Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (2 page)

The explosion was massive. They ducked as the blast wave tore through the room, smashing the boarded up windows inward as if they were made of paper. Before the dust settled, Ibrahim looked out again across the street. The Israeli guards were dead and scores of people lay in the street, dead or badly wounded, many screaming in agony. But the Embassy door still held. Praise Allah for his backup plan.

"Abdul, the rocket."

"I'm on it."

His number two aimed and fired the rocket in a single, practiced motion. The motor flamed, and the missile soared across the street, leaving behind a trail of smoke. This time there was no mistake. The reinforced door disintegrated. He felt the bloodlust of combat rise inside, and he leapt forward.

"Kill them all. Kill the Jews."

They raced out onto the street, which resembled a slaughterhouse. The massacre of the innocents was unavoidable if they were to succeed, and he ignored the bloody, broken bodies. He allowed Abdul to race past him and enter first, as he crossed the street at a more dignified pace. Wearing the instantly recognizable keffiyeh, he could already hear the murmurs.

"I thought he was dead!"

"Arafat! Allah be praised!"

"Arafat! Arafat!"

He smiled to himself, as he allowed another half-dozen of his men to cross the street before he followed them and slipped inside the building. If they were to take casualties, it was essential it was his fighters, and not him. Not the leader, it was imperative he survived to carry on their God-given task.

He carried an AK-47S, the folding-stock version of the assault rifle favored by Russian paratroopers for its compactness, and favored by Islamic fighters for the same reason. The weapon could be hidden inside a coat or a loose shirt and snatched out to open fire in an instant. His weapon was cocked and ready to fire as he neared the splintered portal. His men were busy killing the staff and visitors who’d been in the lobby, and he switched his attention to a group of five women running down the staircase, screaming in terror. Trying to escape. He smiled as he pulled the trigger and held the bucking weapon steady. A hail of 7.62mm bullets tore into the panicked females. Their shrieks stopped.

But who else is up there?

He pointed to four of his men to precede him, and they advanced up the staircase, their gun barrels spitting out bullets. He followed at a slower pace, careful to avoid the return fire from the defenders. His men performed well. Three of them died in the exchange, but the Israeli defenders were all dead or wounded, and the surviving fighter emptied a clip into the jerking Jew bodies. The man went to continue up the staircase, but Abbas halted him with a shout.

"Remember, I don’t want you to kill them all. We must capture the Ambassador to trade with the Israelis. And it is vital the other man is kept alive at all costs.

For if we lose him, I lose everything, including my beachside villa.

He fixed the man with a piercing stare. "You are sure you will recognize him, Kareem?"

"I have studied his photograph and committed it to memory."

"Be sure not to make any mistakes. You know the penalty."

He was certain Kareem shivered slightly. "I know, Commander."

He heard more shooting from down on the first floor, as his men continued to engage the Israelis. He had no time to worry about it, as his target was further up the stairs. He allowed Kareem to go ahead, racing up two more flights of stairs, and then they stopped. The carpet was thicker here, the paneling on the walls more sumptuous. This was it, and the passage was empty, with no sign of Jew defenders. They advanced until they reached an oak door at the far end. He tried the handle, and it was locked He nodded to Kareem, who emptied a clip from his AK-47 into the lock. Without stopping to reload, the man put his shoulder to the door and smashed his way inside. The Ambassador, an older man, was sitting behind his desk. Waiting. Another man, an unarmed civilian, was sitting opposite. The Ambassador raised a pistol.

"Kareem! Wait!"

The fighter was screaming abuse at the hated Israelis. He knew he couldn’t shoot them, but when he saw the gun, he pulled the trigger instinctively. The mechanism clicked on an empty chamber. The Ambassador raised the pistol, a huge Desert Eagle, and his hand jerked as he pulled the trigger. The ear-splitting explosion of the fifty-caliber round sounded the death knell for Kareem as the slug smashed into his chest, to tear through his body and exit from his back. Ibrahim ignored his comrade's plight as the body crashed to the floor, aiming his assault rifle at the Israelis.

"Drop the gun! Unless you want to die right here."

The Ambassador thought for a few moments and then lowered the pistol to the desk. Ibrahim rushed over and snatched it up.

"Lay flat on the floor, both of you, or I will kill you."

Both men complied. Ibrahim noted the carpet was very soft and thick, very expensive, and probably made by his Islamic brothers using cheap labor. The man’s suit; it was so fine. How he would like to wear such a garment! Perhaps one day he would. He jerked the Ambassador’s head around and stared at him.

"I know who you are, but who is this man? Tell me his name."

The older man stared at him with loathing. "He is a civilian, nothing to do with the Embassy. He is in Cairo to look at antiquities, nothing more. His name is Benjamin Rothstein, an innocent civilian."

Ibrahim twisted his lips into his trademark smile. How fortunate that the two important targets were together in this room, both unharmed. "There are no innocent civilians in this war, Jew. Everyone is a combatant, men, women, and children."

He turned as two of his fighters ran into the office. "Well?"

"The building is ours, Ibrahim. We're holding a few prisoners downstairs, but the guards are all dead."

The Ambassador looked up, his face creased in anger. "You must be mad to think you can get away with this. The Egyptians will launch an operation to retake the Embassy, and within twenty-four hours, my own people will arrive and kill you."

Ibrahim sneered at him. "Do you take me for a fool? The Egyptians won’t risk a rescue, not until the Israeli commandos arrive. Which means we have a full day in which to prepare for them. Believe me, by the time your people get here, they will be begging us for a peaceful resolution." He nodded to the two fighters. "Take this man away. You know what to do."

They grabbed the civilian and dragged him to his feet. The Ambassador made a last, desperate effort to save him.

"I told you! That man is a civilian, nothing to do with the government of Israel. He has no value as a hostage, none at all. If you want someone, take me."

Abbas fixed him with a glare. "I will take who I wish. My advice to you is to keep your mouth shut, Jew. If you're lucky, you may survive this day. If not…" he shrugged.

They dragged Rothstein away. He tried to struggle, but he was slightly built, and no match for the hardened Arab fighters. Ibrahim looked at the Ambassador.

"You will be detained, as will the rest of your Embassy staff. When we are ready, we will use your communications center to contact the outside world and give them our demands."

He waved the barrel of his assault rifle and forced the older man to sit on the floor. Then he called in one of his fighters to watch the prisoner while he surveyed their bloody handiwork. As he went down the stairs, he had to step over the bodies of fallen Embassy staff, most of them unarmed. Many were women, and all were riddled with bullets, unable to escape the furious assault. In places, pools of blood had formed on the hardwood floor. He found one of the men who’d escorted the civilian Jew from upstairs.

“Did you get him out of here?”

“Yes, Sir.
 
Two fighters went with him to guard him, and he was handcuffed, so he’ll be safe.”

He grunted an acknowledgement and took a last look around. There was no sign of any further resistance, and his men were watchful, holding the hostages under the barrels of their guns. He was satisfied the place was secure, so he went back up the stairs and re-entered the Ambassador’s office. First, he dismissed his fighter, to check out the other rooms on this floor, and then he looked at the Jew.
 
The man was praying, probably the prayer for the dead. He strode over to him and hit him with the butt of his weapon.

"There’ll be plenty of time for praying later, we’ll be here for at least a day. It will take your people that long to respond. Maybe more if the negotiations are protracted. So save your prayers."

He was wrong about the projected timescale. Totally wrong.

* * *

Saudi Arabia – The First Day

His earpiece buzzed.

"Flash traffic coming in, Commander. The Skipper asks you come through to the cockpit to use the secure commo."

"Roger that."

The officer climbed to his feet and was tall enough to need to duck his way beneath the equipment racks festooning the cabin of the Osprey. He was long-limbed, but his movements were economical, smooth, and flowing. Inside the aircraft, he'd removed his helmet, and his dark brown hair curled over his hard, angular face. He was young for his rank, although the wrinkled skin around his eyes, the effect of wind and weather, suggested he’d seen plenty of action. The piercing stare from the deep blue eyes missed nothing. It was a stare common to Special Forces, those men whose work required them to be constantly alert if they were to live through to the mission debrief. There was something else about the eyes, a haunted quality that suggested he’d seen terrible things, and done terrible things. Things that still haunted the nightmares of Lieutenant-Commander Abraham Talley.

Although in his late twenties, he was already the veteran of numerous operations, most of them fighting the scourge of the Islamic fanatics. He’d seen much bloodshed and death, more than most people would care to see in a lifetime, and beyond. There was a price. Lately, his dreams were more and more haunted with grisly memories. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget the hard, harsh realities of his work. He reached the cockpit, and over the roar of the two Rolls-Royce Allison T406 turboshaft engines, attempted to make himself heard.

"What’s it all about? The exercise is finished. We’re going home."

Not before time. His NATO SpecOps unit had been shaking down after a bruising mission inside North Korea. Half his men failed to return from that one, and the training was intended to break in the replacements. They'd taken off from an Allied base in Saudi Arabia, destination Israel. Eight kilometers inshore from the coast, they’d fast-roped to the roof of the target building. It was a simulated Hostage Rescue. The Boeing V-22 Osprey had proved its worth, swooping in fast through the dark skies to hover while they rappelled down and blasted their way in to free the ‘hostages’ from grim-faced ‘Islamic insurgents’. In reality, Israeli Commandos brought in for the exercise.

The Osprey circled overhead while they went about their business and then landed on a nearby highway, awaiting their exfil. It was good training for the aircrew. They performed a short takeoff instead of the regular fuel-guzzling hot takeoff. He was pleased, the new men had done well, but they weren't ready, not yet, except maybe Second Lieutenant Jesse Whitefeather.

The young USMC officer was a replacement for their Polish sniper, Jerry Ostrowski, who'd sacrificed his life in North Korea to save his comrades. Whitefeather was a full-blooded Apache Indian. Which was by no means unusual in a NATO unit comprised of men from six different countries, hence the ‘Six’ in their unit designation. Echo Six. What was important was his skill with a rifle.

Their other sniper, Vince DiMosta, had recovered from the wounds he’d suffered in Korea and resumed his place in the unit. Talley had considered DiMosta one of the finest riflemen in the world, until Whitefeather arrived and proved himself almost as good. But where the Indian excelled was with his other skills. He could move through terrain in total silence and possessed a sixth sense for trouble that was uncanny. The reality was the rest of the newcomers to Echo Six were not in the same league as Whitefeather. Not yet, although maybe in time they’d improve. They'd have to. The alternative in a unit that operated behind enemy lines was a short lifespan, a very short lifespan. He listened to the pilot’s reply.