Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (24 page)

"Do you think there’s any hope for us, with this plan to attack Israel?"

“We've always come out on top in the past."

"We?"

"Echo Six. The men I lead are the best, and you can take that to the bank."

"But there are so few of you."

He tried to explain how SpecOps worked. That a few men could sneak in and do a lot of damage when a larger unit would have no choice but to engage the enemy head on.

"It’s what we'll do at Al Jasan. Sneak in and take their toys away from them."

She gave him a wan smile. "Then I hope you are successful."

She started to refill the cups, maybe to cover her feelings.

Why am I kidding myself? No way is it going to happen like that, and even if we do get into Al Jasan, it's not likely to end well. The truth is the Syrians have played their hand well, too well. This time, it may not be possible to stop them.

"Commander Talley! The Admiral needs to see you. He is in the hut with the computer.” Mahmoud Khalil poked his head through the doorway. "He has a message from his contact in Israel."

He nodded and turned to the girl. "I have to go. Thanks for the tea."

She gave him a smile. "You are more than welcome, Abe."

He noticed Khalil give her a sharp glance, and then he strode out of the hut and went to find Brooks. The Admiral was standing outside the hut, talking to Rovere. He nodded to Talley as he walked up.

"General Weiss managed to get some sense into his people, although as you know, getting to those shells is not going to be easy. The Israelis are putting the Golan Heights on a full-scale military alert, under the guise of a massive training operation. It means they'll have at least three full battalions of troops facing the Syrian position, as well as armored units. Because of the nature of the threat they'll be facing, all of the men will be issued with full NBC gear. The Air Force is also standing by to launch airstrikes."

Talley nodded. "That's fine, Sir. But we both know it won't help destroy those shells if they’re dug in as deep as Rothstein says they are."

"You're probably right. Weiss approached the Prime Minister, with a view to using a nuclear missile. He explained that a threat to explode a nuke over Damascus should be enough to make the Syrians back down. The problem is the Americans, of course. Any suggestion of the Middle East conflict going nuclear could result in American sanctions, even to the extent of a USN carrier in the Med sending in a Squadron of F-18s to destroy the Israeli launch sites."

"You're joking! There's no way they'd attack Israel."

Brooks shrugged. "Let's hope not, but who knows? Right now, the situation is quite clear. As long as those CX9 shells are deployed on the Golan Heights directly opposite the Israeli border, the threat remains; the threat of a conflict that could torch the entire Middle East and spread even further. And it may be the IDF can’t do a damn thing about it, for fear of pushing the Syrians into lobbing CX9 into Israel."

"The shells, they’re the key. They need to be destroyed."

"Yep, that’s it in a nutshell."

They stared at each other for a few moments. There was no need to say it. Finally, Talley said, "I'll talk to the men."

He didn’t get a chance to break it to them. He found Jackson, Garcia, and Reynolds, who’d been dozing on the sand under the shade of a palm tree.
 
They were looking at Vince DiMosta, who was racing toward them.

"Syrian transport, on the way in! Rovere is keeping an eye on them. They’re coming straight for us."

"Just the one vehicle?" Talley snapped out.

"Yeah, a troop carrier. It looks like it’s carrying half a platoon, about fifteen men. Rovere has the machine gun ready, just in case they get close."

"Damn!" He keyed his mic. "Rovere, this is Echo One. Do not, repeat; do not engage the enemy."

"They're almost on us, Boss. What do you want me to do?"

"Let them through, and stay out of sight. We'll take care of them inside the village, just don't let any stragglers get out again."

"Copy that."

Brooks was right beside him. “Admiral, we need to keep everyone out of sight until the Syrians are inside the village. Then we'll take them all."

He hadn’t noticed Rabbi Gold standing nearby with Mahmoud.

"What do you mean to do with those soldiers? If there is a battle here, you'll bring the authorities down on our necks. They’ll wipe this settlement off the face of the earth."

"Sir, those soldiers will have been given orders to scour the area to look for the men who attacked Sheikh Najjar, and they won’t be gentle about doing it. Just because they've left you alone for this long, don't think it can go on forever. Right now, they’re angry, real angry, and looking to take it out on someone. So get your fucking people out of sight. Now!”

The man reeled back. Obviously, he'd not been spoken to that way before. Talley didn't care. He'd done it deliberately to shock him, and to get the man moving before the Syrians arrived and slaughtered them all. He watched in satisfaction as Gold and Khalil went from hut to hut, shouting at the inhabitants to stay inside. That took care of the civilians. It was time for his men to take over.

"Vince, find somewhere you can take them from a distance."

The sniper nodded and ran off. Brooks snapped out the clip on his Galil, checked the load, and waited for orders.

"Admiral, join Rovere at the forward observation post, but stay out of sight. I want the Syrians inside the village, so when we take them, we get them all. We have to know none of them get away to sound the alarm."

"Copy that."

He jogged away, keeping low. Talley smiled; the old Admiral was crackling with energy and obviously looking forward to his first fight in a long, long time.

Where the hell is Buchmann? He hasn’t returned, and when it comes to CQB, the German is invaluable, almost as much as Guy. And Guy Welland is lost, together with Jesse Whitefeather; their bodies somewhere out in the desert.

"Roy, take Garcia and cover the other side of the village. You got the machine gun?"

Reynolds nodded. "All set, Boss."

"Okay, just remember, when they come in here, it’s a one way trip. They don't leave. We kill them all."

Both men nodded as he gave them the kill order; there was no alternative. If only one man escaped, the Syrian Army would descend on Salmeh, and the settlement would be torched with no survivors.

"Drew, stay with me, and we'll set up a firing point diagonally across from Roy and Julio." He looked up as Rebecca came toward him, carrying a Galil. "You can stay with us. You know the ROEs?"

She nodded. “We take them all.”

"Good. Let's move, people. They're almost on us.”

They dived behind a low stonewall. It looked like part of an old corral, probably built to hold goats, and smelled like it. There were no goats, but the stink was still very much in evidence. They’d tolerate the stench, as the heavy lumps of stone were more than thick enough withstand Syrian gunfire.

They all heard the roar of the engine as the truck entered the tiny settlement, braking to a halt next to the well; an Ural-375D, the four and a half ton general-purpose 6x6 truck, used by Russia and many of its client nations. There were plenty like Syria who employed the weapons and equipment of the former Soviet Union. The officer was inside the cab with the driver, and the troops began jumping over the tailgate the moment the wheels stopped.

The officer, a captain stepped out lazily and looked around. At that moment, Talley knew his estimate of what was in store for Salmeh had been correct. The man had a look of cruel calculation on his face, obviously working out how he could get away with destroying the place to satisfy his unit’s lust for blood and revenge, and claiming it as an enemy base of operations. A tall sergeant, who looked mean and angry, shouted the men into formation. They shambled into three lines of five men. That made sixteen soldiers, as well as the officer and driver, eighteen men in all. Talley knew it had to be now or never. They would never make such an easy target as when these troops were drawn up in neat lines; like the soldiers of the First World War who plodded slowly towards the enemy trenches and dutifully died in similarly neat lines. Hopefully, these Syrians would suffer the same fate. He keyed his mic.

"Fire!"

At the same moment, he pulled the trigger and worked the gunfire over the mass of troops. Beside him, Jackson and Dayan opened fire, and the combined power of the three Israeli-built assault rifles hammered into the ranks. Vince fired at the captain. As a sniper, his job was to take out the officers and leave the men leaderless. But at that moment, one of the soldiers broke ranks and ran, stepping into the sniper’s line of fire. Vince's shot took him in the stomach, and he went down, but the captain had the time to dive behind the wheels of the truck.

Reynolds' group opened fire from the opposite side of the settlement, but the officer was already calling his men to cover, and several of them made it to the shelter of the truck. Within seconds, they began to return fire. It was obvious they weren't amateurs. These men had seen plenty of action and recovered quickly. The tall sergeant had survived, and he grouped three of the men together to begin firing at Roy and Julio manning the machine gun, correctly identifying it as the real danger. They heard the sergeant shout at his officer, and in the next moment two more of the Syrians joined the sergeant, and Roy and Julio were facing six Syrians. They needed help, but Talley had his own problems.

Drew Jackson had taken a bullet that sliced into his neck just above the collar of his vest. He was bleeding profusely, and Rebecca had stopped to press on a dressing. It meant he was almost alone to assault the Syrian troops. Alone, except for Vince who kept up a steady barrage of shots at the enemy. Twice, he heard a Syrian scream as the sniper’s bullets found their targets, but they could afford to take losses at a rate of two to one and still come out on top. Suddenly, Buchmann flung himself down next to him and started firing.

"Heinrich! Where the fuck have you been?" he snarled as he kept firing.

"I got the shits. Real bad, I had to go."

He forced himself not to smile. "Never mind, we're in trouble. If we don't knock out those hostiles pretty soon, they'll escape into the desert. If only one man gets away, we’ll all know what shit is. Start shooting, and kill the bastards."

Buchmann emptied a clip at the enemy positions. As he was switching clips, he looked at Talley.

"I still have a couple of SIMONs, the breaching rounds we used to take down the door at Sheikh Najjar. What I'm thinking is…"

"I know what you're thinking, Heinrich. The truck, do it, fast!"

The German loaded one of the odd-looking missiles into his Galil, aimed at the huge six-wheeled truck, and opened fire. The explosive tip smashed into the cab, and although the blast was minor, it was enough to destroy the front of the truck, and any soldier unlucky enough to be sheltering behind it. He reloaded and aimed another SIMON.

"Hit the rear, the wheels," Talley shouted. "That's where they'll be hiding."

He fired again. The second missile hit, and the rear chassis of the Ural disintegrated into pieces of scrap steel. Any survivor sheltering behind it would be stunned and out of action for at least a few seconds. He keyed his mic.

"This is Echo One. Roy, we're going in from here. Hit them from behind. With any luck, we'll finish them before they recover."

Two clicks on the mic. It was a go. He jumped to his feet. “Let's move. Rebecca, leave Drew. We need to finish the Syrians."

She nodded, picked up her Galil, and ran after Talley and Buchmann. He could hear screaming, someone shouting in anger, rage, and blood lust. With surprise, he realized it was him. It was as if all the pent-up frustration and pain they'd suffered emerged in a single moment. All focused on the Syrians, as if the men in front of him were personally responsible for everything that had happened since they'd been shot down over the desert. The deaths and injuries of his squad, the massacred civilians, the betrayal of Benjamin Rothstein, and the needless deaths in the Cairo Embassy that had all been a sham. The lunatic Islamic plot to rain nerve gas on Israel until it was no more than a mark on old maps; all part of the unending campaign of extremist Muslims to drench the ground in blood. Blood from anyone, whether it was the infidels or their own people.

It all focused on the here and now, on the soldiers in front of him. He leapt over a chunk of scrap steel, part of the debris thrown up when the missile hit the truck, and came face-to-face with the Syrian captain. The man was pointing a pistol at him, a 9mm Makarov. The Syrian fired, once, twice, and then a third time. Three bullets struck Talley on the chest, smashing into his armor, the toughest part where the ballistic plate was designed to stop small arms fire. Yet the kinetic energy was enough to hurl him backward, and he slid over into the sand, rolling to the side just as the man aimed a fourth shot at his head. He kicked out and managed to connect with the Syrian’s ankle. He joined Talley on the sand. The two men scrabbled at each other, weapons forgotten as it became a duel of two enemies, hand-to-hand; each fighting to destroy the other at any cost. He felt himself being clawed in the face, and he brought up a knee to the other man's groin. The captain gave a grunt of agony.