Another Peaceful War

by Matt Nute

PART ONE

The first thing you would say about Roland was that he was BIG.

He was the best gunman on the Eurasian continent, a veteran of countless wars, an amateur pilot, a hard drunk, and a terrible pianist, but Roland was big. He was the first among equals, in a way. His friends were no less impressive, but Roland was the center.

Nathan was another big man, standing maybe an inch or three less than Roland, a little less broad, but a big man. White hair cut in a navy-style flattop, receding at the temples. He was a good hand with explosives, and was overly fond of that kukri knife he'd picked up in Malaysia. Nathan was also the de facto leader of the group, even if no one would admit it to him. He was somber, loyal to a fault, and altogether far too good of a cheat at poker.

Across the table from him, disassembling a Dragunov S-7 sniper rifle, was Nathan's girl. No one, not even Roland, dared call her that out loud. She wavered between a calm that rivaled Nathan's, and a dangerous hyperkinetic mania that usually began with a shot of whiskey and ended with her dragging Nathan up to some seedy cantina rooftop. No one asked her any questions, and she never volunteered any answers. Other than Nathan, none of them really trusted the albino woman called Domino, but she was a professional, like the rest of them.

Bridge, however, went beyond 'professional' into 'fanatic'. He was the only one who ever seemed to give a damn about the 'causes' behind the paychecks. He'd hung back on a mission two years back when their contact was calling for a terminal strike on a South African ghetto resisting apartheid. George Washington Bridge waited until the rest of the team had left, matched the contact's offer out of his own pocket, and then shot the contact in the head.

Bridge was a real political guy.

Van Owen, on the other hand, couldn't care less where their money came from. Hailing from Amsterdam, he was the team's backstop, their vehicle man, their medic, their radio geek, whatever they needed, Joorst Van Owen seemed to show up with. He was a crack shot with his custom breech-loader pistol, but preferred to stay out of the firefighting. Though none of the team would ever forget the time that they had been pinned down by the Red Brigade in Tunisia, when Van Owen had hotwired a WWII-era tank and simply bulldozed them a clear path to the waiting helicopter.

But Roland... Roland was the best. The mammoth Norwegian was reputed to be, quite simply, the most dangerous man on the planet. Preferring the Thompson submachine gun to any other firearm, he left the soft-spoken persona behind in the bar as soon as he slung the tommy gun on his hip. People tended to hush when he entered a room, then Roland would look around, shrug, and head for the nearest quiet spot, then conversation would spring up again as if he'd never been there.

Once, they had seen him shooting at an empty gasoline drum in a dusty Morocco square. He'd made that canister leap into the air, spin, bounce, dance, and finally, land full of so many holes that you could have driven a bus through it. He'd just reloaded and turned to Nathan, with that smile that almost demanded a question, taunting the older man to comment. Nathan just stayed quiet, like he knew some secret the rest of them didn't. He was like that. The rest of their group, the Wild Pack as Bridge called them, left Nathan to his secrets.

But Roland... Roland was the best of them all.

**

It was June of 1966, and Roland was unhappy. Mostly because he and Nathan were being rained on mercilessly in the streets of Copenhagen. Partly because Roland hated Denmark on general principle, said it was a Norwegian thing. The rain didn't seem to bother Nathan, though. Roland joked that it was because the money in Nathan's pocket kept him warm. Nathan always remained stoic when it came to money.

It was one of Nathan's rules that no one asked anyone else what they did with their share of the pay from a mission. He had arranged secure Swiss bank accounts for everyone, and the pay was always distributed evenly and never spoken of again. Yet some things couldn't be hidden. Everyone knew that Van Owen liked to gamble, and had an opulent suite reserved in Monaco. Bridge occasionally put some money into funding paramilitary training camps in Central America, guerrilla warfare type stuff with the Sandanistas.

Roland wanted to buy a boat. He always talked about his boat, his 'girl'. It became a running joke among the five of them that Roland would buy a boat, retire, and then promptly sink it off the coast of Spain and come swimming back for another mission. He never managed to sit down and find the time, however. It wasn't the money; money was never an object. It was simply the life they led.

It always came back to money, though.

**

That September, the five of them said goodbye to Europe and hello to the steaming coast of Africa. Colonel Joseph Mobutu had been running the political structure of the Congo Republic for years, and was in the process of turning the country into a democracy. If you asked Bridge, Mobutu was as corrupt as the Bantu government he'd led a coup against. No one asked Bridge about these things, for just that reason.

Beginning in the early 60's, Bantu rebel groups had been gathering, making strikes against Mobutu's government. There had been riots, firebombings, sabotage, all sorts of disturbances. In 1966, however, the Bantu faction of Kala Farar made its first strike against Mobutu himself, in a very public assassination attempt that led to full-scale civil war in the Congo.

Nathan had met with one of Mobutu's advisors in Copenhagen, accepting the task of dismantling the Kala Farar organization, for the price of four hundred thousand dollars in American currency. Once the deal had been made, and the money transferred, the team found themselves in Kinshasa, holed up in a hotel that hadn't yet been shelled. Miraculously, the hot water and telephone service still worked, which made the hideout all the more luxurious, given the circumstances.

"A lovely place to visit," Van Owen had quipped, "but you'd have to be mad to stay." After which, of course, Bridge had leaped over the hotel bar with a broken bottle, only to be calmly led outside by Roland. No one let Bridge drink much, for exactly that reason.

Bridge got exceptionally political after a few shots of rum.

Van Owen had set up camp at the hotel switchboard, spending his nights running wires along the street to various telephone switching boxes. Domino would cover him from the rooftops, the bulky starlight scope atop her rifle showing her exactly where Van Owen crept, until the small Dutchman would seemingly vanish into a culvert, and emerge where no one expected him.

Bridge and Roland both carried PRC-27 radios when they left the hotel armed, carrying out lightning-quick hit-and-run operations against the poorly organized Bantu. From the hotel, Van Owen would listen for the rebels to call in reinforcements, using a stolen multiplex radio system. He would relay the calls to the field teams, who would act as both bait and ambush for the rebels.

Domino worked with Bridge usually, taking out any of the Kala Farar leaders that showed their faces on the Kinshasa streets. Nathan would stay up nights with Van Owen in the hotel bar, poring over captured documents and street maps, deducing and retracing troop movement routes.

The five of them could take on a small army, and they made their living doing just that. Bridge always said that the killing was a horrible thing, but a greater good would come from it. Nathan would invariably respond with some pithy Confucian proverb about the futility of war, and the two would argue for hours until Domino would drag Nathan off to their room, or Roland would butcher a melody on the hotel's piano, uniting everyone in their misery.

Domino said that Roland played piano like King Tut played ice hockey, but it never stopped the large Norwegian. He would set himself on a musical onslaught through what he swore were the masterpieces of European composers, notes crashing together like artillery shells in the dusty hotel bar. Every night, it was the one constant. Whether Nathan and Domino were arguing over whiskey before bed, or Bridge was irately discussing politics with Van Owen, Roland was always there to smooth the turbulent waters with the oil of his dissonant piano.

No one ever tried to coax Roland away from the piano. They may have been crazy, but none of them were suicidal.

**

When the hotel was shelled in March of 1967, Nathan set everyone off on what he called "Plan Omega". They would all lie low separately for three days, then reunite at a small cottage overlooking a river valley to debrief and set up a new base of operations.

Three days passed, and Roland was the first to reach the cottage. Van Owen joined him within the first hour. The two Europeans kept watch until Domino and Nathan drove up in a rickety jalopy that looked as if Satan himself had breathed fire over its rusty frame. The four of them waited in shifts long into the night, until the next dawn when Domino caught sight of Bridge creeping through the brush along the ridgeline.

As soon as Bridge got to the cottage, he buttonholed Nathan and began to relate his story in an exhausted voice. He spoke of how he had run into two men, Americans by their accents. They'd been pinned down by a Bantu ambush, and Bridge had just happened to come across them and engaged in a quick truce under fire.

He explained that the Americans had recognized him once the shooting ceased, which wasn't surprising, given that Bridge had been a rather decorated veteran of the Korean War, before denouncing his American citizenship once Vietnam had begun. Nathan pondered, then began drawing conclusions.

"They weren't here fighting the Bantu."

Bridge nodded. "Ain't never seen such an obvious setup, man." Removing his flak jacket, he took a pull of water from his canteen. "Those guys were Christians if I've ever seen any."

"Christians In Action." Nathan echoed, using the slang term for the American Central Intelligence Agency. It was well-known in mercenary circles that the American government had funded Mobutu's coup, yet withdrawn their support when his fledgling government had resisted American influence.

"They tailed me to the hide I was using," Bridge continued, "Gave me some terms for an 'arrangement' they offered. We leave the Bantu be, let the situation develop as it may, and they pony up a pretty hefty sum." Bridge named an amount, and Nathan's eyebrows lifted.

"If it wasn't obvious who's funded the Kala Farar before, it is now." From across the room, Van Owen sneezed as he unpacked the multiplexer.

"So we're taking the deal, no?" he asked. Nathan glared at the small Dutchman. Van Owen stared back, eyes becoming cold.

"Money's money, Nathan. Bridge, I could understand him taking his little soapbox stances. But you and I," Joorst paused, "we are men of the world. We know where this war will take us."

"Hell with you, man!" Bridge spat. "It's people like you who put us in these wars, no principles, no goddamn anything more than what your blood money buys you!" Van Owen whirled on the larger man, growling.

"Only because people like you try and buy peace of mind with your precious 'principles'!" he retorted. "You want peace, but I've seen you cut a man's throat without a blink. Who bought your principles then, hypocrite?"

Nathan opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when Roland stepped between the two men. The Norwegian held his tommy gun in both hands, standing like a human representation of the Great Wall. Bridge cut off the tirade he had in reserve, while Van Owen meekly stepped back.

"We finish this job, then if there's time, we'll look at another offer, yes?" His gravelly voice was like the word of God to the rest of the team. It was rare for Roland to take a stand on anything, but when it came to integrity, the mercenary was a rock. Nathan nodded in acquiescence, while Van Owen just threw up his hands.

"Fine, then. Men of principle, we suddenly have become. Let's just get this done and go home, no?" He glared at Bridge. "Let me know when you find a way to wage a peaceful war. Let me know if there's any future in it." With that, he stalked away to find a cigarette.

That night, Nathan laid out their plan of attack. The Kala Farar rebels had seized the former Foreign Minister's quarters, and were planning on meeting with their financial backers in two days. Nathan's plan was for himself and Bridge to act as decoys for the main Bantu force, while Domino provided cover from a water tower. Van Owen and Roland would commandeer one of the Bantu supply trucks, and drive it directly into the Foreign Ministry, clearing a path with gunfire and explosives to where the Kala Farar leadership would be most vulnerable.

The best-laid plans of mice and mercenaries, though, often go astray.

**

Thirty-six hours later, Nathan and Domino had rigged up the radios, everyone had loaded themselves down with their gear, and Van Owen was setting the final triggers on the booby traps he'd placed at the entrances to the cottage. Before dawn, the five mercenaries had re-entered the capital, splitting up to begin their assault.

From the water tower overlooking the Kalaba housing projects, Domino surveyed the streets below her through the telescopic sight affixed to her sniper rifle. The light-amplifying starlight scope sat on a small tripod next to her left shoulder, hidden as she was behind a low railing of waterlogged lumber.

Through her scope, she could see Van Owen and Roland nonchalantly saunter down a cobblestone street, dressed in the flowing Bantu tribal gear preferred by middle-class residents of Kinshasa. Panning to her right, she thought she caught a glimpse of Nathan's snow-white hair vanish behind a shopkeeper's stall. Reaching down to her hip, she keyed the handset of the radio twice in rapid succession. A second later, three short clicks came from the earpiece. Nathan and Bridge were in position.

Minutes seemed to roll by, stretching into hours as the sun rose over the horizon. Domino wiped sweat from her eyes, pulling her radio up by her shoulder to lean on. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a scrap of paper flutter out on a breeze. With catlike reflexes, she snatched it out of the air, to avoid giving away her position.

Glancing briefly at it, she saw the impressions of handwriting, a series of numbers. Curious, Domino dragged her finger through the black facepaint she wore to hide her ivory skin tone. Rubbing it lightly over the paper, the numbers became visible along with some scrawled words in Dutch.

"Van Owen's secure account?" she mumbled. Shrugging to herself, she shoved the paper in a pocket and resumed her watch over the city streets.

**

"When the hell is Joorst going to move that truck?" Bridge swore under his breath. Nathan shrugged, attempting to remain stoic. Bridge's eyes glanced to Nathan's vest, where the radio detonator hung, wrapped in electrical tape. One press of a switch, and a series of improvised firebombs would erupt over the eastern part of the city, drawing the attention of both the Bantu and Mobutu's troops.

Nathan drummed his fingers on the table. While patience was his strong suit, depending on others was not. Bridge sighed. "Man, I am just itching to get out of here. Away from this heat, from this war, from those spooks." Nathan nodded. "One out of three isn't bad." he remarked. Bridge paused, confused.

"Say again, bro?"

"One out of three. You said those CIA guys left yesterday." Nathan cocked his head at Bridge, who sat stock-still. The black man spoke slowly.

"Nathan, I swear to you I didn't say anything about that. They never said when they were evac'ing." A look of panic crossed Bridge's face. Nathan closed his eyes, thinking.

"No, you're right. Van Owen mentioned it. You weren't talking to him about them?" Bridge shook his head. Nathan stood up quickly, knocking his chair to the floor.

"Shit."

**

"Slow going." Roland deadpanned, seated in the driver's seat of the covered pickup. Van Owen shrugged next to him, twirling a bullet between his fingers before sliding it in and out of the pistol that lay in his lap.

"When the time's right, my friend." the Dutchman whispered. "When Nathan gives the signal." Van Owen finally seated the large round in the chamber of his pistol, pivoting it closed and easing the hammer down. "A left here, I think."

Roland steered the pickup slowly around the corner of the dusty street, looking at the road before them, clogged with oxen and tribal farmers herding their stock to the market. Roland pounded the wheel, swearing in Norwegian. Van Owen chuckled. "It is like that operation in Laos, yes?" he snickered lowly. "Landing that airplane into the field of goats?" Roland allowed a smile to creep over his face.

"The look on Nathan's face when he saw the poor goat sitting on the plane after you crashed it." Van Owen looked insulted. "That was not a crash, that was an unconventional, yet very effective, piloting maneuver to lessen speed upon landing." "You flipped the plane and landed on a family of goats, Joorst." Both men laughed quietly. Van Owen sighed first, resting his chin on the barrel of his oversized pistol. "Those were the times, my friend." Slowly, Roland shook his head. "These have never been good times. What we do, it needs to be done. But I do not revel in it." He stroked the tommy gun laying on the seat between the two men. "I worry some nights, that this killing is the only thing that I will ever truly be good at." "Don't say that," Joorst pined, "you will always have your piano." Roland snorted, as Van Owen recanted. "Well, there is your boat."

The large Norwegian smiled, running a hand through his blond hair. "I believe I will have her after we leave this place. I shall call her my Valkyrie. Do you know about the valkyries, Joorst?" Roland was lost for a moment in introspection.

"Beautiful women, my forefathers believed. Servants of the gods, who would come to the field of battle to carry the souls of dying warriors to Valhalla."

"They sound like angels." Van Owen commented, slowly sliding back the hammer on his pistol. Roland nodded, peering out the windshield.

"Very much so. I believe that I will see them one day, but to be honest, the only Valkyrie I wish to lay my hands on will be on the water, my friend." Absently, Roland stroked a layer of dust from the windshield. At that moment, he glimpsed Nathan and Bridge, running from a cross street, looking around wildly. As Nathan pointed at the truck, Roland reached for his submachine gun. "Something is wrong." he intoned. Van Owen nodded, raising his pistol to the Norwegian gunner's temple.

"This is nothing personal, Roland. You will be with your angel now."

**

Domino tracked the scope across the street, following Nathan's arm to the truck. Her eyes grew wide as she saw Van Owen raise his massive firearm to Roland's head. Gritting her teeth, she released the safety on her rifle and braced herself.

Her finger tightened on the trigger, but not before she saw Roland's head explode against the windshield of the pickup in a spray of red. She fired, the report of her rifle sounding in her ear simultaneously with the crack of Van Owen's pistol.

Down in the streets, farmers and animals milled about in panic. Nathan dropped his heavy backpack, reaching to his chest for the detonator. As he flipped the switch, the bright summer sun was dimmed by the sudden bursts of flame and debris erupting into the Congolese sky. Wading through the chaos in the streets, Nathan unslung his rifle as he fought towards the pickup.

He felt Bridge push him from behind, driving them both to the ground as a series of automatic rifle shots peppered the wall behind them. A squad of Bantu rebels had entered the busy market square and opened fire on the crowd. From the water tower, Domino shifted her position, centering her crosshairs on the rebels that had Nathan and Bridge pinned down. Her finger moved on the trigger, reacquiring her targets as the rifle bucked into her shoulder.

The smells of gunpowder, dust, diesel fuel, and livestock blended in the confusion as Nathan struggled to his feet. Bellowing in rage, he fired his rifle into the air, knocking Congolese citizens to the ground as he tore his way to the pickup.

Minutes later, Bridge made his way to his comrade's side, glancing around and finding no sign of Joorst Van Owen. When Domino arrived, out of breath from her sprint from the tower, they both stood silent, watching their normally emotionless leader cry like a child, holding the headless body of Roland in his arms, blood streaking his clothing.

**

One week later, Nathan stood next to Bridge and Domino in a pier in Lillehammer, Norway. The three soldiers stared out to the sea, towards the form of a boat silhouetted against the midnight sun low on the horizon. Slowly, Nathan raised his arm, and pressed the trigger on a small box nestled in his palm.

The first charges cracked the hull of the fishing boat, the second series ruptured the gas tanks, setting it ablaze as it slowly sank. The flames rose like a Viking funeral pyre, committing the body of Roland to the waves of his homeland.

No one spoke until the last flames were quenched as Roland's boat made its way into the depths of the fjord. No one needed to say anything to understand what Nathan was thinking, the cords of his muscled neck standing out like cables in his silent rage. The best among them had been betrayed for thirty pieces of silver, and the team owed him one last mission.

Joorst Van Owen was a wanted man with an unpayable debt, and the Wild Pack was coming to collect.

**

[next part]

back to Matt Nute's stories | Dayspring archive | comicfic.net