Crysis: Escalation (3 page)

T knelt down by the mercenary that Barnes had killed. He opened the man’s mouth with his gloved fingers and inspected his teeth.

‘Yep, definitely Eastern European, you can tell by the dental work.’ He glanced down at Barnes’s bloodstained arm. ‘You’ll need to wash that off or the
flies’ll gather.’

They were on the edge of a steep cliff some four hundred feet up, overlooking the narrow, cliff-lined, Ferranto valley. The whole area was home to the Antioquia Cartel, the heirs of the Medellin
Cartel’s territory and violent legacy. They operated in northern Columbia’s Antioquia Department, an area that was largely controlled by FARC guerrillas since their 2011 offensive. This
made it difficult for the Columbian government to police the area.

The cartel, however, had overextended itself when it blew up an airliner to kill the new Columbian Minister for Defence. The Minister had been in the pocket of the Norte del Valle cartel and
their right-wing AUC guerrilla allies further to the south. The airliner had been American and had been in British airspace, en route to London from Bogotá, when it had exploded. The US and
UK governments had exerted pressure on the Columbian government to allow boots on the ground in Northern Columbia to “assist” the Columbian Military’s efforts to deal with the
cartel and FARC. Conspiracy theorists were already blaming the CIA for the bombing of the airliner, claiming that they wanted to use it as an excuse to eliminate a left-wing threat on
America’s doorstep. Barnes had heard the theory, and felt that the theorists vastly underestimated how much the US government didn’t want to be involved in a South American
Vietnam-style fiasco.

Barnes moved towards a small stream on the edge of the clearing to wash the blood off. T grabbed his arm.

‘Someone might see the blood in the water downstream. Use the water in your canteen and then refill it in the stream.’

Barnes nodded and followed T’s suggestion, adding a couple of water purification tablets to his canteen. He also decided that he’d made his last mistake of the day and, if he had his
way, the last mistake on Operation Scarface.

Barnes crawled to the cliff edge. Chavez had established contact with the USAF liaison at Joint Special Operations Command in Medellin City. T was watching their back.

‘Do you want to lase and I’ll call it in, LT?’ Chavez asked during a lull in her radio conversation. Barnes nodded. He used the scope on the M4 to look down into the valley at
their target. Their target had once been a ranch house. Now it was a heavily fortified compound belonging to Diego Ramiraz, the Antioquia Cartel’s chief enforcer and thought to be the
mastermind behind the airliner bombing. He was also believed to be directly or indirectly responsible for the deaths of over five thousand people in gang violence, bombings and assassinations
worldwide.

‘This is going to be fun. Just like fucking Afghanistan.’ Chavez was always angry and pretty foul-mouthed. She talked street but Barnes knew that she came from a respectable
middle-class family who lived in Harlem. He could, however, see her problem. When Barnes had first looked at maps and satellite imagery of the area he had thought that the Ferranto Valley was a
suicidal place for Ramiraz to use as a base. He thought that the cartel enforcer and his people had basically trapped themselves in there. However, the compound was all but built under a rocky
outcrop in the valley’s opposite cliff wall. That and the narrowness of the valley meant that it was going to very difficult to hit with airstrikes. It would be even more difficult if the
rumours that intel had picked up on, about a bunker complex within the cliff side itself, were true.

Barnes removed the boxy laser designator from his webbing and got ready to “paint” the compound. The compound itself was a hive of activity, with trucks and four-by-fours laden with
heavily armed mercenaries coming and going. The Ferranto Valley might have seemed like a trap for Ramiraz but if this didn’t work then the American, British and Columbian forces would have to
go in there the hard way, and then it was going to be a vicious fight.

‘Two fast movers inbound,’ Chavez told him. Barnes just nodded. ‘This is Venom two-four to Vulture leader: okay stud, listen to me carefully,’ She was talking to the
pilot of the lead FB-22 Wyvern fighter-bombers. New in service, they were derived from F22 Raptor air superiority fighters. ‘You got to come in low and slow, you hear me? Get tight in on the
deck or this shit just isn’t going to work, over.’ Barnes couldn’t hear the response but he had heard that a lot of the alpha-male jet jockeys didn’t appreciate
Chavez’s style of forward observation. Chavez couldn’t care less. After all, they weren’t down here in the shit with them.

They heard the fighter-bombers before they saw them. The thunder of their approach echoed down the valley. Barnes caught a glimpse of them banking hard and then dropping altitude as they headed
down into the valley. He turned his attention back to lasing the compound. The beam from the designator was mostly invisible except for where it touched the compound’s main building

‘Too fast,’ Chavez muttered under her breath. ‘Attack run aborted.’

Barnes turned to look up the valley. He could see the missile contrail against the blue of the sky. Both Wyverns were climbing at ninety degrees. Burning hard, outdistancing the missile easily.
It looked like it was raining chaff and countermeasures as the missile detonated far from the two fighters.

‘Stinger?’ Barnes asked. Chavez nodded.

‘Venom two-four to Vulture two. That wasn’t a fucking SAM emplacement, it was a peasant with a tube. Now get fucking back here and finish the fucking job, over.’ Barnes knew
that she would get reprimanded for that. He’d do what he could to shield her. ‘
Pindago
asshole, how fucking difficult is it to deliver smart munitions?’

‘Take it easy, Chavez,’ T said quietly from behind them.

‘I’m going to find this
puta
and beat his bitch-ass to death with his own joystick.’ She went quiet, listening to incoming comms. She handed Barnes the handset for the
sat-uplink. ‘They want to speak to you.’

Barnes took the handset and listened.

‘Venom leader to Broadsword Actual, received and understood.’ He passed the handset back to Chavez and then depressed the send button on his tac radio so that Earl would hear what he
had to say as well. ‘Okay, the mission’s scrubbed . . .’

‘Pussies . . .’ Chavez muttered. Barnes gave her a look to let her know that was enough. He knew she felt that the air force had let them down but she was going to have to deal
quietly.

‘We’ve been re-tasked. We’re exposed here, so we’re heading five klicks in country and I’ll brief you there. Earl, you’re leading the way.’

Barnes took a moment to check the map whilst Chavez and T kept a lookout. He gave Earl a grid reference and the three of them headed into the rainforest. Somewhere ahead of them Earl was leading
the way.

Joint Special Operations Command for Operation Scarface, Medellin.

Major Harold Winterman was staring at the newcomer like he’d just tracked dog shit into his command post. He turned back to look at the order he had just received from the
Joint Chiefs of Staff and looked at
that
like he was holding dog shit.

Winterman’s people knew him to be a consummate professional. He had to be, to be entrusted with command of all special operations on Operation Scarface. They had never seen their
commanding officer so close to losing his temper. They also had the feeling that his temper would be something to behold.

The focus of Winterman’s ire was stood in front of him in some crisply-pressed, new-looking jungle fatigues, but the man carried himself like he was more than capable of handling himself,
and the way he’d spoken to Major Winterman suggested he’d better be.

‘Who or what the fuck is CELL?’ Winterman demanded.

‘Crynet Enforcement and Local Logistics,’ the tall, brown-haired, well-built man told him, ‘part of Hargreave Rasch.’

‘You’re military contractors?’ Winterman asked, barely containing himself. The man in the new fatigues nodded. ‘Then what. The. Fuck. Are you doing? Coming into my CP and
giving me orders?’ Winterman was thinking about having this person shot. Actually, he was thinking about shooting him himself and then having the guards that had let him into his CP shot.

‘I’m not. The Joint Chiefs, that would be your employers, are. They are also commanding you to extend me every possible courtesy. In effect, I am in command here.’

‘I’m not sure that’s my reading of the orders . . .’ Winterman started angrily.

‘I don’t give a fuck.’ The newcomer snapped. There was a sharp intake of breath from Winterman’s people. Winterman actually took a step forward, as did the Delta operator
who had been assigned to him as close protection. ‘You don’t like your orders, remove yourself from the CP and go and have a cry somewhere. We’ve measured cocks, mine’s
bigger. Now, are we getting on with the matter at hand or do I have you arrested for disobeying a direct order?’

Winterman was shaking with fury. He badly wanted to hurt this man. Nobody had spoken to him like that since he’d been a junior officer. The vein on his forehead was pulsing with barely
controlled rage.

‘I know you, don’t I?’ Winterman managed. He had definitely seen the man somewhere before, probably Iraq at a guess.

‘I’ve got no time for you special forces cowboys, but you’re the best I’ve got for the job in hand. My name is Commander Lockhart. You can call me
“Sir’.’ He turned and gestured to a group of civilians who had been standing by the entrance to the CP and gestured for them to enter. The Rangers on guard halted them and then
turned to look at Winterman. Reluctantly, the Major nodded and they were allowed in.

The five civilians were looking around for a place to set up their equipment but every inch of the CP seemed busy and in use and none of the military personal were very interested in helping out
the newcomers.

Winterman, slowly mastering his anger, leant against one of the desks.

‘You’ve just scrubbed a mission that could have significantly aided our operation, not to mention the fact that you’ve wasted a lot of man-hours and resources and spoiled the
air force’s opportunity to actually contribute.’ Winterman glanced angrily at the air force liaison officer, who looked away quickly. ‘This had better be good.’

‘I don’t give a fuck about Operation Scarface, and neither does anybody else in this room until I say otherwise. Venom got a camera with them?’

‘Yes,’ Winterman said through gritted teeth.

One of the civilians, a sweaty, balding, piggy-like man with glasses, whose very presence in his CP offended Winterman, gave Lockhart a piece of paper and handed him a tablet. Lockhart studied
the tablet, looking less than pleased, shook his head and handed it back to the piggy-looking man. Lockhart handed the CP’s communications officer the piece of paper.

‘Task Venom to head to these coordinates. I want them to shoot footage and transmit it to me and me only. The freqs are on the paper. Understood?’ The communications officer turned
to look at Winterman. Lockhart did the same.

‘I want to know what you’re doing with my men,’ the Major told the military contractor.

‘No, actually, you don’t.’ He seemed to be giving the situation some thought. He glanced down at the comms officer and then back to Winterman. ‘I will have you arrested
if you do not follow my order. You will be court martialed for disobeying a direct order from the Joint Chiefs of Staff. That is assuming that you are still a serving officer in the United States
Army.’

Winterman’s face was a mask of barely controlled rage as he turned to the communications officer and gave her the nod.

‘Ooo, hark at the pair on this one,’ a decidedly not-American voice said. Lockhart peered into the corner of the tent where the voice had come from. He saw a squat, heavily-built man
with a shaved head leaning back on a chair, his combat boots up on a folding table. Lockhart looked at the Major. Winterman just shrugged. Along with a reluctant USAF, the British liaison had been
Winterman’s biggest pain in the arse. The Major was reasonably sure that the SAS had inflicted the obnoxious cockney on him out of spite. They seemed to take a particular pleasure in winding
up US special forces personnel. At least this time they weren’t rolling homemade bombs made from cola bottles into tents and showering the sleeping operators with soda.

‘Name and rank, soldier,’ Lockhart commanded. The British soldier shook his head apologetically.

‘I’m sorry mate, that’s classified and, unlike your man here,’ he pointed at the Major, ‘I’m not under the command of your Joint Chiefs of Staff.’

Winterman was gratified that the SAS trooper was even-handed with his obnoxiousness. Lockhart glared at the British soldier. The British soldier met the glare and just smiled.

‘Get the fuck out of my CP,’ Lockhart growled.

‘’Fraid I can’t do that either. See, my orders has me here, and I’m a good boy.’

Lockhart took a deep breath. Now it was his turn to try and control his anger. He turned to the ranking NCO of the Ranger security detail that was guarding the tent.

‘Have this man escorted out of the CP. If he resists shoot him.’

The British soldier just laughed. The Ranger sergeant didn’t seem particularly interested in escorting the SAS trooper anywhere. He looked over at the Major.

‘I tell you what, why don’t I escort me-self out. Save anyone getting hurt straining themselves. I’ll go back and tell my boss-man that I’ve failed in my mission, God
knows what he’ll say. I’ll probably get a proper bollocking. Mebbe even get “court martialed”.’ There was some laughter from around the CP. Even Winterman had to
suppress a smile.

The British soldier got up and headed towards the tent’s entrance. He paused right in front of Lockhart.

‘You should bring your toy soldiers and come over and visit us. Try your cock measuring bullshit there, see how far you get.’ Lockhart said nothing; he just stared down at the
smaller man, his nostrils flaring in anger. The British soldier turned and headed out of the CP, nodding to Winterman on the way out.
Well, it’s as close as any of that lot ever get to a
salute I suppose
, the Major thought.