Direct Action - 03 (38 page)

“Bill, my friend!”

“What's happening Yezza?” Bill asked as they embraced each other. “These two are part of my new crew,” he said pointing to the other Liquid Sky members.

“Welcome, welcome,” Yezza said as he stood aside and let them into his home. Turning to the maid, he motioned for her to get to the kitchen and fetch some drinks.

“Yezza is one of my boys going way back,” Bill said. “Good for action and logistics.”

“I could find a Russian hooker in the Vatican,” Yezza said with a confident smile.

“Did I teach you that?”

“Does a hobby horse have a wooden dick?”

Even Deckard laughed at that one as Yezza cracked the joke in broken English. The Operator remained expressionless.

Yezza walked them through his living room. Paintings of seascapes were hung on the walls. Otherwise, it was all velvet pillows and golden curtain rods. Out on the back deck they had a brilliant view of the ocean and a cloudless blue sky.

“Damn, this place is pretty nice when you guys are not killing each other,” Bill chuckled.

“I know, I know,” Yezza said as if he were stating the obvious. “Please sit,” he said pointing to the metal chairs he had around a table.

“Like I was saying,” Bill began. “Yezza can get you anything. This guy knows guns.”

“I am the man,” Yezza confirmed.

As they took their seats, the maid set out bottles of beer for them.

“Talk to me, Yezza,” Bill said. “You know what I'm here for.”

“Yes, well, this is something quite special. It exists, of course, or you wouldn't be here. I've located what you are interested in.”

“But?” Deckard saw it coming from a mile away.

“But it is held by another militia.”

“For fucks sake, I should have known this couldn't be simple,” Bill said.

Yezza swallowed a gulp of beer. Upon closer inspection, Deckard noted that he wasn't just wearing Ray Bans. No, those were Ray Bahns. Those bad boys really closed the deal.

“It is the Green Mountain militia boys,” Yezza said with a sigh. “They've been a thorn in my side ever since the Americans peeled out of Benghazi. The Agency came back after a month but I don't have protection the way I once did, you know? Anyway, the militia is holding on to the weapons stockpile as a bargaining chip.”

“What do they plan to do with it?” Bill asked.

“Trade it to the CIA in exchange for a security contract that will be routed through the State Department.”

“Some people never learn.”

“Tell me about it. First Gaddafi was public enemy number one for the United States, then you were friends, then you flipped the switch on him and here we are. I stopped trying to figure out what your President is thinking. Now I'm just hoping to still be standing when the smoke clears.”

“We did not elect the usurper,” The Operator said. “We serve the people.”

Deckard bit his tongue. After all, he was the team smartass.

“Fucking undercover Muslim,” Bill snorted. “No offense.”

Yezza held up a hand.

“None taken my friend. Surely there must be another member of the Bush family that can run for office, no?”

“I hope so,” Bill said. “I'm trying to run a business here after all.”

They sat in silence for one long moment, looking at each other.

“Can you take us there?” Bill asked.

“Yes, tonight,” Yezza answered. “I have a private collection of weapons in the house that you can choose from.”

“And shipment on to the destination?”

“I ship weapons from here to Turkey. Where they go after that I do not know,” Yezza said, his fat face split wide open as he smiled. “Everyone knows this.”

Yezza's private armory was impressive to say the least. It was all top of the line along, with special rare weapons he had cherry picked from the stockpiles the arms dealer had taken control of during and after the civil war.

The wall hangers were something else. Deckard even spotted an ultra-rare Nazi STG-44 submachine gun. In some ways it was the predecessor to Mikhail Kalashnikov's famous AK-47 rifle.

Deckard claimed an HK 416 for himself. It seemed that Yezza also got a load of weapons that had flowed into the country from the European powers during the 2011 Libyan Civil War. Next he found a Glock 17 and a holster for it.

“The Glock,” The Operator surprised Deckard as he came up from behind. “A reliable pistol. I prefer the 1911. That is what I carried in the desert.”

“God's gun?”

“The Creator has no need for open carry,” The Operator deadpanned.

“What's that over there?” Deckard asked pointing to the 1911 pistol on the wall.

“Yes, that is what I will use.”

The Operator picked up the pistol and immediately blew through a complete functions check, his hands moving in a blur of motion as he completed checking the safety, trigger, and trigger reset in a fraction of a second as he worked the gun as he had so many others, doing it out of pure muscle memory.

“Perfect. A Rock Island Armory .45 caliber 1911. It is not a five thousand dollar pistol, nor need it be.” The Operator nodded. “There are show horses and there are work horses. This is a work horse and will perform to my standards.”

“Yeah,” Deckard said. “Cool.”

He was pretty gear queer himself, but this guy was over the top.

Bill walked in, grabbed up the other 416 hanging on the wall, blew dust off a Beretta 92F pistol and walked out.

“Hurry the fuck up you two, we need to get on the road.”

The Operator looked at the STG-44 on the wall for a moment, seriously considering carrying a World War Two era gun into combat and then changed his mind and opted for a SIG MP-X sub-machine gun with a suppressor.

Deckard followed him out the door, shuddering to think of what was coming next.

Yezza pointed to the bright lights coming from above the desert ridge. Night had come fast in the desert.

“That is where you will find what you are looking for,” he said. “You can take my fighters.”

They had driven an hour outside of Benghazi into the desert to an old ammunition bunker complex that had been built by the Gaddafi regime. It had changed hands a few times over the last couple years from Gaddafi, to an American private military company that had been hired to secure WMD sites in Libya, then to Yezza who was hired to watch over the depot until it could be destroyed; then, the Green Mountain militia shot their way in and captured it from him about a month ago.

Now, the Green Mountain militia was working a backroom deal with the U.S. government to turn over the arms depot and everything inside in exchange for a hefty security contract paid for by the State Department. Liquid Sky had to get what they needed out of the depot before that happened.

The three Liquid Sky members stood in the desert with Yezza and a dozen of his gunfighters.

“You can stay in the low ground here and sneak right up to the perimeter,” the Libyan gun runner said.

“I appreciate the help,” Bill said. “I'll take however many fighters you are willing to lend me.”

“Take them all. I want this depot back in my hands.”

“So you can sell the weapons to the Syrian rebels?”

“So I can sell the weapons to the Syrians and then trade in the scraps to the Americans for that big time security contract,” Yezza said with a smile.

“We'll see what we can do.”

Deckard took point as the others filed in behind him. He kept in the defilade, creeping his way up the ridge towards the arms depot. When the top of the concrete bunkers came into view, he hunched over to avoid skylining himself against the horizon. Finally, he got down on his stomach and leopard crawled forward to a depression that kept him out of the bright stadium lighting that surrounded the bunkers.

Bill snorted behind him, not even bothering to crawl, he just bent over and stayed as low as possible then laid down alongside Deckard. The Operator conducted a perfect high crawl straight out of the field manual. Yezza's fighters followed Bill's lead, and then plopped down next to them facing the armory.

“What do you think?” Bill asked Deckard while they waited for The Operator to catch up.

Deckard took one look at the bunkers and sized them up in an instant. He was an expert tactician if nothing else. He wished he had a whole company of Rangers to do this right, but from working in unconventional warfare environments, he knew how to work with what he had on hand. The compound was lightly guarded considering there were over ten bunkers, presumably filled with weaponry.

“Move to contact on the closest bunker to establish a foothold while flexing four of Yezza's fighters and one of us on the right flank of the objective to knock out that technical,” Deckard said pointing to a pickup truck with a ZPU-2 anti-aircraft gun mounted on its bed. “Use the ZPU to suppress the other bunkers and enemy troops while we initiate our movement to the next bunker. Leapfrog forward in alternating bounds from bunker to bunker while we have a driver cheat forward with the ZPU to keep suppressive fire on the enemy.”

“That's a pretty good plan, Deckard.”

“I'd like to think so,” Deckard said with a hint of feigned arrogance in his voice.

“But I've got a better one,” Bill said.

“I left my wingsuit at home.”

“Delta Dan, get up here,” Bill said giving The Operator another nickname. “You're up.”

The Operator crawled up to their position and looked over the compound.

“Where do you want me?”

“I want you to take down this compound.”

“Solo?”

“Make it happen.”

“Roger.”

The Operator checked the loads in his 1911 and MP-X sub-machine gun one final time before crawling off towards the compound.

“You can't be fucking serious?” Deckard said. “We're going to back him up right?”

“Maybe. First let's see what he can do. I've heard some stories about this dude.”

“You and me both.”

“Word on the street is that The Operator is a legend in the unit. Embassy take downs, raiding drug labs in the jungle, low-vis hostage rescue ops in denied areas, blowing up SCUD launchers out in the desert, shoot outs with the Russian mob on ops to recover nuclear material, calling in airstrikes until there is nothing left but armpits hanging from tree limbs. Bat shit crazy stuff.”

“He is a legend. Been there, done that. Got the t-shirt, then went back and got t-shirts for all his ex-wives and estranged children.”

“You're a hater, Deckard.”

“The Operator is unstable. They fucked that dude in the head so many ways that it isn't even funny. He ran combat operations forever, many of them pumped full of issued
Modafinil to keep him awake for long-duration high-stress missions. That and pseudo-ephedrine which the guys call 'ranger speed.' When he started showing signs of PTSD, they didn't want to let him go out to pasture, so they prescribed him a half-dozen different medications, none of them cleared by the FDA by the way, to deal with depression, anxiety, and paranoia, not to mention drugs for anti-psychosis purposes and others to help him sleep at night. They ran him like that for years until he finally burned out and snapped.”

“Snapped?”