Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (10 page)

Talley was silent as the VW chugged through the chaotic battle-torn streets. There was no way he could comment on a story like that. Goldstein had decided to fight for justice in his own way, and had clearly succeeded, so far. But it would never bring back his beloved fiancée, and his life had become a constant quest for vengeance.

No matter what they say, if the act of vengeance clears a few would-be murderers off the streets, that’s no bad thing
.

He suddenly realized they weren't heading in the direction of the football stadium. Why not? And how had Guy suddenly appeared with the rest of the men like a visiting soccer team? He turned to Goldstein and asked him what was going on.

The Mossad man chuckled. "I suspected you were in trouble. I called Sergeant Welland when the shooting started, to let him know what was going on. As for returning to the stadium, when your men arrived in the team bus, it shouted to everyone in Beirut where you came from. I told Sergeant Welland of an old quarry several miles outside the city, to the south. It is a place I have used in the past to hide our Israeli troops. We're going there now."

"So you won't be able to return to your work?"

Goldstein broke into a smile. "To the stadium? No, thank God. It would be impossible. All of Beirut knows by now that I am connected to your unit."

"I'm sorry."

"It's no problem for me. I've had a long and successful run here. It was time I thought about going home to Israel. No doubt Mossad can find me alternative employment. But I think you may have other problems."

Talley grinned. "Yeah, we seem to stir up trouble wherever we go."

"I meant what I saw in the shopping arcade, when you had difficulties firing your weapon. Are you sure you're not injured?"

"No." He cursed as he said it. He could have just explained it away as a hard blow to his shoulder.

"In that case, you may have a disorder of the central nervous system."

"I doubt it. I'm okay."

Goldstein ignored him. "I'd speak to a doctor if I were you. You need a checkup."

He didn't reply. There was nothing he could say that would make it any better, and plenty that would make it a whole lot worse.

The Lebanon, east of Beirut.

The agony was worse, much worse. Outside the hot sun climbed higher in the sky. She only knew of its position because of the intense heat that turned the inside of her prison into an oven. Once again, her bound limbs were numb, as her blood flow almost stopped completely to her limbs. The steel floor and sides were even hotter, too hot to touch. Every time the truck jolted over potholes and broken masonry, she was thrown against the searing metal, which caused her skin to burn and blister. The air was heavy too, it was hard to breathe, and she felt a relief when at last the truck stopped.

It was another checkpoint. Once again, the rear doors opened, the brightness of the sun flared, and a different bunch of Arab fighters stared in at her. When she focused, she could see them grinning at her pain, and as much as she longed to be freed from the torture, her overwhelming urge was once more for revenge. Revenge on these Hezbollah animals, for they were not men. Real men did not derive enjoyment from gazing on helpless, agonized women, and these sadistic animals were more than happy to enjoy the show. When their sadism was satisfied, the doors slammed shut, and the truck continued on again. They'd given her no water, and her tongue was glued to the inside of her mouth. The intense heat made her thirst even worse. Her body was desperate for water, and without it, she knew she would soon die.

Yet her captors had no interest in any kind of humanity, only to deliver her to their paymaster and collect their reward from the unknown Saudi. The man about whom she'd conjured up so many nightmares and fantasies. A man who no doubt intended to abuse her even further. She gritted her teeth. His would be another name for the growing list she had etched into her mind. Those people she would take revenge on.

The truck stopped again. They were at some kind of a service station, with gas pumps and a restaurant. She could hear the murmur of voices around her, and the smell of food cooking. But when she went to cry out for help, her tongue was still stuck to the inside of her mouth, and all that emerged was a faint croak.

I have to get out, to escape. I have to live.

She’d been working at her bonds for some time, and she felt the rope slacken a little, but it wasn't enough. It was vital to keep trying, and ignoring the heat that burned into her skin, her hands reached for a sharp surface she may be able to use to cut through the ropes. All she succeeded in doing was burning her blistered skin even more. And then the rear doors opened again.

She was confronted with more Arabs staring in at her. She could make out ten or twelve of them. Their glances were vicious, hostile, and not lascivious. It seemed they were having an argument with her two kidnappers. Something was wrong, badly wrong.

"Where did you get this woman? Where are you taking her? You say she's a Jew, so prove it! We kill Jews.”

“We’re taking her for sale. The Saudi, he will be angry if you interfere.”

“Fuck the Saudi. It is the will of Allah that we kill Jews.”

The argument went back and forth, and then the fighters abruptly stepped back and cocked their rifles.

"Turn out your pockets! Both of you, we need to see what you're carrying."

The two Arabs obeyed, and put their pitiful few possessions on the ground. A few brass-jacketed bullets, some coins, crumpled banknotes, and a gold crucifix. Her crucifix.

"You're Christians! No Muslim would carry a cross! You’re spies, what game are you playing? What are you after?”

"We took the cross off the girl," the Arab blurted in panic, "Truly, it is just a piece of jewelry. We are both Muslims!”

“You said she was Jewish. How could she be Jewish with a cross like that?"

"I don't know. I don't know," her kidnapper shouted desperately. They were the last words he would ever utter. The chatter of gunfire cut off his voice as one of the fighters opened fire, and the two men were flung to the ground by force of the bullets fired at such short range.

There was silence for a few moments, and Nava assumed they would kill her, too. They talked and argued among themselves, and she heard them say they would talk to the Saudi. One man barked an order, and they closed and locked the doors.

Once more she was sealed inside her prison. As the sun became even hotter, she knew she would not survive until darkness came and it began to cool the hot metal of the interior. Without water, it was the end. She rested her head, trying to keep it from the baking floor, and felt sadness sweep over her. She would die here, in this hot cell, never to set eyes on Abe Talley. Never to feel the warmth and comfort of his arms. If she’d had enough moisture in her body, she would have wept.

* * *

It was broad daylight when they hit the first checkpoint, a mile outside Beirut.

Goldstein cursed. "It wasn't here two days ago. This one's new." He glanced at Talley's camos, "They'll check inside, and when they see a foreign soldier, we'll be in trouble. I'll have to smash through. I take it you're loaded and ready?"

He didn't reply. They'd already been over that back in the shopping arcade.

Goldstein nodded. "Of course you are. The trick is to stop them following us after we get through.”

“We need a tail gunner. I’m on it.”

He climbed through the minibus until he was stationed at the rear. Then he reversed his assault rifle and smashed out the rear screen.

"Hit it."

There was a narrow gap between a parked Land Rover, a tough old Brit SUV, and a heap of garbage cans. Goldstein aimed straight for the metal cans. Two of the fighters who manned the checkpoint were standing in front of the VW, with their hands raised for it to stop. They were unable to believe the driver of the minibus would disobey. Shimon caught them with his front fender and swept both men off their feet. The bodies disappeared under the chassis, leaving only their screams hanging in the wind. The engine roared as Goldstein floored the accelerator, and the VW scattered bins and garbage across the street as it smashed through the makeshift barrier.

The other fighters at the checkpoint recovered fast. Three were armed with AK-47s, and they began firing long bursts after the fleeing VW. Talley ignored them. It was the fourth man he had to kill first, the one who was the danger. The Arab who clutched an RPG7, the Russian built shoulder-launched missile, simple and cheap, beloved of insurgents across the whole of the Islamic world. The West had missiles, fighter and bomber aircraft, and UAVs. The Islamic world made do with Soviet hand-me-downs. He watched the man kneel down behind the shelter of the Land Rover front wheel, propping the missile on the steel fender as he took aim.

Normally, the shooter would have been safe. The heavy SUV would deflect most bullets, and the steel of the chassis and engine block would flatten most of them. But his HK MP7 didn't fire most bullets. The deadly 4.6mm rounds were designed to penetrate thin to medium armor. And for all its sturdy construction, the Land Rover wasn’t armored. The shooter sheltering behind it may as well have been behind cardboard.

At least two of the bullets struck the missileer, and he jerked as he was thrown backward. The missile fired and soared uselessly in the air, and Talley switched his aim to the other three Hezbollah, who were now the main threat. The VW had already taken heavy fire, and it was only a matter of time before either he or Goldstein was hit; or worse, before they hit a vital part of the vehicle. He knocked down the first man, and the other two, not realizing the mistake made by the missile shooter, leapt for cover behind the Land Rover. He aimed with care, pulled the trigger, and only one round left the barrel. The clip was empty.

A renewed hail of gunfire smashed into the VW, and he slammed in the last clip and sighted on the Land Rover. He could just make out the fighters crouched behind it, and he said a silent prayer to Heckler and Koch that their ammunition design parameters were every bit as good as their marketing. Then he pulled the trigger, and kept it pulled in a long continuous burst. Twenty rounds left the barrel, and they perforated the target until sunlight showed through. One of the fighters must have seen his comrade die, for he stood up to fire a last defiant burst at the fleeing VW. More of Talley's rounds smashed into him, and he joined his brethren in death.

It was another half-hour before they turned off the highway and bumped along a track. Goldstein steered through an entrance that was wide open, due to the absence of the gates that had long been removed, or maybe destroyed in the endless battles that bedeviled the city. They reached the derelict buildings of the old quarry and almost rammed the soccer team bus. His men had camouflaged it with sheets of rusting corrugated iron and branches ripped from nearby trees, to hide it from a casual glance. Goldstein brought the VW to a stop and they climbed out. Talley made sure he kept his hands well away from his weapons. They were inside hostile territory, and he knew his men would be jumpy.

After a few seconds, Guy came out into the open, with his assault rifle in his hands but the barrel pointed down. Heinrich Buchmann emerged to his left, and Domenico Rovere to his right. The Italian grinned.

"How now, spirit! Whither wonder you?"

"Shakespeare?"

Rovere spread his hands. "Who else, my good Leader? I trust you didn't have too many problems?"

Talley thought of the number of wounded and dead Hezbollah fighters he'd left in his wake.

"I was lucky, that's all. But we're no nearer to finding the hostages." He looked at his number two. "Any luck questioning the prisoner?"

Guy grimaced. "That's a yes and a no. Heinrich managed to get a couple of names out of him." He shot a glance at the German, and Talley shuddered as he thought of the man's interrogation techniques, "There's a Saudi Arabian, his name is Malik al Saif. Apparently, he uses his oil wealth to fund the local nasties."

"A Saudi? That's odd. They're Sunni Muslims, and Hezbollah are Shiite."

"My thoughts exactly, but it seems al Saif has an agenda that transcends sectarian differences. His interests are women, pure and simple. Back in Saudi Arabia, the authorities are onto him because there've been so many complaints. So he shifted his squalid little hobby to the Lebanon. It's a straightforward transaction, guns for girls. Al Saif provides the money to buy the guns, and in return they keep him supplied with girls."

Talley shook his head. "It sounds like a conveyor belt operation. How many girls does he need, for Christ's sake?"

Shimon Goldstein answered the question. "How many girls? I've heard of this man. His name is well known in the Lebanon. Malik al Saif, in simple terms, is a sadist; one of these oil-rich Saudis who's run out of things to spend his money on. He has enough palaces, luxury sports cars, and a couple of private jets. And so he uses his wealth to buy women, many women. He flies them out of the country, to one of his palaces in Saudi Arabia."

"You mean a harem?"

Goldstein shook his head. "As I said, he is a sadist. No one knows what manner of torture he inflicts on these women, but once he has them, that is the end. They are never heard of again. My best guess is they end up in an unmarked grave somewhere in the Arabian Desert. It is the way the Bedouin bury their dead. It also hides the bodies from the authorities."

He felt his stomach lurch. Nava could wind up in the hands of a monster, but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

 
No matter what it takes, I’ll find her.

He looked at Guy.

"And the other name? What else did Heinrich find out?"

"Sheikh Jihad Habeeb."

Goldstein nodded. "I know him. Jihad Habeeb is the leader of a Hezbollah group in and around the refugee camp at Masnaa. It is close to the border with Israel, and a constant irritation for our Israeli Defense Forces. Habeeb will be hard to get to. Our people have been trying to kill him for many years, so far without success."

"How come it's so difficult?"

The Mossad man chuckled. "You've never been inside one of these refugee camps. They're not exactly camps. Some of them are good-sized towns, with scores of buildings and high-rise apartment blocks. A lot of them took a pounding during the various wars in the Lebanon, and they’re little more than lines of apartment blocks connected by heaps of rubble. One thing they have in common is they're easily defensible. And the people who live there are rabid Islamists, who'll warn Habeeb at the first sign of any enemy incursion."

Goldstein closed his eyes, and his expression became a frown as he brought to mind the sheer hell of what he was trying to describe.

"They're overpopulated, and the Arabs work hard keep them short of just about everything needed to sustain life. Food, medicines, you name it. The only thing the poor devils have in any quantity is Islamic indoctrination, teaching them to hate all non-Muslims, especially the Jews. And of course, they give them the guns. There is never any shortage of guns in these places. Anyone who goes in there to go after Habeeb, or to rescue his prisoners, is unlikely to get more than a few meters inside the camp before they're surrounded and killed."

Talley stared at him. "Are you saying it's impossible?"

Goldstein scratched his head as he thought. "No, not impossible, but very difficult and dangerous. The Israelis have tried sending in people undercover, but because of the closed nature of their community, they spot them straightaway. The Umma, that's the community of Muslims, are effectively one big tribe. A tribe of hatred, who despise anyone who is not of them. As I said, non-Muslims can expect no mercy."