Shadow War Read Online Free Page B
Author: Sean McFate
Uncle Sam, according to their most recent Securities and Exchange Commission filing.
The mercenary business, to put it in technical terms, was hot. The industry had exploded during the Iraq War, not just because of contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan, although those were massive, of course. Just as important, with every national asset focused on those countries, there was no one left to deal with the other terrible things happening in the world. For the U.S.military, that was the opportunity cost of waging two simultaneous wars. For the mercenary industry, it was a once-every-three-centuries opportunity.
Now, less than fifteen years after the Third Infantry Division rolled into Baghdad, contractors like me were the forward arm of Western power, fighting in every rat hole, brutal dictatorship, and economic backwater in the world. It was, quite simply, the biggest change in the military since the heyday of the condottieri, the infamous contract warriors of the Middle Ages. But you wouldnât know it from these shabby surroundings and nondescript office parks, where Apollo and its competitors abutted low-level consulting firms and industrial printers.
And that was all by design. The lack of media attention, the bland buildings in boring locations, the forgettable corporate names and artless logosâit was a strategy. Because to draw attention in this business, even positive attention, was to fail. That was why Blackwater was a pariah, before being sold and renamed three times. The military performed the covert actions the White House would neither confirm nor deny. We took care of the clandestine ones, those the government disavowed if they were ever spoken aloud. Our only competition was the CIA, but we were cheaper. And, in my opinion, far better, because we were so deep undercover that half the time, even the CIA couldnât find us. If you wanted to be a player in the Deep Stateâthe shadowy coterie of big business, politicos, media, and other elites who ruled behind the headlines, beyond government oversight, and across national borders, regardless of who was formally in power, the world where private armies like Apollo thrivedânever let them hear or speak your name.
There was a time, five years ago, when I might have been a power player here, a man who contracted operations instead of performed them. I was invited, groomed, introduced to soci ety . . . whatever you want to call it. But I hated the DC scene: the economy of favors, the double-dealing, the endless scheming in pursuit of a compromised version of a shining ideal, while the shabby duck on the fetid retention pond shed feathers like the plague.
I was a soldier, not a bureaucrat. I chose Africa.
Now I came back three, maybe four weeks a year. Many mercs in the field never came back at all. We were freelancers, hired by the job: cash on delivery, no health insurance or 401(k)s. Old mercs donât retire, they disappear, maybe to some unknown corner of the world, maybe to an unmarked grave. The ones I knew kept busy, taking job after job, so they wouldnât have to face this life, and the people left behind. But I was a mission leader, the point of contact between the men in the field and the suits in the office. My role was to plan the assignments and assemble the teams, so I came here just barely often enough to recognize the frosty attendant at the front desk, the one who never smiled.
âHello Jane,â I said. It had taken me two years to remember her name. She didnât even pretend to remember mine.
I slid my company ID into the bioscanner and held it for three seconds, waiting for the green light, and then placed my index finger on the fingerprint reader. Jane checked her monitor, confirmed my identity, and waved me to the employee turnstile, the one with the NO TAILGATING placard on it. The thick Plexiglas doors swished open. Next to the doors was a metal detector and X-ray machine, with two armed guards. Typical
The mercenary business, to put it in technical terms, was hot. The industry had exploded during the Iraq War, not just because of contracts in Iraq and Afghanistan, although those were massive, of course. Just as important, with every national asset focused on those countries, there was no one left to deal with the other terrible things happening in the world. For the U.S.military, that was the opportunity cost of waging two simultaneous wars. For the mercenary industry, it was a once-every-three-centuries opportunity.
Now, less than fifteen years after the Third Infantry Division rolled into Baghdad, contractors like me were the forward arm of Western power, fighting in every rat hole, brutal dictatorship, and economic backwater in the world. It was, quite simply, the biggest change in the military since the heyday of the condottieri, the infamous contract warriors of the Middle Ages. But you wouldnât know it from these shabby surroundings and nondescript office parks, where Apollo and its competitors abutted low-level consulting firms and industrial printers.
And that was all by design. The lack of media attention, the bland buildings in boring locations, the forgettable corporate names and artless logosâit was a strategy. Because to draw attention in this business, even positive attention, was to fail. That was why Blackwater was a pariah, before being sold and renamed three times. The military performed the covert actions the White House would neither confirm nor deny. We took care of the clandestine ones, those the government disavowed if they were ever spoken aloud. Our only competition was the CIA, but we were cheaper. And, in my opinion, far better, because we were so deep undercover that half the time, even the CIA couldnât find us. If you wanted to be a player in the Deep Stateâthe shadowy coterie of big business, politicos, media, and other elites who ruled behind the headlines, beyond government oversight, and across national borders, regardless of who was formally in power, the world where private armies like Apollo thrivedânever let them hear or speak your name.
There was a time, five years ago, when I might have been a power player here, a man who contracted operations instead of performed them. I was invited, groomed, introduced to soci ety . . . whatever you want to call it. But I hated the DC scene: the economy of favors, the double-dealing, the endless scheming in pursuit of a compromised version of a shining ideal, while the shabby duck on the fetid retention pond shed feathers like the plague.
I was a soldier, not a bureaucrat. I chose Africa.
Now I came back three, maybe four weeks a year. Many mercs in the field never came back at all. We were freelancers, hired by the job: cash on delivery, no health insurance or 401(k)s. Old mercs donât retire, they disappear, maybe to some unknown corner of the world, maybe to an unmarked grave. The ones I knew kept busy, taking job after job, so they wouldnât have to face this life, and the people left behind. But I was a mission leader, the point of contact between the men in the field and the suits in the office. My role was to plan the assignments and assemble the teams, so I came here just barely often enough to recognize the frosty attendant at the front desk, the one who never smiled.
âHello Jane,â I said. It had taken me two years to remember her name. She didnât even pretend to remember mine.
I slid my company ID into the bioscanner and held it for three seconds, waiting for the green light, and then placed my index finger on the fingerprint reader. Jane checked her monitor, confirmed my identity, and waved me to the employee turnstile, the one with the NO TAILGATING placard on it. The thick Plexiglas doors swished open. Next to the doors was a metal detector and X-ray machine, with two armed guards. Typical
Readers choose
Gary Glass
Hao Yang
Gene Rager
Emily W. Leider
Unknown
Sarah Schulman
Mike Gonzalez
Amanda Prowse