PRIMAL Inception

PRIMAL INCEPTION

JACK SILKSTONE

BOOKS BY JACK SILKSTONE

PRIMAL Origin

PRIMAL Unleashed

PRIMAL Vengeance

PRIMAL Fury

PRIMAL Mirza

PRIMAL Inception

PRIMAL Reckoning

PRIMAL Compendium

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

Text copyright © 2014 Jack Silkstone

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Published by Jack Silkstone

www.primalunleashed.com

CHAPTER 1

KOSOVO, MAY 1999

United States Air Force Captain Dean Ruckard, call sign Sledge, checked the fuel readout in his F-16 Fighting Falcon and grimaced. He still had over half a tank. Another twenty minutes patrolling the no-fly-zone before he would be wheels down back at base. Much too long, considering his bladder was at bursting point.

He was tired and coffee had been a vital component of his pre-flight checks. The British supply officer he’d picked up last night hadn’t let him get a wink of sleep. He grinned behind his oxygen mask. They’d met at a bar in town and immediately hit it off. After a few drinks the energetic blonde had dragged him back to her room where they performed sexual gymnastics into the early hours of the morning. He was keen for another session tonight.

Sledge was four weeks into a six-month tour and hoped the sexy blonde would help the monotonous deployment pass a little quicker. If last night was anything to go by that was exactly what she was going to do.

He checked the fuel indicator again. The bird was shedding pounds but not fast enough. “Fuck it.” He activated the autopilot and reached for the plastic bottle he kept for such an occasion. It took a few moments to make the necessary adjustments and then… relief.

“Shit.” The bottle was filling fast. It was less than an inch from the top when he gingerly extracted himself and screwed the lid tight. He unzipped the pocket on the calf of his flight suit and slipped the bottle inside. His crew chief would be pissed if he left it in the cockpit.

The high-pitched wail of an alarm grabbed his attention. His eyes darted to the digital threat warning. The missile launch alarm was flashing. “Fuck.” He flicked off the autopilot, rolled the jet onto its back and searched the sky.

Out the corner of his eye he spotted a thin line of white smoke. A missile was climbing toward him. He rolled back over, hauled on the stick and pushed the throttle to its stops. The afterburner thundered and g-forces assaulted his body as he rocketed skyward. He flicked the chaff switch and the jet shuddered as it spewed counter measures from under its belly.

The aircraft bucked wildly as the missile ended its flight in a flash of flame and shrapnel. A warning tone blared inside his helmet. He glanced at the instrument panel and swallowed hard. Engine temperature was skyrocketing, thrust indicator tanking.

He pushed the nose of the fighter over seconds before it stalled. “Any call sign, this is Geronimo 44, I’ve been vaped by a SAM. Systems are critical.”

A hundred nautical miles away an E-3 AWACS responded, “Geronimo this is Big Eye, I have you on scope. Please confirm your situation.”

“Big Eye, my engine is dead. Systems are failing. I’m gonna have to punch out.”

“Acknowledged Geronimo. Am relaying to command. Check in when you touch down. Good luck.”

Sledge pulled the doomed jet out of her dive and leveled off. Taking a deep breath, he reached between his legs and yanked the ejection handles.

A deafening roar filled the cockpit as the canopy was blasted off and three thousand pounds of rocket thrust launched him, seat and all, skyward. A split second later, an explosive fired releasing him from the chair.

He heard a tearing sound and looked up. For a moment he thought the chute had failed. Then it inflated, arresting his descent.

He drifted toward a thickly wooded hillside. The trees rushed closer. Crashing through the canopy, he slammed into the ground. He lay on his back staring up at the pine trees and muttered, “I’m not getting laid tonight.”

It took a few seconds to gather his wits before uncoupling the harness. He shivered. While there wasn’t snow on the ground, it was not far away.

At least he had landed uninjured in the woods. He’d have half a chance at evading any Serbs trying to capture him. He discarded his helmet, pulled a Beretta pistol from his vest and racked the action. Then he removed the AN/PRC-112 survival radio from its pouch and turned it on. “Big Eye, this is Geronimo 44, over.”

There was a burst of static.

“You’re shitting me.” Sledge checked the device’s frequencies. They seemed right. He regretted not confirming them during the pre-flight briefing. His crew chief usually took care of the details.

“Geronimo 44, this is Big Eye, over.”

He almost laughed with relief. “Damn it’s good to hear from you guys.”

“You too 44. How you doing?”

“I’m OK.”

“Roger, the SAM threat is keeping all our assets clear. Extraction is going to take some time, over.”

“How long?”

There was a pause.

“There is a local asset on the ground. They’ll meet you at RV Whiskey Foxtrot. Marry up phrase is Slippery Ninja.”

“I confirm RV Whiskey Foxtrot and Slippery Ninja.”

“Affirm, Geronimo. We’ll be here if you need us. Big Eye out.”

Sitting under a tree, Sledge pulled out his silk escape and evasion map and searched for the rendezvous point. This part of the briefing he had paid attention to. He had come down south of the city of Zubin Potok in an area heavily contested between the rebel Kosovo Liberation Army and Yugoslav/Serb forces. He located RV Whiskey Foxtrot. It was in the vicinity of a farm, only a few miles south. He folded the map, slid it into a thigh pocket and checked his watch. It was 1410 hours. With any luck he’d avoid the Serb forces, make the RV before nightfall, and find a warm bed for the night.

***

The Soviet-era truck ground its way along a dirt track flanked on both sides by dense forest. It sat low on its springs, the wheels rubbing on the mudguards every time it hit a pothole. In the cabin, Vance, a barrel-chested bald-headed African American drove. Next to him sat a blonde-haired, square-jawed monster who looked as if he’d stepped out of a Marine recruiting poster.

“You ever think we’re supporting the wrong guys?” asked the former-Marine, James Castle.

“What makes you say that, buddy? The fact the Gray Wolves are a pack of low brow thugs, or that they lie to us on an almost daily basis?”

“Both.”

Despite being only a recent graduate of the
CIA’s
Clandestine Service Trainee Program, James was proving to be a very capable operative. The Albanians they were mentoring had taken to calling him Iceman, partly because of his resemblance to Val Kilmer in the movie Top Gun, and partly because nothing seemed to phase him. Ice-cold blood flowed through his veins, as one of the rebels put it, and Vance had to agree. His partner was as stone cold and dependable as they came.

“They’re the lesser of two evils, bud. The Serbs want to kick them out, and the western world seems to think that’s unacceptable.”

“Yeah I get that. I’m just not sure arming a bunch of thugs is the best way to bring peace and stability to the region.”

“I hear you, brother, but one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter, and the powers that be have decided the Albanians are the latter.”

They were CIA paramilitary officers. Members of an elite unit within the agency’s Directorate of Operations, the organization the government used to fight its dirty wars. They usually worked behind enemy lines with rebel forces. In this case, the
Kosovo Liberation Army
.

Vance was the senior operative, with over twenty years experience. While his area of expertise was Latin America, he had been transferred to Eastern Europe to assist with the Kosovo campaign. James, or Ice as Vance had taken to calling him, was on his first hit out with the Agency since being recruited from Marine Corps Force Recon.

Vance crashed his way through the gears as he turned off the track onto an overgrown trail. “Damn this truck is a piece of shit.” He glanced out the window at the forest. “Where the hell is the security?”

Ice wound his window down. “No sign of them.” He sniffed the air. “Can’t smell any cigarettes.”

“Goddamn amateurs.”

The pair had been working with this particular band of
KLA
guerrillas for nearly a month. ‘The Gray Wolves’, as they called themselves, couldn’t really be called a military unit. Discipline was non-existent, and basic security measures were often ignored. When he and Ice had left yesterday, to collect a shipment of weapons and equipment, sentries were posted to watch the intersection. Now, less than twenty-four hours later, the guards were nowhere to be seen.

The truck’s balding tires slipped in the wheel ruts as Vance wrestled it up the trail to a clearing. A hundred yards ahead he made out the red-tiled roofs and white walls of a dilapidated farm. Home base for the Gray Wolves.

The farm consisted of three run-down houses and a stone barn clustered around a muddy square. A dozen four-wheel drives and trucks were parked in the yard along with a rusted tractor. In the center was a smoldering fire around which a group of men were standing warming their hands. They wore a mix of clothing including heavy military jackets, jeans and camouflage pants. All had Yugoslav-made AK assault rifles slung over their shoulders, courtesy of the
CIA
.

Vance parked the truck next to the barn and they jumped down from the cab. One of the
KLA
, a whippet of a man with angular features left the pack and limped across to greet them. “Welcome back, my friends.”

Adem Barishna was the only man within the militia that Vance even slightly trusted. His limp was the result of a childhood accident and was the reason he had been relegated to managing logistics for the Gray Wolves. The other fighters called him the cripple.

“What presents have you brought me?” Barishna’s near perfect English was delivered in a high-pitched voice that made everything he said sound like a complaint.

Ice dropped the tailgate. “Everything you asked for, bro, we even filled the tank. Thanks for the loan. Keys are in the ignition.”

“No, thank you.” The quartermaster shook his hand and looked over the crates.

Vance scanned the camp. “Zahir and Kreshnik inside?”

“Yes. I think you should go talk to them.”

“Why?”

“They’re planning to attack one of the Serbian villages.”

“Motherfuckers. Ice, help Barishna get the gear unloaded.” Vance strode across to the cottage the KLA militia used as a headquarters. He stormed inside and found the leader of the Gray Wolves, Zahir Jashari, sitting in front of a cast iron stove. Next to him sat Kreshnik, his lieutenant.

Zahir was the reason the CIA was backing the Wolves. A respected Albanian clan leader; he would be influential once NATO eventually forced the Yugoslav Army out of Kosovo.

Zahir stood and shook his hand. “Mr. Vance, did you have a good trip?” He was tall with a large square head topped with short gray hair. He had a habit of squinting. Vance thought it made him look like a pig.

Kreshnik remained seated. “You bring us guns?”

He locked eyes with the Gray Wolves’ lieutenant; a thin, snake of a man, who always wore a padded black leather jacket. Vance knew he wore it to look bigger. Everything about him was for show. The jacket, the slicked-back hair, even the
Skorpion machine pistol
he carried in a shoulder holster.

Vanced turned back to Zahir. “We brought weapons as well as ammunition, uniforms, and medical supplies. Everything you need.”

Zahir nodded. “What about heavy weapons? Machine guns, rockets.”

“No, only small arms. You know the agreement. This equipment is to be used in defense of Albanians not to attack the Serbs, you understand.”

“Of course. You made that perfectly clear.”

Kreshnik mumbled something in Albanian.

There was an awkward silence as both KLA fighters stared at Vance. He knew the bastards were lying.

The message tone of his
Motorola 9500
phone broke the silence. He pulled it from his jacket and walked out the door. Unfolding the antenna, he switched to satellite mode and made a call. “It’s me, go ahead.” He listened as one of the operations officers briefed him on the status and location of a downed pilot. He and Ice were tasked to secure the pilot and move him to an extraction site.

He strode across to where Ice was overseeing the unloading of the truck. “You’re not gonna believe this.”

“What?”

“We’ve got a Fallen Angel in our sector.”

“Pilot alive?”

“For now. Came down real close to the Serbs. CSAR can’t get on station due to the SAM threat. We’ve just been tasked.”

“Damn. This gear buys us leverage and then this happens. Zahir is going to use this against us.”

“It’s the nature of the game, brother.”

“Can we run a solo extract?”

“Negative. We go in alone and get in the shit, and suddenly we’ve got three Americans needing to be pulled out.”

“Good point. We need to move fast and pick him up before the Serbs find him.”

Vance gestured to the crates still in the truck. “Give me one of the Zastavas. I’ll talk to Zahir.”

Ice jumped up into the tray of the truck and pried the lid from a wooden crate. He checked the action on a freshly minted
M76 sniper rifle
and handed it over. Vance tucked it under his arm and squelched back through the mud toward the farmhouse. He would distract the KLA leader with a shiny toy then hit him with the task to recover the downed pilot. He already knew what was going to happen. Zahir would help if the CIA agreed to supply him with more weapons. Vance shook his head. He was starting to question exactly who worked for who.