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Legacy of Terror Chapter 2

Present Day

 

John Brannigan was not a happy man.

It wasn’t that life was bad. Nor was it the company. His relationship with the man behind the wheel of the SUV currently rolling through Alexandria, Virginia, wasn’t nearly as adversarial as it once had been. Mark Van Zandt, formerly General Van Zandt, USMC, had overseen Brannigan’s precipitous and unwilling retirement from the Marine Corps, many years before. Since entering the private sector himself, however, Van Zandt had worked with Brannigan and his small team of mercenaries, the men who called themselves “Brannigan’s Blackhearts,” enough that he’d changed.

No, the discomfort wasn’t about sharing a ride with Van Zandt, or even the business casual that was pretty far from his usual attire these days. No, it was entirely about where they were.

He’d bent over backwards in uniform and out to avoid Northern Virginia, the Beltway, and DC itself. Now here he was, right in the belly of the beast, and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Of course, he could just go home. But there hadn’t been a lot of action for the Blackhearts since Prague, and he knew that the other boys would be disappointed if he turned down a job just because it meant going into the swamp.

“Here we are.” Van Zandt took a turn onto a long, winding driveway flanked by a pair of massive oak trees. “I don’t need to brief you on proper etiquette here, do I?”

It was a dig, and Brannigan knew it, but he didn’t rise to the bait. “I’ve briefed the Joint Chiefs and even the President in my day, Mark.”

Van Zandt had the good grace to look a little abashed. He was still more clean-cut than Brannigan, who had let his hair grow longer—though it still wasn’t exactly long—and had added a massive handlebar mustache. There hadn’t been much about Van Zandt’s grooming that had changed since the Marine Corps. “I know. You can just be a little…”

“Blunt?”

“That’s… better than what I was going to say.”

“Abrasive? Belligerent?”

Van Zandt sighed. “Just take the diplomacy for what it is, John.”

Brannigan subsided, though not without cracking a faint smile. They really had come a long way, him and Van Zandt. Such an exchange only a few years ago would have ended in a fight.

They rolled up to the front of the house, an enormous mansion that looked like it dated back to colonial days, though that might well have been the object when it had been built. Brannigan knew who they were meeting, but he hadn’t researched the house. He had other concerns.

Van Zandt parked out front of the massive stone steps leading up to the front door. “You didn’t come strapped, did you?”

Brannigan sighed and pulled the commander-sized 1911 out of his waistband, still in its holster, pushing it into the center console. “You didn’t think I wouldn’t, did you?”

Van Zandt just shook his head and got out.

There were two men in plainclothes, with the unmistakable air of security about them, waiting at the door. They didn’t search the two former Marine officers, which was a rare courtesy, but ushered them inside. “The Senator is waiting for you, gentlemen.”

With one in the lead and the other trailing, they moved into the house. The entryway looked like a set from Gone with the Wind, with the grand staircase leading to the second floor and a massive chandelier overhead. Brannigan did know enough to know that the Senator came from old money, so this wasn’t all from government graft.

The Senator’s home office was on the second floor of one wing. Paneled in what looked like mahogany—and Brannigan didn’t doubt that it was the real thing—it looked like a classical study, and he was sure that it was maintained that way for appearances alone.

Senator Braxton was sitting behind an enormous wooden desk, thoroughly absorbed in writing something. Brannigan’s eyes narrowed as he studied the balding, white-haired man. He knew enough about Braxton to be sure it was an act. The man was the epitome of the lowest common denominator rising to the top by sheer artifice and bombast.

“Have a seat. Just be a moment.” The “elder statesman” voice sounded just as phony as the writing to Brannigan’s ears. Hell. Is he using a fountain pen?

There wasn’t anything they could do, though, and Van Zandt just shrugged and sank into one of the overstuffed armchairs facing the desk. Brannigan stifled the urge to shake his head and did the same, noting with disgust that he sank deeper into the chair than normal, which would put him below Braxton’s line of sight from the desk. It was a cheap power play, and one he’d seen before, but it was probably to be expected from someone of Braxton’s caliber.

Finally, the Senator put the notepad and the pen aside and looked up at the two of them, leaning his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands. “Well. General Van Zandt. Colonel Brannigan. Thank you for meeting me. I’m afraid we need to have this meeting here in my home because certain forces within the US government have precluded anything more official.”

“We’re listening.” Brannigan kept his face impassive, though he thought he could sense Van Zandt very nearly wince next to him.

His bluntness made Braxton hesitate, and drew an irritated glance from the older man. However, he apparently decided that whatever he’d brought them here for was more important than his senatorial ego.

“I don’t know if you’ve been following the news in the Caribbean?” Braxton raised an eyebrow as he asked the question.

Van Zandt nodded, while Brannigan only shrugged.

Braxton nodded, though with just enough of an air of exasperation that it hardened Brannigan’s already low opinion of the man. The entire meeting already felt forced and scripted, scripted in such a way to make Braxton feel like he was in total control.

He hated it, but if this was how to get the work…

“Well, there’s been an uptick in piracy, particularly in the southern waters, south of Jamaica and north of Colombia.” Braxton leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “The most recent attack was on the MV Traveling Family.” He said that as if the name should mean something, but it was just another cargo ship to Brannigan. When neither Brannigan nor Van Zandt responded, Braxton sighed again. “The Traveling Family is not only a US-flag ship, but she belongs to the Dorian Family corporation.” Once again, that was probably supposed to mean something, and Brannigan assumed it was a major donor or something. He just nodded, as if he understood. He didn’t want another patronizing explanation that wasn’t necessarily relevant to the mission.

“This was the first US flagged ship to be taken, and it has to be responded to. Unfortunately, we know who is behind these attacks, and that makes things a little difficult.”

The senator pointed to a map of the Americas on the wall. “The pirates are coming from a small country on the north coast of Colombia, right next to the Venezuelan border. Costa de las Joyas. It’s ruled by a small and brutal military junta, that’s been in power since the late seventies. Now, nobody would miss them if they went away, but the reality on the ground makes direct US intervention next to impossible. That close to Venezuela, no one wants to send the Marines or even the SEALs. Especially after that circus of a coup attempt in Venezuela only a few years ago.”

Brannigan wasn’t sure he bought that. Venezuela was an enemy of the US, a generally communist country, but it wasn’t so much of a threat that the US he had grown up in would hesitate to teach them a lesson, even if by proxy. And the description of the military junta that ran Costa de las Joyas didn’t make them sound like they were exactly Venezuelan allies. Or Colombian allies, for that matter.

No, there was something else going on here.

Am I getting paranoid in my old age?

“A certain committee that I am a part of has worked with the State Department to come up with a solution. A full-scale military intervention—which would be the only real way to put a stop to the junta’s active support of piracy—is off the table, but we believe that we have found a better way to accomplish regime change. Which is where you and your little group of contractors comes in.”

He pushed a folder across the desk. Brannigan took it, aware that it was an affectation itself, as much as he might personally prefer paper to electronics. Inside was a photo of a man in his late thirties or early forties. Clean shaven, with a flyaway shock of black hair, there was a burning intensity in his eyes that Brannigan wasn’t sure he liked.

“That is Ernesto Hierro,” Braxton explained. “He has been at the forefront of the reform movement in Costa de las Joyas for a couple of decades now. His father was killed by the junta, back in the eighties. He was captured a few months ago, and is currently being held in the prison wing of the Generalissimo Marto Military Base, right outside Santa Paz, the capital city and the single major city in the entire country.”

Braxton leaned back in his chair again and eyed Brannigan, as if he were uncertain about whether or not to continue, uncertain that Brannigan was the right man for the job. Brannigan just leaned back in his own chair, putting the file on the arm next to him, and returned the senator’s stare levelly.

Finally, with a nod that was every bit as theatrical as the rest of this meeting, Braxton seemed to make up his mind. “We need you to get Hierro out and back to his fellow reformers. There are plans in motion to get them more support, and the Agency believes that they have extensive grassroots support among the populace. The military junta is brutal and corrupt, and the people have just about had enough. It’s time for a reform, and it would be better, in that part of the world, if it came from their own people, not from the US military.”

Brannigan suspected that that last statement had far more to do with the desire to avoid an overt US military intervention than the aforementioned worry about Venezuela. He wasn’t entirely against the idea, either, but there was still something about this that seemed a little off.

“If they’re corrupt, would it be possible to simply bribe someone to let him out?” It wasn’t that he was worried about the Blackhearts’ ability to run a jailbreak, but if they could do it quietly, without gunfire, so much the better.

“It’s possible.” Braxton didn’t seem to like the idea. As if killing a bunch of people to noisily break a dissident out of a military prison was a much preferable concept than bribing a corrupt officer. “We will provide you with some operational funds, but duffel bags full of cash might not be available.”

Brannigan just nodded. It seemed as if the senator and whoever else was backing this operation had a preconceived idea of how it should go. He’d deal with that as it came. “Well, I suppose stopping piracy against American shipping is a noble cause, even if this seems to be an awfully roundabout way to do it. We’re going to need a pretty thorough breakdown of the country, its history, terrain, known factions, etc. Is there any kind of timeline we need to be aware of? Is he slated for execution or anything?”

“Not that we know of, but this does need to be done quickly. We don’t want any more American ships getting seized.” Braxton seemed satisfied that the Blackhearts were going to take the job, and he sat up, shuffling papers on his desk. “My secretary will have a packet of more information for you.”

Clearly, the meeting was over. Brannigan glanced at Van Zandt, who was already getting up, and followed suit. “Thank you for your time, Senator.”

Braxton waved, already apparently absorbed with the papers in front of him. Brannigan and Van Zandt turned and left the room.

Braxton’s secretary—unsurprisingly a young brunette—was waiting with a sealed manila envelope, which she handed over as they came out, barely looking at the two retired officers before going into Braxton’s office and closing the door behind her.

“Looks like the brief’s been given and the job is set.” Van Zandt looked a little uncomfortable, though he was also apparently relieved that Brannigan hadn’t pushed in there. “Let’s get out of here and start planning.”

Brannigan tucked the envelope under his arm and followed Van Zandt toward the car. He would run this past the team, and they’d see.

It wasn’t as if the Blackhearts hadn’t done some sketchy jobs before. Hell, they’d been ostensibly working for a transnational criminal syndicate in Prague, but the target had been the Humanity Front, so that had, at least on some level, been justified.

There was something about this that told him they’d have to move very carefully.

Very carefully, indeed.

 

Legacy of Terror comes out on Kindle and in Paperback on March 29.

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Mongol Moon Live

No, we’re not reading Mongol Moon on stream, but we do have the author, Mark Sibley, joining us this month. As a fellow Wargate author, and also an author of near future war scenarios, we should have a lot to talk about.

Even with the inevitable tangents.

Come and join us on YouTube, Rumble, or Facebook. (We might experiment a little with Twitter next month, which will require cutting one of those destinations out.)

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Legacy of Terror Chapter 1

Forty Years Ago

 

Carlos Hierro looked up at the brassy sky overhead, squinting against the scorching sun. They had run out of water hours before, and he was sure the soldiers down below knew it. That was why there had been only sporadic exchanges of gunfire over the last hour or so.

They know they only have to wait us out.

He shook his head as he looked around at his comrades. Adalberto was no longer moving. He had bled out from his wounds sometime in the last few minutes. They simply no longer had the medical supplies to save him.

The others, all ten of them, were ragged, sunburned, their lips cracked from lack of water, most of them down to their last couple of magazines. Nilo and Omar weren’t going to be able to go far even if they ever had a chance of breaking out, Nilo with a broken leg from a soldier’s bullet as they’d reached this little refuge in the rocks, and Omar nursing a gut wound that would be his death.

Carlos knew they were all dead men. He glanced up at the sky again. Here, in the last moments, he found he was grateful that Palmira was safe, in hiding with their son. These brutes wouldn’t get their hands on either of them.

He knew what would happen if they were found. Palmira had protested bitterly when he’d made the decision, insisted that her place was at his side, but he had held firm, and now, as death closed in, he was ever more glad that he had.

Keeping his head down, he moved to the gap in the rocks overlooking the government positions below, and the sea beyond. The heat beat on him, reflected off the rocks, and he struggled to swallow against the dryness in his throat.

The soldiers weren’t being all that careful. He could see them down there, moving from rock to rock, barely bothering to take cover. They didn’t need to, not really. He and his comrades didn’t have enough ammunition left to risk wasting it on chancy shots, and the soldiers had to realize it.

He lifted his Kalashnikov, nevertheless. It was beginning to sink in that there was no getting out of this outcropping of rocks alive. The city of Santa Paz, green and lush in the middle of the coastal desert, seemed to taunt him, the knowledge that these animals still held firm control eating at him.

Someone below must have seen the sun glint off the gunmetal. Muzzle flash flickered in the rocks below, and he ducked just before a burst of machinegun fire splashed fragments of shattered stone and dust over him, the crackle and slam of the impacts echoing across the hillside.

Gritting his teeth, he leaned against the scorching rock as dust continued to sift down out of the air as the machinegunner punished him for daring to show himself.

Not like this. The thought was a sudden intrusion, but it was as clear as if it were a bolt from the cloudless sky above. He didn’t believe in divine inspiration, but if he was going to die, he wasn’t going to die of thirst while his enemies gloated down below, fed and watered and comfortable.

He rolled to put his back to the rock. “Nilo, Omar. Can you get into position to start shooting at them down there?”

Nilo nodded, though it looked like Omar might be too far gone. He was still moving, still breathing, but he hardly seemed aware of where he was anymore.

The wounded man dragged his shattered leg behind him as he crawled to the rock where Carlos waited, though he paused to take Adalberto’s one remaining magazine. He was obviously in a lot of pain as he hiked himself up to where he could lay his battered Galil in the crack in the rocks to start to shoot down into the government positions below.

While Nilo got into position, Carlos crawled back into the rocks, looking up and around for a good way out. Their final redoubt was near the crest of a hill overlooking the capital city, and there wasn’t a lot of cover they could use. But he was determined to get down out of that outcropping and deal some death to the monsters who fought for the government before he died.

“Come with me.” His voice was a hoarse rasp through his cracked lips. His tongue felt thick and rough in his mouth.

Without waiting for a response from the dead-eyed men who’d come with him on this ill-fated final raid, he looked to the only opening in the rocks off on the flank, heaved himself to his feet, and dashed through it.

It was more of a lumbering lunge than a dash, but he got out and threw himself flat as a bullet smacked into the rock nearby. They were watching all sides of the rebels’ last covered position.

He kept crawling, the desert growth and the rocks tearing at his hands, his knees, and his already dusty and tattered clothes. His rifle burned his hand where he gripped it, and banged and knocked against the ground and the rocks. He ignored the noise and any damage that might be done. None of it mattered. So long as the rifle fired, and the Kalashnikov always fired.

More gunfire was starting to snap toward their position, and he heard a sudden burst of meaty impacts behind him, barely audible over the crackle of bullets going by overhead. Alonzo was dead.

He didn’t look back. He just kept crawling. He wasn’t even looking that far ahead, knowing only that there were soldiers in every direction, and that he needed to lash out, to take some revenge before he died.

It was pure good fortune—not that he believed in such a thing—that brought him to a small arroyo running down from the top of the hill. He fell into it, just as another burst of machinegun fire spat grit and dust over him, the bullets sending up geysers of dirt and shattered rocks right where he had just been.

Tomas appeared above him, having scrambled to his feet to try to race to cover. More bullets slammed into him, blood erupting from his chest, and he collapsed at the lip of the arroyo, his eyes open and staring fixedly at nothing, red running from under him into the dust.

Carlos had no idea how many of them were left now. He didn’t know if he cared. A strange detachment had come over him, and everything seemed to be muted but clear.

Rising up out of cover, even as the gunfire kicked up dust and grit all around him, he leveled his AK-74 and opened fire.

The Kalashnikov bucked and rattled in his hands, bullets skipping off rocks and kicking up dirt, though he was pretty sure that some of them struck home, green-clad soldiers dropping out of sight in the dust.

Then he felt a fiery impact in his side, and then one leg went out from under him.

He pivoted as he fell, seeing three more of the men in green looming above the arroyo, where they’d come up on his flank. He swung the rifle toward them, sending off one last stuttering burst that caught the soldier on the left, the bullets slamming into his ribs and then tearing out his throat, sending him spinning to the desert ground with a spray of gore.

Then the weapon clicked on an empty magazine.

Both of the soldiers who were still standing had ducked for cover as he’d shot at them, evading the burst of fire that had killed their comrade. One of them rose up onto a knee as Carlos stared at his empty weapon, realizing at the last that it was over.

The soldier’s rifle barked, and Carlos felt another blow. It didn’t even hurt that much, though he was sure the pain was coming. Another blow and another slammed him back against the rocks at the bottom of the arroyo. He felt something wet around his mouth, and he realized it was getting hard to breathe.

As the two soldiers scrambled down into the arroyo above him, and proceeded to empty their magazines into him, one last thought floated through his mind, just before the pain made everything turn black.

Ernesto. Keep the Cause alive.

 

Legacy of Terror comes out on Kindle and Paperback March 29.

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The Starship Troopers Stream

So, this might be technically a little late, but Starship Troopers was all over the internet a week or so ago. We’re going to talk about it. The book, the movie, and how bug people don’t understand what “fascism” is. Of course, it being the AP/Slack Ops crew, this could go all sorts of ways. Since the book is more an exercise in political and leadership philosophy than a straight mil-sf story, this could get deep.

Come and join us.

We’ll be on Rumble, too.

(Rumble doesn’t seem to play well with WordPress, or that stream would be embedded here, too.)

 

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Christopher Ruocchio Returns to Talk Tolkien

Since it was Professor Tolkien’s birthday this month, we have invited Christopher Ruocchio back to the stream to talk about Tolkien, fantasy, and whatever else we get into (you know how it is). Come and join us.

(It was brought to my attention that Rumble’s subscriber requirement for livestreams is no longer in effect, so we’re going to be on Rumble, as well.)

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Update for January

Been a bit busy lately, but I thought it was time to update everyone. The word mines are unrelenting.

I’m working on finishing up the second book of a new military science fiction series for Wargate Press. The first one, Spheres of Influence, doesn’t have a release date just yet, but it should be out in Q3. I’m hoping that this first trilogy will be a springboard for more in that universe. It’s been kicking around in my head for over twenty years.

Steve Marvel has Non-State Actor in hand, and we’re looking at a potential April release for the audio.

Speaking of audio, KDP is rolling out a beta program of using “virtual voice” for audiobooks. That appears to be a fancy way of saying AI generated audio. While that could be more cost effective, I currently have zero plans to do anything with AI. I prefer working with real people.

Moving forward, I’m looking at returning to Brannigan’s Blackhearts next, after I finish up Cascade Effect. I’ll have a release date for Brannigan’s Blackhearts #13, Legacy of Terror, once I get it outlined and the schedule figured out. After that, I’ll wrap up the Spheres of Influence trilogy, get that turned in, and then the next project will depend on a few things.

I have three major series lined up right at the moment, aside from the Edge of Imperium universe and a return to the world of The Lost for Wargate (Yes, I am hoping to get the first book of the sequel series to The Lost done by the end of the year).

The second Pallas Group Solutions series, Flashpoint 1968, and my frontier series, currently tentatively titled The Territory. I’m currently hip-deep in research for The Territory, and I’ve got a hankering to get into that, though the depth of historical and anthropological research is pretty huge. I don’t want this to be another, “I read a bunch of glorified dime novels and watched a bunch of Spaghetti Westerns, and now I want to write a western.” This needs to be grounded in real history. Which means a lot of reading, and possibly a few trips around Montana to get eyes on the actual ground.

So, that’s roughly where things stand at the moment. Depending on how things fall out, there might even be a standalone Jed Horn story coming up at some point (Jed seemed to get some more interest with the release of The Lost).

Back to work.

 

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Frontiers of Chaos Has Hit Audio

Today is the day. Frontiers of Chaos, the fourth book in the Brave New Disorder series, has come out on audiobook, read by Steve Marvel.

A killing in Seattle

A massacre in Northern California

A mysterious new client

In the aftermath of what appears to be a targeted killing, a mysterious billionaire approaches Pallas Group Solutions with a new job. He seems to be more interested in their intelligence gathering capability than security.

None of them are prepared for what they find.

In a whirlwind of violence and intrigue, the contractors of Pallas Group plunge into a world of human trafficking and elite capture.

And find themselves on the hunt for an underworld facilitator who’s closer than they expected.

It’s a pursuit from the Pacific Northwest to the Tri-Border Area of South America.

And as the bodies pile up, things can only get darker.

 

Get it today.

 

(Steve has Non-State Actor in hand, and will begin production when he can. Schedules being what they are, it will probably be a couple more months.)

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Rick Partlow on the Stream

We are joined this month by former infantry officer and science fiction author Rick Partlow, author of the Drop Trooper and Taken to the Stars series. We’ll be talking science fiction, the military, and whatever else comes up along the way. (If you’ve watched any of these streams, you know where they can end up going, which is why we haven’t really set on a particular topic lately.)

Come join us.

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Across the Rubicon – Non-State Actor is Out

The Rubicon Has Been Crossed

The war came back at Pallas Group Solutions. Chris and Nick both found themselves fighting for their families’ lives.

In response, they struck back.

Now, with two major underworld figures dead, who had facilitated crimes for the People’s Republic of China, the cartels, and others, the war has entered a new phase.

There’s no going back.

There is only the fight.

As Pallas Group Solutions becomes a Non State Actor.

Get it today in ebook and print.

 

So we come to the end of the Brave New Disorder arc. This won’t be the last we see of Pallas Group Solutions, though. There will be more to come in the future. The world continues to change, but the war in the shadows goes on.

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Jawing with LawDog

Tonight, we are joined by Ian McMurtrie, aka LawDog, retired Sheriff’s deputy, writer, and SPOTREPs contributor. We’ll talk about his background, experience, and writing, but as should be SOP by now, expect things to go interesting places. Ian’s been places that we haven’t, and I’ve only heard a couple of his stories, so this should be good.

I also owe him for the turn of phrase, “monkey with a screwdriver” in regards to stabbing people (in fact, I’ve learned a couple of such colorful wordings from him).

Come and join us.

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