Mike Maden - Drone Threat

Pearce and Early approached the pallet. It was a four-foot cube of newly printed American money. Majid cut open the plastic with a knife. The smell of fresh ink and currency paper filled the air.

The Russian glared at them through his mirrored sunglasses. Pearce could hear the Aussie behind them whispering into his comms.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?” Majid asked.

Early nodded at the pallet. “Nice stack of Washingtons you got there.”

“Development funds, courtesy of the American government. Very generous.”

“Developing who, I wonder?” Early shot back.

Majid picked up one of the cash bundles and riffled through it. “The people of my district, of course. Schools, roads, farming — my country has been destroyed by the war. This is how we rebuild.” He was quick to add, “We are grateful, of course.”

Pearce knew this wasn’t the first delivery of cash to the general in this quantity. He also knew that very little of it would actually make it to the people it was intended for. He didn’t really care. It was all Monopoly money anyway, given the way the U.S. government just printed it out of thin air.

“Yeah. Of course,” Early said.

Pearce pulled his shemagh out of a large cargo pocket, bundled up and tied off.

Majid tossed the cash back onto the pallet, curious.

Pearce handed the shemagh to the general.

Majid glanced at the bundle in his hand. He weighed it and shook it. Metal jostled inside, like coins. “What’s this?” Majid asked, intrigued.

“The dog tags of the twenty-four Shia soldiers in your command. They were butchered not fifteen klicks from here, at a village just north of Al-Awja.”

“I know it well,” Majid said. “I’m sorry to hear this.”

“You look like you could cry,” Early said.

The general ignored him. “Their families will be notified, of course. Are they buried?”

“No. We just covered them up.” Pearce knew the Muslim requirements for burial of the faithful. It would have been inappropriate for the five non-Muslims to do so.

The general handed the bundle to the Russian mercenary. “Take that to Major Raghif and tell him to organize a burial detail immediately.” The Russian nodded and turned on his heel, heading for the doorway.

“Those Shia recruits that we were all so proud of a few days ago are now all martyrs for the cause,” Pearce said.

“A terrible tragedy. It must have been AQ again.”

Pearce shook his head. “AQ hasn’t been active in this area for weeks, General.”

“Then Baathists. Or even Syrians.”

“Not likely,” Early said.

“Then who?”

Early’s eyes narrowed. “Good question.”

“I don’t like the tone of your voice, soldier,” Majid said. Another Humvee driven by the other Russian merc pulled up behind Tariq’s vehicle. Barnes, Majid’s American mercenary, stood in the machine-gun cockpit, hands on the weapon.

Early started to say something but a gesture from Pearce silenced him.

“Who sent them to that village? Whose command were they under? And why wasn’t their disappearance reported earlier?” Pearce asked.

“Excellent questions. I shall look into them myself.”

“Good. Because when I report this back to my people, they’ll want answers.”

“What are you implying?”

“They were good men. Your men. And now they’re dead. They deserved better.”

“There are a lot of dead Iraqis around here, Pearce,” the Aussie said. “Hundreds of thousands. A lot of them killed by your people. What’s a few dozen more?”

Majid’s eyes narrowed. “So many things you arrogant Americans don’t understand. Long after you leave, we will still be here, and there will still be war, and the Shia will butcher us if they come to power. You want answers? You don’t even know the right questions to ask.”

Pearce felt the heat rise in the back of his neck. Maybe he didn’t know all of the right questions. But a bullet in Majid’s merciless face had to be the right answer, didn’t it? Pearce’s training pushed the thought away.

“You and your men have been reassigned to Baghdad. Why are you still here?” Majid asked.

The day after Chandler left, Pearce and the others were ordered back to Baghdad, but Pearce managed to put it off for two more weeks, promising to deliver a major intel score. “Another week and we’ll be out of your hair, General.”

“I want you gone now. For your own good. Now get out of my sight!” Majid turned and waved a dismissive hand.

The Aussie merc behind them racked a round in his rifle. “You heard the man.”

Pearce and Early turned around. The other two mercs from outside were approaching, rifles up. The smiling American in the Humvee kept his hands on the machine gun but didn’t move.

Early glanced at Pearce. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Yeah, I am. But this isn’t the time. Let’s roll. This place stinks.”

It was late. Pearce sat alone in the mess tent, working on a hamburger and Coke, thinking about Majid and the dead Shia while Early and the others grabbed some shut-eye.

Barnes, the American merc, dropped down opposite him at the table with a tray piled full of food. His eyes were bloodshot and he stank of weed. His unshaved faced was specked with silver stubble.

“Mind?” Barnes asked.

“Would it matter if I did?”

Barnes chuckled. “No.” He picked up one of his two cheeseburgers and took a huge bite.

Pearce glanced around the mess tent. A lot of empty tables. “So I take it this is a social call.”

Barnes chewed with his mouth open. It took a minute before he could swallow. “Yeah. A social call.” He popped his soda can and took a swig.

“So start socializing,” Pearce said.

Barnes slammed the can down on the table. Saw the disdainful look in Pearce’s eyes. “What the fuck’s your problem?”

“You, and asshole mercs like you.”

“You judging me? You don’t know shit. I been wasting hajjis since before you were learning how to jerk off.”

“This isn’t just about killing jihadis. We’re trying to build a democracy in this godforsaken country, remember?”

Barnes laughed, a barking smoker’s rasp. “You think you’re all that ’cuz you’re in the Cock In Ass club? CIA don’t mean shit out here.” The merc stabbed a crooked finger on the table. “You’ve been here six weeks. I’ve been here six months. You don’t know the score. But I can fill you in.” Barnes took another bite of his cheeseburger.

Pearce studied the scars on the side of his face. Barnes was an apex predator in a Mad Max world. Cunning and lethal.

“Fine. Fill me in.”

Barnes finished chewing and swallowed again. He leaned in close. The dope smell was intense. “You won’t stop nothing. You won’t change nothing. You won’t do nothing but maybe get yourselves killed. So take my advice. You and your buddies — clear out. Now. Like the general said.” He grabbed a half dozen french fries and shoved them into his blistered mouth.

“We’ll leave when we’re good and ready.”

Barnes took a long pull of soda. Pearce watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he guzzled it.

“What were you, Barnes? Army? Marines?”

Barnes wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Burped. “Delta, not that it matters.”

“You swore an oath.”

The merc rolled his eyes. “You don’t have time for this Boy Scout bullshit. Grab your gear right now and get rolling.”

“You swore the oath. That’s still gotta mean something.”

Barnes leaned forward, glaring at him. “I ain’t in service no more. The oath don’t mean shit. I quit it.” He flashed a card dealer’s smile. “I make three times as much as you, maybe four.” He winked. “And then some, if you catch my drift.”