Olympus Rises (Book One of the Code of War)

By Jim Roberts

Copyright © 2013 Jim Roberts

Also by Jim Roberts

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SMASHWORDS EDITION 2.0, LICENSE NOTES

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank David Morrell, the creator of Rambo for his advice and encouragement. A special thanks to Tony, David, and Alysha for their opinions. And of course, thank you Ma, for everything!

DISCLAIMER

This book contains some coarse language and action/adventure violence. Reader discretion is advised.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely circumstantial.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1: Simple as Butter and Toast

Chapter 2: Storming the Steppe

Chapter 3: Meet and Greet

Chapter 4: The Hard Way

Chapter 5: Hatching a Plan

Chapter 6: A Kingdom for a Nail

Chapter 7: The Second Skin

Chapter 8: Preparations

Chapter 9: Rise of a Warrior

Chapter 10: Run, Shoot, Jump

Chapter 11: Two Against One

Chapter 12: A Time to Act

Chapter 13: Balls to the Wall

Chapter 14: Stuck in the Middle with Yune

Chapter 15: A New Deal

Chapter 16: Meet the Team

Chapter 17: Into the Cold Fire

Chapter 18: Flying Squirrel

Chapter 19: Delivering the Smackdown

Chapter 20: We're Gonna Lose Him!

Chapter 21: Peacemakers

Epilogue

About the Author

Prologue

Northern Afghanistan, Near the Kazinistan Border

HEAVY SMOKE obscured the starry night sky, spewed from flames burning with the heat of a crucible. The half dozen vehicles that made up the NATO convoy destined for Pakistan had been reduced to melted chunks of molten slag. Bodies of over twenty NATO soldiers littered the area surrounding the convoy—some aflame, most wracked with gunfire. The corpses contorted in horrible caricatures of pain and anguish.

All told, the attack had been a smashing success.

It had all gone according to plan. Olympus Private Military Hyperion VTOL aircraft had flown in with less than fifteen seconds warning. The Vertical-Takeoff-and-Landing jet resembled something akin to a dragonfly, its large wings utilizing twin rotating engines, allowing the vehicle maximum mobility in the air. The convoy of NATO Humvees and Cougar IMV's were unprepared when a combination of incendiary missiles and cannon fire laid waste to every vehicle in turn. Hyperion pilots knew their mission well—destroy all visible personnel and military vehicles, except the large Peterbilt truck located in the center of the convoy. That was the prize.

After the battle subsided, the Olympus Commander was alerted that the area was pacified, making it safe for his approach. A heavily modified Mi-M8 Russian Helicopter—repainted the trademark obsidian black of the Olympus PMC—flew in from over the northern hills. It alighted upon a small dirt knoll some two-hundred feet from the carnage.

Olympus Commander Dante exited the chopper and surveyed the bloodshed with a muted look of satisfaction. Flanked by two Olympus Centurion Troopers armed with XM8 Carbine assault rifles, he stood like a monolith, eyes seeing everything. To Dante, the attack had been almost too perfect, too easy. This was no true test of a soldier's ability, but his men required active field training, so this would suffice for now.

The Olympus Commander stood for a final moment taking the sight in. He was as fearsome a man as ever walked this part of the earth. Six feet and ten inches of granite-hard muscle, built like a dump truck, with hands that could crush a man's skull like a grapefruit. An armored black body suit encased Dante’s mammoth figure, containing the latest weaves of Rynohyde-Carbon Fiber textiles. Over top, he wore a thick wool longcoat and on his stark bald head wore the crimson beret of an Olympus high commander.

Hurry it up, gentlemen. This is beneath our talents, Dante shouted commands to his men like Hannibal to his horde, Make sure there are no NATO survivors and bring me that damn scientist!

Dante’s orders were aimed at one of the two Centurion guardsmen by his side. The soldier snapped his arm against the left breast of his armor, making the Olympus salute, then went to join his comrades surrounding the Peterbilt semi. Centurions were the crack foot soldiers of the Private Military known as Olympus, decked out with the latest Reactive Armor designs. The reddish-black armor gave each soldier the look of a fearsome blood-soaked demon in the Afghan moonlight. As he watched his troopers work, Dante sighed. With recent budget shortfalls as they were, the armor had yet to be perfected.

Several flashes of gunfire resounded from the ambush site. The survivors were being dealt with—an unfortunate necessity.

But where was that goddamn scientist?

Dante produced a pair of infrared binoculars from his jacket to better view the scene. He watched as the Centurions under his command opened the cargo box of the Peterbilt truck and searched its interior.

Centurion Alpha? shouted Dante over the din of the Mi-M8 rotor blades.

The armored soldier to Dante's right answered, his voice electronically filtered through his helmet, Sir!

Get down there and find out what the situation is with the scientist. We’ve wasted enough time here!

Sir! The Centurion readied his weapon and double-timed it towards the chaos of the attack. Dante waited. He hated waiting more than anything else, hated every simpering second of it. After a few moments, the mini-Bluetooth receiver attached to Dante's ear chimed that it was receiving a call.

Centurion Alpha's voice squawked in Dante's ear, "Sir, there are multiple survivors in the cargo truck—three in total. What are your orders?"

Dante smiled, Bring them to my position, Alpha. Order the men to secure the cargo contents for transport.

Yes, sir, replied the young Centurion.

Dante was growing more impatient. Having served in most of the war-torn hellholes around the world, the Commander of the largest, most secretive private military had picked up a few bad habits, his impatience being one of the nicer ones.

Centurion Alpha returned a few moments later, flanked by two more of his comrades. Between them were three survivors: two nondescript Turkish men wearing white lab coats and a Japanese man wearing octagonal glasses. He was casually dressed compared to his companions in a black jean jacket and dark slacks. The whirling blades of the Mi-M8 kicked up dirt into the scientist's eyes, forcing them to squint.

Dante approached the three scientists, his eyes moving to focus on the Asian man. Welcome back to Olympus, Doctor Yune, he said, a wide grin spreading across his brutish face.

The Doctor looked up at Dante, a glimpse of defiance in his dark brown eyes. Dante smirked at his prisoner, disregarding the other two scientists, It was a valiant effort, Doctor, to make a break for Pakistan with Olympus property. But now it's time to return and finish what you began.

Yune grimaced. I will not. Never again.

Dante gestured at the Centurions standing behind the three scientists. The trooper to the right nodded, lifted his Carbine to eye-level, and fired a bullet into the head of the scientist beside the Doctor. Yune recoiled in horror at the sight of his colleague pitching to the dirt, blood and gore gushing from the wound in the back of his skull. Dante nodded to the other trooper standing behind the remaining Turkish scientist. The Centurion lifted his own rifle and prepared to fire.

Doctor Yune moved to stand in front of the scientist, putting himself between his friend and the Centurion. No! No more!

Dante grinned as he watched the scene play out, There is no need for further violence, Doctor. Please come with me now. Doctor Yune scowled and moved to stand beside the Olympus Commander. Dante placed a hand on the Doctor's shoulder as he led Yune towards the helicopter. The giant's manner seemed almost gracious. You know we cannot replicate your research in drone technology without your full support, said Dante, his voice dripping with malice, "It hurts me to know you wished to leave our company. But what hurts me more is you took your lovely creations with you."

Dante gestured for Yune to look back at the Peterbilt truck. The Centurions were unloading several large crates from the back of the trailer into one of the Hyperions perched near the ruined convoy.

The Asian scientist looked confused, I...I don't...I mean I have...

—That is correct, Doctor— interrupted Dante, "—you have much that we need. And we will take it from you for as long as we require."

Centurion Alpha took his place behind Dr. Yune and pushed him towards the landed Mi-M8. Yune looked back at his fellow scientist, still standing in front of the armed Centurions, What about my friend?

Dante's smile vanished, Do not worry, Doctor. He is no longer your concern. A loud burst of gunfire flashed from the Centurion's weapons. The scientist toppled to the ground, dead.

No! Yune screamed as he tried to run back to his fallen companion. His action resulted in a rough shove from Centurion Alpha. Yune was enraged at the killing of his friends. He lashed out and struck the large trooper as hard as he could. The doctor succeeded only in hurting his knuckles on the armored soldier's helmet. However, the moment of defiance angered the Olympus trooper. Centurion Alpha smashed Yune hard across the face, dropping the doctor into the sand. Blood spewed from a nasty gash that ripped across Yune's check.

Commander Dante marched towards the Centurion and smashed the trooper with a meaty backhand. Alpha pitched to the ground in a heap.

You fool! Were your orders not clear that he is not to be touched?

I'm sorry, sir, the trooper stammered, knowing full well what displeasing Commander Dante entailed, It was a mistake!

Dante was fast approaching a fury. Few survived one of Commander Dante's furies. He reached out with his massive hand and grasped Centurion Alpha by the neck, hoisting him to his feet.

My dear comrade, mistakes are how empires fall!

And with that, he grabbed the struggling Centurion's belt clasp with one hand and lifted the soldier into the waiting rotor blades of the helicopter. With a sickening *grunch* the blades tore through the torso of the hapless soldier. Chunks of gore and blood spattered across the site. Satisfied, Dante tossed the torso-less cadaver to the side. He picked up Yune by the collar of his jacket and yanked him to his feet. The helicopter door slid open. Inside the bird, several waiting Olympus troopers pulled the doctor inside the vehicle and secured him for transport.

Before entering the helicopter himself, Dante took one last look at the ambush site. His men had finished loading the Hyperion VTOL's with the contents of the truck. Good. Things were going smoothly. From here, it was only a matter of destroying the evidence, which his men could handle well enough on their own.

Dante entered the helicopter, making sure not to step in the mess that was Centurion Alpha, and closed the door behind him. His gargantuan figure barely cleared the doorframe, requiring him to stoop inside the cramped chopper.

We are finished here. Take off, now!

The Olympus pilot nodded from the cockpit and the helicopter began to rise. As they soared into the night sky, the flames of the burning convoy below began to subside. A familiar pinging sound buzzed from the Bluetooth comm.

Dante pressed a finger to activate it, speaking quickly, Yes, my Imperius? The voice on the other end spoke quickly, Yes sir, I am on my way with the good Doctor right now. No sir, the cargo is still being loaded. Yes, I understand, my lord—time is of the essence. The cargo will be delivered to the fort as you requested. Yes, the surveillance tech will be prepared in time. I'll see that the Doctor begins immediately on the new drone technology. I promise the Code download will not be interrupted.

One of the Centurions looked over at Dante, curious about the discussion. Dante gave the trooper a withering glance. The Centurion snapped back to his own business. Dante let the tension hang in the air for a moment before returning to his call.

...Yes, sir, you may proceed as planned. Phase One will begin in two days, as scheduled...NATO will have no idea what is happening...yes, of course, my Imperator. Goodbye.

Dante switched off the headset and looked outside the chopper as it powered low over the Afghan steppe towards the Pamir Mountains to the north. He was excited, more excited than he’d been in years.

So close.

The Code is within our grasp.

Chapter 1

Simple as Butter and Toast

NATO Forward Operating Outpost, Designated Firebase Foxtrot

Six Months Later

STAFF SERGEANT Joseph Braddock attached the final strap of his flak jacket and checked himself out in the mirror. A six-foot, tightly muscled, twenty-eight-year-old Army Ranger stared him right back. Not bad. He ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair—grown long over the last few months of his deployment in the Northern Afghan border outpost designated Firebase Foxtrot. To finish his kit, he picked up his desert camo helmet and strapped it to his head loosely.

He took his last few free seconds to muse over his appearance. In the two years since he'd shipped out here to Firebase Foxtrot, he'd racked up a noticeable amount of scars: a large white one that arched across his eyebrow, given to him by an angry Taliban bastard that had used his face for knife practice; a grisly scar that leaped up from his collar caused by shrapnel from an IED that also killed two of his friends; and a final scar that, well, was in a place the sun didn't shine.

Two more weeks, he told himself, two more weeks and we go home. A range of mixed emotions waved over him as he finished his weapons check alone, as he preferred. The rest of his Ranger Platoon were prepping the Humvee column right now, awaiting their intrepid Sergeant to lead them on their last mission before leaving this backward, ass-end country for good.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

Bring them home Joe. They're counting on you.

From the bench opposite the sink, he grabbed his M4A1 Carbine, tricked out with an under-mounted M27 Grenade Launcher and Elcan Spector telescopic sight—his old standby. Giving his grim, gung-ho face an approving nod, he headed out of the barracks into the morning sunlight.

The mercury was spiking already at ninety-five degrees, but the day was young—the sweltering heat would only get worse. His squad leaders were mustering outside the barracks, making sure last-minute preparations were complete before the recon operation commenced.

Firebase Foxtrot was the northernmost Coalition outpost in Afghanistan, less than a hundred miles from the border of Kazinistan, the neutral country to the north and Uzbekistan to the west. The camp had certainly seen better days. The Hesco barriers— large gabions filled with sand surrounding the outpost— were badly dilapidated from heavy mortar fire. Most of the dozen or so buildings within the camp were severely broken-down and in dire need of repair.

Two more weeks. After that, this place would be left to the coyotes.

And they were welcome to it.

Still, Joe thought as he approached his boys, this place feels more like home than the ratshit apartment I lived in back in Fort Benning. An orphan raised in the Sunflower State, he'd grown up one-hundred-percent corn-fed by his hardworking guardians, Liza and Thomas Braddock. Enlisting in the Army in 2003 when he was seventeen, he'd moved fast up the chain until it was suggested that he try out for the Rangers. Passing the Regiment entrance exam with flying colors, Joe had fought in almost every conflict the Rangers engaged in since. Afghanistan, Iraq, Libya, Pakistan, and several other romantic getaways were Joe's stomping grounds for the past nine years. More than once his superiors attempted to convince the veteran soldier to accept a commission, but Joe always turned them down. He couldn’t bring himself to leave his men within the unit.

They were his brothers.

His life.

As Joe moved among his mates, checking their equipment, he made sure they had everything they needed. All seemed well. He could tell his boys were eager to be out of here. This tour had been the longest in Joe's career as a Ranger, longer even for other veterans in the platoon. It was time to go home.

Just one more mission. Do it right and get your men home.

Joe whistled for the attention of his squad commanders, Listen up, ladies! Details are sketchy on this op, so remember your training and things will go fine. We're to recon the Imam Sahib District of the Kunduz province to the northeast, ten miles from the border of Kazinistan. Over the past few months, NATO's lost two large convoys of personnel to unknown enemy contacts, probably Taliban infiltrating from Kazinistan to the north. NATO's been a bit behind in its paperwork and we've been selected to check it out before the withdrawal as a favor for the Afghan Army.

There were several collective groans from the boys in his platoon. Although Joe straightened them out with a secure that shit command, he had to admit the Afghan Army was mostly useless in pretty much everything it tried to do. Its men were strong with heart and determination but lacked the discipline to wage a confident war against their enemy. Joe often wondered what would happen when the US Army truly and completely pulled out of Afghanistan altogether.

He continued his briefing, We recon the area, check for any enemy contacts, and take em out. Air support will be provided by one Predator Drone that will take off from Bravo One outpost forty miles away and rendezvous above our position. We’ll be back before suppertime. All in all, simple as butter and toast. He paused for effect before adding, One other thing: there have been reports of unidentified aerial objects throughout the northern provinces over the past few months. Command is chalking it up to jitters from the locals about the NATO withdrawal. Still...keep a weather eye for anything out of the ordinary.

He wrapped up the briefing by saying, Let's get this one right, boys. This is our last op in this dustbowl. Be ready for anything and let's leave these insurgents with something to remember the 76th for!

The squad leaders howled in acknowledgment. They were ready, willing and able.

One last op.

Joe ordered the men to fall out and alert their squads to mount up. The remaining squad members were mustering at the Humvees being prepped in the motorcade.

Nice speech Sergeant.

Joe whirled around to see who had spoken. Danny Callbeck, the Canadian CANSOFCOM Joint Task Force 2 operator stood directly behind him. Joe hadn't heard a thing, as usual.

Someday you'll have to show me how you sneak up like that, Callbeck. Joe wasn't angry, just slightly annoyed. The Canadian Special Forces operative had an amazing knack for sneaking up and making you jump out of your boots with a single word.

It's a gift, Sergeant, Danny said in his calm, cool voice, Not much else to it. Command says I'm traveling with you on this one.

Joe guessed as much. Corporal Callbeck was fitted for the op, complete with flak jacket, helmet, and C-7 Assault Rifle. Joe had tried to get the Canuck to switch to the M4A1 carbine, but Danny refused. It was something to do with UN regulations that forced its soldiers to stick with the weapons assigned them. Joe had let it go. After all, Danny Callbeck was not here as a regular soldier.

Callbeck was one of the most unusual men Joe had ever met. He’d known few Canadians in his time with the Rangers, and less still while serving in Afghanistan. Those he did know, however, were well-trained and strong-willed. They served as a tribute to Canada's outstanding army training programs.

Danny was, however, the first Inuit person he’d ever met. Twenty-seven years young, his face was smooth and handsome, with high cheekbones and dark, almond brown eyes. His raven-black hair, hidden underneath his helmet, was cut high and dry. He was shorter than Joe by an inch or two but made up for it with a slender, athletic physique.

His presence in a camp filled with Army Rangers was the result of a joint NATO / UN transfer program to allow Special Forces operatives from around the world frontline access in the war. Corporal Danny Callbeck had jumped at the opportunity. At the time, he was an operator in Canada's Joint Task Force 2, the elite special force of Tier 1 soldiers renowned as one of the best units of fighting men in the world. In fact, their training was comparable to the USA's Navy Seals.

While at chow a few months back, Joe had summed up enough courage to ask this unusual addition to the base about his background and ancestry. Danny had been surprisingly open to questions and had answered Joe as best he could. Born in Alert, Nunavut (formerly part of the Northwest Territories) in Canada, Danny's father was serving in the Canadian Signal Corp when he met Danny's mother, a schoolteacher. They were both stationed in Alert, the northernmost regularly inhabited location on the planet. The rest, as Danny had said, was history.

The Ranger and the Tier 1 soldier had formed a unique friendship. The Rangers in the 76th accepted Danny easy enough—the risk of living in a combat zone formed a common bond between the band of brothers. But Danny went one further, proving his mettle throughout the last few months as a reliable and at times frightening adversary in combat. A master of the art of Kenpo—a brutal fighting style focusing on takedowns and harsh hand-to-hand combat—Danny always dominated his comrades in tests of martial skill. This was no better proven than during a