Bow River

"From your record, you've seen action in both Iraq and Afghanistan. During your time in the former, you ever have run-ins with PMCs?"

"Private Military Companies? Yeah, we had the occasional run-in with them. Most of them seemed legitimate enough, but I think everyone knows they also get up to some gnarly and very illegal shit at the same time. Some of them are no more than mercenaries." The major gave me a knowing look. I couldn't help chuckle. "Well, that answers perhaps the next question or two."

"We call ourselves GSI. Global Security Industries. Bog standard, very boring name, that gives nothing away about what we do. I won't go into further details until you agree terms, but what I can tell you is this. Once you've resigned your position with the army, you will be taken to an undisclosed location for further training. An equivalent to United States or Royal Marines training, just shorter in length and not as all-encompassing as you already have years of service. After that, you will be deployed with one of our teams across the globe."

"Are you independent or work on behalf of certain benefactors?"

"Half and half. There is a three-person council who will decide where we will act, but we will also take jobs on behalf of the Company."

"Heard that name before referred to a certain agency. CIA?"

"Sometimes. But other foreign agencies will also occasionally contact us."

Leaning back into my comfortable couch, I sipped at my coffee and gave it some thought. Though happy what I was doing, the idea of jetting off and taking the offer was usually the stuff I'd read about in those action novels you'd find being sold for $5 in an airport bookstore. "When do you want me to sign?"

"As soon as you receive your papers stating you're no longer with the Australian Army. I'll leave my card and you can contact me as soon as that's complete."

Walking him to the door, we shook hands. "Thank you, sir. Hope to see you soon."

"Call as soon as you can."

*****

Stepping off the private jet, I was greeted by three men, dressed in camo fatigues, the usual sunglasses and looking mean routine, standing by one of those big black SUVs you'd normally see on the myriad of television shows. One of them stepped forward, offering his hand. "Sergeant Mason?" Nodding as I accepted the offered hand, he added, "Good to finally meet you. Major Stewart has filled us in on your detail. First time in the United States?"

"No. Visited a couple of times previous for some war games while in the army." Sliding into the rear seat next to one of the other men, introductions were made before they told me I wouldn't be informed exactly where we were. Though technically legal, the United States Government do take a dim view of PMC training camps operating on their own soil.

I was left thinking we were somewhere in the south as, despite the air conditioning on full blast, it had been incredibly humid when stepping of the plane. We'd driven for at least an hour before pulling up at a gatehouse, barrier down, two men in camouflage manning the gate. There was no insignia on the uniform, only a narrow strip on the left breast where a name was printed.

The road carried on for another few minutes before the tree line disappeared and we entered an encampment. I immediately though that, from the sky, it must be clearly visible, left thinking that the government would know about this place but either had an agreement or just ignored it.

There were sixteen us in total. Getting to know them over the next few weeks as we trained, none of us joined because we honestly believed we'd be fighting for any sort of ideal or the 'good fight'. We were there to make money and take out a lot of bad people while doing it. During the hours of quiet, we got to know each other. Different nationalities, races, beliefs, backgrounds. But we were all single. More than one was adopted. Others ostracised or disowned by their families. One or two had simply walked away without a care in the world. We had few roots that meant we'd have no problem being away from home for months if not years on end.

Eight men and eight women. We were warned not to fuck each other. That warning was ignored within a week by more than two of us. I hooked up with a woman from Argentina, name of Catalina Fernandez Espinoza. She was tall. Long legs. Lean torso. Not the biggest set of tits but had a fantastic arse. Dark hair and eyes. And that tanned skin which just looks fantastic on a woman. Look up the word sultry in the dictionary... We hit it off within a couple of weeks. She was absolute dynamite in the sack. I loved fucking her. She loved fucking me in return. We made a good pairing.

Once training was over and we were given our first assignments, I wasn't surprised Catalina and I were paired together with six others. There was no real love between us. Just some great sex. The job was more important. We couldn't afford distractions once we were on the ground.

Working for GSI took us all around the world. I liked to think we were generally fighting for 'the good guys' or 'the good fight', but in the end, all I cared about was surviving and getting paid. Our first deployment as a small company was back to Iraq. Shit was hitting the fan, the United States Government couldn't officially get involved, so people like us were sent in to deal with it. Dealt with the situation, killed the bad guys, made plenty of dollars for it.

That was just the start of my adventures across the glove. Visited Afghanistan twice, usually to infiltrate and extract key targets. Pakistan. Central Asia, the old Soviet Republics were always volatile. Eastern Ukraine as Russia was starting to swing its proverbial dick around. Spent more time in Syria than I care to remember. And we seemed to be constantly in Africa. Jesus wept; I spent far too much time there. It wasn't the getting shot that worried me while there, disease and sickness ran rampant in certain places. Had to make sure we were inoculated and remember to take a myriad of pills every single day.

After a few years, we were working in small groups, mostly working on behalf of 'The Company'. Those of you who have read enough literature should know who I'm talking about. We did the jobs that had full deniability. If we went in and were killed, tough shit. Buried in an unmarked grave if we're lucky. If we went in and were captured, we'd be on our own. By this time, I had no real home though did have a place in the south of France to at least have somewhere to base myself. I spent most of my time living out of a backpack or a suitcase. Holidays? Don't know what they are. Downtime? I was bored within a couple of days but managed to stay out of trouble.

Any sort of fling with Catalina had ended after a couple of years. Well, that's a little white lie. We didn't see each other often, but when we did, we spent a couple of days fucking before we went our separate ways again. If I had time somewhere else, I might hook up with someone, but romance didn't interest me. Didn't have time for it, and there was no way I could support a girlfriend or wife with the lifestyle I lived. Major milestones regarding things like birthdays meant nothing, though the closer I approached my fortieth birthday, I realised my body was starting to feel the strain. Things like my knees and my back started to ache more, taking longer to recover after a mission.

I'd been with GSI for over ten years, preparing for another sojourn into Africa, when my laptop beeped, letting me know I had a message. I figured it was likely just a last briefing from the Council regarding our objectives. By this stage, I was working in a five-person team, each of us living separately around the globe, and we'd only come together when arriving at the nearest airport to the objective.

Opening my mail client, ensuring everything was encrypted, I unlocked and saw it was a message received into my old email account, the one I'd used before I'd joined the army and kept using it until I'd left Australia to join GSI.

Dearest Mark,

I'm not sure if you're even alive as I write this. I know why we've never heard from you the day after you left. Dad made sure everything was changed so you could no longer contact us. I was only a baby at the time and didn't know. Mum was afraid of him and didn't dare do anything to earn his ire.

I've been meaning to email you for so long, but I wasn't sure what to say. I wasn't sure if you'd even know or remember who I am. I'm sorry for waiting so long but the need to email you is now urgent.

Bow River has changed, Mark. You need to come home and help us. If we don't get any help... People have already started dying and... I'm scared, Mark. Everyone is scared and there is nothing anyone else can do. But you've been in the army. If anyone can fight back, it's you.

Please come home. I missed you yet I've never really met you. Same with your baby sister.

Yes, you have another sister, Mark. Spitting image of our mother now. I'll explain more when you get home.

I love you, Mark, despite the fact I've never actually seen you before. I don't remember as a baby. But Mum never stopped talking about you. Dad hid everything, all your photos, but Mum always made sure we remembered you. And I've never forgotten you.

Lots of love,

Olivia

Leaning back in my chair, I'll admit to being left rather stunned. I'd always kept an eye on the old account, checking once every half-year or so, just in case someone from home did get in touch. But apart from one or two emails from friends during the early days in the army, I hadn't heard a word from anyone in years. To be honest, once I'd joined up with 6^th Battalion, I left the past behind. I did the same thing after joining GSI, cutting links with everyone I knew, as how could I explain I was basically a mercenary, fighting for money above everything else. The only thing that made me feel better is I never did a job that caused harm to civilians, thankful that everyone else I worked with felt the same.

But I had a job to do first. Bow River might apparently need my help, my sister might need my help, but I couldn't just cut and run. However, I did put a call through to my contact immediately, letting him know the message I'd received. I'd had nothing to do with my family for almost twenty years.

"Do you want to go home and help, Mason?"

"I haven't heard from them in nearly two decades, sir. But if my sister is getting in touch with me, I can only guess something bad is going on."

"Let me pull up any data I can find about the situation on the ground. While we certainly wouldn't want to lose you, the fact your family has reached out would suggest a situation that would require your assistance. And if it's even worse than imagined, GSI and your colleagues will lend a hand. We look after our own."

"Not sure how the Australian Government would see that, but once I'm done in Africa, I'll head home immediately."

"Do so incognito, at least in the sense of not letting anyone know. But fly into Sydney with another identity. Don't let whoever it is know you're coming. Head to Africa for now, but I'll start putting together a dossier for you. Complete your assignment and I'll contact you with your orders."

"Thank you, sir."

"Good luck."

The operation somewhere in Africa took a month. Working with my small team, it wasn't the first operation I led onto foreign soil. Might have ended my army experience as a sergeant. I was now called 'Major Mason', though most of the time, I was still just Mason. And I still had my Australian accent, even after so many years away from home.

Making my final report on the flight back to Europe, within an hour of filing it, I received an email in return regarding the situation on the ground regarding Bow River. It was rather thin. I mean, it was a small town of a couple of thousand residents in outback Australia. But there were a couple of newspaper clippings about new owners of a nearby mine and a business owner starting to flex his muscles in the area. I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed.

Another cliché, it seemed. Got to love cliches. Life just seems to be full of them.

I rented an apartment on the south coast of France, a few kilometres away from the city of Nice. With all the money I was making, and not spending much of it, I could afford to base myself there when I wasn't working. I spoke the language fluently and had all the fake identification and documentation I needed to live there. I also spoke a couple of other languages and had fake identification for those countries as well.

My contact called me three days later, letting me know I had authorisation to fly home and deal with the issue. I was to fly solo to begin with, but if shit was to hit the fan, I was more than welcome to call in colleagues and friends to help deal with any problems that arose. Wondering how the Australian Government would react to PMCs working on Australian soil, I was assured that any difficulties would be smoothed out.

Plus, apart from a single email, I had no idea what was going on anyway.

I was used to flying by private jet with GSI, able to carry weapons and gear. Flying from Paris to Sydney, Australia, meant my backpack would be going through security. That meant no weapons and gear. Even my knife, my trusty Ka-Bar that I'd used since the early days with GSI, would draw more than a curious glance, even if it was in my backpack. Mentioning that to my contact, I received a number I was to call the day after I landed. Though GSI had never operated in Australia, no point as my homeland was safe as houses, there was still a cache in the event something did happen. Maybe Indonesia trying to invade or something?

At least I flew Business Class, so the long flight did take place in some comfort, changing planes in Hong Kong. Considering the city was a basket case because of what the Chinese Government had been up to, and the fact I'd worked in China more than once, any idea of a layover for a day or two was quickly abandoned. Didn't leave the airport. Sat in an airport bar, drinking overpriced beer, until my next flight was called.

Arriving in Australia on a French passport earned curious glances from passport control, particularly as I spoke French with an Australian accent. My fake identification suggested I was dual citizen of France and Australia. Of course, that just earned another question about how that was the case, explaining my mother had been a French citizen, and that my parents now resided in France. However, my father retained Australian citizenship, I had been born in Australia, but now split time between the two countries. The French passport was full of stamps showing a history of travel, adding a story about holding my French passport made travelling to and from the European Union far easier.

Being French, I was flirting with her at the same time, of course. By the time I'd returned home, I was late thirties. Short brown hair. Near continuous stubble. My blue eyes still sparkled, despite some of the horrors I'd seen for the past few years. I'd grown an inch while in the army, that last spurt of puberty, so now stood six-two. Weighed over one hundred kilos. Broad shoulders. Muscular arms. The sleeves of my shirt were rolled back, showing the sleeve tattoo on my right arm, various tattoos on my left arm. Those were all done during my time in the army.

Grabbing a taxi once out of the airport, I directed him to the Park Hyatt. One of the best hotels in Sydney and, considering I spent most of the year sleeping either under the stars, in a tent, or in the sort of hovels most people wouldn't be caught dead in, when I had the opportunity, I would sleep in absolute luxury for a night or two.

I was stepping out of the shower when my phone rang. No-one from home knew I was in Sydney, checking the number. No-one was dumb enough to keep names, but I recognised the number.

"Catalina."

"How are you, baby?"

"I'm okay, sweetheart. You?"

"Well, I am missing my Australian teddy bear right now. I'm lying back on my bed, naked, wet and more than willing, thinking about how nice it would be to feel you inside me once again. Are you at home? I'm in Spain right now and could easily drive up to see you."

"I'm not in France at the moment."

"Where are you, baby?"

"I'm not sure I should say. I'm dealing with something personal right now."

"Do you need help?" I noticed the change in tone, imagining her sitting up in bed, pulling the robe that hung around her body now being pulled tight. Completely professional, the flirtatiousness gone immediately. And it was something I'd expect from her.

"Not right now. I've just arrived. I need to organise one or two things before I start to assess the situation on the ground. However, the general has already offered assistance should the situation prove more precarious than imagined."

"I know you're likely at home right now, Mason. And if you're there, then someone from your family got in touch. You don't need to confirm or deny. You know I'll be there tomorrow if you need me."

"Thank you, Catalina."

"Stay safe. Call me if you need anything. I'll get in touch with the general. If he authorises it..."

"I'm sure there'll be a regiment of you arriving if he gives the green light."

"Okay, I'll let you go, baby. I might see you soon enough."

Hanging up, I couldn't help smiling to myself. I didn't think about the civilian life very often, but if I did retire to someplace warm and peaceful, I'd love that Latina firebrand on my arm if I did. But I shook those thoughts from my head. Though I did give retirement the occasional thought, I wouldn't know what to do with myself in retirement. Never gave family a thought, I mean a family of my own. You know, a wife, kids, house, two cars in the driveway, with a couple of pets. It all sounds so mundane and boring.

Sleeping like a log that night, thanks to the jetlag, I spent a day acclimatising. I hadn't been in Sydney in well over ten years so wandered the streets, taking in all the changes to the skyline. Walked along the harbour, took a ferry across it, before walking along the north shore and back over the bridge. Grabbed a meal in The Rocks and enjoyed a few beers in the city before returning to the hotel.

The next day, I got to work. I needed transportation so called the number I was given. An hour later, a tinted SUV arrived outside the hotel to pick me up. The two men were as wary of me as I was of them. They checked my identification, while I confirmed who they were with a passcode I would recognise. Very old school but it avoided relying on technology all the time.

Driving out to the western suburbs, we ended up parking up at a storage facility, explaining I could grab gear there, but I could easily purchase a vehicle from the plethora of car yards. Wanting my own transportation first, I ended up purchasing a brand-new ute, surprising the salesman by paying the whole price immediately. I didn't worry about it flagging anything as the account I used was legitimate.

Returning to the storage facility, I checked over the kit, surprised at the variety on display. Smiling to myself, I grabbed a duffel bag and started to fill it with everything required to start a war if required.

"Rambo, eat your fucking heart out," I chuckled to myself.

The valet at the Park Hyatt almost turned his nose up at the fact I turned up in a ute until he sat behind the wheel and realised it was no ordinary ute. I got the one with all the bells and whistles. He met my eyes and gave me an approving look.

"Don't judge a book by its cover, mate," I stated.