One Bloody Mission. 5,100 Action

Mercenaries wipe out a rogue Aryan militant camp.

"I hear you, Frenchie. We ain't gonna be picked up till morning. I'll kill the b***h then," Gorgie spat out, a huge grin bisecting a leering black face. "Might’s well use her tonight as not."

"Make damned sure you do." I jumped up, hand on a K-Bar combat knife. "All it takes is one fuckup and we're up s**t creek. That b***h is a loose end." I looked over at the girl, in her late teens, wide-eyed and gently shaking. Already worse for wear after servicing us for four days, she'd heard us arguing. F**k it. 

Over at the other side of the clearing, near a shallow hole and collecting flies, lay the bodies of two other captive women. When she finished heating our meal, she'd be put to work finishing that f*****g hole for them ... and herself. After taking care of Gorgie and Sam tonight, she'd join her friends in the f*****g hole ... and she damned well knew it. I couldn't blame her for shaking.

The three of us had once been six. The mission hadn't worked out too damned well. Few of them do.

***

A week ago, we'd been dropped into this country. Our job was to be a quick in-and-out find and destroy. Most of the time we insisted on taking our time, planning and rehearsing. This time, though, our unknown employer insisted on speed. That meant both a cluster-f**k on the ground and more money for we three survivors. Both good and bad, that was the result. 

The contract started off normally, our agent gathering us for a meeting in a bar on the waterfront in Sangatte, Belgium.... 

Philippe, nationality unknown -- as though we give a flying f**k -- doesn't advertise. Still, interested parties such as the American CIA, British MI5, French General Directorate for External Security, German Stasi and, of course, the Israeli Mossad know how to find him.

He talks to them, working out terms of a contract, then calls numbers from his little black book -- myself included. Bear with me, since it's vital though restricted info. If Philippe doesn't like me telling you, screw him.

See, then we either meet with the b*****d or over the phone. If we agree to the terms, Philippe gets us together -- and it can be anywhere in the frickin' world -- at our own f*****g cost, yet. We usually get paid in two increments, the first before we leave that meeting, the second when we're finished with the project. Hell, some of us need it since we've borrowed to simply get to the meeting. 

I live in Paris. By the time I get a call, I'm usually broke and have to trot over to some place like Bangkok to find Philippe. I can't blame the guy, though. Like with Osama, although half the countries in the world use his services, other departments of those same nations are out to kill the b*****d. Philippe moves around a lot. A whole f*****g lot.
 
In this case, we were hired to wipe out a bunch of a******s threatening some wealthy connected guy or organization. Somehow, they’d connected with Philippe. Who or why? None’a my business.

The pay was good but the terms crazy. I liked the idea of it being over quick, since there's a yum-yum back in Paris what points the old pecker skyward. She won't wait long, though, and won't f**k unless the table next to her bed is covered with the old dooo-raaa-me.  

Those a******s, let's us call them ... hmmmm .... how about A******s? Well the A******s, they have a camp out in the woods in Oregon. Our contract says to kill all'a them we can and burn the place to the ground. They're supposed to be well-trained, have all sort'a guns and s**t, but they never really done much fighting.

Half of them was ex-army, but most of those kicked out or gone AWOL during basic. Just about enough training to feel dangerous. They were raising hell around the area, beating up citizens and a few punks that got in their way in selling smack. That kind'a juvenile horseshit. They never met up with any real professionals like us, though. Tough s**t for them. Our meeting at Sangatte went something like this....

The first thing we did was show each other our "Mission Bills," to prove we were, ourselves, authentic. Of course, Philippe knew all of us personally, but some of us didn't know each other. Since we had to trust total strangers to maybe save our asses, we also had to be damned sure they were pros. 

I told you we were paid twice, once at these meetings and once when finished? Well, the way mission bills got started was although we're each paid in our choice of currency it became traditional for all of us to sign a bill of local currency, local to the country we would be working in. It's proof we worked that gig.

When one team leader, after a particularly bad mission, dipped each of those bills into the enemies' blood and put it on top of our pay, that became another habit. Now, we do it every time. When we're finished, the team leader makes sure a corner of those signed bills are dipped in blood. 

When one pro meets another anywhere in the world, he can be certain his drinking buddy is a true professional, simply by showing and comparing their mission bills, each bloody and covered with signatures, some of which we will recognize. At that particular meeting I, myself, had good status by laying six of them on the table.

"Since they're only about eighty or ninety of them," Philippe told the six of us, "a half-dozen of you should do it. Besides, they won't be expecting you. And it's a better split." He looked around the room. "If anyone thinks different, we can discuss it."

There were nods around the table. Only one huge black guy, I later found his nickname was Gorgie, hesitated. I figured I'd have to keep an eye on him. His apparent lack of confidence in his own ability could get MY funky a*s killed.

As for names, they're all false. Even our bullshit sessions are used to give false information. For example, I'm American but since I speak fluent French lead everyone to believe I'm a French Canadian called Frenchie. 

Next, we spent time deciding who should lead the team. That's another place where those mission bills come in handy, along with inclination, of course. Some of us wouldn't be caught dead being responsible for a mission. And it is, or has been, always men. I ain't found a f*****g woman yet that could stomach such work or put up with the macho image that goes along with it. Professional assassination is a highly masculine line of work.

Well, having lived into my seventh mission, I got to be -- hurr-f****n-raaa -- team leader. At least it stacked my pay a little higher. Some banknotes local to our job were passed around the table, everyone signing each one, then back to me. I hoped none of them would be wasted.

Philippe had done his job in making arrangements. We were given airline tickets on different lines and directions to a safe-house he'd rented. One of our group, Spider, knew how to fly choppers, including a craft Philippe had already hired through one of his contacts in the target area. I don't know how the f****r does it. Just like with us, those managing b******s must have their own frickin' global network.

"You'll have to pick up your own weapons and make your own plans, Frenchie," he told me. "This thing came up two days ago and I haven't had time for the details."

"How long we f*****g got?" one of the guys asked.

"A week from tomorrow, start to finish."

"Jesus, H, Christ," one of the guys muttered, leaning his head back with a sigh.

"If you don't like it, Tweetie, I can replace you?" Philippe answered.

"F**k. I'll do it, but don't like it." He turned toward Philippe and spit on the floor.

I took that as a challenge, which Philippe ignored. He's a businessman and such childish posturing is part of the business. At the time, I doubted if Tweetie would be called on again, but that was up to Philippe. To me, as leader, the son-of-a-b***h didn't seem like a team player.

"That's why I charged them so much," Philippe answered Tweetie. By the way, the players were myself, Tweetie, Gorgie, Sam, Spider, and a second-mission kid calling himself Terrible Tim.

***

I enjoyed the trip to the USA, tourist class all the way of course. Spider and Terrible f*****g Tim were already at the safe house when I arrived. It was a rundown shack on the wrong-side of the tracks, so to speak. But it was close to a grocery store, a bus line, and several bars.

"Gorgie and Sam are here, too," Spider told me. "They figured on a few last drinks before you got here."

"S**t. Damn it. Hey! Tim. Go find those b******s. We ain't got much time and gotta do some f*****g planning." I turned back to Spider. "What about that chopper? I want both night and day recon on that site. Pics, too." A door slammed, Tim leaving.

While I sat on a couch, going over supply lists, I could hear Spider on the phone. Outside, the sun was setting. According to a television news channel, we still had a few hours till full dark, a three-quarter moon. Tweetie hadn't shown yet -- no great f*****g loss, to my thinking. I only hoped the f****r was good on the f*****g ground. He sure as s**t didn't impress me so far.

When Terrible Tim finally returned with the two errant troopers, it sounded as though a couple'a buffalo were loose in a china shop. Banging and swearing came from the kitchen. Apparently, one of them insisted on buying out a McD's on the way back. Jesus, f*****g, Christ, I thought. I was already losing control. A week to go, and I had a mob by the tail, dragging ME around. I had to do something about those b******s, and damned f*****g quick. 

To make it worse, while all of them but me and Spider chowed down in the kitchen, Tweetie finally arrived. 

I could see out a front window, and saw a taxi drop him off, right in front of the house. He was in BDUs (Battle Dress Uniform) already, carrying a duffel bag and even, for Christ's sake, a gun case. I felt like walking out that f*****g door, calling Philippe, and going home. It was supposed to be a "safe house," meaning a secret hideout -- not a f*****g army base.

The b*****d nodded at me and asked where to park his gear.

"Up your a*s," I told him, jumping to my feet. I stepped right over, face a few inches from his, grabbing him by the f*****g neck. "What the hell you doing? You don't enter a f*****g safe house like that. You're supposed to be a professional at this s**t. Act like it."

"Christ, Frenchie. Take it easy, man. We ain't done nothing yet."

"All you b******s get in here. Chop-chop. Move it," I yelled into the kitchen. "And it ain't no f*****g picnic. Leave that s**t out there."

I spent a half-hour chewing a*s and taking names. I braced them up one f*****g side and down the other, virtually nailing them to the wall. "Now, you," I told Tweetie, get into civies, toot f*****g sweet. We ain't got us no time to rest. From this very minute, right now, not in the f*****g morning, we're going and staying 'hard'."

"Man! Frenchie. Take it easy--" Sam started to say.

"Easy, hell." I reached into my pocket, peeling off a sheaf of expense money. "You're in charge, Sam. Take Gorgie, Tim, and Tweetie, here, and get us some f*****g weapons. Combat weapons. I don't care how. Gun shops, if any are open. Check the yellow pages. Bars are a good place, but no more f*****g drinking. From now on, it's Cokes all the way."

"Best place," Tweetie said, hesitantly, "are the stores. The ones what are closed." He looked at his watch. "'Bout now."

"Up to Sam. He's done this before."

"You think I haven't?"

"Up to Sam," I repeated. “You just do what the f**k he tells you." By then, they were in a hurry to leave. I hoped I'd scared them straight.

That left only me and Spider, who was still on the phone. I returned to my list, trying to make some sort of a plan; even though realizing it was useless until I had more information. I knew better than to interrupt Spider. I'd worked with him twice before and he knew what he was doing.

Finally, he put the phone back on its cradle and came over, a notepad in hand.

"Frenchie. I couldn't get hold of our pilot. His wife said he was out, but would be back by morning. Something about finishing up another job."

"F**k! Man, this is turning out to be a real circle-jerk. We should'a had at least a couple weeks before going hard."

"The pay is good, though." Spider's smile did a lot to build my confidence back up.

"There is that."

"I did get us another chopper, though. I know a guy that knows a guy what knows a guy. He made a couple calls and I got a number. There's one waiting at an abandoned factory outside town. I'll have to fly it myself, though."

He handed me a note, with an address. Spider had even acquired a rough set of directions.

"I better get my a*s in gear," he said. "It's supposed to be fueled and ready to fly but I gotta check it over. It's used to smuggle drugs, and those babies can be chewed all to hell dodging cops."

"How many passengers?" I asked. "I'd like to take two, not counting us."

"Dunno. Guy didn't say. It probably has a lot of storage but passengers are another matter, altogether."

"Give me a call."

"Will do. Soon as I check it over."

I was left alone, feeling funny sitting there by myself. With a million and one things to do, I felt I should be up and moving. Eventually, I gravitated toward the kitchen, finding plenty of leftovers the others had hastily left behind.

***

The chopper had a bad gasket or something, as it was shaking so hard I couldn't brace the camera for decent photos. I held the thing as steady as I could, trying not to drop it out of an open window.

We'd dropped Tweetie and Sam, my most experienced reconnaissance people, onto the surface to sneak through a heavily-wooded area. Their mission was to scope out the ground around and, hopefully, inside the enemy camp. 

Me and Spider would pick them up later if this lawnmower stayed in the f*****g air that long. The chopper didn't have an internal intercom setup, probably not needed with one-man smuggling. With smuggling every ounce was needed for cargo. Communication between Spider and myself was limited to hand-signals. Between the shaking and engine noise, not to mention air whistling through leaking seals and bullet holes in the fuselage, talking was impossible.

Christ, I thought, finally rolling my window up. My photos were taken, but the night wind was cold. We were taking a chance by flying without running-lights. 

Eventually, I saw repeating flashes of a series of three green lights from the ground. I reached over to nudge Spider, pointing them out.

Lost in the woods, we were forced to turn on a spotlight to find the team. The sudden illumination stung my eyes. I couldn't see my men, as they were in cammo clothing. Spider must have, cause the first I knew they were there was when the chopper tilted and a black figure came through a silhouetted doorway behind me. When it was repeated, Spider doused the light. He went up so fast I felt my stomach rebel. 

***  

Back at the house, I almost stumbled over cases of explosives. While we'd been gone, Gorgie and Tim had burglarized a closed stone quarry, stealing explosives and blasting caps. The next day was spent in making bombs. Tweetie surprised me. He'd found a dozen windup alarm clocks and converted them to timers. It's a skill I've never acquired.

Things were finally coming together. We still weren't a real team. That would take time that we didn't have, but we could at least work together. A good team means training together long enough to know how each member reacts to specific circumstances. It requires knowing everyone's handicaps and proficiencies while working on correcting them. It's what we should have been allowed to do. As it was, I was the central figure, all orders coming from me -- a heavy responsibility.

***

We went in from the north, loaded down with equipment. We carried a mixed assortment of weapons, all civilian in nature -- though many had been converted to full-auto by filing sears and jerry-rigging magazines to hold more cartridges. There had been no way to test them, so I hoped they'd f*****g work at least long enough to carry us through.

We were also carrying explosives, bombs and boobies. Tweetie had set the clocks for four in the morning, giving us plenty of time to place explosives, which we did. I spent an hour setting traps around and inside the enemy camp, hoping nobody would come out to take a s**t and blow them early.

We'd spent almost every night that week in hiding and watching camp activities. Although we didn't have an accurate count, I figured on seventy-five to eighty of them. With six of us, we had to make it as quick and violent as possible. By the time any survivors regrouped, we hoped to be long-gone. 

Now, the people in the camp weren't real soldiers. There was no security beyond one guy sleeping in a small yellow hut at the entrance. They were well-armed, though, and had some military training. With that lax f*****g security, I doubted if there was any quick-response setup. Just because they called themselves “Aryans” didn’t mean they’d learned anything from Uncle Adolf.

Myself finished by 0347, I set up a firing nest next to the community shitter after taking the opportunity to empty my own shaky bowels in relative comfort.

Of course our luck didn't hold ... not exactly. I'd barely settled down onto cold ground, positioning a converted AR-15 across the top of a small bench, before one of our automatic ambushes went off, blowing in the door of an enemy barracks. Most likely, I figured later, one of the mutts wanting to come out to bray at the moon.

That was when all f*****g hell broke loose. I can only tell of my personal experience. I heard gunfire from several directions, along with yelling and the f*****g screaming of wounded. When three shadows cut across a beam of moonlight, I fired, my muzzle-flashes showing all three seeming to dance to an un-choreographed but violent melody. They were unarmed, as far as I could see, and in their underwear.

The next batch was armed. Not only up and active, but shooting at everything except me as I returned fire. After that, the f*****g timers went off in a series of blasts that lifted me off the ground. Before I could get under cover, I was pelted with every f*****g thing but the kitchen sink. 

After the debris fell, the place went quiet again. A minute or so later, I heard sporadic fire. I managed to hit one man. He was stumbling around and I put him out of his misery. As fires started, rapidly consuming dry wooden buildings, I remembered to check my watch. It said 0410.

Waiting a few minutes and not seeing any activity or hearing anything but the crackling of flames and a few screams, I blew a whistle. Getting up on shaking legs, stomach in a knot and in a hurry to leave that repository of the dead and dying, I left for the f*****g rendezvous area. 

Since the chopper, with civilian pilot, wasn't due to pick us up until noon, I'd set our extraction to be in the woods several klicks away. As isolated as the target had been, I didn't really expect a quick response from our actions -- but why take a chance? 

Extraction was a weak point in the planning. The chopper pilot had other commitments and wouldn't be back from Columbia before late morning -- a matter I had no control over. Besides, there was no way for my team to get together quickly at night, not in the f*****g dark and in an unfamiliar forest. Another reason we should have had time to practice. 

Hopefully, any wounded would make it in time for noon pickup. And, damn it, I forgot to soak that handful of currency in the blood of our enemy. It had completely slipped my mind.

***

When I managed to make my way to the f*****g pickup point, I found I was alone. Tired as hell, I flopped down, generally out of sight behind a berry patch, to wait. It was too damned close to a dirt road, but there weren't many open spaces a chopper could land in in that forest and we had to use what we could find. I picked it because of its being on a hilltop near a small town; easy to see from the air but far enough from the conflagration to, hopefully, be safe for awhile. 

When the others finally showed, it sounded like a mob approaching. The first thing I heard was the cursing. Next came branches breaking and metal rattling. I smiled, hoping that the noise meant they'd all come through.

When I heard women talking, I jerked upright. Where the f**k did they find women?

Gorgie came first, weapon at the ready, to check out the clearing. Seeing me sitting behind bushes, he lowered a sub-gun, grinned, and came forward. Behind him, three women were carrying a makeshift litter made of a couple poles stretched between what must have been their shirts, since they were bare-chested. I could see someone lying on the device. As they came closer, I could make out it was Sam.

"Sam took a couple rounds, Frenchie," Gorgie said, sighing as he dropped down beside me.

"The others?" I asked. "Put the f****r down over there," I ordered the carriers, pointing to an edge of the clearing.

"I saw Spider and Tim get it. Spider was jumped by one'a the b******s. By the time I killed the son-a-b***h, he'd cut Spider's throat." Gorgie swallowed, maybe getting his s**t together. "Our terrible f*****g Tim lived up to his name. The last I saw of the stupid cocksucker was him charging a half-dozen of the b******s, a gun in each f*****g hand." He shook his head. Grandstanding isn't done in this profession. A back-shooter lasts longer than the moral types.

"You see him hit?"

"Yeah. I saw him go down. The a*****e."

"It's a wonder he earned his first mission bill." I nodded toward the women, sitting and talking over by the wounded Sam. "Where the hell you pick them up?"

"When I went over to see about Sam, I saw them huddling in a shed. The blond was looking out through the f*****g window, so I made them carry Sam."

"They A******s, too?"

"Must be. Two were wearing sidearms and there was a rifle in the shed."

"You think we need them anymore?" I asked.

"Why don't we ask Sam?"

"Yeah. Why not?"

Rising, we both went over to talk to Sam. When one of the women came over and said something, I told her to shut the f**k up. I'd get to them later.

"How you feeling, man, and where're you hit?" I asked. He had a shirt wrapped tightly around one upper leg. There was also a large splotch of blood on his left side, the lumping of some sort of bandage showing under it.

"Not too well, Frenchie. Hurts like hell when I laugh." He did manage to smile.

"Then don't laugh. Think you'll make it?"

"Should. I didn't lose too much blood. Gorgie found a first-aid kit and the girls fixed me up."

"Morphine?" 

He shook his head. "Civilian kit, no drugs."

"You gotta hold on, then. We're due to be picked up about noon. It's going on ten, now."

"Thanks. You got any water?"

"No. Maybe on the chopper? I dunno." 

I looked over at the women. "You need any of these girls?" I asked him.

"Why?"

"The contract. We're being paid to wipe those A******s out. They're part of the contract."

"You'll simply kill them? They saved my life."

"We honor our contracts, Sam. If word gets out we didn't, none of us will work again." I looked over at Gorgie, who wore a poker face. Looking back, I saw Sam nod his head. He understood.

"What about you, Gorgie?" I asked.

"Let's wait a while. I told them that if they helped us I'd let them live. Besides," he said, rubbing his crotch, "I could use a little relief about now. We can get rid of them when the chopper gets here."

***

Well, noon came ... and went, with no sign of our aircraft. About sundown, police, military, and news aircraft began flying over. I realized we were f*****g stuck.

"Look," I told the guys, "that town's close. I'm going in to find a telephone. I'll pick up food and water while I'm there. Some kind of painkiller for Sam, too. We can't get him out on foot and those girls would turn on us in a minute.

"Which one of these women you want?" I asked Gorgie. "No f*****g sense in you guarding all three. Besides, they can identify us if we're captured."

I pointed at one girl, the tallest, calling to her, "Take off those pants. I want them." They were blueish and looked like they might fit me. At least they were civilian.

"Yeah. That one's okay," Gorgie replied, meaning the same one. Knowing why I asked, his voice was a little shaky. I knew it was my responsibility. Corporal or general, a leader has his duty; no matter how horrendous. 

While dressing in her trousers, I took off my holster, dropping it, sans pistol, to the ground. Turning quickly, I shot the other two women in the head.

Pointing at the survivor, I told Gorgie, “Have her find some way to dig a hole ... for all of them.” 

 Shoving the pistol under my shirt, I turned and left for town.

***

The hunt for us hadn't affected the town. At least not yet. As I watched from a rise, I saw a few military-style vehicles going through. There was an obvious police presence in the area, but no organized search ... at least that I could discern. 

Steeling myself, I rose and walked down the last hill, emerging onto a residential street. Few people were in sight, those doing mundane chores. I attracted no attention as I searched for and found a good-sized drug store. It had a pay phone, which was my first priority. Luckily, I had a few local coins with me and called a contact number I'd memorized.

"... so our transportation never arrived. Can you check it for me?" I gave her the number of the phone I was using, then hung up and poured a cup of free coffee from the establishment while I waited anxiously. 

At one time, a couple of obviously plain-clothes cops came in, causing me to circulate and pretend shopping near the telephone until they left. After an interminable time, it rang.

It was my pilot, who said he'd been frightened off by police activity, including two helicopters. Still having illegal drugs in his craft, he couldn't take a chance ... and left. He'd be back later, at least several days later ... probably at sunrise. If he tried at night, he said, he'd have trouble finding the location in the dark and with possible police copters in the air. The cops, he said he knew from his drug runs, usually didn't take to the air until after they'd had breakfast. For those reasons, sunrise in two or three days would be the best time to pick us up. “By then, they'll have given up the search,” he said, “and you're probably safe where you are.”

That settled, I stayed long enough to buy groceries and an assortment of non-prescription pain killers. Also plenty of cigarettes but no booze. I sorely needed a drink but didn't think it appropriate until we were finished.

At another store, I found a cheap backpack, then hiked back to the pickup point. I couldn’t help but look suspicious as I trudged slowly uphill, loaded down with supplies, including four gallon-jugs of bottled water. It looked like we'd have to wait....

***

Now, here it is morning on the day we're due to be picked up. It's still dark but the sky is lightening.

There was a bit of trouble last night. Not only did the remaining girl, while sleeping with Gorgie, try to escape, but she tried to cut his f*****g throat in the attempt.

It's a bloody cut, though not serious. He must be alright, since what woke me was him stomping her to death while wearing only socks. Also, luckily, I'd picked up plenty of bandages and pain pills. I used the rest on Gorgie.

Last night, we spent a couple of hours cleaning up. An expert or dog can tell we've been here, though not a casual observer. And, of course, the grave filled with rotting girl-flesh and our trash might be easy to see from the air. Nothing we can f*****g do about that. And I did wipe her blood on three of the $100 bills, giving one each to Gorgie and Sam. Shrugging, I finally gave each of them a clean one to keep. Their intended recipients dead, no need to dip the fuckers. I never did hear what happened to Tweetie. But, then, that's the breaks of the game.

I gotta stop writing this entry, since I can see and hear the chopper hovering.

The End. 
Charlie - hvysmker