Blood Diamonds, page 2
“Laying low is no problem, but that fuckin’ patrol tomorrow is,” said Doc.
“Yeah, I know,” moaned Mad Dog. “I’ll see if I can get us out of it.”
Eddy snorted in disbelief. “How?”
“First play the sympathy card. If that doesn’t work, I got some dirt on him.”
Mad Dog volunteered himself, Eddy, and Doc for all the shit jobs around the camp, so long as the CO wouldn’t send them out in the field. After all, they were scheduled for R&R in just two days. Getting killed before they had a chance to ship their loot out of the ’Stan was unacceptable, even if that meant swallowing their pride and being accused of having lost their edge by their fellow marines.
The CO finally agreed, sans any threats—which was too bad, because Mad Dog was hoping to see the look on the man’s face when he told him that he knew about the affair. To his credit, Mad Dog had employed an expensive, high-tech thermal video camera normally used for special recon missions or for blackmailing one’s CO because you never knew when you’d need a favor. The footage had been converted into an mpg file easily emailed to one’s spouse.
Not going there was for the best, though. Too personal. Too dark and dirty.
So for the next few days Mad Dog, Eddy, and Doc played professional maids for the rest of the company, cleaning weapons, filling sandbags, and helping the new replacements become quickly acclimated to life in the ’Stan.
They had neither seen nor heard from their favorite CIA agent, and that was good. Mad Dog thought of asking a few of the doctors if Judas had come in complaining of a stomach virus or other gastrointestinal aliments, but he figured he’d leave well enough alone. Judas was off somewhere, squatting and groaning, and he didn’t need someone asking after him.
The enormous C–5 Galaxy arrived on the tarmac, on schedule. The plane was rotating broken and worn-out APCs, bulldozers, and other heavy equipment to Germany for recycling and was cause for the men to delay their R&R. Still, Mad Dog, Eddy, and Doc couldn’t just stroll onto the plane. Everything that left the country was checked by the military police. They used dogs to sniff out explosives or drugs being shipped back to the states or other destinations. They also made sure no arms or ammunition was heading out. You didn’t want that shit hitting the streets of Miami or Detroit or D.C.; they already had their share of illegal ordnance.
The customs MPs were pricks of the first order, and, other than caskets, checked it all. Mad Dog had considered shipping the loot with some poor bastard’s remains, but that meant the stash would wind up at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware and still be under military guard 24/7.
Thus, the day before, Mad Dog had made it a point to bribe one of the MPs. It was cheaper, faster, and easier. Well, not quite as cheap. The prick was also a negotiator of the first order and upped his price twice. Mad Dog gave in. Ten thousand fucking bucks to the wind. But it worked.
Mad Dog, Eddy, Doc, and their four cruise boxes hitched a ride, and, amazingly, left Afghanistan without being caught. They were so giddy that even the C–5’s crew inquired about their grins. “Just glad for some time off,” Mad Dog told them.
The C–5’s final stop was in Friedrichshafen on the northern edge of Lake Constance, where the three box-toting musketeers got off, carrying a set of “official orders” and military ID cards. A ferry ride across Lake Constance put them in the land of Swiss chocolate and Rolex watches.
The Gnomes of Zurich converted the gold to U.S. dollars for a fee, but in the end the trio netted $25.34 million. Numbered accounts were non-interest-bearing: the price paid for anonymity, which, of course, translated into more money for the gnome. Everyone won.
With a few urgent phone calls back to the States, Mad Dog had set up a dummy corporation with the help of an old high school buddy turned Harvard grad lawyer, Bryan Johnson, aka “Catfish.” Mad Dog, Eddy, and Doc now had the seed money to buy controlling interest in the fledgling International Philippine Group Bank (IPG). Mad Dog’s goal was to have IPG expand its interests into military and security operations. Under his guidance and influence, the business would thrive.
They left Zurich and stayed in Baden-Baden, where they spent another two days at one of the spas, bathing in natural spring water and being pampered by some really husky, really ugly women. But those broads had great hands, and every muscle in Mad Dog’s body felt loose by the time they left.
What he had forgotten, though, was that they had given Jimmy Judas the shits, and with all that shit around, some of it was bound to hit the fan.
During the next two months, several warlords filed charges of brutality and excessive force against Mad Dog, Eddy, and Doc. Two weeks after they had returned from their R&R, the shit had indeed hit the fan and become an international shitfest that Mad Dog just knew was instigated by Judas.
A three-month-long investigation had begun, during which time Mad Dog and his team had been making routine patrols through the villages within a two kilometer radius of the camp because that had become the quiet zone, with no fighters spotted for weeks. The brass didn’t want them getting too close to the Taliban for fear of another incident. Mad Dog’s talents were being wasted, and he had voiced those concerns to the CO, whose deaf ears had remained deaf.
Mad Dog’s attorney had told him that the Corps wouldn’t have enough evidence to warrant a court-martial or even a Letter of Reprimand. Mad Dog, Eddy, and Doc would confess to being a little too exuberant and a little too efficient.
However, the commandant of the Marine Corps and even the secretary of defense were involved, and they knew that appeasing the Afghan locals was necessary since the relationship between the U.S. and Afghanistan was already strained because of little problems like killing people with food drops.
Consequently, there was a good chance that Mad Dog, Eddy, and Doc would be cashiered out with an administrative discharge (for the good of the ser vice) under honorable conditions, in lieu of a court-martial. The Corp’s decision was supposed to come in any day now.
What no one could predict, however, was that the Taliban would return to the quiet zone around Camp Buffalo, to the most innocent of villages, where, only minutes before, they had shot a farmer. Mad Dog reported the attack, said that his team had already taken out two fighters. They were hunting down more. He cringed as he waited for a reply.
“Alpha One, you break off that attack!” barked the CO. “I say again, you break off that attack, over!”
Suddenly, gunfire splintered pieces off of the cart behind which he’d sought cover.
Cursing under his breath, Mad Dog keyed the mike. “I say again, we are taking fire, over!”
“Break off the attack!”
“Sergeant, he’s telling us not to fight?” asked Watkins.
“You heard him. If Bravo was out here, he wouldn’t be saying that. But it’s us. The politically incorrect team. And now we’re fucked.”
“What’re you going to do?”
Mad Dog’s face flushed, and suddenly he damned radio protocol to hell, damned it all to hell, figured this would be his last act as a United States marine. “Herschel, I got three kids in a hut right here, we’re pinned down, taking fire. I ain’t breaking off the fucking attack!” He slammed down the microphone.
“Holy shit, Sergeant,” said Watkins. “You’re the coolest fuckin’ dude I know. And sorry for cursing, Sergeant.”
“Just shut up. Go to the hut, let me know how the interpreter’s doing with that farmer. I have to get Doc back here.”
“On my way, Sergeant!” Watkins darted off, drawing another spate of gunfire.
Mad Dog himself raced toward the hills, a round striking two rocks less than a meter to his left. He lowered himself to one knee, took aim at the shooter who peered out from behind a boulder, fired.
Down went the asshole. Oh, he’d had no idea how extensively marines trained on the range, no idea that every marine is a rifleman, no idea that Mad Dog was standing on the shoulders of every United States marine who had thrown himself into the fight and had given his life for his country.
And, of course, the asshole would never know.
Carbines resounded somewhere above him. Mad Dog turned and charged after the racket, picking his way past a steep slope to where a little cut formed a path.
He slowed, sidestepped his way up the hill, using the cut as a source of cover. He arrived on yet another ridge where in the distance Eddy and Doc lay on their bellies, trading fire with a shooter poised between two rocks, one slightly overhanging the other.
His breath nearly gone, Mad Dog reached a ditch, dropped onto his gut, called into his mike: “Doc, I need you back at the hut. Farmer’s been hit. I’m right behind you, coming up. Eddy, give him cover.”
They didn’t answer. Just acted. Eddy opened up. Doc hauled ass, dashing by Mad Dog, who at that second sprinted up to join Eddy. He slammed down at his assistant’s side. “You’re taking way too long to kill this fuck.”
“I know.”
“Cover me.”
“Roger that.”
He took off like he was wearing cleats and about to round the bases.
Eddy’s gunfire sliced past Mad Dog’s legs.
The Taliban dickhead wasn’t returning fire, too scared to peek out from behind his rock with all those rounds ricocheting and sparking around his head.
Mad Dog veered to the right, dove for home plate, hit the ground in a pile of dust at the base of the rock. He crawled forward, each movement silent and carefully measured as the bad guy chanced a few shots at Eddy.
“Eddy, keep firing until I say,” Mad Dog whispered into his mike. Then he dragged himself on his elbows a little farther, came completely around the rock, and spotted the ragged-looking fighter. “Okay, Eddy, stop!”
In one fluid motion, Mad Dog sprang to his feet, glided up behind the shooter. Shifting his hands to the barrel of his carbine, Mad Dog flipped the rifle around and raised it high over his shoulder.
Thud! The rifle’s collapsible stock connected with the scumbag’s skull, his head swinging sideways at an improbable angle.
As Mr. Taliban shrank to his gut, Mad Dog seized the guy’s weapon, yanked it away, then dropped both rifles and grabbed the asshole by the neck.
Setting his teeth, Mad Dog began choking the shooter, grimacing over the man’s stench as blood oozed from a deep gash on his head. Then he hauled the dazed man to his feet, grabbed a pair of plastic zipper cuffs from his assault pouch, and bound the fighter’s hands behind his back. With one hand wrapped firmly around the back of his prisoner’s neck, Mad Dog led him toward Eddy.
“Son of a bitch, you actually caught one,” said Eddy, who rose slowly to his feet, his gaze darting from hill to hill.
Doc came humping up the ridge, his face long. “Farmer died. Shit…”
“Sergeant, if you’d like, Doc and I’ll escort the prisoner down the hill and hold him,” said Eddy. “Herschel’s probably been screaming for a SITREP.”
Mad Dog snorted. “Damn, this ain’t the way to fight wars.”
“And you got a better way? How? As mercenaries?” asked Doc. “You’re dreaming.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Good, because this shit ain’t going away. Maybe you’ll get the job done better because you won’t have to fuck with laws, but this kind of shit? Damn, the world is cruel and unfair.”
“Well, Jesus Christ, Doc, that makes me want to put on a happy face,” said Eddy. “And by the way, asshole, you ain’t cashing out your share. You’re in the business, whether you like it or not.”
“We’ll see.”
“And we might be in business sooner than later,” said Mad Dog. “Especially after this. Come on.”
A small crowd was gathering in the village below, ten or fifteen people, the women already wailing, the men shouting in anger, an icy wind whipping over the whole scene.
“Sergeant?” Watkins called.
“Yeah, I know, the CO’s been howling.”
“He’s on his way out here.”
Mad Dog was about to react—
When a horrific explosion lifted from the road at the base of the hills, stealing everyone’s attention.
It was a bomb, possibly a land mine. Afghanistan was littered with them, antitank, antipersonnel, you name it.
Or it could’ve been an IED remote detonated by more Taliban assholes hiding in the hills.
The distance between Mad Dog and the expanding cloud of black smoke seemed like nothing as he ran with all his might. Watkins was screaming about more mines, but all Mad Dog could think of was getting to his boys, his business partners, his friends and brothers.
He was crying by the time he reached them, because in his heart of hearts he knew what had happened.
Doc was already dead. Shattered. Almost unrecognizable. Eddy was still alive but bleeding profusely from his severed legs and shredded left arm. Part of his face was gone. He had but seconds to live.
Mad Dog could barely look upon his friend. He took Eddy’s remaining hand in his own, coughing at the horrible smell and smoke burning his eyes.
“Two more widows,” said Eddy. “You’ll take care of them, won’t you, Sergeant?”
Mad Dog was too choked up to answer.
He didn’t remember being carried down from the hills, barely remembered the conversation with Jimmy Judas, who had come to gloat and tell him that he was being discharged.
Mad Dog would always love the Corps, but it was time to go home and start anew, guided by the memory of brothers in arms.
Chapter 1
“The Dog Pound”
Talisay City
Cebu, the Philippines
Present Day
1750 Hours Local Time
“Hey, Dan? You know who called me this morning?” Mad Dog asked as he ambled into the guesthouse and crossed to the living room.
Gunnery Sergeant Daniel M. Forrest III, USMC, retired, leaned back in his recliner. “Hold on a minute. I’m in the middle of something.”
Old “Diaper Dan” was checking his blood sugar, squinting at the device’s little readout until he remembered to put on his bifocals. While he could no longer control his bowels and was dying slowly from complications related to diabetes (he’d already lost a few toes), he was as lucid as ever. He had spent seventy-five glorious years trouncing around the planet, having fought in Cambodia, ‘Nam, Bosnia, and even the first Gulf War, serving as an advisor. He was a hard man who would go out with a tremendous fight.
When Mad Dog was thirteen, his father had passed away from cancer, and Dan, a next-door neighbor who was in the Marines, had taken Mad Dog under his wing, inspired him, served as a father and role model.
What was more, Dan was the marine who had taught Mad Dog everything he knew, a tactical genius who, unfortunately, had been left all alone in the world. His wife had already passed on, they’d had no kids, and he had a sister who had died six years prior in a car accident.
And so, as Dan had begun the final chapter of his life, Mad Dog had taken in the old solider, promised him that he would live on the estate (aka the Dog Pound) until God called him home. Two pretty nurses, brown-skinned locals who rotated throughout the week, cared for him. Each morning when one came, he showed her his bottle of Viagra and was willing to show her more. Though wizened, he still had a thick shock of white hair and an amazing gleam in his blue eyes.
The old coot had actually sweet-talked one nurse into bed by promising her a rich woman’s life, and Mad Dog had walked in on them bumping uglies. He had been forced to fire the girl—and she was a girl, just twenty—and warn Dan against taking any more pills and taking advantage of the help.
Dan had been furious, said he was leaving, but had changed his mind an hour later.
The truth was, Mad Dog didn’t keep Dan around because he felt bad for the guy (although that was true) or because he felt responsible for the man (that was also true). Dan was one sharp motherfucker. Whenever a job was on the table, Mad Dog always took it to Dan. More often than not Dan would come up with tactical solutions to really complex logistical problems. The old guy knew his shit. Period.
So as he waited, Mad Dog took a moment to reflect. His dream to have the International Philippine Group Bank’s interests expand into military and security operations had come to pass. He had taken on several side operations, serving as a military trainer in South America and the Philippines in order to sustain IPG’s cash flow during the early years after 9/11.
IPG’s success facilitated the founding of the Olongapo Procurement Center. OPC served (on a commission basis) as a Philippine Army Contractor (PAC), an advisor, and a procurer of military armaments for the Philippine Army via the international marketplace.
Tagalog Aviation was founded and became a wholly owned subsidiary of IPG. TA had a fleet of five planes providing charter and freight ser vices. TA charter offered vacation packages with four-star accommodations at IPG-owned hotels in a dozen key cities throughout the world.
Mad Dog tacked on freight costs in addition to commissions for ser vices rendered to the Philippine Army. IPG allowed Mad Dog to electronically transfer large sums of money anywhere in the world. OPC provided him with the necessary arms licenses and contacts to procure state-of-the-art hardware. TA gave him the mobility he needed to show up at anyone’s doorstep, locked and loaded.
Old Dan finished checking his blood sugar. “Now what were you saying?”
“Jack Palansky. You remember him?”
“Palansky. Oh, I remember that asshole. Big Polack. Kinda dumb looking face. Little pudgy. Stupid laugh he had. Good rifleman, though, I remember.”
“Yeah, well he’s working for an Australian company called Morstarr. They’re mining diamonds in Angola. He was hired by the CEO, a guy named Kidman, and went there to train their security force. Typical merc job, but then they asked him to stay on as head. Gave him a really fat bonus.” Mad Dog crossed over to the sofa, plopped down, and scratched his head. He had maintained his high-and-tight crew cut, though it was mostly gray now. The gold skull earring betrayed his departure from the ser vice. “So, anyway, Jack’s got a problem there. Someone stole about three to four ounces of diamonds. Stuff’s worth approximately twenty-five million, that is, after expenses to cut and polish.”
