War Dog Page 5

  —the day he declared war on all private militaries.

  “Krieger, I know what you’re thinking.” Graves’ voice had turned deadly serious. “There’s nothing we can do.”

  Taking a halting breath, Krieger relaxed his grip. His comrade was correct.

  “Right,” he said coldly. “Let’s just try and get by them. Get your helmet on.”

  Graves complied, then grabbed one of the XM8s, placing it on his lap. Krieger replaced his helmet before speeding up towards the barricade. Unlike the CROWS emplacements he’d seen back at Jufawa, the ones on top of these Scythia trucks were equipped with M134 Miniguns, each keeping watch over the area, covering the Olympus troops with a possible 6,000 rounds a minute. Krieger knew any wrong move on their part would be met by those CROWS nests blasting them into next Tuesday.

  Two Centurions stepped out in front of barricade to wave them down. Krieger could tell Graves was nervous behind his uniform. “Try and relax,” he said, calmly. “Maybe we can even score some gas from these assholes, yeah?”

  Graves’ voice behind the helmet was lacking any humor. “I’ll be happy if we get out of here in one piece, Alexei.”

  “Don’t call me Alexei,” Krieger said as he stopped the Hummer in from the two Olympus troopers. Rolling down the window, he poked his head out and asked, “What is trouble here?”

  The first Centurion seemed almost casual in his response. “You’re in luck, we need some extra help right now.”

  “What’s going on?” asked Graves, gesturing to the chaos in the village beside them.

  “Just a pacification op, or so I’ve been told. Where are you guys going to?”

  Krieger shrugged, “Ah, you know, special request by Lord Falco. Got to get important equipment over to Lord Saladin at our eastern position, chop-chop.”

  The Centurion seemed surprised by Krieger’s words. “Lord Saladin? Hell, you’re in luck, trooper, he’s right here in this village—the Tribune is inspecting this operation.”

  Fuck, thought Krieger. He couldn’t believe it. He looked over at Graves. Behind the visor, he could see the accusatory look in the man’s eyes.

  “I assume you wish to speak to Lord Saladin, correct?” the Centurion asked, impatiently.

  Krieger thought fast. His simple fib had turned into a major problem. Any attempt to bolt now would be far too conspicuous. It would be best to roll with what came. Besides, if a man as high up on the Olympus totem pole as Saladin was here, perhaps that could answer some questions as to what they were plotting—and maybe even bring him closer to Joe.

  “Yes, of course,” Krieger said, his voice optimistic. “That makes things much easier! Thought we would have to drive for hours. Thanks for saving us the time.”

  The Centurion sounded pleased. “No problem. Better hurry, I’m not sure what he’s planning, but I doubt you’ll want to miss it.”

  Olympus scum, though Krieger as he pulled the Hummer over to the side of the road.

  Beside him, Graves said, “Alexei, I swear if it takes me the rest of my life, I’m going to make you pay for this.”

  Krieger almost laughed out loud. “Relax! By the looks of things, that’s only going to be about ten minutes.”

  The two men got out and followed the first Centurion into the village beyond.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Eastern Equatoria, South Sudan

  April 23rd

  KRIEGER HAD never seen Olympus Tribune Saladin before. He’d heard about the man from Braddock, but the picture his friend had painted in his mind was a pale echo of the man known in darker quarters as ‘The Sand Scorpion’. Joe had told Krieger that Saladin was perhaps the most ruthless of the Olympus higher-ups—a suave man of incredible intelligence who had wiped out an entire group of his own mercenary loyalists in a successful bid to join the upper echelon of Olympus. The bigwig had a capture or kill order placed upon him by Colonel Walsh, though since the war in Venezuela, no one had laid eyes on Saladin.

  And now, Krieger was being led to meet the man himself.

  The big Russian, along with Graves beside him, marched through the meager village. The Centurions were finishing rounding up the civilians, pushing entire families towards the town center square.

  A short distance away, Krieger spotted a Sudanese native bolt away from his captors and attempt to flee to the safety of the trees surrounding the village. He’d almost reached them when a single gunshot echoed through the village. A splash of red exploded across the man’s back as he dropped to the ground, dead.

  Krieger and Graves looked at each other, through the Centurion helmet visors. There was nothing they could have done, but watching a helpless man die was never easy.

  Ahead of them, they saw the man who had fired the shot, standing overlooking the town square. Flanked by a half dozen Praetorian armed guards wearing the traditional coyote-shaped helmets and shimmering body armor, was the man himself, holding a smoking Colt Python pistol.

  Saladin.

  With one look at the man, Krieger knew who he was. Tall, with a long bird-like nose and immaculately groomed beard, the Sand Scorpion stood decked out in the rynohyde/Kevlar body armor all Olympus Tribunes wore. Over top of the armor, he was swathed in various scarves and capes, topped off with an Arab keffiyeh headdress. The man had an unusually ethnic way of dressing compared to the other Olympus Tribunes who preferred the more traditional militaristic look. The man stood tall and radiated power and intelligence from every pore.

  This is not a man that’s going to be easily duped, thought Krieger as he watched the Sand Scorpion speak to the terrified masses of the village.

  “That is but an example of what will happen if anyone tries something foolish like that again.” Saladin holstered the Colt Python as he further addressed the villagers. “Rest assured, we do not wish to harm you. As long as there are no further provocations, there is no need for us to be here any longer than necessary to complete our mission.”

  Saladin turned to speak to one of the troopers beside him. Different from the others, this man was extremely well-built and dressed head to toe in a gleaming suit of silver tactical armor, topped with elaborate crimson regalia draped across his torso. His face was hidden behind a helmet similar to those worn by Praetorians. To Krieger, it looked like Saladin seemed to treat the man as an equal, allowing him to stand directly by his side.

  “Who’s that?” Krieger asked their guide.

  “That’s one of the Praefectus,” the Centurion answered. “I don’t personally know much about them, but he and his order are in charge of Olympus tactics and development. Saladin is only here in an advisory position. The Praefectus is the man truly in charge of this operation.”

  Graves and Krieger came to a stop behind a group of other Centurions and Legionnaires witnessing the speech. Keeping his voice as low as possible, Graves asked, “What the hell are they doing here?”

  “No clue,” answered Krieger. He tapped their Centurion guide and asked, “What did these people do?”

  “They’re Christian rebel sympathizers,” answered the Centurion. “We had reports of them aiding Vagabond forces nearby.”

  “What is the Praefectus going to do with them?” asked Graves.

  The Centurion’s voice eagerly responded, “I don’t know, but if Saladin is here, whatever it is, it’s going to be good.”

  Krieger and Graves exchanged glances. Looking out at the Olympus forces, Krieger counted around twenty Centurions and about half that of Legionnaires. Whatever was going to happen, there would be no chance to shoot their way out. Trying to make it to the jungle beyond the village for cover would probably net a similar fate given to the unlucky fool back there. Whatever was going to happen, they would have to deal with it as it came.

  With the situation in the town center controlled for the moment, Saladin, along with the Praefectus and his troop left the area under the watchful eyes of the remaining Centurions, who kept their weapons trained on the captive villagers. As he walked past, Krieger ov
erheard the Sand Scorpion mutter something to the Praefectus.

  “Make the call to Lord Vorena. Tell her we are prepared to initiate.”

  Krieger smacked the arm of their Centurion guide. The man seemed to snap out of a funk and remember what he was doing. “Oh, uh, my Lord Saladin!” The Sand Scorpion stopped at the mention of his name. Their guide motioned Krieger and Graves over, saying, “These men have a message for you from Lord Falco.”

  Saladin frowned. His eyes fixated upon Krieger, the intelligence behind them thinking god knows what. “A message? He sent you all the way out here to deliver one? I’m certain Lord Falco realizes we exist in a time of instant communication.”

  Krieger could feel Graves tense beside him. He knew their cover was hanging on a razorblade right now.

  He would need to improvise.

  “Ahh, yes of course he did,” Krieger said, “but we carry precious information about Joseph Braddock that Falco did not wish us to go over airwaves.”

  The Sand Scorpion’s eyes seemed to widen at the mention of Joe’s name. “Braddock? Does Falco know of his whereabouts?”

  “Excuse me, Tribune, but I have been told to give this news to you in person, alone.”

  Saladin sighed. “Lord Falco’s typical cautiousness aside, he should know full well there are no secrets between me and my Praetorians.”

  Realizing there was nothing for it, Krieger said, “Of course, sir.”

  Saladin gave Krieger an expecting look. “Well? I haven’t got all day.”

  The Russian glanced at Graves before joining the Sand Scorpion as he walked toward the row of parked Hummers. Clutching his assault rifle, Krieger fell in beside Saladin, flanked in turn by four of the Praetorians. The tall Praefectus stood back with Graves and the other Olympus troops.

  As they walked, Saladin spoke, “So, Centurion, what is your designation and cohort?”

  “Ahh, Centurion Alpha One, Fourth Cohort, Contubernium Group Eight, my lord.” Again, Krieger was happy he managed to pronounce such a ridiculous word.

  Saladin nodded. “I must admit, you’re taller than most Centurions.”

  “Sir?”

  “It’s just that most men in the service your height and build are typically groomed for Legionnaire.”

  “The Legionnaires, uh, didn’t have the excitement I was looking for, my lord.”

  Saladin laughed, softly. “Ah, yes, well I can see how being a carrier pigeon for Lord Falco must be a torrent of exhilaration.” He stopped when they were out of earshot from the other men. “So, Centurion,” Saladin said, giving Krieger his full attention, “what is this news lord Falco wishes me to know that is so important. Be quick, I have much to do.”

  “Ah, of course,” said Krieger, trying to stall for time. “Falco wishes you to know of an explosion that occurred back in Juba last night.”

  Saladin nodded impatiently. “Yes yes, I heard about that. I’m sure it is well in hand. What is it you know about Joe Braddock?” Before Krieger could answer, the radio at Saladin’s side buzzed. Removing it, Saladin held it up and asked, “Go ahead, Praefectus.”

  “Sir, I’m receiving a message from Juba.”

  Saladin sighed as he said, “Patch it through.” The Sand Scorpion moved away from Krieger, holding the radio to his ear.

  Krieger’s mind raced. Whatever he was going to come up with to tell Saladin would have to be good to merit him letting them go, hopefully with a tank of gas. Looking over at Graves, he saw his comrade gesturing as inconspicuously as possible towards the road barricade. Krieger looked over and noticed two Centurions moving around the tailgate of their Hummer, as if looking for something.

  Damn it!

  Turning back, he saw Saladin finish up his call. “I’m sorry, Centurion, but this will have to wait. Our business here is moving faster than I expected.”

  Krieger let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Uh, of course, my lord. Could I ask what is happening here?”

  Saladin raised an eyebrow. “Hmm…curious for your pay grade, aren’t you? I suppose there is no harm in it. As you may or may not be aware, these people are known to be in league with the rebel forces and in turn have given aid to our enemies, the Vagabonds. What we’re doing is setting up a little…bait for them.”

  The man known as the Praefectus came marching over. He said to Saladin, “My lord, telemetry data confirms incoming Vagabond forces.”

  Saladin nodded in appreciation. “Excellent. I knew they had eyes here. Our trap is laid. Leave three men behind and order the rest to return to the vehicles. We leave immediately.” The Olympus Tribune looked back at Krieger. “You must forgive me for asking but I must know, are you a betting man, Centurion Alpha One?”

  Krieger looked Saladin through the visor of his helmet. “On occasion, sir.”

  “Good,” the Sand Scorpion said, his mouth snaking into a blithe smile. “Then allow me to give you some advice. The next time you bluff—”

  The Tribune snapped his fingers. Instantly, the four Praetorians whipped their assault weapons up and trained them on Krieger.

  Saladin smiled wider.

  “—make sure you’re holding all the winning cards.”

  Krieger glanced over to his right. He saw multiple Centurions converge on Graves, disarming the gun-runner before smashing him in the gut with the butt of a rifle.

  Damn.

  Slowly, Krieger dropped the XM8 and held up his hands. Picking up the weapon, the Praefectus reached over and yanked off the Russian’s helmet.

  Saladin smile grew even wider. “Oh my, what a day. Krieger, is it? The Peacemaker terrorist himself.”

  “You are terrorist, asshole,” Krieger spat.

  “Well, one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter,” Saladin said, enjoying the moment. “I just happen to fight for freedom of commerce.”

  The Praefectus brought the butt of the XM8 against Krieger’s skull, dropping him to his knees. By the time the pain cleared enough for his sight to return, he saw Graves being led by gunpoint towards him.

  Saladin looked over to the Praefectus. “How long until the tasking is complete?”

  Passing the rifle to one of the Praetorians, the Praefectus consulted a data tablet for a brief moment. “My lord, Sledge Aeronautics tasking shows Hammer of Mars will be in position within one minute.”

  Saladin nodded. “ETA on our Vagabond friends?”

  “Approximately ninety seconds. After that, I’d advise that we be well on our way. The Hammer has proven unreliable in its selection of targets during the last test.”

  The Sand Scorpion nodded, then looked back at Krieger, a coy look on his dark face. “Good. That gives us a minute to get acquainted. Tell me, my crass friend, what was your reason for being out here?”

  Krieger smiled, spitting out a mouthful of blood. “Looking for your mama. Said she liked it in the ass.” He received a fist to the face from the metal gauntlet of the Praefectus for that remark.

  “Silence, scum! Show lord Saladin some respect!”

  Krieger sneered. “Respect my cock, mudak.”

  The Praefectus was about to strike Krieger again when Saladin stopped him with a gesture. “Mister Krieger, your profile listed you as not particularly intelligent so I’ll make this simple: you are going to die. The way you die depends completely on how you answer my questions.”

  The Centurions leading Graves dumped him on the ground next to Krieger, yanking off his helmet as well.

  The gun-runner looked over at Krieger. “Well, I can’t say it’s been great knowing you, Alexei.”

  “I must commend you both on a brave, if foolish plan, whatever it was,” Saladin said. “I’m afraid that Fourth Cohort removed Contubernium units eight through ten last month. Standard troop reorganizing, you understand. Very bad luck on your part.”

  Graves fixed Krieger with a hard look. The big Russian glanced back, shrugging. “Well, it was worth a try.”

  “When I get to hell, I will beat the shit out of
you for eternity, Alexei.”

  Saladin checked his watch. “Now now, gentleman, I have little time so I will ask the million-dollar question to you, mister Krieger. If you do not answer, your friend here will receive a bullet to the skull.”

  Drawing forth an automatic handgun, the Praefectus stepped behind Graves and held it against the back of Graves’ head.

  Saladin said, coldly, “Tell me where to find Joe Braddock.”

  Neither man answered. Sweat poured from Graves's forehead. It was then they became aware of a sound approaching from the east—the wailing echo of jet engines.

  An impatient look spread across Saladin’s face. “Last chance, Krieger. Tell us or this man dies.”

  Krieger shrugged. “Eh. Kill him. He’s just an asshole guide I met in Juba. Doesn’t know anything.”

  Graves’ turned towards Krieger, his face twisting in anger. “Alexei, you bastard!”

  Saladin looked at the Praefectus, then back to the big Russian. “I don’t think you seem to understand how this works, mister Krieger...”

  “Oh, I understand fine!” Krieger yelled, “Stupid man here took us down wrong road and gets us both killed! Bad day for both of us I guess. Be sure to shoot him first.”

  “Screw you, Krieger!” spat Graves.

  “Hey, I am just telling it like it is,” Krieger shot back. “I hired you to help me find Braddock, so where is he?”

  A confused look flashed across Graves's face before he replied, “I, uh, don’t know, I thought he was nearby…”

  “There you go guessing again. Should never have hired stupid fool like you!” Krieger knew that whatever was going to happen, they needed to buy whatever time they could. He had to keep Graves playing along.

  “Your directions were so bad, you couldn’t find ass with own hands, mudak.”

  Graves yelled back, “You got me into this, you Russian prick! I should never have taken that deal.”

  Over the canopy of trees beyond, the whine of the jet engines was beginning to get louder.

  The two men continued arguing until Saladin finally shook his head. “Enough! I have no time for this. Praefectus—” he said to the man behind Graves, “—prepare to activate the Hammer. I am returning to Juba. You are in charge from here out.”