Travel in corrupt, sparsely populated countries is always interesting. Take Iran, for example. The border isn't watched very closely, it's too big for the gov't to fund a full-on, first world border security program. So they end up relying on isolated outposts and checkpoints.
These work, since the isolated officials and guards trade honesty for brutality. They make more if they shake down travelers, and are more often than not corrupt enough to take a bribe. Official PBE policy is to offer bribes when shooting is inadvisable. Money is silent, and if the official gives us enough trouble...well, let's say that we once documented ourselves bribing our way past a checkpoint, then anonymously sent the information to his superior.
That man was found dead shortly thereafter. He'd spent most of the interim dying.
However, what works for two men never works for a ten-man merc team. There's no way a border official is going to let what's obviously a highly trained paramilitary unit through. The risks are way, way too high that said unit would be traced back. Mercenaries and corrupt officials have two things in common: We have to be alive to spend our profits.
Luckily for us, there's always another way through. Apparently, at some point, some rural folks had put in enough of a jeep trail to run goods into and out of the country. Whoever was running our UAV overflight that day spotted it. Panda Force just loves being sneaky.
What we didn't love was that the trail in question forced our driver, this Ted Nugent-like guy callsigned CamoCowboy to slow down to a crawl. Nothing says "high speed, low drag" like inching along a mountain road, praying that no one looked in our direction. Eight long, slow hours, and we were home free.
To the inside of Iran.
Maniac had said that The Prince was being held in Gorgan. I'd remarked that the last place I really wanted to go was a place that shared a name with Medusa's race.
When I got to the city, I'd realized just how fucked we were. 90% of PBE operations take place in villages of less than 500. 99% of them take place in towns of less than 5,000. Gorgan had a population of nearly 300,000.
Shit.
We parked the Panda bus about 20 miles outside of town, and waited for the call from the Boss. We had no way in, not armed as we were. We had no way to find him, not without something a hell of a lot better than what we'd learned watching Dragnet.
I hate this whole setup. We're hundreds of miles from safe territory. We're in a city that we cannot blend into. We're armed just enough for the cops to call in back up, nowhere near enough to survive fighting the backup.
We have to find one guy, that none of us know on sight. He's being held by a military unit, in a building we're going to have a hell off a time scoping.
And I'm on foot, not 200 feet of the deck, providing a nice platform to pour bullets into the area.
The phone rang when my silent bitching session was just starting to warm up.
I wonder when the last time Slayer was played in the Islamic Republic?
"This is Soren."
We needed a miracle. We didn't get one per se, but we did get an address. A local contact, someone inside that had been getting paid for years to keep track of arrests and such inside the city. He'd sent the Chateau a message a few weeks back, said someone had been black bagged a few weeks back. His source within the cops said the guy was wanted for a whole host of computer crimes, but what had piqued his interest was that the guy wasn't being held by the cops, but by the military.
Apparently, the timing of that coincided with the disappearance of a man known to PBE as the Fresh Prince of Persia. He wasn't PBE, but we all knew of him. He was our source in Iran, keeping us appraised of not only the internal politics, but the mood of the populace. That sort of thing was invaluable when invasions were planned. No country was going to forget America's mistake in Iraq, sticking around long after the welcome had run out.
We drove into town at nightfall. One of the few benefits of being PBE operator is that our haircuts and attitudes never fall into the "military" category, although we do still look like mercs. Our contact info was good. He was there, and we parked the bus in the alley behind what was to be our safehouse. Taking no chances, we brought the weapons in gear when the city was asleep.
"What's our plan, Soren?"
"First, we have to onfirm that Eff-pop's in the building, wait for an opening, shoot our way in, grab him, shoot our way out, and get out of the country."
"Oh, that simple, huh?"
"It could be worse. There's an airport on the way out of town, so that gives us an exit. Once we get there, we fly below the radar, all the way out of the country."
"We can't hotwire a plane, or just point a rifle at the pilot. We need a plane, ready for us and fueled, open hanger, by the time we get there. Preferably running, more preferably sitting at the end of the runway. You can handle that?"
"Yeah, unless you need me and Athanasius to kick doors with you?"
"No offense, but we're used to an eight-man team, not ten. You two secure the plane, we've got the building. We'll tear the damn thing down if with have to."
"What do you think the chances are FPoP knows where the data is?"
"If he doesn't, then it doesn't change anything. We still have to get him out."
Two of Wut's boys came back about three hours later. They'd taken enough pictures of the building for the tac boys to plan the assault. Athanasius and I left the next morning to scope the airport, hoping that someone had a Lear Jet for sale.
The best they had was a C-47. I don't think they realized how much Maniac would have wanted us to buy that anyways, and I did a wonderful job of overpaying for the plane, figuring I could blame it desert traders. But it flew, and had a reputation as being able to take a beating.
We got back that night to find out that our contact had pulled pictures of the building's inmate list, and we confirmed which one we were after with the Chateau. We also found out that they were planning on moving him to Tehran in two days, which meant that we had to get him the next night.
I'll say this for our contact: The man can cook. Most of the locals we work with can hardly cook a decent meal for themselves. This man cooked some of the best food I'd ever had and he cooked enough of it to feed eleven grown men. I made a mental note to pay the man extra if we all got out of this alive.
When this country gets the shit freed out of it, I hope they don't forget how to cook.
Invasion...is that what this is all about? Is it coming, and FPoP's got some relevant dox?
I hate not knowing what this is all about. All of this would make sense if it hadn't coincided with us getting shot down. Someone knew about our flight, far enough in advance to set up the AA. Someone found FPoP, had him arrested...wait, close enough to our shootdown that we were sent in to get him out?
Awww, shit. There's only one way all of that makes sense. PBE has a leak of some kind.
I made one more phone call that night. Any phone calls intended for the Boss are by nature routed through the Chateau's switchboard, since HM doesn't like getting unscreened calls, and doesn't carry a cell phone around anyways. That also, despite some of the best security money can buy, makes it theoretically possible for the call to be intercepted.
All of our intel boys carry cell phones. Almost all of them carry drop phones that are intended to be used once, and the numbers to those phones are some of the most closely-guarded secrets in PBE. I called the one man inside I knew I could trust to find the leak and close it without fucking up, and without needing help. I got the voicemail, which was expected.
"Illuminatus? This is Soren. We've got a leak. Find it. Tempus fugit."
Some days.
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