Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (18 page)

“Good, at least we’ll be in contact with each other. That’ll be a first for this operation.”

Rovere grinned. “Conversation should be pleasant without scurrility, witty without affectation, free without indecency, learned without conceitedness, novel without falsehood.”

“Shut up, Dom.”

A few meters away, Roy was breaking open the crates, looking for the anti-tank weapons. He called over to Talley, “What about armor, Boss?”

“Admiral, the LAWs?”

Brooks was strapping on his gear, with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. He was long past the age when men go behind enemy lines to go face-to-face with hostile forces. He had nothing to prove; his record spoke for itself. He was here for one reason only, to prevent the worst excesses of Islamic extremism, even if it cost him his life, and it probably would. Despite his age, Talley was glad he was along. What Brooks lacked in mission fitness would be more than made up by the extraordinary skills he’d built up during a lifetime of military service.

Brooks looked contrite. “No LAWs, I’m afraid. An Israeli unit had already checked them out. They were headed for the Syrian border, and there’s always the risk of running into enemy armor.”

Talley had a thought. “Sir, what about those UCAVS, the armed drones? Any chance they can be put in the air?”

He nodded. “Lev could only swing one of the Harops, but it should be on station by now. The trick is finding the right target for that thing. It’s a one shot only weapon. By the way, he sent a replacement recon drone, the Albatross.”

“We need to find Mahmoud and let him know.”

The Syrian mechanic had already found his new toy and was using the iPad controller to test the motors and cameras. He handed Brooks a separate controller for the Harop.

“This was in the same crate as the Albatross. I checked out the video feed, and the drone is already on station over Sheikh Najjar, so all we need is the target. They modified the Albatross controller, and it’s linked to the Harop as well, so we can view the target at ground level or from overhead, and send the fire order right away.”

Brooks nodded. “Make sure you don’t issue any fire orders without my say so. Clear?”

“Of course.”

The Admiral allowed Mahmoud to demonstrate the drone controllers while Talley made final preparations. Buchmann looked suitably warlike, festooned with both a Galil and IMI Negev light machine gun. Around his huge chest he had a bandolier of breaching rounds, and he’d taken a pair of the Desert Eagles to hang on his belt. The effect was a cross between a Wild West Cowboy and one of the Nazi Stormtroopers who’d ravaged Europe in the early days of the Second World War. Rebecca had a Galil SAR like his. Instead of a conventional handgun, she’d discovered a tiny Mini Uzi, the pocket sized sub-machine gun. They were ready. He looked around for the Syrian.

“Mahmoud, get the bus started. We’re moving out.”

As he climbed aboard, he saw Nava in the shadows. The Rabbi was with her, and they were both working through the contents of an aluminum case, a medic’s battlefield first aid pack. They were preparing for the casualties.

Is that a good sign, or not? Maybe they don’t feel so optimistic about our chances. Or are they just realistic? After all, on an operation like this, someone has to get hit.

He ran a commo check, and a chorus of ‘roger that’ sounded in his earpiece. The gear was unfamiliar, but at least it was Israeli. They took their military equipment seriously. Mahmoud was in the front. He’d navigate. Buchmann was in the driver’s seat. He looked at Talley, who nodded.

“Go get ‘em cowboy.”

* * *

An anxious and exhausted Major Hafiz finally managed to make contact with his troops. Captain Maloof was supposed to search for the foreign terrorists who’d attacked Sheikh Najjar. Instead, the fool had made camp in the desert, insisting his men needed rest if they were to be able to fight when they met the enemy. Two soldiers were missing, and he gave chase when he saw the cowardly deserters getting way.

“Maloof, what is your situation now?”

The speaker crackled for a few moments, and then his voice came over.

Damn this old equipment. Why does the enemy always have better, modern, digital radios with satellite communications?

He knew the Syrian Army possessed such equipment, but somehow it always went to the favored battalions, those whose commanders had influence in Damascus. If this went well, Hafiz would join that exclusive club, but if it went badly, he’d end up stationed on the Golan Heights; trading shots with the Israelis, and they were extremely accurate. Or even worse, sitting in a dark prison cell, waiting to be shot for failure. Those who failed him did not know President Assad for his kindness.

“We found the deserters, but…”

“You have them now?”

“It was too dark to see. We…”

“So you have nothing to report, Captain. You failed to find the men who attacked this facility, and failed to recover your deserters. Am I correct?”

“Er, yes, Sir.”

“I’ll have your balls for this, Maloof, you stupid fuck! Return to Sheikh Najjar, at once!”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hafiz out.”

He slammed down the microphone and looked at the scared radio operator. “Is there any word on the replacement flak gun?”

“No, Sir, nothing yet. It’s on the way, but…

“Get on to them, man! I want it here within the hour, or I’ll have your fucking head.”

The man bent to his radio.

Idiot!

Hafiz stormed out to the complex. Beneath his feet, the work was going on, aided by the Jew scientist. He’d proved to be a rich vein of information down there, preparing his deadly nerve gas. Hafiz’s work was to defend the facility, and he was worried. The enemy had already made one attempt to destroy it.

Who are they? Rebel Syrians, Israelis, the Americans? NATO maybe?

It was impossible to tell. All he needed to know was his career depended on defending this place, at least until the CX9 was deployed. When that happened, the land of Israel would cease to exist.

He thought of the rewards a grateful Damascus would hand out. General Hafiz? It was possible, but first this place must be defended. The enemy was lurking out there somewhere, out in the darkness, and when they came, he’d soak the ground with their blood. He saw a group of men chatting idly, half concealed by a heap of cardboard cartons.

Dogs!

“You men! Get outside on patrol, and keep your eyes skinned! Anyone I see gossiping will be shot! Move it!”

A voice called to him, the radio operator.

“Major!”

“What is it?”

“They called from Damascus. The flak gun will arrive inside two hours.”

“Praise Allah. Give the order to deploy our sharpshooters and machine guns. We must make certain the enemy does not get near enough to destroy the flak gun with their missiles. If they return, we will cut them to ribbons.”

“Yes, Sir!”

He realized his exuberance had caused him to speak his thoughts. He scowled at the man. Don’t stand there dawdling. Get back to work.”

“Yessir.”

The man walked slowly back to the radio room, and Hafiz watched him go.

These peasants are scum. Scum!

* * *

Mahmoud was standing next to Buchmann, guiding him into the storm drain.

“There, turn into the gully.”

Instead, the German braked to a stop. “You jest, Arab. This vehicle won’t fit inside that narrow gully, no way.”

Talley was about to intervene, but Mahmoud persisted. “I assure you it will fit. The water and sewage companies drive their maintenance trucks down here all the time. They are no smaller than this bus.”

Buchmann glowered at him. “If you’re wrong, we’ll be stuck in here.”

Some of them heard him mutter, ‘and I’ll break your fucking Arab neck.’

“We won’t get stuck.”

He slammed it into gear and started moving again.
 

“I am not an Arab,” Mahmoud corrected him as they edged forward. “I’m a Jew.”

“Ja, that’s right. Same thing.”

Talley stared at Buchmann for a few moments; then gave up. It would take a lifetime to set him straight. The bus entered the gully, and he saw why Buchmann had complained. The sides were narrow, so narrow they were inches away from the vehicle sides. They even grazed the concrete a few times, and it was only by luck they weren’t jammed between the sheer walls. The tunnel was dark, so it was impossible to know where they were or to navigate. All they had to rely on was Mahmoud’s knowledge.

“Left! Yes, this one. I know it’s a tight squeeze, but it’s the right way, and the next right, no, not the fork, the next. Yes, by that broken sluice gate. Turn there, and it’s a straight run until you hit the fall.”

“The what?”

Mahmoud grinned. “The fall. It’s a waterfall, a kind of ramp where the water can run off. It’s only a meter or so. The bus will be fine.”

Then they were on it. “Ramp ahead,” Buchmann rasped.

“Keep moving.”

The crash as they went over shook them all. It was as if they’d been picked up by a giant and flung across a shallow pond. There was an enormous splash as they fell, and the front wheels crashed into shallow water. As they drove through, the coachwork scraped the side of the concrete gully, and Talley felt like a billiard ball, bouncing from cushion to cushion. Hard, concrete cushions. He looked behind, to see the water in the gully disappearing down into the depths, like a small waterfall. Buchmann drove on, and Mahmoud explained what had happened.

“There is always some water in this section, and it runs away down that flume. From there, it flows into a subterranean section of the Queiq River and emerges a kilometer outside the city. The rebels use it to dump the bodies of prisoners they have shot. It is a quick way of disposing of the bodies.”

“How do you know they're prisoners?”

He grimaced. “Because they tie their hands and feet.”

“Shit!”

They’re as bad as the Nazis, these Syrians. Maybe worse. And the rebels seem to be trying to outdo the regular army in the number of atrocities they can carry out. What’s wrong with these whackos?

Buchmann grunted, “Untermensch!”

Rebecca was close enough to overhear, and she leapt forward in anger, reaching for her Mini Uzi. Talley managed to hold the furious Israeli girl back.

“They're just words, Rebecca.”

She glared at him. “Words! You know what ‘untermensch’ means?” Before he could answer, she continued. “It was a term used by the Nazis, to describe ‘inferior people’. Gypsies, Armenians, Slavs, Poles, Ukrainians, Serbs, Belarusians, Russians – and Jews. My people were exterminated in the Holocaust, and all because German pigs like him considered them ‘untermensch’. If anyone was subhuman, it was the Germans, with their brutal massacre of millions of people.”

“You’re right,” he soothed her. He turned to Buchmann. “Sergeant, you were out of order. Apologize to the lady.”

“Why?” His face was set with a determined expression.