Free Reflexive Fire - 01 by Jack Murphy

myself or Samruk.  They have already been forwarded to your people, and I have a signature of delivery, so you need to start communicating with them.”
       “I will call them immediately after I hang up, but we still have the issue of-”
       Fernandez rattled on about the HAZMAT reportable quantity of Research Developed Explosives and the proper markings and packing materials for the pallets while Deckard stared at his email's inbox.  It was filling up at an alarming rate, with messages from manufacturers and dealers all over the world.
       These days Deckard's credit card had a triple A rating that went straight to the top.  Some items would be procured in a more clandestine manner through front companies, but for some of the major end items, there just wasn't time for any kind of elaborate subterfuge.
       The voice on the second cell phone switched from Russian back to English.
       “Give me a second here, Fernandez,” Deckard ordered, grabbing the line with the Russians on the other end.
       “What's the deal Niko?”
       “We have agreed to your proposal for the AK-103 rifles, Mr. O'Brien; however we request that you also buy the corresponding M43 ammunition, using us as your broker.”
       “Which plant do you go through?”
       “The old factory 21.”
       “Copper washed steel?”
       “Green lacquer.”
       “I also need T-45 green tracer.”
       Niko paused.  “How about type Z red tracer?”
       “Good enough.”
       “Sounds like a deal, and listen, tell your brother I need someone to source some M-23 vests.”
       “How many?”
       “About a battalion's worth.”
       “Fuck.”
       “You can't do it?”
       “Uh, give me two days.”
       “Alright, Niko, don't fuck me on that ammunition.  I want you to test fire each lot number before you ship.”
       “Yes, Kommisar.”
       “No one likes a smart ass,” Deckard said before hanging up and going back to Fernandez.
       “Fernandez, you track down those EUCs yet?”
       “My secretary is faxing them to our export control office right now.”
       “Good, let me know if you find those Portuguese commando mortars I asked about, okay?”
       “No problem, Mr. O'Brien.”
       Deckard hung up and turned back to his laptop.  He was making international arms dealers shit themselves with delight these days.
       Beginning with the first emails, Deckard began to work his way through his inbox.  There were emails from a guy who ran a small business in North Carolina sewing together custom nylon gear for Special Forces teams at Ft. Bragg.  Samruk needed some chest rigs made for their sniper and recon troops that couldn't be sourced elsewhere.
       There were a few more messages from the manufacturer of holographic reflex gun sights.  Deckard had put in a mass order several days ago.  They wanted the business, but now his order was competing for space on the factory floor with several government contracts.  With Deckard sweetening the deal, the owner agreed to run his workers on twenty-four hour shifts until his order was fulfilled.
       Next came emails from a representative of Glock in Austria.  After attempting to go through an Italian arms dealer, Deckard ran into a wall when he discovered the guy had actually been jailed by Interpol for a dirty deal he acted as the agent for between the Chinese owned Liho Inc. and the Libyan Government.  Not willing to waste more time, he was now going directly to the source, and they were not fucking around with the letter of credit transaction or insurance costs for shipping.
       There were more messages from South Africa about 40mm grenades and an American based company building PKM machine guns with titanium frames, but it was the misspelled email from a textile plant in Wujiang City that really gave Deckard a headache.
       Most First Worldmilitary forces now outsourced production of their uniforms to China, and through several