Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (21 page)

“It won’t do any good.”

She whirled, as she noticed the scientist for the first time. “Who are you?”

“I’m the man who developed them, Benjamin Rothstein.”

“You! But you’re an Israeli, how could you?”

“They tortured me and threatened my family with a terrible death. What you have to know is destroying this place won’t do any good. The first shipment has already left.”

Brooks and Talley exchanged glances. “You’d better explain, Mister,” the Admiral snapped out.

Rothstein shrugged. “The first shipment of gas shells left this morning. They filled every shell case they had, and they’ve sent them out to the frontline. So you’re wasting your time destroying this place. The damage is already done. You may as well get out while you’re ahead.”

She shook her head in despair. “We’re going nowhere until we’ve found the nerve gas and destroyed it. The containers of CX9 in this place, where are they?” She stared at him, demanding an answer.

“I don’t know.”

She looked at him in contempt, almost as if she was about to hit him. Talley moved to intervene. “It’s okay. We know they have stocks of the stuff here. That’s good enough. We’ll blow the place and destroy everything.”

He stared at the scientist. There was something wrong with his story. He didn’t look like a man who’d been brutalized by the Syrians, and when they decided to brutalize, the results were always in evidence. Battered bodies, wounds, broken bones, and eyes filled with terror.

Now they have what they wanted, why have they spared this man? Because he's a scientist? But he's an Israeli Jew, so why haven’t they killed him? It doesn’t make sense.

“Okay, we’ll get out of here, and find somewhere to hole up while we plan our next move.” He looked up as Buchmann joined them, shaking his head.

“Nothing?”

“Nothing, no. Just a couple of bodies.”

“Right. Admiral, you and Jackson stay here with Rebecca and Rothstein while we check things out up top. I’ll call when we’re clear.”

He nodded. “Copy that. Keep your head down.”

“Yeah.”

He reached the shattered door at the top of the staircase and looked outside. Nothing. He called Rovere.

“This is Echo One. Domenico, how does it look out there? Any sign of hostile activity? We’re about to exfil.”

“I can’t see any sign of movement, Boss. The blast from the UCAV hit them hard. I guess they’re all running back to Damascus.”

“Maybe. Okay, as soon as we’re all up top, we’re leaving fast. And I mean real fast. As in, a bunch of lethal nerve gas exploding all around us.”

“We’ll be ready.”

“Roger that.” He looked for the big German. “Okay, Heinrich, let’s go.”

They left the shelter of the building, stepped cautiously across the open space, and reached Rovere’s position without a shot being fired.

So far, so good.

The Italian had deployed two of the Israeli machine guns to cover them, and Vince was searching for targets. Nothing. Mahmoud looked up as they arrived. He’d been stowing his Albatross.

“How are you planning to get us out of here?”

“Same way as we came in. We’ll just do it in reverse.”

He looked puzzled. “You’re not serious? We can’t go back up that ramp. It’s too steep. The bus won’t make it.”

“So find another way.”

He gestured with his hands. “There is no other way.”

They were all looking at him again, looking for answers he didn’t have. Somehow, there had to be a way.
 

“They’re coming out,” Rovere murmured.

Brooks, Rothstein, and Rebecca were hurrying toward them. Jackson was a long way back. It was strange. He’d found himself an NBC protective suit and had pulled it on.

Why has he done that? What does he know?

The helmet hung loose down his back, and he was unreeling the thin cable as he walked toward them. He was moving almost in slow motion, and Talley resisted the urge to call him to hurry. He knew what was at stake. As soon as Jackson was back in cover, they could blow the charges and leave.

But how?
He recalled something Mahmoud had said earlier, and turned to him.

“That river, the one that runs out of this storm drain. Do you know it?”

“The Queiq River, sure. Why?” Then he understood. “No, no, it is not possible.”

“Why not? It’s the obvious way out. We’ll be underground, protected from the fallout when this place blows.”

“Yes, but the river flows too fast. We’ll be swept away.”

Brooks arrived and overheard his protest.

“It seems to me, my friend, that’s exactly what we need. Something to sweep us away from this area in record time.”

“But we could be killed!”

“If we don’t get out of here, either the CX9 will kill us or the Syrians will. It’s the only way.”

He nodded unhappily. “I don’t like it, but…”

He stopped. The Syrians were back. They were pouring into the yard, firing furiously. Jackson dived for cover but managed to keep hold of the cable. Talley screamed, “Cover!” but his voice was lost as Rovere’s carefully sited machine guns opened fire on the advancing Syrians.

There was no panic, no men racing away, tossing aside their weapons. The man in command had brought experienced troops this time, and it showed. They dropped to the ground and slid into cover, finding potholes and crevices where they could shelter from Rovere’s fire. Their return fire was intense. The yard was crisscrossed with the streaks of tracer and the hiss of bullets passing close overhead. He looked around for Drew Jackson and saw him laying in a pothole, sheltering from the fury of battle, a fury threatening to overwhelm him. Frantically, he keyed his mic.

“Drew, do you copy? This is Talley, are you okay?”

Nothing.

If they hit Jackson before he has a chance to detonate, this operation is for nothing. And if we don’t waste this plant, the Middle East will tear itself apart.

Jackson finally came through. “I copy. I’m okay, tucked away in a little hidey-hole out of the worst of their fire. I’m worried they’ll see the cable, and when they see it, they’ll cut it. They could even shoot at it to make a break. Y’all get out of here. I’m going to detonate.”

“Drew, no! You’ll…”

“It’s not up for discussion, Boss. It’s why I put this suit on. I expected the Syrians would be back before too long. The explosives won’t affect this area, only the CX9, which will be thrown into the air. I’m protected. The nerve gas won’t kill me, but it’ll wipe out the enemy. The chances are I can make it out. We’re out of time. One minute and I hit the tit. That’s all the time you have, so get out of here.”

“Drew, you…” but he’d switched off his radio.

Damn!

There was no time left for argument. They were watching him, waiting, and he gave the only possible order.

“We’re getting out now. Get aboard the bus. This place is going to blow! We have one minute! Mahmoud, start up and reverse the bus back out to the ramp. We’ll drop down into the river and take our chances with the current. Move, people!”

They scrambled aboard, and Mahmoud started the engine. He slammed it into reverse, and the bodywork screamed as he forced the vehicle back through the concrete storm drain. Spray from the shallow water made a fountain that cascaded over them as he plowed along the narrow gully. Talley was counting off the seconds, and he reached forty when the bus halted at the ramp. Below, the water roared into the grim, black hole. They were already scrambling out, and Brooks was next to the rushing water, pushing them down into the dark torrent until there was only Talley and the Admiral.

"You go first, Sir."

Brooks shook his head. "No…"

"I’m in command! It's my call. Go!"

As he shouted the last word, he pushed his boss into the rushing torrent below. And then he jumped.

The long black tunnel was alive with the fury of racing water, almost a living, breathing organism that wanted to suck him into the depths of hell. The torrent was impossible to fight, and he tumbled down a long steep, sloping ramp. It carried him over the edge of a sheer drop, and he plunged three meters to the surface of the river flowing beneath. He swam fast in the deep water, helped along by the current. Brooks was ahead of him, swimming with a fast crawl, and he started swimming toward him. The CX9 facility would blow any second, and all they had to protect them was distance. The others were further away, all of them swimming like crazy; trying to put more distance between them and the plant.

And then the water trembled as if gripped by a giant hand and shaken. The explosion was far away, and underground, more felt than heard. A tremor surged through the water, creating a small, fast running tidal wave that propelled them even faster away from the plant, away from the deadly nerve gas that would already be poisoning the atmosphere around Sheikh Najjar.

He recalled the sacrifice that had made it possible.

That was a brave move Jackson made. I hope to Christ he gets away, but it’s not likely. He knew it. We all knew it.

"I can see light up ahead," a voice shouted through the darkness. It was Domenico Rovere, and he recalled the Italian had been a champion swimmer in his youth.

Probably to impress the girls on a local Mediterranean beach,
he smiled to himself.

But right now, the ability to swim fast could save his life. The darkness was starting to give way to the coming of the dawn, not yet light and not completely dark. How could it be, they were in a tunnel? It had to be coming to an end. The strong current continued to sweep them further from the danger zone. The concrete sides were sheer, five meters high, making it impossible to climb out, but he was content for them to continue swimming downstream, away from the deadly escape of nerve gas. The concrete gully would come to an end pretty soon, and they could climb out. Brooks was already thinking ahead.

"It'll be a problem getting back to Salmeh, Commander. We've lost our transport, and it's a long walk. Besides, it’ll be full daylight soon. They'll be out looking for us."

"We're not going anywhere yet. Once we’re out of the danger zone, we wait until Drew joins up with us.”

Brooks gave him a hard look. “You think he’ll make it? We could be waiting for nothing.”

“He’ll make it. When we head out of here, we don’t leave anyone behind.”

The Admiral nodded his head. “I hope you’re right. The Syrians may have other ideas.”

“I think they'll have more than enough problems to deal with before they turn their attention to us. Those soldiers who saw us get away are likely dead or dying, so with luck there'll be no one left to tell the tale. I doubt the army will be too keen to go into Sheikh Najjar until a few days have elapsed, and the gas has dispersed."

“Maybe. I’m not sure they'll give up that easily."

Brooks was right.

* * *

Inside the pressurized, airtight security center, Hafiz switched from one CCTV camera to the next, assessing the damage. Some of the cameras were out of action, destroyed during the explosion or the gun battle that preceded it. What he saw was enough to make it a catastrophe. The ground outside was strewn with the bodies of soldiers. His soldiers. Scores of his men lay with contorted limbs, the living vomiting blood and grasping at their throats, as they tried to suck in precious oxygen through ruined lungs. Yellow gas swirled, killing everything in its path before it seeped into the ground. He watched the man in the NBC suit disappear toward the gully that led to the Queiq River.

So that's how they made their escape. They were clever, but not clever enough.

He vowed to hunt them down, to kill them all and avenge this insult to his country; to his unit, Third Corps, who was responsible for security in this region. He knew he was in serious trouble with Damascus. The only saving factor was that he’d insisted they ship out the first consignment of CX9 shells early rather than wait until the entire batch was complete.

It wouldn't be enough to save him from a firing squad, but if he hunted down and killed the bandits who'd invaded his country, that might just do it. It was his only hope. He was no fool and knew his dreams of early promotion were gone, but he was still young, and there'd be other opportunities. It was important to salvage what he could, find them and kill them, to avoid a court martial and death. But they were already escaping, and he was trapped in here.

It was a pity the radios were out of action. The explosion had probably destroyed the aerials on the roof outside the control center. He looked around the claustrophobic space. There were two NBC suits hanging on a rack near the airlock. There were four of them, him and three of his men.

Should I send a couple of them out to survey the damage, look around for any survivors? But that would mean I'd have no protective suit. If anything happens to the two men I send out, I'll be trapped.

Like most commanders in the Syrian Army, he knew soldiers had a propensity to disappear when they felt the need. Like when they were faced with overwhelming force, or a massive leak of nerve gas. He turned to his Corporal, Mustafa Naseem.