Warriors from the Ashes Read online

  Paco Valdez was a tall Mexican who loved killing, especially with his hands, more than most men liked sex. It was said among the troops that if he went more than a few days without killing, he would get edgy, irritable, and men would make sure to stay out of his sight.

  Jim Strunk was a transplanted Englishman with a Belizian wife and four children. As Chief of Security at Comandante Perro Loco’s headquarters, Strunk knew what was expected of him, and rarely hesitated to carry out his comandante’s orders, especially if it involved the shedding of blood.

  Strunk was an ex-SAS sergeant from the British Army. The Special Air Service units were specialized forces used for much of the British Army’s undercover work, which would range from operating behind enemy lines to the surveillance and infiltration of terrorist groups. They were so well trained and deadly, the Americans had copied their training methods for their own special forces. The Americans’ 1st Special Forces Operational Detachment Delta was created with the SAS as a model, the SFOD-Delta intended as an overseas counterterrorist unit specializing in hostage rescues, barricade operations, and high-risk reconnaissance.

  When Strunk infiltrated Perro Loco’s band of terrorists, he realized he could go much farther and get much richer if he switched sides and allegiance to the man known as Mad Dog. He also got many more chances to use his specialized training in killing, which he enjoyed almost more than the money he was paid.

  “Good morning, comandante,” Valdez said, touching the brim of his hat with his hand in a lackadaisical salute.

  Strunk, standing ramrod straight as always, gave a more formal salute, his flattened palm against his forehead in the British manner. “Good morning, sir,” he said in a crisp military voice.

  Loco nodded and waved his hand lazily in a semisalute. “Good day, gentlemen,” he said, turning his chair to look out the window at the docks and wharves nearby. “Has there been any sign of the tankers President Osterman has sent us?”

  “No, sir,” Strunk said.

  “Perhaps they have been intercepted by either the Mexican Navy or that of the SUSA,” Valdez said, a worried look on his face.

  Loco shook his head. “No. President Osterman assured me her spies have determined the coward of a president of Mexico wants no further fighting, and is willing to let us stay here in southern Mexico if we do not try to proceed any further north.”

  “What about the SUSA and Ben Raines?” Valdez asked. “Surely he is not so forgiving.”

  Loco turned his chair back around, a grin on his face that pulled the scar on his cheek tight. “Fortunately, Raines has his hands tied by the Mexican government’s fears. They have forbidden him to take unilateral action, the fools.”

  Strunk shook his head. “So, he must sit on his hands while Osterman rearms us and sends us more modern equipment by tanker ship.”

  “Yes,” Loco said, his eyes glittering. “It seems we are to be the beneficiaries of the Mexican president’s lack of cojones.”

  “His lack of balls is exceeded only by his ignorance, I think,” Paco Valdez said.

  “Now, go and get the soldiers ready to unload the tankers as soon as they arrive,” Loco said to Valdez.

  He looked then at Strunk. “And you need to get your officers ready and up to speed on the use of the new helicopters and gunships and other hardware Osterman is giving us.”

  Strunk nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll break out the manuals and start the lessons today. Once the hardware is here, I’ll start hands-on training.”

  “Good,” Loco said, an approving look on his face. “I want to be able to renew our offensive by week’s end.”

  Ben Raines called an emergency meeting with his team at the SUSA headquarters near Tucson, Arizona, on the old Davis-Monthan Air Force Base.

  As his personal team filed into his office, he reflected on how lucky he was to have such a talented bunch of men and women working with him.

  The first through the door, as usual, was Jersey, his personal bodyguard. She was rarely away from his side, and considered his safety her mission in life. Part Apache, she often had visions or dreams that foretold of danger or gave warnings of future happenings. She was tough as nails and somewhat masculine, like a female marine.

  Following Jersey, Cooper sauntered in. Coop, Ben’s driver, was the nemesis of Jersey, with whom he had a love/hate relationship. Their constant bantering and jibing at each other concealed the real depth of their feelings.

  Corrie, the radio tech, and Beth, the team statistician, came in next, talking to each other as usual.

  Anna, Ben’s adopted daughter, followed the other women into the room. Part Gypsy, she, like Jersey, could see into the future on occasion, a heritage of her Gypsy ancestors. Currently, she was under the spell of a strong infatuation with Harley Reno, and could barely keep her eyes off him.

  Harley Reno and Scott “Hammer” Hammerick filed in last. Late of the SUSA’s special forces, they’d recently joined Ben’s team as weapons experts and tactical strike team leaders. Harley was well over six feet tall and had flaming red hair, tied in a single braid that hung to the middle of his back, and ice-blue eyes, inherited from his Karankawa Indian ancestors.

  Hammer Hammerick stood six feet three inches tall, an inch shorter than Harley, and had dark hair and brilliant green eyes. There wasn’t a weapon made that he didn’t know intimately, and his command of Spanish had been very useful in the fight against Perro Loco’s forces in Mexico over the last few months.

  “Have a seat, guys,” Ben said, waving at the array of chairs around his office.

  Hammer stood aside with a smile as Anna hurriedly jockeyed for position next to Harley so she could sit next to him during the meeting. Her infatuation with Harley was well known by the team, and looked upon with some appreciation.

  “What’s up, Boss Man?” Jersey asked, sitting in the chair closest to Ben.

  “Mike should be here any minute to give us the latest intel on Sugar Babe Osterman and her latest endeavors.”

  Mike Post was the Rebels’ Chief of Intelligence, and often acted as Ben’s second in command when Ben was in the field.

  Seconds later, Mike entered the room, his ever-present pipe sending clouds of aromatic smoke into the air.

  He nodded at Ben and the team, then took center stage, standing next to Ben’s desk where he could address the entire group.

  “I have some good news and some bad,” he started off. “The bad news is Osterman and her team have finally switched from using the old Unitel model 602 scramblers on their transmitters, so we are currently unable to monitor their talks as we used to be able to.”

  “You mean the old National Security Agency satellites can no longer pick up their transmission?” Corrie asked.

  “Oh, we can pick them up,” Mike replied. “We just can’t make head nor tail of what they’re saying. The computers are working twenty-four hours a day to decode the new scrambler codes, but unless you guys can come up with one of their units, it doesn’t look too hopeful.”

  “You said there was some good news,” Ben observed.

  “Yeah. Before they switched scrambler units, we managed to intercept a few transmissions.”

  “And?”

  “She made two calls yesterday. The first was to Perro Loco at his base at Pariso. Sounds like she’s planning to resupply him and continue the fight for Mexico City.”

  Ben nodded. He’d expected nothing less from Osterman. She was a lot of things, most bad, but she was no quitter.

  “What about the second call?”

  Mike shrugged. “All we got on it was the location she called. It was to an island off the coast of South America. She didn’t use any names, and it was during this transmission she was warned to switch scrambler codes, so we lost the rest of the conversation.”

  “Do we have any idea who she might have been calling down there?” Coop asked.

  Mike nodded. “Well, there have been rumors for some time of a massive buildup of mercenary troops in the region. We’ve h
ad reports some bigwig down there is hiring all the men he can get his hands on, as well as acquiring a lot of matériel and weapons.”

  “Any clues as to who this big man is?” Ben asked.

  “None. We’ve sent a couple of men down there undercover, but they haven’t been heard from since, so I assume their cover was blown and they were killed.”

  “Sounds to me like Osterman is calling in reinforcements to supplement Perro Loco’s rather inept military leaders,” Hammer observed.

  “I think you’re right,” Ben said, rocking back in his chair. “Maybe it’s time we sent a team down there to see what’s going on.”

  “Why not just intercept the shipment of weapons to Perro Loco and be done with it?” Harley asked.

  Ben shook his head. “Politics,” he answered. “The president of Mexico is sticking his head in the sand and thinks this will all go away if we ignore it. He’s refused us permission to conduct any military operations in his country.”

  “A couple of jets with air-to-ground missiles could take out any tankers heading down that way before the Mexican government could object,” Harley said, his expression showing this was the way he would do it.

  Ben smiled. “As much as I’d like to do just that, Harley, Cecil Jeffreys, the President of the SUSA, has ‘requested’ that I do nothing to jeopardize our relationship with Mexico. He thinks the Mexican government will soon wake up to the dangers of leaving Perro Loco in place and then we’ll have our chance to take him out permanently.”

  “Of course, by then he’ll be much better armed and it will cost us a lot more men to do it,” Hammer said.

  “Can’t be helped,” Ben said, a look of disgust on his face. “Reminds me of when the politicians were running the war in Vietnam. They got a lot of young men killed who didn’t need to be.”

  “Have you decided who you’re gonna send down to South America to check up on this unknown hirer of the mercenaries?” Coop asked.

  Ben glanced at Mike Post. “Yeah. I’m going to send you guys. Mike here has been working on some papers showing you to be disgruntled ex-Army people from here and the USA. With your obvious skills, I don’t think they’ll have too many second thoughts about hiring you for the mercenary forces.”

  “You mean all of us are going to go in undercover?” Jersey asked, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of action.

  “Not exactly,” Ben replied. “Corrie and Beth will go with you partway. They’ll break off just short of the mercenary camp and set up a communications post in one of the villages nearby so Corrie can keep them apprised of the situation.”

  “What good will that do us if we get in trouble?” Harley asked.

  “My son Buddy is going to be there with Corrie and Beth, along with a squad of scouts, ready to go in on a moment’s notice to pull you out if need be.”

  “That’s a lot of folks to have hanging around without the mercs finding out about,” Hammer said.

  “Mike,” Ben said.

  Mike Post pulled a sheaf of papers from his briefcase and glanced at them. “The mercs’ headquarters are on an island off Brazil, near Sao Paulo. It’s called Ilha de Sao Sabastiao and it’s about twenty miles square. I’ve had intel do some research, and there’s a small village on the coast south of there called Santos. It’s pretty remote and there is no real communication with the other cities in the area. The team will be sent there on a freighter we’ve leased from Rio de Janeiro, which is about a hundred miles to the north.”

  “You don’t think twenty new faces will cause attention in Santos?” Harley asked skeptically.

  Mike shrugged. “Not as much as you’d think. The town, though small, has an active port and is always full of seamen coming and going from freighters that run up and down the coast. We’ll have the freighter outfitted with state-of-the-art communications equipment and the scouts will be dressed as ordinary seamen.”

  Hammer grinned at Harley, both of whom were ex-scouts. “I’d like to see them make a scout look like a scruffy sailor.”

  “I agree, the cover won’t be perfect,” Mike said, “but hopefully, it won’t have to last too long. The team’s mission is to get in and out quick as soon as they find out who’s heading the mercs and how dangerous they really are.”

  “Hammer,” Ben interrupted, “I know you and Jersey are both fluent in Spanish, but they speak Portuguese in Brazil. Mike has arranged for a language tutor to work with you two for the few days it’ll take for us to set this up. By then, you should be able to get by in the native tongue.”

  Hammer looked at Jersey and winked. “Good. I was really impressed with the way Jersey operated in Mexico. I’m looking forward to working closely with her on this mission.”

  Jersey stared back at the scout, wondering if he was making an oblique pass at her and if she should shut him down now or later.

  She was saved from making a decision when Ben stood up. “All right, guys. Mike has some info from intel for you to study while you get your gear together. I’m leaving the choice of weapons in Harley’s and Hammer’s hands, as usual.”

  FOUR

  The trip to Rio de Janeiro was uneventful. There, Ben’s team met up with a contingent of Navy SEALS who worked with Buddy Raines’s scouts to man the tramp freighter they would use as cover on their trip to Santos on the Brazilian coast.

  Buddy introduced the leader of the SEALS to the team. “This is Captain Matt Stryker, guys, and his men are going to be teaching us how to look and act like real sailors on this little jaunt.”

  Coop stuck his hand out and the two men shook, followed by Harley, Jersey, Hammer, and the others.

  Stryker looked at them. “I understand you are going into the mercs’ camp undercover as mercenaries for hire,” Matt said.

  Harley nodded. “Yeah.”

  Stryker grinned, looking the six-foot-four redheaded giant up and down. “Well, you certainly look the part.”

  Harley glanced around at the SEALs team. “You men do too,” he observed, taking in their ragged denim shirts and jeans and worn sneakers. “I’d never take you for Navy men.”

  Stryker smiled. “That’s the whole point, Harley. We’re supposed to be low-level sailors on this rust bucket Ben Raines provided as our cover.” He looked around at the dilapidated ship. “I just hope we don’t run into any heavy weather.”

  Coop’s face screwed up in alarm. “You mean it might sink?” Coop was a notoriously poor sailor. He’d been rumored to get seasick in a swimming pool.

  “Not to worry, Coop,” Stryker said. “It’s a relatively short run down to Santos and the seas shouldn’t be too rough, short of a tropical storm.”

  “There aren’t any in the forecast, are there?” Coop asked, letting his eyes roam across the horizon, looking for clouds or other signs of storms.

  “Naw. The meteorologists tell me it’s gonna be smooth as a baby’s backside for the next week.”

  “Good,” Coop said, unconsciously feeling his pocket where he kept a bottle of dramamine Doc Chase had given him.

  “Don’t worry, Coop,” Jersey said, a smirk on her face. “I brought along an extra pillow for your knees to rest on as you hang your head over the side while you feed the fishes.”

  “Thanks, Jersey,” he said sarcastically, “that’s the old team spirit.”

  “While your boys get us cast off,” Harley said, “I’ll take my team to the meeting room and go over our weapons.”

  Harley stood before the team with an array of weapons on the table before him. “We’re pretty much going with the same armament we used against Perro Loco our last time in the field,” he said.

  He reached down and picked up a small machine gun from the table. “Jersey, you and Anna will be carrying these Mini-Uzis. Fully loaded, they weigh only four kilograms, have forty-round detachable box magazines, and can fire six hundred fifty rounds per minute on full automatic.”

  He put the machine gun down and picked up a shotgun with a pistol grip on it. “Coop, Hammer, and I will be carry
ing the SPAS Model 12. SPAS, as you probably remember, stands for Special Purpose Automatic Shotgun. It’s twelve-gauge, weighs four-point-two kilograms, has a seven-shot tubular magazine, and on full automatic can fire two hundred forty rounds per minute.” He gestured at a couple of boxes of ammunition. “As usual, we will have a variety of slugs available, from light bird shot to heavy metal slugs that’ll penetrate steel plate at a hundred yards.”

  Coop interrupted. “How about side arms? Are we gonna go with the Berettas again?”

  Harley nodded. “Yeah, as you know, I prefer the Beretta Model 93R over the old Colt .45’s. It fires a nine-millimeter parabellum bullet, has a twenty-round magazine, and can fire single-shot or in three-shot automatic bursts. Remember, on automatic fire, a small lever drops down in front of the trigger guard for the left hand to grab and steady your aim.” He held up a metal box of cartridges. “I want the entire team to spend the tune on our voyage down to Santos practicing with these weapons.”

  “You don’t think we got enough practice using them against Perro Loco last time?” Jersey asked.

  Harley glanced at her. “Yeah, but we’re gonna have to show whoever’s in charge of the mercs that we’re worth hiring, and that may mean a test of just how good we are with our weapons.”

  “I’d think they’ll be hiring anybody who’s warm,” Coop said.

  “You’re probably right, Coop,” Harley explained, “but I don’t want us to be grouped with the rest of the grunts. We need to be with the elite troops if we’re going to get any useful intel out of this trip.”

  Jersey glanced at Coop, and couldn’t resist one more jibe. “Harley, do these guns shoot okay if they’re covered with vomit? ’Cause otherwise, Coop won’t be able to practice till we get off the boat.”

  “Keep it up, Jerse,” Coop said, his face turning red.

  “Oh, I don’t have any problem keeping it up, Coop, unlike what some of your women friends tell me about you.”

  “Okay, guys, that’s enough,” Harley said, unable to keep a smile off his face. “Let’s get our gear together and get settled into our cabins.”