Guns for Hire

It was remarkably quiet for an airport, pretty empty too. Next to the terminal was an old rusting Tupolev airliner probably left over from the Cold War. It felt as though time had stopped here.

Standing on the runway, Marc Anderton checked his wristwatch for the fifth time in an hour. At six feet tall and a westerner, he was definitely different to any of the few maintenance workers at the airport. Not to mention the sidearm holstered under his left armpit and the rifle sticking out of his rucksack.

In a former life Marc had been a Corporal in the United States Marine Corps. He served a tour each in Afghanistan and Iraq. He’d decided that he had done his duty and had decided to sign up for this service to pay for his new family. His wife had begged him not to go, but he was resolute. He believed that this job wouldn’t be as dangerous as his tours. Besides it paid good money.

He heard it coming before he saw it. There was no mistaking the sound of an approaching chopper. The helicopter was a Mil Mi-17, an old but reliable Russian model with a gray paint job. It was moving in fast and low. Seconds later it was overhead and descending a few feet away, the sound deafening Marc and the rotors blowing dust in every direction.

Marc grabbed his rucksack and hunched a bit as he approached the chopper. There was a crew chief seated by the open doors, his left hand wrapped around a familiar M240 machinegun. He reached out his hand to Marc, who shook it. It was too loud to talk. Marc pointed back at the pallet of supplies that had come in with him and the crew chief gave him the thumbs up. As Marc put on a safety harness another crew chief handed him a pair of headphones that dampened the roar of the rotor blades. The first crew chief brought in the crate and tied it down before walking to the pilot and patting him on the shoulder. Once he was seated the helicopter took off, quickly leaving the airport behind.

Marc stared out the side and noted that they must be flying fifty feet off the deck, fast and low. Outside of the helicopter it was the same Central Asian terrain that he had gotten used to in Afghanistan, but with perhaps a little more vegetation. There were mostly shrubs here and there, an odd tree every once in a while. The place was mostly empty of life.

After about a half hour the helicopter seemed to climb before descending once again, passing by an ominous canyon. A minute later, it slowed to a hover and started to land. As soon as it touched down, Marc removed the headphones and picked up his rucksack. The crew chiefs extracted the supply crate. The co-pilot looked back and pointed out the right side doors. He stepped out and the crew chiefs got back on board. Just like that the chopper was gone.

In front of him was the compound, it had twelve foot high reinforced prefabricated walls topped off with barbed wire and high-grade cameras on the corners. Possibly gun ports in some parts of the wall. There was an open hardened door. Looking around, it was dry dirt out to half a kilometer. There were also trenches and berms in the dirt. Probably motion sensors out on the edges of the perimeter.

Standing against the wall and smoking a cigarette was another man. He tossed the cigarette butt to the side and walked up to Anderton. With the way he walked he had to be either a Sergeant or a Lieutenant. Gray hair streaked through the man’s otherwise brown hair. On his left shoulder was the patch for the 1st Recon Battalion and on the right was the insignia of their company, Spartan Military Industries.

The Recon Marine extended his hand, “Nice to see another leatherneck out here. Welcome to Forward Operating Site X-Ray.”

Marc returned the gesture. “Marc Anderton reporting…sir.”

The man waved his hand. “None of that formal shit out here boy. The name’s Raymond Fisher. Guy’s out here just call me Ray.” He pointed to the supply crate. “Now would you mind helping me out with this. Hopefully they remembered the steaks this time.”

They both hefted the remarkably heavy box and brought it into the enclosure. The door slammed shut behind them. Another man dressed in woodland pattern combat fatigues bolted it shut.

“Just leave it here,” Ray said. “We’ll let one of the supply pukes to deal with it. Alright I’ll introduce you to the guys in charge.” Directly in front of them was what looked like a square enclosure the size of two connected cargo containers, “That’s the supply hut. We keep most of the ammo and spare weapons in there.”

Turning left they walked to the command center. It was pretty much a dug in steel box surrounded and covered by sandbags. A satellite dish and other antennas stuck out the top. Pushing aside the curtain that served as the door the two former marines entered. Next to the entrance was a wall rack with a dozen rifles and a half-empty crate of grenades and claymores. There were a couple of cots to the side. On the left hand side were ten plastic chairs in no particular order, a projector with a pull-down sheet, and a bunch of maps. On the right were a tight group of high-tech communications consoles and digital screens.

Also in the room were five other men who turned to look at the newcomers. Standing by a massive map was a heavy-set man in his late 40’s, he had the name Noble on his left breast. “This the FNG?” he asked in a thick Australian accent.

“It sure is,” Ray responded.

“The name’s Marc Anderton,” Marc said.

“So it is,” Noble said. “Take a seat Mister Anderton. You’re going to be riding out in ten minutes.”

“But I just got here,” he said as he took a seat.

“What better way to get used to a new environment,” Noble replied before turning back to the map. “You all know the drill by now but I will repeat it for our new compatriot here.”

“You will drive through sectors one through five. Do checks on all pipeline linkages in those sectors. Repair the motion sensors in sector four. If you make contact with any unknowns remember the Rules of Engagement and identify, identify, identify. You know how corporate gets when he actually get around to doing our jobs.”

That last statement was met with laughter by the men seated.

“Anyway this should not take more than two, three hours at the most. Andrews will be the lead on this mission,” Noble said before checking a list. “Remember, do not get captured.”

There were a few chuckles to that remark before the other few men got up and headed out. A tall, muscular, definitely NCO type walked up to Marc and extended his hand. “The name is Bill Andrews.” They walked out together. “I was with the Paras in Sierra Leone and Iraq for a number of years, what unit did you serve with?”

“I was in the Marine Corps. I was a squad commander, served in Afghanistan and Iraq for a tour each.”

“I see,” Andrews replied. “It’s good to have men who’ve been tested in a fight.”

They walked further into the camp. To the left was a pair of 81mm mortars set up next to each other, one of them currently manned. After that was an open barbecue where one guy in an Interceptor vest and shorts was flipping burgers. Dominating more than a quarter of the compound was a number of cargo containers that were set up similarly to the command post with sandbags around and on top of them.

“Drop your things off at number three, bring your essentials, and meet the rest of the team in the motor pool in the southeast corner,” Andrews said before heading into the closest trailer, presumably his.

There were bright red numbers spray-painted on each steel container. Marc entered number three. He noticed two men sleeping in their bunk beds. Two other beds were empty, the one closest being completely bare. He quietly laid his rucksack down and unzipped it. He took out his weapon, an M4A1. He checked the bolt and slid in a clip. He put on a pair of wrap-around shades, a Camelbak pouch, and his Interceptor vest with armor plates as per regulations. With three more clips for his rifle he was ready and left.

Opening the door to the motor pool he was greeted by the strong stench of motor oil and other lubricants. In the middle of the area were two olive brown humvees, both of them the armored type M1114, one of which was in a maintenance position and being attended to by a couple mechanics. The other looked ready to move out. Andrews was standing beside it with two other men, both of whom he recognized from the briefing. The old Para called him over and showed him to the others, “This is Tom O’Brien, from your Navy. He’s our EOD specialist. And this is Ronald Spears, a fellow Para.”

“I prefer to be affiliated with the Scots Guard actually,” Spears said. “A superior fighting unit if I would say so.”

“You have become quite delusional,” changing topics, Andrews said, “We’re waiting for Fisher, your fellow Marine. Have you familiarized yourself with the ROE?”

“Yeah I have,” Marc replied. “But is there anything else I should know?”

“Just be alert for anything,” O’Brien said, pushing his wire-frame glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Our area is pretty safe. There hasn’t been an attack on one of these patrols for a couple months. Sure a couple of mines here and there but we usually get them before they do any harm. Hell, those are probably from leftovers the last war in this god forsaken place.”

Fisher busted into the motor pool, “Sorry about that, I just got an email from my wife. The doctor says she’s got a girl.”

“Good news for the father, whoever he is,” Andrews joked. “If we make this a quick one we can be celebrating soon enough. Spears you’re manning the gun this time.”

“Again?” Spears asked.

“Oh everyone knows that you have to compensate with the fifty caliber to make up for a little physical defect you have.”

Everyone had a laugh as they got in the vehicle. Andrews took the drivers’ seat with O’Brien taking the front passenger seat, Fisher in the rear left and Marc in the rear right. Spears sat in the armored cupola to operate the .50 cal. One of the mechanics working on the other humvee typed a code into a panel that opened the reinforced double doors.

The vehicle turned left and drove in between trenches and berms dug in on either side. Sensors poked out of the ground in the dirt at random positions.

“That’s our perimeter security,” Ray said. He took a bite out of a Snickers bar. “The locals think they’re mines so it works for both sides. They don’t bother us, we’ll do our job, and everyone goes home happy.”

“How are the locals?”

“Well we’re out in the boonies so we don’t really get that much contact with them. Most of the people live in the cities. Closest one is an hour away. That’s where the jobs are at. The way the economy is going not that many people bother coming out here.”

“What about the local military?” Marc asked.

“Local military is a joke,” Andrews said from the front. “They’ve been ordered to remain in their bases. The police are doing most of the work here, managing the elections and what not.”

“Personally I can’t wait for the elections to get done with,” Ray commented. “I just want to get home and be done with it.”

“Amen brother,” O’Brien interjected.

Twenty minutes later they made it to the first sector. They had driven off dirt roads and over streams instead of using the bridges. They were now parked about a hundred feet to the south of the pipeline that they were here to protect.

“Everyone but Spears dismount,” Andrews ordered and everyone piled out. “You know the drill, keep an eye out for anything.”

The team looked out, scanning for anything. The sun was beginning to set. There was nothing to see but shrubs all around, with a couple of hills to the north, and a rocky outcropping to the east. The pipeline dominated the west as it went from the north to the south for hundreds of miles, part of a massive multi-national network, connecting oil fields in the Caspian to ports far away.

Andrews took point, hefting his cut-down M249. Tom O’Brien followed behind him with an M4/M203 combination. He looked around for any newly dug up dirt or stray pieces of glinting metal. The two of them walked towards the pipe some more.

Ray and Marc stuck together. “So how long have you guys been out here?” Marc asked.

“I’ve been here for two months but Noble and Phillipe have been here for twice as long.”

“Who’s Phillipe?”

“He’s the boss at X-Ray. He’s French, was an officer in the Legion, paratroops, shit like that. Some combat experience in Africa, but he doesn’t really talk about it that much. He’s been there done that though. Him and a couple other guys are at the nearest city negotiating for supplies.”

After a five minutes of walking aimlessly Marc asked, “So is this really all you guys do?”

“Just about. The most exciting thing I’ve done is sit on an outboard platform on a Little Bird we have as these guys Burke and Walker did some maneuvers. This it probably the easiest pay check I’ve ever gotten,” Ray said with a smile. “You just got here in time. Most reports say we’re here a month tops, maybe.”

Andrews and O’Brien walked back to them. Andrews said, “All quiet on the western front. Let’s go check the other sites.”

They got back into the humvee and drove to the other sectors. They drove through flat plains, streams, and rocky outcroppings. Each trip lasted about a good half hour. They checked pipeline sections again and again. At sector four O’Brien screwed around with the motion sensors. They were about to hit the last sector when they stopped. The sun had at least another hour in the cloudless sky.

“X-Ray Six to X-Ray One,” Noble’s voice came in through the radio.

Andrews spoke into the handset, “X-Ray One here, what is it Six?”

“Pull back One, repeat, pull back,” Noble said. “There is a situation in the capital. Possible coup attempt, intelligence believes that the military was involved. Analysis indicates that they are hostile to our presence. Outpost Whiskey sees some activity at the army base fifty clicks out. Motion sensors in sector five indicate a heavy presence. Pull back to X-Ray ASAP.”

“Understood Six, we are on the way,” Andrews said. He cursed under his breath. He set the handset down and turned around, “I want everyone to keep a lookout, safeties off. Hold on tight.” He put the humvee into gear and spun it around. Marc and Ray looked out their respective windows for any movement. Andrews looked down at a map and calculated the quickest route. There was a bridge over a ravine nearby that would cut down their trip by fifteen minutes. After a few minutes they were on the road leading to there.

“Roadblock coming up,” O’Brien said. Ahead of the bridge were a parked army truck and more than twenty soldiers with a barrier set up on the road itself. They saw the approaching vehicle with different markings and dropped what they were doing before settling into defensive positions.

Andrews thought for a second, “Spears get ready to use the machinegun, the rest of you get ready as well.” He put his foot down harder on the pedal. Marc shouldered his M4, Fisher doing the same. Andrews made a hard right off the road and accelerated away from the blockade. The soldiers opened fire and rounds hit the back and left hand side of the humvee, the armor taking the hits. Spears spun around and returned fire with the fifty cal.

Suddenly there was an explosion and time stood still. Marc felt like he was floating between the present and the future. He didn’t hear anything but the rustling of the wind. The humvee then crashed down in a heap of heat, metal, and pain.