Dogs of War: Somalia, Pt. I

“The fuck do you mean, my plane’s delayed?” Roberto “Wetback” Torres asked the lady at the ticket counter. “I’ve been to Hell and back trying to get to Africa, and you tell me my plane’s delayed?!” He was getting seriously ticked, behind schedule, and now this woman had the gall to tell him that his flight out of Paris was running late? What kind of mierda was this?1

“I’m sorry, monsieur, the plane experienced engine trouble over Bruges, and had to put down for a quick check of the systems. It will be here shortly.” The blonde’s constant, eye-meltingly chipper demeanor was pissing Torres off almost as much as the delayed flight. Torres growled, went back to his seat, and began to dial his boss.2

“Jefe, this is Torres. No, I’m not on my plane. The damned thing’s delayed. I’m still in the terminal in Paris. No, I don’t know when it’ll get here. The puta at the counter says it’ll be here shortly, but I want to know, is there a backup way for me to get to Mog? Alright, Boss. I’ll wait.” Wetback settled into his seat, looked over at the girl sitting next to him, and deadpanned. “This sucks.”3

Four hours later, Torres was sitting on his plane, sipping his third Sailor Jerry’s and Coke, and looking forward to getting his job done. Get in, get out, real quick, real quiet, and then he was off to Kenya for some hunting and fun in the sun…4

The plane set down in Yemen, and Torres unloaded his gear, slipping the customs geeks enough cash to look the other way about his weaponry. He went, found a private plane, and haggled for a few minutes to get the pilot to fly him to Somalia. While the Skinny fueled the plane, he dialed the boss again. “I’m in Yemen, about to catch a flight into Mogadishu. Everything set up? Good.” He hung up and loaded his gear.5

Mogadishu was blistering hot, the July sun beating down vengefully on the African city. Torres stepped off the little Cessna, and immediately his shirt was soaked through with sweat. He went to the hotel and checked in, then went out to get started with his job. As he was walking down Haalwadig Road, he thought back to how he came to work for the Dogs of War, a private military company who specialized in, shall we say, high-value targets…6

It started five or so years back, at a little base in Panama where he was undergoing jungle warfare school. He was at the time Gunnery Sergeant Roberto Torres, United States Marine Corps. He was out in town, after dark, and heard something in an alleyway off to his left. Before Torres knew it, it was on him. Huge, canine, and very pissed. As its teeth sank into his shoulder, Torres managed to pull his sidearm and unload a clip into its head. It took eight rounds to the skull to kill it. Torres stood in awe as the beast, which looked like some sleek amalgamation of wolf and man, slowly began to contort, and shift. Its jaw retracted, becoming human, its fur shrank back, revealing skin, and in a moment, where the beast had been, was a human. A man. Torres put it off as being a side-effect of the cheap-ass Panamanian hootch he’d been swilling all night, and bandaged his shoulder. He made it back to base, got a couple rabies shots from the docs, and went to hit the rack.7

The next day he got up, his head pounding, and went to check his shoulder. It gave him pause. It was healing really well. He re-bandaged it, and went out to greet the day. All day he noted that things seemed, sharper, especially smells. Three weeks later his shoulder was fine, just a slight scar, and Torres was scared. His temper had gotten much shorter after the attack, and he now dreamed almost every night of shedding his skin and running beneath the moon. It was giving him the creeps. Until one night, he couldn’t sleep. He got out of bed, walked outside, and soon found himself on the outskirts of the base. A sudden pain gripped him, and he doubled over, clutching at himself in agony. He felt his bones begin to crack and stretch, felt his muscles expand and move, felt as if his insides were boiling. When he arose, every smell, already sharper in his nose, was vivid. He could smell the diesel from the motor pool, and it was a mile or more distant, on the other side of the base. He could smell his roommate’s cheap cologne, five hundred yards away. He looked down at his hands to see furred claws, felt his face and found a long, canine muzzle. He tried to cry out, but what came out was a low, mournful howl. Torres ran, and ran, and ran all night, until he came once more to the outskirts and felt the pain wash over him. When Torres stood once more, he was human. “Oh, my God. I’m a werewolf.”8

Torres finished his tour with the Marines, and gained the respect of all his men. When the chips were down, Torres was in the thick of it, fighting as if he were an animal. He was almost gifted, it seemed, with finding arms caches and IED’s, finding ambushes before they were sprung. When Master Sergeant Torres was discharged, he was set to go back to his home in Ohio. But he still longed for combat. That’s when he got the phone call.9

“Master Sergeant? My name is Wilhelm. I represent a private company interested in hiring a man of your unique talents. I was hoping to arrange a meeting with you.” The caller had a distinct tinge of German in his voice. Torres, always willing to do something other than go back to work at his brother Julio’s roofing company, agreed, and the two met.10

The man, Wilhelm, was tall and rail-thin. His face was cleanly shaven, and he carried himself like a soldier. “What is it your company does?”11

“We’re a private military organization, specializing in the hard-to-do. Primarily eliminating or capturing high-value targets.”12

“Oh, so you’re mercs? Like Blackwater?”13

“Somewhat different. Tell me something, Master Sergeant, how long ago did you get bitten?”14

This took Torres aback. How the hell did this guy know about his bite? “By what?”15

“The werewolf, of course. I can smell you clearly. Can you not scent me?” The German laughed, and Torres could smell it now, a scent like musk and mint, the same scent as the beast that had attacked him in Panama. “My company, it is entirely werewolves. From around the world, preferably those that have prior military experience. We have SAS, Green Berets, SEALs, Spetznaz, other special operators, all of them wolves just like you. We even have a couple of Recon Marines. The pay is good, better than what Uncle Sam was paying you, you travel, and you have full tactical control of your ops. We just tell you what the objective is, and it is up to you to accomplish it.” He stretched out his hand. “Will you work for us?”16

Torres grinned broadly and his eyes flashed gold for a second. “We have a deal.”17

And thus began his career with the Dogs of War…