Stream of Madness Page 5

  Christ! I can't even remember what a decent night's sleep is anymore.

  He glanced over at his bed mate. Jade was still sleeping peacefully.

  The caller ID on the phone showed an unlisted number. Joe clicked the Talk button and answered as softly as he could, not wanting to wake Jade.

  "Hello?"

  "Braddock! It's Major Stanlin. Where the hell have you been?"

  The brusque voice of his superior was the last thing he expected to hear. Joe could have sworn the Major never slept.

  "Trying to sleep, sir. Is there somethi–"

  "Can it. I need you at the Cottage in exactly one hour."

  Joe was beginning to think he was still dreaming. "Ah...sorry sir, could you say that again?"

  "Something important has come up. We need you here ASAP."

  "Sir, I don't know if you remember, but you fired me last week..."

  "Your suspension is rescinded. I'm expecting you in precisely fifty-three minutes. You're going to Syria, Braddock. Pack your bags and get here now!"

  With that, the call immediately ended.

  Joe stared at the phone for a long moment, a look of sheer bewilderment on his face.

  Did I hear him right? Syria?

  "What's wrong?"

  Jade was half sitting up, a look of apprehension on her face. Joe clicked off the phone and turned to look at his lover.

  "Sorry I woke you."

  "Was that the Major?"

  "Yeah...I gotta go."

  He stood up from the bed and pulled on his jeans and T-shirt. Jade pulled the bedsheet around her body and sat up, blinking away the sleep.

  "What happened to your suspension?"

  Joe began packing up his duffle bag. "Looks like something is brewing in Syria. He didn't say anything more than that."

  "Are you sure you're okay to go?"

  Joe stopped packing at hearing the odd question, "What do you mean?"

  "I mean...you don't think you should take some time before going back to the fray?"

  “My ankle is fine. I’m a quick healer.”

  “That’s not what I mean. You don’t…you haven’t been yourself lately.”

  "Goddamn it, this is what I do, Jade!" he snapped, "I'm a soldier. That's all I know how to be. I need to make good on my mistakes, otherwise I’ll be carrying them for the rest of my life."

  Jade averted her eyes. He could tell she was doing her best to suppress her own fiery temper. Joe suddenly felt smaller than a toad on a highway. He shook his head in frustration and finished packing his things. Grabbing his keys from the desk he moved over and sat on the bed. Jade didn't meet his eyes.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to snap at–"

  Jade cut him off. "You know your own mind better than I do. Go. If it’s important, they will probably be calling me any minute."

  “We can go together if you want.”

  “No, I’ll meet you there.”

  The tone in her voice told Joe to stop arguing. He sighed and leaned in to kiss her goodbye. She brushed him off, not meeting his gaze. Knowing that anything else he said would place him further into the rut he'd dug, Joe stood up and headed for the door.

  “Joe!”

  Braddock stopped just as he opened the door to leave, “Yeah?”

  “It isn’t up to you to save everyone. You’re part of a team, you know.”

  “I know, but if I don’t try, who the hell will?”

  Chapter 4

  Objectives

  The Cottage, Peacemaker HQ

  July 15th, 2015

  Nestled due south of Joint Base Andrews on what was once a Naval training ground, the Cottage was a stone's throw away from the community of Rosaryville. Due to budgetary cuts two years ago, the Navy mothballed the compound, consisting of four central buildings, two of which were troop barracks. A large training ground nestled in the white oaks had also been shut down. The location had stood for some time in complete disuse. Then, five months ago, at the urging of Joe Braddock and Colonel Walsh, the compound was leased to the Army at a pittance. With aid from the CIA, the location was overhauled and restocked to become a functional HQ for Walsh's new and growing Unit of anti-PMC soldiers.

  Joe guided his 2014 Indian Chief Classic up to the main building which gave the compound its name. Parking the motorbike in the parking lot, Joe lifted his duffle bag from the back and jogged towards the stairs leading in to the Cottage. The largest of the four complexes, it housed the command hub of the Unit. Standing four stories, it followed the Navy's general lack of artistic design, being a simple rectangular shaped complex painted a dull light grey.

  His eyes flicked momentarily to the training field surrounding the four main buildings of the Cottage. Joe saw a group of men and women performing early morning calisthenics, led by a man who could only be Alistair 'Brick' Reynolds. The ex-SAS soldier had personally requested taking on the task of training the new unit recruits himself. Joe had wanted the task, but the newly appointed Major Stanlin had deferred to the SAS soldier's experience and re-assigned Joe to active duty instead.

  As Braddock approached the Command building, a lone figure stood outside in the early morning sun, his beefy, dark-brown arms folded in front of him.

  "Joe, my good friend, long time, no?"

  Krieger, the brawny Russian-Arab mercenary, greeted Joe as he climbed the short set of stairs into the Cottage.

  The two men shook hands before entering the Command building.

  "Only a week,” Joe said, grinning slightly, “or don't you remember?"

  "Yes, well, the Major was not very easy on you then. I have tried to block out memory."

  Since Major Stanlin had taken over the unit, Krieger had been forced to cut his long dark hair to an acceptable length. Joe would often chide the Russian over his new look, saying he resembled a burly fireman more than a soldier.

  Joe followed the Russian through the first floor of the Cottage. Little real construction work had been done to the upper sections of the building as it resembled nothing more than a typical office complex. On the top anyway.

  The bottom floors of the Cottage were a whole different ballgame.

  Various staff hustled here and there, performing the assigned tasks of their station. Everything had the feel of a well-run operation. They reached the elevator and went up to the top floor.

  Along the way, Krieger made light conversation, bringing Joe up to date on recent activities. Due to his suspension, Joe was out of the loop on the past week’s operations. As they talked, Joe realized how much he missed this job. Soldiering was what kept him focused. The darkness in his mind dissipated as he returned to the place where order and discipline were the name of the game.

  “The Code disc has been moved to second floor basement.” Krieger said.

  Joe raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Still no luck in cracking the thing?”

  “Nope. From the sound of it, the techs may never come close.”

  Figures, thought Joe. That stupid piece of metal had caused more than its share of death and pain since the Peacemakers stole it from Olympus. Whether it would ever prove useful was more in doubt than ever.

  Krieger changed the subject, “Orchid has been successful on her mission to Indonesia,” he said as the approached the main conference room, “She will be on her way to Japan after to begin tests of new weapon the CIA is developing.”

  “What new weapon?” Joe asked.

  “Major Stanlin did not say.”

  Typical, thought Joe. Stanlin kept most of his command decisions close to his chest. Before he could inquire further on Orchid’s mission, they reached the main conference room of the Command building. Krieger gestured for Joe to go first. "Be careful...he is in one of his moods."

  Joe prepared himself for the worst as he knocked on the door.

  “Come in!” shouted a voice on the other side.

  Joe entered the room, followed closely by Krieger. The conference hall was no more impressive than any other area of the Command building
. A long, mahogany table surrounded by a dozen chairs spread across the room where at the end a large LED screen had been attached to the wall. A hefty aroma of fresh paint hung in the room that would give its occupants headaches after a time. For the most part, the room was nearly bare.

  Save for Major Stanlin and his assistant.

  Joe had met William Stanlin literally the moment they had returned from the Zimbalan operation. Sent to oversee the transfer of the Peacemaker Unit to its new digs while Colonel Walsh underwent therapy for his cancer, the Major had taken charge of the unit like a bulldog yanking a leash. Due to the success of the Zimbalan campaign, the Pentagon had stepped up recruitment for the fledgling unit. Over the past year, Walsh's team of five had grown to nearly 120, filled out with recruits from the Army, Navy and CIA Special Operations Group (SOG). These highly motivated, intensely trained men and women would make up the primary operational wing of the Peacemakers, backed by a staff of over four hundred techs and specialists.

  Having served several years in Iraq commanding Special Forces operations, Major Stanlin was an ideal choice to help oversee such a quick increase in recruitment and staffing.

  But he was also a major hard-ass.

  Joe knew the team had become used to Colonel Walsh's easy going command style. The Colonel approached everything with a calm, military manner – analysing the situation, then allowing the men in the unit to utilize their unique talents in solving the problem before them.

  Stanlin, on the other hand, ruled the Unit with cold efficiency; making sure everyone in it ran − at all times − like a perfect, well-oiled machine.

  Too perfect, Joe thought. Although he wasn't at all one to shirk hard work and discipline, he often found Stanlin's overbearing managerial skills off-putting and overly cruel. As Staff Sergeant of the unit, Joe was the ranking NCO in charge of day-to-day operations, but Stanlin loved to micromanage everything, which added massive amounts of work to Joe's schedule. His mission to Lebanon had felt like a vacation compared to the heaps of work dumped on him over the past eight months. At least the work had kept his mind off Danny, but...there were always the nightmares for that.

  As Krieger shut the door of the conference room behind them, Joe stopped and stood to attention. He was not formally dressed, but that didn’t matter. He was on duty, and would present himself as such.

  "Sergeant Braddock reporting, sir."

  Major Stanlin was standing at the head of the mahogany table, peering with interest at an iPad held by a young female assistant. He made a few adjustments to the device, not acknowledging Braddock. Joe stood firm, waiting for his CO to give him the dignity of a response.

  After letting Joe stand fast for nearly a minute, Stanlin passed the iPad back to his assistant. The Major gave Joe a slight nod before saying. "Don't bother sitting, Sergeant, this won't take long." The assistant made her way towards the door. Before she left, Stanlin called after her, "Miss Laxley, could you get the lights, please?"

  As she left, the assistant dimmed the overhead fluorescents.

  Joe tensed. He had to admit, the Major was an impressive figure. Standing nearly six and a half feet, the man towered over most individuals in the Peacemakers, save Krieger. He had the look of a high school football player; the kind that enjoyed stepping on geeks in the hallway. His muted brown eyes seemed to regard Joe as if he were merely another insect in a large hive of workers; to be sent out to fight the rabid horde of fire ants at his whim. His bland, perfectly cropped silver hair cemented the image of a man completely fine with not giving a shit what other people thought of him.

  Joe hated Will Stanlin.

  "Hope you enjoyed your little sabbatical, Sergeant," Stanlin said, picking up a small electronic remote from the table. "Despite your best attempts to prove the opposite, it looks like you may have some use after all."

  "Always nice to be needed, sir." Joe's voice showed not a hint of sarcasm. It was a gift.

  “Please join me, gentleman,” Stanlin said, “We've already wasted enough time.”

  Joe and Krieger moved to stand beside the Major. Stanlin pointed the remote at the LED display where an aerial image of the Middle East filled the screen.

  “Our mission in Lebanon proved to us that Olympus has indeed been working with President Bashar al-Assad’s regime, and not just in supplying cookies and milk. That boat you sunk had significantly more ammunition and ordnance than was originally reported. Plus the fact that they felt it necessary to guard the shipment with an Olympus Lord.”

  The LED screen focused for a moment on an animated map image of Lebanon and Syria. Stanlin explained the image, “Olympus was running a supply train from Beirut to Damascus for al-Assad, all to help in the President’s battle against the Islamic State and the Syrian Opposition rebel forces."

  Joe listened intently. Most of this was old news, but the Major had a habit of drilling information in so one would never forget.

  Stanlin continued, "The Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant controls nearly forty percent of Syria now. I don't know if you've been watching CNN lately, but the jihadist psychopaths of ISIL just massacred twenty innocent and unarmed Arab Christians trying to flee across the Euphrates into Assad controlled Syria. They were beheaded, the women among them raped and dismembered."

  Joe took a long breath. He didn't need to be reminded. It seemed like every day there was a new report about ISIL beheading some innocent person for some ridiculous reason...or no reason at all.

  "They are scum," Krieger added, his voice unusually solemn, "They call themselves holy warriors, following a mission of jihad against imperialists. They want to throw out all non-Sunni Muslims and create a – how do you say – caliphate: a place run by Sharia law."

  "What does this have to do with us, sir?" Joe asked Stanlin, folding his arms. He was well aware of the ISIL threat and was eager for the Major to get to the point.

  "Over the past year, the al-Assad government has been employing private military contractors from various allied countries in the Middle East. This includes our good friends, Olympus."

  Joe shook his head. "What's the angle, sir? What does all of this mean?"

  "The angle, as you put it Sergeant, is irrelevant now. CIA contacts in the country have informed us Olympus is packing up and leaving. The Assad government's funds are drying up, having been forced to fight a two-front war for nearly four years. Olympus has no use for someone who can't pay their bills."

  The Major's explanation sounded fishy to Joe. This seemed like a perfect time for Olympus to thrive in Syria. The PMC thrived in countries hard up for cash. If Syria was so bankrupt, why wasn't Olympus jumping on this opportunity to put the country into its pocket?

  Before he could mention his thoughts, Stanlin pressed a button on the remote which in turn zoomed the image onto a sizable area in Central Syria, known as the Homs Governorate.

  "This is the real angle for us, gentleman. Yesterday, at around 0600 our time, the CIA stationhouse in Lebanon received a communiqué via Usenet. They still have no idea how their location was leaked, but apparently the sender knew precisely where to send the message. It took a few hours to decrypt, but this is what we were able to make out." As Stanlin adjusted the remote, he looked at Joe, his eyes dark with suspicion. "You may want to pay attention to this part, Sergeant. Here's where things get interesting."

  The screen switched to a fuzzy, but coherent camera image of an armored Olympus Centurion. The trooper awkwardly fumbled with the camera, then stood back. All that Joe was able to make out of the area behind the soldier was a mass of stones, probably from the inside of a home of some sort. The trooper seemed to hesitate for a second, his expressionless obsidian helmet staring blankly at the camera.

  Then, with a decision being reached, the Centurion removed his helmet. It was a man, in his early to mid-forties. A grisly scar stuck out visibly along the side of his sharply cut hair. Despite the poor resolution of the image, Joe could see his face was raw and battle-hardened, with a nose that looked like
it had been broken more than once. The Centurion began to speak, his voice deep and emotionless.

  "My name is Centurion Epsilon 1, of the Olympus 3rd Cohort. A CIA pattern analysis of my face will reveal that I am actually Sandor Delacroix, once of the United States Special Forces. This message is for Joseph Braddock, of the Peacemaker Unit."

  Joe's guts twisted into a pretzel.

  "I am sending this as a request to defect from the Olympus PMC. I have gone AWOL from my unit and am currently being hunted by my own people. I am willing to share my knowledge about the Olympus Private Military for asylum in the United States.

  This was almost too incredible, Joe thought. After the bombshell of information Danny had received from the dead scientist Doctor Mobus, it was assumed that most of the active duty Centurions in Olympus were being conditioned by the Code, their free will suppressed and controlled to allow them to act as a more efficient combat unit. Little had been learned about the Code methodology since then.

  This could be a huge break.

  The message continued, "I am currently hiding in the Raqqad Valley, fifty miles north of Tadmur. Th−" The feed dropped out for several seconds before abruptly popping back in, "−efore I am discovered. I will submit myself to your custody, on the proviso that Joseph Braddock comes alone to meet me and oversee my withdrawal."

  Joe's eyes went wide. He looked at the Major.

  Stanlin gestured to the screen. "Pay attention, Sergeant. You need to hear this next part."

  "I will not reveal anything to you, unless it is to Sergeant Braddock. I know he may be reluctant to aid me as he will think this is a trap or suicide mission. To prove I am doing this in good faith, I have a message for him that only he will understand…"

  Joe's heart began to pound.

  "It is from his friend, Danny Callbeck. He says he will return one day to collect his amulet from his brother."

  A cold sweat covered Joe's body. He reached up, almost unconsciously, to his chest where underneath, the caribou charm Danny had left behind, lay resting against his skin.