My appearance on CNN yesterday with host Brooke Baldwin has Trump supporters freaking out. It is funny how people love Trump for being “politically incorrect” but the second you say something un-PC about his campaign they trash you for it!
My appearance on CNN yesterday with host Brooke Baldwin has Trump supporters freaking out. It is funny how people love Trump for being “politically incorrect” but the second you say something un-PC about his campaign they trash you for it!
Hey everyone, sorry for the long delay between posts on this blog. I’m still hard at work writing and researching the forthcoming Deckard novel, “Gray Matter Splatter.” I’m probably two thirds of the way into the draft of the novel. In the meantime, my day job takes me around and keeps me busy. Here is a selection of my recent articles which have appeared on SOFREP.com.
Special Forces Military Free Fall Student Becomes a Towed Jumper!
Summer, the Chinese Spy that tried to gather intel off me and my friends at the SHOT show this year.
Three Years Later: Benghazi and American Covert Operations in Libya.
JSOC Operators on the Ground for El Chapo Capture.
Special Forces Soldiers Left Flapping in the Breeze in Marjah, Afghanistan.
North Korea’s Hydrogen Bomb: More Smoke and Mirrors.
Hey folks, sorry for not posting lately. I’m still slowly grinding away on the new Deckard novel. For some updates and behind the scenes information on the Deckard series please check out the following podcast where JT Patten and I discuss the books at length.
Recently this issue has come up due to the recent shooting of four Marines and one sailor at a recruitment station in Chattanooga, Tennessee. While most Americans are oblivious to this fact, one of the best places a terrorist could go to stir up shit is on a military post. It seems completely counter-intuitive, like a bank robber trying to knock off a NRA convention, but the reality is that our troops are almost completely disarmed on military bases in the United States. Yes, Military Police carry their side arms while on duty (usually) and soldiers in charge of guarding an ammo point will probably have a rifle or pistol with one magazine of ammunition. Otherwise, unless a soldier is out on a shooting range conducting marksmanship training, he is not carrying a loaded firearm.
Another great place to target our soldiers isn’t just on American military bases, but also on overseas Forward Operating Bases in active combat zones! In Afghanistan and Iraq (oh hell you are going to love this) it is mandatory for soldiers to carry a weapon…but also mandatory that their weapon be unloaded! Not even a magazine in the mag well! They have to have their paperweight rifle or pistol with a spare magazine in a pocket or inside one of those cutesey magazine carriers you get at the PX and strap to your buttstock.
Now any good Special Forces soldier just cranks a round into the chamber of his Glock and rolls with it under his shirt, flashes it to the dweeb at the chow hall who has to check to make sure you have an unloaded weapon, and then goes about his business. Nobody briefed Charlie on the regs last time I checked. But Big Green doesn’t have that option. Johnny Jihad can waltz into a chow hall and mow down dozens of soldiers while our poorly trained troops look like a bunch of naked people while wearing roller skates locked in a room with the lights turned off as they try to jam magazines into their weapons.
I think this policy of being forced to carry an unloaded weapon is as stupid as you do, but believe or not the reflective belt Sergeant Majors of the world have their reasons. Our young men and women have more negligent discharges than a Fayetteville military dependent has kids. Hate to break it to all the Dicks and Sallys out there but the average soldier isn’t exactly some highly trained combat killing machine. Maybe they got a few weeks of Basic Rifle Marksmanship in basic training and after that it is a crap shoot.
This is what you have to think about when we have the discussion as to whether or not service people should be armed in garrison, including recruitment centers. I feel very comfortable is saying that we would lose more soldiers to negligent discharges than we would to lone wolf Jihadists like the Ft. Hood shooter and this ass clown in Chattanooga. The stories of NDs go on and on. Joes accidentally blasting through a half belt of SAW ammo on the way to the chow hall in Bagram, another Joe having a ND with a LAW rocket launcher on a base, I even saw a young Ranger ND a M240B machine gun on the back of a C17 airplane…thankfully only with blanks in that case.
So what is the solution? It isn’t to treat the jihadist threat or workplace violence as a episodic problem which needs a “fix” but to look at a holistic solution to improving our military. That solution is to actually train our soldiers, all of our soldiers, into the effective combat killing machines that Americans wish they were. That means classes in marksmanship in garrison, that means getting them out to the range once a week to shoot live rounds, that means carrying their weapon with them wherever they go. At the end of the day, it means cultivating a more mature military force. I saw this with my own eyes when I got to hang out with Swiss soldiers.
In Switzerland it is perfectly normal for a reservist to have a fully automatic SIG 550 in the trunk of their car. No one bats an eye at a Swiss soldier on the train with his rifle. The numbers of NDs or other incidents they have with soldiers and their weapons in Switzerland are extremely low. When participating in a Swiss training exercise, I carried a 550 as well. Going to a restaurant to eat on the way to training, the manager was perfectly happy to lock our rifles and rucksacks in the closet while we ate. It’s just a different culture, and one that I greatly admire.
Maybe one day our soldiers will get the training they deserve, America will abandon any silly notion of a gunless culture, and our country will also get the highly trained professional military that it deserves.
A man can dream anyway.
Old uncle Joe teased his fishing line one more time, watching it dance in the hole he had cut through the ice. Holding the fishing pole between his knees as he sat on a folding chair, Joe reached down and palmed a mason jar. His fingers spun off the top and he took a swig of the half empty jar as moonshine sloshed around at the bottom. It burned all the way down, filling the fisherman with warmth.
Squinting his eyes in the darkness, he tried to focus. Maybe it was the moonshine playing tricks on him, but he thought he heard something out on the ice. Well, never mind. He screwed the cap back on the moonshine and sat it back down. Exhaling a cloud of vapor into the cold air, Joe wondered if he would ever get a bite.
Suddenly the ice split and cracked in front of him, nearly tipping over his chair. Joe looked up with wide eyes as a two hundred foot behemoth crashed through the ice, sandwiching him between the black ship and the shore. Old uncle Joe rubbed a gloved hand over his stubble. There were not any ice breakers due in on Tuesday night.
Was this Tuesday night?
Come to think of it, Joe wasn’t sure if it was even a weeknight.
Joe reached for the moonshine.
A metal hatch slammed open at the top of the ship. Dark figures spilled out into the Alaskan night, armed to the teeth. Several of them looked over at Joe as they slid down the side of their ship. They looked at him with green eyes. Joe took a swig of moonshine, gulping it down and giving the alien visitors a wave.
They didn’t return his greeting, but instead dashed up the shore.
Suddenly, the fishing pole was nearly tore from between his knees.
Joe reached for the pole with both hands, forgetting that he was holding the mason jar. As he grasped the fishing rod, his jar of moonshine shattered on the ice.
“Awww fuck,” Joe complained.
Then he reached for one of the singles of Jack Daniels that he kept in his parka pocket for such emergency situations.
* * *
“That’s it, that’s them!”
Will smiled as he watched the flat screen monitor. The Global Hawk Unmanned Aerial Vehicle was orbiting over Barrow, Alaska. The sensor suite onboard the drone was being manipulated by a technician sitting in a trailer next to the pilot in Nevada. The cameras zoomed in on the long black ship that had just broken through the ice and docked alongside the coast. The fisherman who had been pinned right between the ship and the shore appeared on the screen to be completely unfazed. Was he a spotter or just a drunk?
“Where is Deckard?” Gary asked.
“Ten minutes out,” Craig answered.
On the screen, little figures ran around like ants towards a warehouse on the far eastern side of Barrow, on the outskirts of the town.
“Who owns that damn warehouse?” Will asked.
“Huh,” Craig said as he looked as his computer screen. “It seems that we do. It is a old warehouse left over from World War Two. Right now it is being leased to a company called Arctic Consulting Group. I’ll pull up their information.”
“It will turn out to be a front group. They’ve obviously pre-staged a lot of logistical support for this operation. They have been running Advanced Force Operations right under our noses in anticipation for this. Burying caches, buying off officials, setting booby traps, leaving behind fuel depots, and god knows what else.”
“I’m pushing this imagery to Deckard now,” Gary said. “He should get there just in time to crash the party.”
Will took a deep breath.
He sure hoped so, because right now none of them had a very impressive track record.
* * *
Mercenaries were throwing on their combat gear, sliding down the stairs, and opening and slamming doors as they made a mad dash to get ready. Deckard snapped his plate carrier on, threw his parka over it, than shrugged into his chest rig, snapping it closed behind his jacket. He finally had a solid fix on the enemy’s location and wasn’t going to miss this opportunity to get the drop on them.
The town of Barrow was stretched out across the Alaskan coast running from east to west. One of the oil rig workers had spent a significant amount of time there and reported that the roads were well made and were kept plowed to clear the snow and ice off during the winter months. Once again, nothing beats some local knowledge. With this in mind, Deckard knew he had the opportunity to launch a two pronged attack.
Stepping outside into the cold, Deckard slung his AK over his back, and climbed down a ladder to the barge platform. The ice crashed around the Carrickfergus’ twin pontoon hull, smashing its way towards the shore.
The Samruk mercenaries had five of their Iveco assault trucks up and running. All of them had to have their batteries charged up or replaced. It was a good thing they had at least brought extra tires, fluids, batteries, and recovery items to keep the trucks in the semi-shit state that they were in.
“One minute out,” Otter reported over the radio.
“One minute!” Deckard yelled.
The mercenaries began undoing the ratchet straps that secured the assault trucks to the deck. Fedorchenko’s platoon was going to hit the ground with Deckard for their amphibious landing. The rest of the men would stay on the ship for the coordinated assault.
Otter lowered the barge down to water level. The ramp began to lower and the golden lights of Barrow sparkled like giant diamonds in the night. The mercenaries loaded on the trucks and began racking rounds into their machine guns. Aghassi jumped on the back of Deckard’s truck and nodded to him. He was usually Samruk’s human intelligence gatherer, but there wasn’t much human intelligence to be had out in the arctic waste.
Their recce section was also useless when their target was constantly on the move and there was no way to infiltrate the six-man team. The mortar section was also in need of a viagra, as they were used as regular Infantry because they had a hard time pinning down the enemy location. Everything was different up here, even the enemy. Deckard knew they had been up against the ropes this entire time but tonight he planned on evening the score.
The ramp came down on the shore, just ten meters away from the first road. The assault trucks roared off the ship in four wheel drive, then creeped across the snow and over a hump at the edge of the road. The five vehicles were lining up in their order of movement as the Carrickfergus was already backing out and smashing its way through the ice, heading further down the coast line.
“Update?” Deckard asked.
“Global hawk sees about a dozen personnel on the ground. They are still refueling the ship.”
“Roger, we’re moving.”
Sitting in the passenger seat, Deckard looked at the Kazakh driver and pointed down the road. The five vehicles started down the road, heading east. The town of Barrow was kind of spooky at night. All of the residents had wisely escaped the cold and remained indoors. The houses were oblong and rectangular, painted yellow, purple, green, and blue, all lifted three feet or so on stilts above the ground to avoid the permafrost. The buildings flashed by as the driver took them down the main road. In seconds they were passed the town and driving by the salt lagoons.
It was warm inside the heated cabin of their truck, everything quiet outside, but Deckard knew that was about to change.
The idea was to hit the warehouse and ship at the same time, coming at the enemy by land and sea. That would split their attention, making the enemy think for a few seconds as to what direction they wanted to counter-attack in. That kept Samruk International inside their decision making cycle, and would give them the precious few seconds they needed to get the drop of them once and for all.
“Contact! Contact!” Otter yelled over the radio.
Through the windshield, Deckard saw yellow flashes blink a few hundred meters to their front.
“Go, go! Step on it!”
The driver floored the accelerator, and in seconds the PKM gunner in the turret above them was blazing away. They were in the middle of a war zone, ten things happening simultaneously. As the truck slid across the ice to the stop in front of the warehouse, Deckard flung open the door and jumped out.
A long hose stretched out from the warehouse and ran all the way to the coast and to the knife shaped vessel sitting in the ice. Several figures on top of the ship were firing RPGs at the Carrickfergus as it closed the distance. Muzzle blasts from their ship answered in return.
A handful of blackclad figures were caught out in the open near the warehouse. With the assault trucks pulling in between them and their ship, they were cut off. Deckard’s hood blew off his head as he pulled the stock of his Kalashnikov into his shoulder. One of them had turned and was running towards the warehouse, hoping to find some cover and concealment. Deckard denied him this, pumping a two round burst into his back, then walking his rounds up his back, neck, and into the back of his head in a technique called a failure drill.
After firing center mass, the shooter walked his rounds up to the head and kept firing until the enemy failed. The grape popped at the top as Deckard walked his rounds up and the blackclad figure spilled across the ice, his Israeli-made bullpup rifle sliding in front of him.
Another of the enemy’s number pivoted, turning around and popping off a few rounds in Deckard’s direction. The PKM gunner on his truck cut him down with a burst that folded him in the middle like an accordion. The other machine gunners on the assault trucks turned their guns on the enemy ship, aggressively firing long bursts from side to side that chopped through the RPG armed enemy firing on the Carrickfergus.
Turning back towards the warehouse, Deckard saw at least a half dozen more of them disappear inside. He was already running towards the warehouse, smelling blood in the water as the Samruk mercenaries joined in the chase. As they ran towards the door, one, then two of the mercenaries collapsed to the ground. Deckard hadn’t even heard the enemy gunfire.
“No frags!” he yelled. The explosion could set off whatever fuel source they had concealed inside. He was willing to risk a flash bang though, and nodded to Fedorchenko as he yanked one off his kit and pulled the pin.
Lobbing the nine-banger through the door, it went off again and again, the distraction device serving it’s purpose. Deckard stepped through the door as the banger was still popping off, his rifle sweeping through the darkness, hungry for targets. As the other mercenaries flowed through behind him, he picked up something in his periphery vision. Shifting his hips, and bending on one knee, he turned towards the threat.
Then something flashed and Deckard’s entire world went upside down. His vision was spinning inside his brain, his arms and legs feeling detached from his body. Stumbling forward, he thought he heard gunfire but couldn’t tell. His brain had somehow been disengaged from reality and now all he knew was that the world was coming up to meet him fast.
He landed on the hard concrete floor with a thud, barely able to get his arms out in front of him before he fell.
Two rifle shots cracked into his back, and then Deckard was still.
* * *
The SCOPE think tank sat with their mouths ajar as Global Hawk captured the carnage outside Barrow, Alaska. The enemy ship was pulling out of port, tearing away from the hose refilling their fuel tanks, spilling gas across the ice. RPG gunners were still firing at the Carrickfergus as it stormed towards them.
The warehouse was quickly surrounded by the five assault trucks before little figures dashed across the screen and chased some of the enemy inside. Machine gunners on shore and on the Carrickfergus were making quick work of the RPG gunners on the enemy ship, their bodies spilling over the side onto the ice.
Leaving both their dead and their living behind, the enemy ship plowed through the ice, making way for the open water beyond. The Carrickfergus was in pursuit, or was, until the bad guys steered their ship into a channel previously cut by an ice breaker heading into or out of Barrow. Once inside the channel, the boat lifted up out of the water, moving like a speed boat away from Barrow as quickly as possible.
The think tank listened to the radio chatter as the mercenaries yelled at each other in three or four different languages. At times the voices were washed out by gunfire.
“Objective secure,” someone finally announced. “Starting Sensitive Site Exploitation.”
Gary leaned over and pressed a button on the comms panel that linked them to the Carrickfergus.
“I want full bio-metrics on the enemy bodies as quickly as possible,” the think tank leader said.
“Right, let me put out the fire on the deck of my ship if you don’t mind,” the Carrickfergus captain guffawed.
A minute later, the bio-metics readings from the bodies started coming into the SCOPE. Pictures of faces, iris scans, and finger prints could all be taken by the Samruk mercenaries with a handheld device manufactured by Crossmatch. The data would than be streamed to the Carrickfergus and then uploaded via satellite to JSOC servers.
The four men were tense as the data began loading onto the flatscreen mounted to the wall in front of them. Craig swallowed. Will interlaced his fingers in front of him as he sat forward in his chair.
The first face to show up on the screen was Asian.
“We’re running it through our databases now,” Will said. “We’ll see if we can get a match on ID.”
The second face looked Arab, definitely middle eastern.
Craig looked over at Will.
The third face was Caucasian.
The data continued to flow in as the Samruk mercenaries took biometrics of each of the bodies. Two more pictures of Asians came in, then another with a face so caved in by gunshots that it was hard to tell his ethnicity. Then there was another white guy and another Middle Eastern.
Will stood up and walked around the table.
“Chinese,” he said, pointing to the Asians displayed on the screen.
His finger drifted over to the Middle Easterners.
“Holy shit,” Craig said as he held his head in his hands.
Will pointed to the Caucasians.
“You were right,” Gary said, almost under his breath.
“These are the players in the game.”
Craig shot up in his chair.
“What the hell,” he said. “The database got a match on one of them.”
Will turned around, seeing a new picture of a white guy with his eyes closed. The JSOC database did get a hit, he was one of theirs.
“Army? CIA?” Gary said almost as a curse.
Scrolling down the screen they saw his name.
* * *
“Put that down you fucking idiot!”
One of the Kazakhs had mistaken Deckard for one of the dead enemy and was in the process of capturing his bio-metric data when Kurt Jager stopped him.
“What the hell is going on?” Deckard said as he looked up from the computer screen.
Off in the distance, the ocean was glowing orange.
“I thought it was the northern lights at first,” Otter said. “But that is a different kind of light. We’re not far off the coast of Alaska now, and those are the offshore oil fields.”
Engineers and scientists had demonstrated that the Alaskan arctic contained 40 billion barrels of recoverable crude oil and in the neighborhood 210 trillion cubic feet of recoverable natural gas. America’s long term energy plan to become less reliant on the often unstable Middle East only helped speed up the process of drilling in the arctic off the coast of Alaska.
Companies like Exxon, Royal Dutch Shell, Gazprom, and their own employer, Xyphon, had developed crash programs to build off shore oil rigs all over the arctic, a region reputed to hold up to a quarter of the world’s fossil fuels. While Saudi Arabia’s oil reserves amounted to about 260 billion barrels of oil, the Arctic may have as much as 580 billion barrels and like the Middle East, the arctic was now ripe for conflict.
“They did this because of us,” Deckard said.
“Just like Saddam set the oil refineries ablaze to try to delay the coalition advance during the Gulf War, the enemy blew up at least one of the oil rigs to try to prevent our pursuit.”
“We’re on their tail then.”
“Probably closer than we suspected and they are out of options. Get us around the fires, we’re going into the North East passage.”
The radio bolted above the helm suddenly chirped.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is the surviving crew of Hillhorn platform! Mayday, mayday, may-”
“Shit,” Deckard said. “I’m going to wake up the boys and get Otter up here. Then we’re going to find out where the hell Global hawk is and hunt these bastards down.”
Squirrel looked into the looming flames, his eyes filled with uncertainty.
* * *
Jeff Dombrowski was the junior driller on the Hillhorn gas and oil platform, or at least he had been until an hour ago. Huddled under the plastic tent that protected them inside the octagonal inflatable life raft, he stared across at Alan, the assistant rig manager, Roger, the senior toolpusher, and John, their rig maintenance supervisor.
The wind had shifted, and now the four men watched helplessly as their life raft was pushed back towards the sea of fire. The Hillhorn and the Fitzpatrick platforms had both exploded at the same time, something that wasn’t supposed to be possible outside of sabotage. As far as any of them knew, they were the only survivors.
A wave lapped over the side of the raft, cold ocean water seeping inside and as it dripped from the tarp roof. Roger was staring into space, somewhere else, anywhere but here.
“Mayday, mayday, mayday,” John cried into the handheld emergency radio.
A burst of static emitted from the radio.
“Roger, Hillhorn,” a scratchy voice said on the other end. “This is the Carrickfergus. Give us a grid.”
Jeff nearly jumped out of the raft as he grabbed the GPS.
“It’s not working,” he said as he played with the settings.
“Satellites have been acting weird for a couple days,” John said. “We have a hell of a big Roman candle out there to act as a beacon though. I’ll try to guide them in.”
Jeff unzipped and tossed open the plastic covering. The sea slapped against the side of the raft, spilling more water inside which sloshed around and gathered around their feet.
John poked his head outside.
“Carrickfergus,” he said into the radio. “GPS is a no-go. What is your current heading?”
* * *
The exhausted survivors of the Hillhorn blast were pulled onboard the Carrickfergus nearly an hour later. Their beards were soaked and frozen, their eyebrows drooped. Each of them was walking around like a zombie, not even aware of the strange ethnicities of the crew members who pulled them onto the ship.
“Hey,” a tall American with a chiseled jaw said. Jeff looked up at him.
“I’m Pat. The boss wants us to get you in some warm clothes and then he wants to see you four on the bridge.”
Looking up, fluttering in the wind and glowing orange as the oil rigs burned in front of them, was the jolly roger flying above the ship. Looking back down, he then noticed the pistol and spare magazines that Pat had strapped to his belt under his open parka.
The four survivors followed after Pat as he led them inside. They could already feel the Carrickfergus shifting under their feet, turning around the fields of fire. The Hillhorn crew members blinked in disbelief. There were machine guns, rifles, hand grenades, open metal cans of ammunition, and porn mags laying all over the place. Men wearing snow camouflage who looked to be of a dozen different nationalities were prepping their gear, looking like they were ready to launch World War Three.
Pat took them down a flight of metal steps to a changing room in front of the showers where they had some space. Another camo clad man stepped in behind them, said something in Russian, then dropped a box at their feet. After looking inside, they didn’t need Pat to tell them what to do. The crewmen stripped off their soaked clothes and then tore into the box of brand new thermal underwear, pants, and jackets.
“What is it you guys do exactly?” John ventured.
Pat leaned to the side with one hand propped against the wall, the other at his hip.
“Mergers and acquisitions mostly.”
“Oh, fuck yeah. C’mon, grab some towels to finish drying off and we can go get this meeting over with. Then we can get you some chow.”
Back up into the bay, they then climbed another set of stairs that was vertical to the point of being a ladder, then up into the bridge. It was pretty easy to identify the ship’s captain behind the helm with his big bushy beard and coffee cup in one hand. The younger guy working the sea charts was obviously the first mate. A third guy who wore a Patagonia pullover looked up from his laptop with bloodshot eyes.
Walking around the desk, he sized up the four oil rig workers up.
“We owe you big time man,” Jeff thanked him.
“Don’t mention it. I’m Deckard.”
He shook all of their hands but the boss didn’t look happy. As he lit up a cigarette, Jeff noticed the scars on his knuckles. He’d worked around the oil industry to know that this guy had been in a few brawls.
“If you don’t mind me asking,” John said. “What exactly is it that you guys do?”
“We’re mercs,” Deckard said without missing a beat. “We kill cunts.”
“Let me put it to you this way. If some jag off dictator takes over a country somewhere, they call in the 82nd Airborne or the Marines. If some douche bag hijacks a nuclear weapon they call in SEAL Team Six or Delta Force. But if some x-factor comes out of left field in a blur, steals a super weapon that can end the world, and then takes off in a super-secret high tech stealth boat, then they call me and my boys.”
“I’m afraid so,” Deckard said as he frowned and looked out the window. “Every fucking time.”
The four survivors looked at each other wondering if they had just entered the twilight zone.
“You lost a lot of men on those rigs,” Deckard said, his voice detached from the human toll of the disaster.
“I think we’re the only ones left,” Jeff said.
“I’m sorry, this is my fault.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m chasing someone who doesn’t want to be found. They ordered this strike against your oil platforms to delay us.”
“I just found out myself. Ballistic missiles launched from civilian container ships traveling along the Northwest sea passage. Russian authorities are moving in now, but the ships are flagged in Liberia and the crews probably had no idea what they were carrying. Knowing the MO of the guys I’m after, the cargo containers onboard were probably fully automated and received an electronic go-code from afar.”
John shook his head. None of it made sense.
“Look, you guys must know this area and I could use your help.”
Deckard walked over to the first mate who was looking over the sea charts.
“The vessel we are looking for is about a two hundred footer. We think they’ve been leaking a lot of fuel and probably haven’t been able to make a lot of repairs while underway. If they had to make a quick stop to refuel and try to patch up their hull, where do you think they would go?”
“Only one place to go.”
Everyone turned to look at Roger who had spoken for the first time.
“Where?” Deckard asked.
“Barrow, Alaska,” he answered. “The northern most city in America.”