Pearl: Murphy's Lawless, #5

By Mark Wandrey

Taken from their planet and their century, they are…the Lost Soldiers.

 

Some of the hijacked Twentieth Century troops known as the Lost Soldiers have made planetfall on R'Bak and are working to establish their base there, but their commander, Major Murphy, has a problem. He knows there are weapons and equipment caches that haven't been activated yet by their immediate enemies—the Satraps—although they are moving as quickly as they can to get to the caches so they can turn those weapons upon their new off-world foes.

 

Victor Allen Thomas—"Vat" to his friends—was escaping an arms deal gone bad when the helicopter carrying him crashed and he was hijacked by the mysterious Ktor. While he had military experience, he had left the military years before under suspicious circumstances. With a general discharge in his past, he shouldn't even have been in Somalia to begin with.

 

As an arms dealer, Vat has plenty of experience learning new languages and cultures, and he is used to cutting risky deals and making unusual alliances. Murphy is counting on Vat to find the equipment caches—his 'pearls of great price'—before the Satraps can use the weapons against the Lost Soldiers.

 

But Vat has never been good at forming relationships. He's going to have to overcome that failing, because there are only two possible outcomes for his mission. Either he finds the pearls of great price that will allow the Terrans to securely establish themselves on R'Bak, or—if he doesn't—the future of Murphy's Lawless isn't merely bleak; it's likely to be nonexistent.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Beyond Terra Press
• Release date: Nov 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781648550539

Book preview

Chapter One

Mogadishu

The Range Rover had seen better days, as had the streets it was navigating. Back home in Romulus, Michigan, the ratio was about one pothole for every yard of road. Here it was about one yard-sized pothole for every foot of road. The heat in the back seat was sweltering, but the Rover had probably never had air conditioning, and you were crazy to drive through Mogadishu with the windows down. The truck caromed over a particularly deep pothole, and his head bounced off the roof.

You good, boss man? the driver asked. He was about 6’ 9", maybe more, and would have been considered skeletal back in the States. If he had been born there, he might have been a high school basketball star. Here, he looked decades older than he was and was missing his left leg below the knee, probably courtesy of some unknown close encounter with the indifferent nature of high explosives.

The man was definitely speaking a version of Afar; it wasn’t pure Somali. African dialects weren’t in his collection, so when this opportunity opened up, he started learning them. He’d gotten pretty good with Somali over the last two weeks, but Afar was trickier.

Yeah, A-OK, Victor said in Afar and flashed the man a thumbs up. The driver beamed at him, his brilliant white teeth offset by his ebony skin. He couldn’t tell if that meant he was speaking the correct language or not. Knowing my luck, he works for Aidid.

A shrill squawk from his backpack made him jump. He’d forgotten about the sat-phone. Despite the literature, it didn’t work in Somalia often and almost never in Mogadishu—there was too much electromagnetic garbage in the air with the US military in town.

He fished it out and flipped the huge antenna up. The signal bar showed minimal. With a shrug, he stabbed the Connect button with his thumb. Talk quick; signal sucks.

Vat? Damn it, man, about time. Where you been?

Snap, you idiot, it’s three o’clock here. The meeting, remember?

"Jesus, I forgot. Look, man, you gotta get outta there. Now."

"What the fuck you talking about? General Aidid is interested in the bees. Like really interested."

Yeah, well, the FBI just cleaned your place out.

Victor felt his blood run cold. He licked his lips and sat up straight in the seat, something a white guy in fatigues shouldn’t do when riding down a street in Mogadishu, especially in daylight. What did you say?

I said the F-fucking-B-I, just hit your place. I’m on a burner phone at the airport. I’m getting out of Dodge. This is your only warning. Good luck.

Snap! Vat yelled into the phone, but a series of clicks and a rapid beep told him that half a world away, his long-time buddy Sammy Snap Baker had just broken the disposable phone in half and tossed it into the garbage. Fuck, he said quietly. Someone had dropped a dime on his operation. It wasn’t Snap, or he wouldn’t have risked everything calling him. Who then?

Doesn’t matter. Not now.

You good, boss man?

Vat looked up at the driver. Did the man know more than four words of English? He’d been taking Vat to the hotel—more like armed compound, really—provided for him upon arriving in Mogadishu. Vat didn’t know the driver’s name. He’d just gotten into the car General Aidid’s aide had pointed to.

Can you take me to the American base?

The man’s big friendly smile disappeared in an instant. Yeah, definitely Aidid’s man. You go hotel. Vat made a face, and the driver repeated the statement in Afar, confirming Vat’s earlier guess.

Vat shook his head hard. No. The American base, he said in the driver’s language. He reached into his duffel, fumbled around, and pulled out a pouch. He held up two crisp $100 bills. Base. The look of hunger on the man’s face was unmistakable, still he hesitated. Vat added two more bills. The hesitation disappeared as the driver reached for them. Vat handed him two and held two back. You’ll get these when you drop me at base.

Okay, boss man, the driver said, in English this time, his face hard but determined. $400 US in Mogadishu could buy you a new life, or better yet, a ticket out. Vat wondered what his own ticket would cost.

A bullet came through the side window as they turned onto a side street.

The driver gunned it. Vat fell sideways and let his momentum carry him to the floor, pulling his bag with him. His hand went back in and came out with his pistol. In a couple of years, it would be known as a Glock 26. Right now, it was an un-serialized preproduction present from a friend. Super lightweight, super compact, and loaded with 9x19mm parabellum, NATO standard. The 10-round magazine and small size had been a surprise to more than a few people with ill intentions toward him.

What fucking good will it do against a sniper?

He briefly wondered if Aidid had targeted him. No, he was being paranoid. Aidid would just have the driver pull over and a couple guys would have blown Vat’s brains out in the middle of the road; no need for the cloak and dagger shit. Someone had probably seen the camos. Shit.

The Range Rover’s motor slowed. Vat dropped another hundred over the front seat. Do. Not. Stop, he said, carefully pronouncing every word. The engine coughed and roared again as the driver punched it.

No more bullets followed.

Vat stayed on the floor.

He dug through his bag and grabbed the folder with his proper documents and secured the gun in its Velcro retention strap inside the bag. He destroyed the ID he’d entered the country with beyond recognition and stuffed it under the driver’s seat. Nobody would have any idea who that guy was.

He risked looking up from behind the seat and saw they were approaching the base’s checkpoint. A pair of armored personnel carriers flanked the concrete barriers, and he realized how fast the taxi was moving.

Whoa, slow down! he barked in Afar. We don’t want to give the guards the wrong idea.

Okay, boss man.

The driver slowed and soon a young soldier on one of the APCs waved them to stop.

Stop and identify yourself!

I’m good from here, Vat said and pushed seven $100 bills at the driver. The man took them, amazed. Good life, my friend. The driver nodded as Vat slowly got out, holding the bag in one hand, high and to the side.

My name is Alex Finnigan. I’m a US military contractor!

Keep your arms raised, turn around, and slowly back toward the APC.

He did as he was ordered.

Five minutes later, the Range Rover drove off.

An hour later, he was climbing into an idling UH-60 Blackhawk.

Get me out of here, he said to the pilot.

As soon as my other passengers arrive, she replied.

Vat grunted, sat down, and strapped in. At least he was on his way out of Mogadishu. His papers would have him on a flight to the Czech Republic in a few hours. He would put the shit back in the horse once he got there.

It wasn’t too late.

* * * * *

Chapter Two

SpinDog Habitat

Vat blinked and sat up with a start, the after-images of a horrific scene spinning away from his conscious mind. He was in a Blackhawk spinning toward the water. There was fire, smoke, and the screams of people and tortured metal.

What the fuck? he asked and looked around.

He was in a gray room. It was obviously a hospital, though it lacked all the usual technological accoutrements. The air smelled funny, like a military flight but not, and the light had an unusual quality to it. All the furnishings were utilitarian, cheap and drab. A sandy-haired man in a strange flight suit was sitting nearby. He didn’t have any insignia, and the Velcro patches were missing except rank and name. Vat instantly recognized him from the helo, though he was dressed differently now, making the dream real with a sudden lurch.

We crashed, Vat said, his throat dry.

Sort of, the man said. He had bronze oak leaves on his shoulders. So, a major then. The name tag said, Murphy.

Care to explain? Vat asked.

In good time. How do you feel?

Fine, for a dead guy.

You’re obviously not dead, Murphy said.

Did I miss my flight?

You could say that, Murphy said under his breath, but Vat caught it and narrowed his eyes. Murphy plucked a file from a case sitting on the floor next to him and opened it. Printed on the front was an image of Vat from his DoD contractor dossier, taken two years after his departure from the US military. He’d always hated that damned picture.

Alex Finnigan, Murphy said, reading. Contractor with the Department of Defense. He read the appropriate number. You’ve done dozens of mid-level operations over the previous six years, and all reviews were favorable. You make a modest income, have a house in Tulsa, lease a 1990 Corolla, and pay your bills on time. It doesn’t say here if you help your neighbor take out the trash.

Sure, all records with the DoD are public. You going to—?

Murphy held up a hand, silencing him. Let me finish. A review of your dossier in 1991 revealed several inconsistencies, such as rental receipts not matching locations and a link to a Cayman Island offshore account. In essence— he held up the file, —this is all bullshit. He dropped it into the case.

Fucking hell.

Murphy pulled out another file. This one had Vat’s old US Army file picture. He hated that one even more. Victor Allen Thomas, First Lieutenant, US Army. He read off Vat’s serial number.