Gray Matter Splatter (A Deckard Novel Book 4) (8 page)

“Grenade,” Nikita said to the others. They looked up at him
as his uniform changed colors from white to gray, matching the metal
roof of the barracks. Each of the mercenaries yanked the pin on a
hand grenade.

“Now!”

A dozen hand grenades rained down on the robotic tank below.
Blast after blast ripped across the tank in a shower of sparks and
brown smoke. Some detonated harmlessly in the snow but others landed
on top of the tank. The armored portions were unaffected, but several
blasts left the radar ears on the side of the gun turret torn to
shreds.

The tank drove along in short, stunted bursts, rocking to
a stop, trying to lock onto targets, then driving along for a few
more meters. The computer brain inside the vehicle was unable to
function properly with its eyes and ears taken out.

“Let’s get the hell out of here,” the American mercenary
yelled over the wind to Nikita. “Then mortar this place with Willy
Pete,” he said, referring to white phosphorus rounds that would
burn everything to the ground.

Nikita paused for a moment. The veteran sniper was realizing that
his old tactics and techniques were not working anymore. The
environment was different. The enemy was different. The rules had
been changed without anyone telling him and he wasn't adapting fast
enough.

“Da,” Nikita replied. “Burn it.”

* * *

Deckard clung to the DShK barrel as it flung him through the air.
He almost slipped off again when the gun turret lurched to an
immediate stop and opened fire. Looking behind him, Deckard hopped
backward and landed on the front of the tank. His chest was tight,
like someone had just whacked him with a baseball bat. Actually, it
had been a machine gun barrel, but he would worry about how black and
blue he was some other time.

Initially, he had planned to destroy the antenna mast.
Interrupting communications between the tank and whatever control
mechanism it had might do the trick, but now that he was in front of
the tank, he had access to an even better target. In front of the gun
turret, below the barrel, was an ammunition drum loaded with the
12.7mm machine gun rounds that fed into the DShK on a metal-link
belt.

Reaching into a pouch on his chest rig, Deckard produced a door
charge. The segments of explosive cutting tape were designed for
punching through doors so that assaulters could rush inside and clear
a building. It would do a good number on the tank turret, too.

Peeling the plastic strip off the adhesive glue on the back of
the charge, Deckard slapped it onto the ammo drum. The DShK ceased
firing, then scanned for another target, causing Deckard to duck
under the barrel before his head was taken off. Working quickly, he
strung in the initiation system, a line of shock tube connected to an
ignitor with a pull pin.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the tank he was on had
locked onto Fedorchenko’s position. In a few moments he would
probably be lit up by his own men when the tank started shooting at
them. Two burning tank hulks lay in front of the platoon already, and
he had no doubt they were already shifting fire to the third one.

Deckard put his finger through the pin on the ignitor and rolled
off the side of the tank.

His boots came down first, absorbing some of the shock. Then he
landed on his side, bouncing painfully on the ice. Twisting and
turning the pin on the ignitor, the chemical reaction in the shock
tube caused it to blink neon blue for a microsecond.

The turret blew sky high.

Deckard cringed as the DShK actually separated from the turret
and went spinning through the air. The tank rolled to a halt, and
what was left of the machine gun landed somewhere behind him. Under
his jacket, Deckard was saturated in sweat. He struggled to catch his
breath as he got up and examined the damage. There were three smoking
tank husks out on the airfield. The other two must have gone to hunt
down his guys at the barracks. At least he didn't hear them shooting,
giving him some hope that they had already been taken out.

“Both platoons,” Deckard said into his radio, “ACE
report.”

ACE was a military acronym that stood for ammo,
casualties, and equipment. It was a very brief report that small unit
leaders sent up to higher to inform their leadership of how much ammo
they had left, anyone who had been killed or wounded, and the state
of their combat gear and weapons. As he waited for the reports to
roll in from his platoon sergeants, Deckard walked toward
Fedorchenko’s position. They had found refuge in a small
depression, in which they had masked themselves with smoke grenades
and fired anti-tank weapons. Still, Deckard knew it was going to be
bad. He had seen the aerosol spray of blood in the air from a
distance.

“Second Platoon,” Shatayeva reported in from the barracks.
“Five magazines per man, two KIA, up on weapons and equipment.”

Deckard took a deep breath as he neared the lifeless bodies of
his men lying strewn across the airfield.

“First Platoon,” Fedorchenko’s voice said over the net.
“Four magazines per man, seven KIA, one Gustav destroyed.”

Deckard stood in front of the first body he came across. Among
the newer group of guys, Marty had also been cut in half by DShK
fire. He’d been a good dude who had previously served in 1st Ranger
Battalion. Now he lay on his back with his arms sprawled out, bent at
the elbows like claws. His mouth was left ajar, with ice clinging to
his short beard. There was nothing they could have done for him.

Not far from him was another corpse. Deckard knelt down next to
him. Frank had been with Samruk International since the beginning;
he’d been one of Deckard’s first hires to the company. He had
been a special operations legend, at least among those in the know.
He’d served in the Ranger Regiment’s Ranger Reconnaissance
Detachment and then the Intelligence Support Activity, where he had
pulled off some very hairy assignments.

Only to be snuffed out in an instant on the Arctic tundra.

“Deckard.”

Standing up, he looked over to see Pat approaching.

“It’s Frank.”

“I know. We just got our asses kicked.”

Deckard looked back down at the body.

“They laid a trap for us and we walked right into it. Whoever
they are, they’re damn good. They hacked those robotic tanks, had
them turn on their own operators, and then had them lie in wait for
whoever gave chase. Listen, Deckard,” Pat continued. “I know
you’re in a bad place right now, but you’d better reach on down
and grab your balls because this shit over the last twenty-four hours
just got real.”

Deckard opened his mouth to say something, but Pat was already
walking away, his legs from the knee down disappearing into the the
swirling snow that gusted around them.

Chapter 6

“It’s him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” the mage answered. “See for yourself.”

The fur was flung off of the portal. It revealed an image
of a man climbing on top of a tank. Snow-covered crags poked up
behind the tank before the background gave way to broken sheets of
ice out on the ocean.

“This is the one we have spoken about?” the necromancer
asked.

“It is him,” the mage answered, not leaving any room for
further argument. “He struck down one of our conjured familiars on
his own.”

“It seems that everything we have heard of him is true,”
the druid said cautiously. “He could makes the
situation...complicated.”

The mage tossed the fur back over the portal, casting away the
image.

“It is of no matter. The plan enacted by our dark lords
bloodied his nose, and he won’t be able to pick up our trail again.
Even if he does, it will be too late.”

The druid cast a spell and was suddenly awash in a swarm of what
looked like blue fireflies. The restoration spell increased his
magicka to its full level.

“This day is too important to have our focus drawn to one
particular point in the overall operation,” the druid said as he
shot a look at the mage. “Too important to let a variable like this
upset our plans.”

“It is taken care of,” the mage assured him.

“Let us hope,” the necromancer said as he rubbed a talisman
between his thumb and forefinger. “Let us hope.”

* * *

Russian Arctic

The Carrickfergus chugged passed Kotelny Island, crashing through
sheets of ice on its way. Deckard sat on the bridge watching the
scorched island slide by. The sting of defeat overwhelmed the
physical pain he felt in his chest where the machine gun barrel had
slammed into him. They had lost nine men on what should have been a
straightforward post-battle assessment of the island. The bodies of
their dead had been bagged up and put down in the bottom of the ship
with the ballast for the time being. The Samruk mercs had loaded up
and quickly evacuated the island.

Knowing it was futile to hold off on making the call, Deckard
picked up the satellite phone, even though talking about what just
happened was the last thing he wanted to do at that moment. He dialed
the number for Xyphon’s head of security.

“This is Eliot.”

“I lost them,” Deckard said. “Whoever they were, they
hacked into six automated tank systems that were left present on the
island in standby mode. As near as I can tell they used the tanks to
massacre everyone on the island, then sent them back to their garages
to wait for anyone else to show up on the island. It was a baited
trap and we walked right into it.”

“Did you lose anyone?”

“Nine.”

“Shit, I’m sorry, Deckard.”

“We took a close look at the airfield, though. There was no
sign that an aircraft had landed or taken off on that airstrip in a
while. We would have seen some tracks.”

“Which means they are still on the water. Makes sense, seeing
that they don’t have total control over the airspace. It seems like
they are using an anti-access/area denial strategy, shooting down
just enough aircraft to make the Russians squeamish about sending
more.”

“Whatever the case, they are long gone. I fucked up.”

“There was no way you could have known, Deckard. You’re not
out of the game yet. Not if you still want in.”

“What is it?” Deckard asked as he sat up straight in his
chair.

“Can you do VTC?” Eliot said, referring to a video
teleconference.

“Yeah, we can do that via satellite.”

“Good. Call this number.” Eliot then read off a string of
numbers that Deckard wrote down on a coffee-stained yellow legal pad
Otter had left lying around.

“Who is this?” Deckard asked as he finished writing
down the numbers.

“Uncle Sam has been looking for you, Deckard. The chess pieces
are shifting very rapidly back in the United States right now.”

Deckard hung up and opened a laptop computer. Bringing up the VTC
program, he dialed up the number Eliot had provided. It took a minute
for the connection to kick in before the video suddenly clicked on.

On the screen, Deckard saw four men sitting around a table.

“Deckard,” the man in the center of the table said. “We’ve
been trying to get ahold of you for hours.”

“This isn't exactly a Skype call from your local Starbucks,”
Deckard replied. “What can I do for you?”

“Mr. Deckard,” the old man with the reading glasses perched
on his nose began, “we represent a compartmentalized special-access
program folded within the national security infrastructure of the
U.S. government. We would like to discuss with you certain terms of
employment and the legalese required therein. Your company would
complete the terms of service on an operationalized basis pending
certain approvals and exemptions—”

“OK, OK,” Deckard interrupted. “I have no fucking idea what
you're talking about.”

“Goddammit,” another old man on the teleconference muttered,
“I fucking told you, Craig, shut your fat fucking face.” The man
wearing a black trench coat stood up and walked in front of the
camera, standing in front of Deckard and blocking out the view of the
other three men at the table.

“Listen,” he said. “The bad guys stole something from the
Russians, probably something nuclear, and we can’t let it fall into
the wrong hands.”

“I’m following.”

“What we have acquired for you are letters of marque and
reprisal, signed by the president of the United States of America.
You just became the first sanctioned American pirate in over two
hundred years. As a privateer, you are entitled to raid enemy vessels
designated by the U.S. government, for pay, and we can also provide
you with whatever intelligence support we can from here.”

“I’ve got wood.”

“I was hoping you would say that. Your mission is simple,
Deckard. Stop the enemy from getting away with the device they took
from the Russians. That is your target. Kill everything between you
and it.”

“They must be heading east, but we lost their trail.”

“We can help with that.”

“How?”

“Ten-meter imagery captured by synthetic aperture radar from a
passing satellite forty-five minutes ago. The national geospatial
agency was able to track fourteen commercial shipping vessels passing
Kotelny Island, plus one mystery vessel. All we can do is an analysis
of the ship’s wake and attempt to project a distance and heading.”

“I’m starting to feel like Captain Jack Sparrow
chasing a ghost ship.”

“We’ll exchange business cards and swap saliva under the
bleachers later, Deckard,” the man in the black jacket said. “Right
now we need to get this operation back on track. I’m bringing some
imagery up on your screen right now. Craig, get that shit up on the
VTC, dammit.”

The screen on Deckard’s laptop showed overhead imagery
of an ice-strewn sea, a patch of the seemingly endless Arctic Ocean
just like any other.

“We’ve gotten no direct returns from searching for this
particular ship, meaning it has poor radar backscatter
characteristics.”