten hours before his next cigarette. The Ilyushin IL-76 was winging its way back west; the Iranian F-14 had peeled off and left them over international waters 30 minutes ago, and Jim finally breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Of course I didn’t,” Jim admitted, “and he didn’t tell me everything either.” He sipped the potent brew, smacking his lips as the strong flavor washed over his tongue and savoring the rich aroma. Colonel Shirazi had gifted them with 100 lbs. of prime Turkish coffee. Jim, in turn, had given the Iranian a presentation pistol from h
is collection, a Magnum Research Desert Eagle in .50 AE. Sure, it was a bit of a gag gift, giving the Iranian Republican Guard commander an Israeli pistol, but the colonel seemed genuinely pleased. Jim had given him a case of 1,000 rounds with it. That cartridge was hard to find, and, without the gun, he had no use for it himself. “Besides, what difference does it make? It’s not like the MinSha are going to invade again.”

  The colonel had refused to give Jim copies of any of their media and only audio records of his troops’ accounts. So Alex had followed them around with several nearly invisible cameras on himself, recording everything. It was all an interesting study in desperation. The Iranians didn’t hold anything back. They threw Colonel Shirazi’s troops at the MinSha with wonton abandon. He did a remarkable job of coordinating them; unfortunately, the militia didn’t do as good a job of coordinating with the army. The scene he’d seen with the crew on the technical was just one of those instances. There were many more.

  What had ended up working was two things. A fire team got behind enemy lines and fired a thermobaric RPG round into a squad of 6, hitting one of the aliens in the back. The explosion killed two, and possibly wounded another. The Iranian fire team was wiped out, but the attack had been filmed from an apartment window several blocks away. The other success was a suicide bomber who detonated his bomb while an alien was examining him, thinking he was dead.

  “The colonel didn’t like your explanation,” Ted pointed out. Jim shrugged. “Asymmetrical warfare apparently isn’t something the bug-eyed-monsters have practiced.” Jim held out a tablet computer on which some of the alien’s warfare writers were displayed. “Where the fuck did you get that?”

  “General Thales.”

  “You mean Ambassador Thales,” Ted corrected.