Dark Zero: The Chronicles of Lieutenant Novak Read online

  Dark Zero

  The Chronicles of Lieutenant Nowak

  A novella

  G.P. MOSS

  Dark Zero

  The Chronicles of Lieutenant Nowak

  A novella

  by

  G.P. Moss

  Copyright 2017 G.P. Moss. All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dark Zero: The Chronicles of Lieutenant Nowak

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Epilogue

  End Note

  ‘All must pay the debt of nature.’

  Annie Proulx, Barkskins

  Chapter One

  Wet heat forces sweat down my chest as we move forward, fingers on triggers. My forehead itches to the point of distraction as I chance a fast arm movement, wiping the sticky black insect away in a squashed mess on my already stained shirt sleeve. We're six feet apart, the three of us - Johnny to my left, Harry to my right. We're off course in dense jungle, only a few hundred yards in from asphalt but it may as well be a different country. The air buzzes with menace as a thousand sounds blend into an insect-fuelled drone - I imagine it's like tinnitus.

  The airborne din doesn't cover our tracks as each snapped twig sends out a warning sign - we're here and we're coming but it's your country so you have the advantage. A moving mask of water runs into my eyes as I blink in furious irritation, causing the overflow to hit my dry lips in a salty promise that needs to wait. We must drink soon but it's too dangerous now - they've either stopped to try an ambush or they're moving deeper into the thick vegetation - either way they're near enough to finish us.

  From my periphery, I see Johnny raise his hand briefly before returning it to the rifle.

  We stop immediately as a streak of olive-green flashes between trees less than thirty yards away.

  We're already firing as a series of sharp cracks quickly follow a crash of branches as bullets slam into the trees between Harry and me. As I continue firing for ten more seconds, I see both my comrades still standing. The new silence is louder than the jungle buzz as every nerve is alerted to the possibility of a second wave of attack.

  We inch forward, no longer conscious of the sounds we make - if they're alive and waiting, we're in trouble - there's nowhere to run. After ten yards, I see an outstretched arm with a Kalashnikov still in the loose grip of a hand. I force my breathing into a steady rhythm – at least one that doesn’t have me hyper-ventilating, as Johnny and Harry take a wider arc, checking we’re not being played for idiots. We’re not. The dead man’s two comrades lie next to each other, feet against the bases of twin trees. We were lucky – they had better cover but were still hit in the chest as they took their chances.

  These two are nobodies – except to their mothers. It’s the first one we wanted. Forcing their Jeep off the road, we made chase after they made their escape into the jungle. I check his pockets as my fellow officers search the others. A prepay phone and a handwritten list, along with a small bag of powder. He’s a user then. Was. There’s nothing of interest on the other two – we leave them where they fell. I don’t care that they’ll be found – we’re not messing around, not anymore. He was the recruiter. We’ve spent too long here already – if we don’t leave we’ll attract hassle. We don’t need hassle.

  As I stare at the tree canopy, I hear the bird-calls returning. We move fast, carefully stepping over fallen branches and gnarled, twisting thicket – it may not look much but it’ll rip an ankle from its socket, no problem. We reach the Subaru – battered but fast and less conspicuous than an army Jeep. Less conspicuous? We just emerged from the trees carrying M16s and three Kalashnikovs. We check the safety catches on the guns before placing them quickly in the boot.

  I put my foot down hard on the accelerator as the ancient rally car kicks up dust and rocks in a roar of defiance on the basic road surface. Whoever built this highway didn’t bother with much sub-base so the car rips pieces of stone and asphalt out, flinging them to each side like random missiles – if anyone’s hit they’re in for one massive headache.

  Johnny’s sat next to me, one hand tight on the door grip while the other holds a Browning. We won’t stop out here – not for anyone. Johnny won’t try to talk his way out of anything, he’ll just shoot and move on – it’s what’s kept us alive on occasions. Captain Browne’s in the back seat, trying to stay upright as I swerve the car to avoid the larger potholes. He’s running down the contacts list on the phone – it’s not locked so he can get to work straight away. He’s the negotiator, the diplomat - an extra skill from a list of many.

  We’re not supposed to be here. Captain Browne, Harry, he comes here but he’s careful and he knows the right people. That thug Simmo, the one we just killed, led us into bad territory on purpose. He knew we were following him. Unlucky. For him. I do care about the people here, I do. If I didn’t, I’d recommend dropping a few thousand burning oil drums from on high, see if that changes their minds about filling our streets back home with their filthy stuff. For many though, it’s survival. Forced into swapping crops, running merchandise, anything to keep families fed. I know they’re bullied, intimidated, by scum like Simmo. He’s gone. I’m glad.

  Turning onto a barely-used dirt road, I keep the speed higher than any normal person would consider safe – we need to return to base as fast as possible, debrief and see what Harry can make of the contact list. Several miles further on, I start to smell the salt and unmistakable tangy moisture of the air – it’s the sea and where, at this moment, we call home. We’re in a protective cove, with enough fire-power to see off a small army.

  We’re here to help a larger army – relatively useless and occasionally corrupt and sometimes we need to show them we’re being serious. They want our expertise in thwarting this cartel and we’re grateful we can get close enough to them to make a difference. Officially, we’re here in a training capacity – unofficially, it’s hit and run. Captain Browne makes the contacts, then we go in. It works but it’s dangerous beyond reason for our friend. He never complains but he’s got a wife at home and she’s pregnant. I hope we get this finished soon. I do. I have a wife too. I miss her.

  As we climb from the car, I feel the shaking before the brief rumble of earth moving far underground alerts our senses to another earthquake. They’re generally small here – I hope this one’s the same and not a sign of worse to come.

  Chapter Two

  A quick tap on the office door is enough for Harry to slip the captured phone into his pocket. Anyone getting past our guards in a civil fash
ion at the front of the house will be allowed in but they must announce their arrival. Colonel Kim is the local commander here so he expresses his authority with the minimum of protocol.

  "Anything of use on your field trip this morning, Captain?" he asks, with the natural suspicion of an outsider in his own territory.

  "Nothing, Colonel. Quiet as a mouse,” Harry replies, maintaining rigid eye contact with the enormous officer. Kim continues to stare, his wide nose flickering with impatience as the distinctive black mole on his left cheek appears to twitch in annoyance.

  Our Captain gives nothing away as Kim presses on.

  "The Intel you are getting appears to lack substance," he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Who is it, that is supplying it?"

  Harry supplies a generic name which would fit half the population. I turn away before he notices my lip starting to quiver, busying myself with scraping the dead insects from my forearms, sometimes indistinguishable from the mass of black, damp hairs. Johnny stands stock-still, staring at the back of Kim's head - I don't know what he's thinking but I'll bet it's not pleasant. We have our own agenda here - we'll supply information but it'll be similar in quality and reliability to anything you can pick up at a roadside bar.

  Colonel Kim turns his great weight around, scratching his huge, balding head, the remaining black hair plastered flat from the midday heat. I see Johnny follow his large, oval jet-black eyes, set straight forward as he strides heavily towards the cheap plywood door - only the best for us.

  I walk into the corridor, waiting there until I hear Kim’s footsteps crunching the gravel outside the house.

  “He’s gone,” I say to Harry.

  Already scrolling through the phone list, he’s jotting down numbers in an A5 black spiral book. I wait until he’s finished – if there’s something useful, he’ll say. Taking a spare sim card from the unlocked desk drawer, he slots it into an old prepay before dialling a number from the notebook. In a local dialect that only he in this room understands, he starts talking fast, his deep voice rising and falling, while his left arm flails about like a market trader realising someone just stole his fruit.

  He puts the phone down gently, smiling as he punches in the next number. The same happens again, until he’s repeated this a dozen times before ripping off the back and removing the sim card. Taking a pair of old steel scissors from the drawer, he snips the sim into quarters before tossing the pieces into a wicker waste paper basket. He replaces the prepay, locks the drawer, and rolls his shoulders in a way that says ‘job done’.

  “That’s rattled them,” Harry says. “They’ve no idea who was on that phone but I told them we’re coming after them. Not us, but a gang out to claim their territory. There’s no-one I recognised but on one call, there was a lot of shouting and vehicle movement – sounded military.”

  I nod grimly.

  “We’ve known for a while there’s a leak on this side. It’s only our wits and your local knowledge that’s saved us a few times,” I say, knowing it’s to be expected when corruption is the norm rather than the exception.

  “Our days are numbered here,” Harry says, lightly tapping long fingers on the cracked wooden desk. “We’ll hit a few more times, hard if we can, then we’ll move out. They’re too entrenched – we tried. Let the local military take responsibility for their own mess.”

  We represent our army, helping their army, but we’re not regular soldiers. The tags around our necks aren’t there when we hit the road. If we’re hit, there’ll be no official announcement. Johnny and I are Lieutenants, Harry’s the Captain. He’s in charge but the three of us take equal responsibility for keeping each other alive – it’s the way of the Special Forces and it works. We listen and we act in the best interests of the group. Always.

  The Captain has it the worst. While he’s out there in a reconnaissance role, making contacts with locals he can’t always trust, we’re not always there to support him. We can’t be. He’s studied the customs, language, and geography for years – Johnny and I are just the door kickers.

  I think of what the Captain told us about the phone calls. The sounds from a military base? This is the only one for miles – we’re at the bottom edge, close to the sea. We asked for it this way – if there’s an attack, we need clear vision, not to be caught in the middle of a couple of thousand soldiers, none of whom we can be sure are on our side when the muck hits.

  I don’t know if anyone saw us on the highway as we chased the recruiter. I hope not. I’m unsure as to whether anyone would be so stupid as to attempt an attack on a military base but if there’s a leak here and if they know who and where we are, anything’s possible.

  Yes, we’re here to help, to advise and to train. It’s had some success but the merchandise gets stubbornly through. We can’t take out everyone but we’ll have a few. Harry’s job is to educate, stop the dead ones being replaced. Sometimes it works, more often it doesn’t. It’s down to money. Family first. I get that, I do. I also get the fact that it’s killing our citizens back home, increasing crime and causing general misery for normal, hard-working people - like my wife.

  Chapter Three

  Harry has several contacts but only one reliable source as far as I know. The phone call with the background noise has rattled him - he looks worried now and that's rare. As the satellite phone rings in the office, a black blanket covers the sky, throwing shadow shapes across the room. The Captain briefly turns to the reinforced back window to look at the strange absence of light as he listens with fierce concentration at the voice on the other end.

  "I see, Sir. Yes, Major. One thing, Sir. If the network's compromised, there's someone I need to get out. Two people, actually."

  As Harry clicks off the phone, he looks at me, then Johnny - a grim, lined expression made starker by the absence of colour in the room.

  "As you could tell, that was Major Williams. He wants us out by tomorrow evening - there'll be a transport plane waiting for us. We take everything and destroy what we don't need or can't carry."

  I nod, not entirely surprised by our impending departure - it's the nature of the job.

  "The Major wasn't keen when I mentioned taking the contact with us. If I leave her there, she'll be killed. Guaranteed. Her son as well."

  I've never seen Harry look indecisive before but I know he'll be going through the worst of dilemmas. On hearing the contact is a woman with a child, I manage not to raise an eyebrow. It makes things awkward. The training says we ship out and leave with no thought of collateral damage. I know the Captain though - it's not in his nature. He’s a rebel but he's not reckless and he won’t just dump a contact. Yes, a dilemma.

  As I start to speak, the darkness splits open with a display of crashing, jagged light as thunder booms, torrential rain hammering off the blast bags and asphalt beyond. We're used to monsoon weather - calm, balmy days suddenly interrupted by violent downpours, the temperature changing in erratic bouts of warmth, cold, and sticky, cloying heat. This feels different.

  "We can go and get them, now," I say, trying to make the decision for him. I know it's dangerous but it's the right thing to do.

  Johnny agrees, without hesitation.

  "It'll be better with three of us," he says. “We won't be treading lightly this time. We go in, eliminate where necessary, grab them and go."

  "You know you're putting yourselves and your careers at risk here? My rank doesn't give me permission to disobey orders and you don't have to follow."

  Harry’s giving us the option to walk away from this. He knows we won't. Who needs a career, anyway? If the girl and her son die because we left them, we will know we put our pensions before a life – two lives. I don’t want to live with that. It should be simple anyway - in and out. We'll take grenades - anything to put distance between the enemy and us. If we go tonight, hopefully the bandits will be full of dinner, or beer. Hopefully both.

  Our Captain’s tension visibly reduces as he gathers essentials into a tough,
nylon backpack.

  I head down the short corridor, tapping on the room where four of our troopers - part of a six-man, twenty-four-hour guard, are either snoozing or reading. There's television here but nobody understands the language and the storms regularly knock out the archaic transmitters.

  "We're heading home, tomorrow, lads," I say, knowing this is welcome news. It's not an official war zone but they get battle pay - they'll relish a chance to spend some back home.

  "If we're not back by twelve noon tomorrow, take both Jeeps and head for the strip - on no account do you wait for us if we're not here. Understood?"

  "Yes, Sir," they reply, in unison.

  "One last thing. Don't leave anything here. If you can't carry it, burn it. I suggest you get everything packed now, in case we have to leave in a hurry." I leave them to it - they'll know exactly what I mean.

  The local commander was told we're all regular army. It's not true - these troopers are also Special Forces.

  The plan is to have everything ready for a fast departure if needed. Floorboards are lifted from the office as Johnny checks the concealed weapons before carefully placing them in a tatty canvas holdall – it may not look much but it can hold a lot of weight. Many of the guns, including pistols of varying make and age, were taken from traffickers and local hoodlums – the previous owners won’t be missing them – they’re all dead.

  As the unrelenting rain batters the roof, a small convoy of vehicles sweeps around the front of us. They don’t stop and hopefully they’re just in a hurry to get out of the storm. Equally as fast, a lone pick-up truck heads off out of the compound, the driver crunching its gears in an impatient display that sprays newly formed mud across its path.

  I check the laces on my boots – non-combat, they’re Gore-Tex hikers, tough and waterproof. The three of us wear similar, black clothing, including hunting jackets – the inside ‘poachers’ pocket can hold a folded rifle – an extra strap sewn in to hold a gun-stock in place.