Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (2 page)

Hannah didn't reply, and she was about to repeat herself, when the driver swiveled his head around.

"This is not good. I think we should enter the city center by a different route."

He was a short, tubby Arab, with an expression that did little to give them confidence. His eyes were wide with fear, and he stank of sweat. A pity the climate control in the taxi didn’t work, the foul air was thicker than it had been in the aircraft.

"Will it be any safer?"

He shrugged. "This is Beirut. What is safe?"

It was enough for at Nava. "Turn around. We’re going back to the airport."

Hannah looked at her. "It seems a shame. We’re almost there."

"We’re also in the middle of a battle zone. We'd be crazy to carry on."

Her friend nodded slowly, but they were both thrown against the door as the driver swung the Mercedes into a hard turn and began driving up a narrow side street. He muttered a curse when he saw a checkpoint blocking the road, a line of burned-out cars with armed men standing behind them. The driver swung the wheel again, and they entered a small square. It seemed quiet, but as the driver had said, this was Beirut. And then he stopped.

"What's the problem?" she asked him.

He held up a hand. "I think there's…"

That was when the shelling started. Three explosions smashed into the building opposite the square, and the tranquil scene was transformed into a roiling nightmare.

"Get out! Get under cover. They’ll target the car next."

They opened the doors but pulled them shut as a volley of machine gun fire rattled across the square and smacked into the cab. The taxi driver screamed a cry of agony as three bullets drilled into his chest, throwing him backward against the seat.

"Nava!" Hannah screamed.

She looked around. A line of men was running toward them, and they were only one hundred yards away. Whatever they wanted, it wouldn't be anything good.

"We have to make a run for it, and try and find our way back to the airport on foot."

"I'm frightened…"

Nava turned; the other girl was frozen into immobility, and the men were racing nearer. She could hear their shouts now, Arabic, "Allah Akbar", God is great. But their vicious, cruel God was anything but great to the Chosen People. She slapped her friend across the face, stunning her into movement.

"Let's go, now! Run!"

She opened the door, dragged Hannah out, and they started running. A shell landed, striking a building fifty yards in front of them, and they veered to the left, trying to keep clear of the battle zone. But the fighting was pursuing them, in the guise of a line of Arabs, brandishing their weapons, some of them firing shots over their heads. She was in no doubt as to what would happen if they were caught. The cruelty of the Islamic fighters was legendary, and here in Beirut they had perfected that cruelty to exquisite new heights.

"In here!" She dragged Hannah into a narrow alleyway, and they ran to the end and then turned right. More shells were hitting the surrounding buildings, and the air became thick with smoke and dust. Every time a shell hit, the ground shook, and Nava was reminded of their surreal situation. Less than an hour before, they were sitting in the comfort of a modern Boeing aircraft, and now they were being pursued through the battle-scarred streets of Beirut, running for their lives.

The men were closer. She'd hoped they’d lost them, but this was their home turf, and they followed unerringly. Suddenly, she saw one of them appear ahead of them. He'd skirted around to cut them off. She stopped. They were lost and going around in circles. She summoned up her reserves of courage and determination; they would not go down without a fight. But even as they started to move again, everything became a turmoil of smoke and fire. A barrage of shells had exploded in front of them, bringing down buildings and walls to bury the gunman. Their path was still blocked, but not by the man. This time it was a pile of broken masonry six feet high, and masonry could be climbed.

"We have to climb over," she shouted to her friend.

Hannah was in shock. "No, no, I can't do it. We're going to die here."

"We're not going to die! Unless we stand still! We have to climb the rubble and keep moving."

Hannah gave a slight nod, and they started forward. Behind them, they heard the baying pack that pursued them, screaming in triumph as they came into view, and shots whistled over their heads. They kept climbing, and Nava tried not to think about the bloody corpse that was buried beneath them. They reached level ground and started running again, but the men were already on top of the rubble and preparing to race after them. They took a narrow alley to the left, then ran to the right, into a maze of streets she prayed they might lose them in. Then she saw an entrance, a door that was slightly open, with a flight of stairs just inside.

"In here, we'll hide. If we keep running, they’ll catch us."

Hannah turned toward the doorway, her movements robotic, numbed by the nightmare. She almost reached it. Nava pushed the door open and turned to help her friend inside, just as another shell exploded. Smoke and debris rained down over them. Then something bigger, a huge chunk of masonry, smashed down onto Hannah's head, and she crumpled to the ground. Nava dragged her friend inside and slammed the door shut, pushing the heavy iron bolts closed.

The stairway was dark, but there was a little light entering from ventilation slots set into the wall at ground level. She managed to half-drag, half-carry the girl to the base of the steps where there was a small room, some kind of a storeroom. She put her friend on the floor and put her ear to the girl's mouth to check for breathing. Nothing. She put her finger on the large artery in her neck and waited. Still nothing.

"Hannah! " she wailed, "You can't die. You can't. We’re going to Israel."

She knelt down and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and when there was still no breathing, began the CPR she'd learned as a medical student. But after almost half an hour, there was still no sign of life. She sat on the floor, horrified by the knowledge that her friend was dead, and she was alone in the middle of a war-torn city.

She thought of everything she'd been through, a lifetime as a fugitive, hiding from the Syrian authorities. Then the miraculous turnabout that gave her, her family, and neighbors the chance to go to the Promised Land; to make Aliyah, the return to Israel. The country denied to the Jewish people for two thousand years, ever since the Diaspora. And then there was Abe.

It was about to end here, in this squalid basement, for Hannah was already dead, so what chance did she have? She had little doubt she would go the same way, the moment she tried to escape to make her way back to Beirut International. She could feel the tears starting to prick at her eyes, but then a new emotion swept over her. Anger, and determination. Her back straightened, and her head came up.

No way will they beat me!

She'd stay down here for several hours until nightfall. Then, she'd creep back through the rubble-strewn streets and find her way to the airport. Yes, that's how she'd get away. She sat on the floor next to her friend.

How will I get the body home for a proper burial? Who will sit Shiva for Hannah?

Perhaps she could hide the body and come back later. In the meantime, she tried to remember the words of Kaddish, the Jewish prayer for the dead. She couldn't focus, couldn't recall the rite, and once more she almost wept at the terrible stroke of fate that had killed the poor girl lying next to her.

She almost lost consciousness, falling into a half-trance induced by the stress and hopelessness of the situation. It didn't last long. Her mind snapped back to the reality of her situation. Hannah was dead, and nothing could alter that. But she was alive, and it was her duty to try and stay alive. She checked her watch; the time was already mid-afternoon. It would be dark in a few hours, and she could make her way back through the shattered city to the airport. She began planning the route in her head, working out the best way to tackle it.

I’ll beat the bastards, no matter what they throw at me.

The thought at least gave her some satisfaction amidst the despair of the dank basement.

Someone banged on the door. She looked up, praying for them to go away, but they banged again. Then she heard a chorus of shouts in Arabic. Maybe it was the men who'd pursued them earlier, so they hadn't given up yet. At least the door was strong, so with any luck it would hold them. The banging stopped, and she breathed a sigh of relief, until it started again. This time she knew they meant business.

They'd brought up a battering ram or a sledgehammer. She looked around wildly for a means of escape, but it was a dead end, and the only way in or out was through that door. The woodwork was shaking with each blow from outside. She calculated it wouldn't take them more than a few minutes to smash it open. She had only one option left. Hide. She looked around the basement and found a pile of garbage, discarded clothing and cardboard cartons. It stank of urine and worse, and it was covered in scores of rat droppings. She shuddered, but set her mind to ignore what could be lurking inside that noisome heap and crawled underneath. Above her, she could hear the pounding growing louder, and then a loud crack as the woodwork splintered. The Arab voices crowed in triumph.

"Allah Hu Akbar!"

Was Allah proud when his followers attacked and killed innocent girls?
 
They believe it to be the case.

* * *

The canteen at NATO Headquarters in Brussels reverberated to the sound of rock music. Lieutenant Commander Abe Talley regarded his men fondly. He was the officer in command of Echo Six, a tall, narrow, and long-limbed American, with dark brown hair over a smooth face. Mister Average, a person would have described him as, until they took a second glance. Sure, he did possess an average face, and had an average build. But then again, the face was harder and more angular than most men's, and dominated by firm, determined lips that rarely creased into a smile. The face of a tough man in command of other tough men, a man totally confident about who he was and what he was doing.

But that person would be wrong. His confidence had been shattered after the numbness and tingling started to affect his right arm. He’d been to see a private physician in Brussels. He wanted to know more before anything went on his records, before he was RTU’d, returned to unit, for something paltry, something minor. Or maybe tossed out of the military permanently.

Apart from anything else, he supported his two kids who lived with his estranged wife, with a big chunk of his paycheck.

What the hell will they do if I have to take medical retirement?

And they weren’t his only family, for he also had Echo Six, lived for Echo Six. If the worst came to the worst, did it have to be the end? He thought about Michael J Fox. A great, charismatic actor and a good guy, reduced to a shadow of the man he had once been, and still a brave fighter. The guy had guts; there was no doubt about that. He was one of the best, but even so, he didn’t need to lead an elite team of Special Forces troopers behind enemy lines.

It had been ten days ago when he saw the doctor, and he hadn’t gone back for a follow up. Each time he thought about it, he shoved it to the back of his mind. He had other things to deal with, more important than sickness, real or imagined.

His unit, Echo Six, was an important part of NATFOR, the NATO Special Forces division that sent troops from member countries on operations around the world. The kind of operations that conventional forces couldn't engage in, often for reasons of politics, sometimes because they needed the kind of skills that were central to the armory of units like Echo Six. Every trooper had to be at the peak of physical fitness. The alternative was to step down.

He regarded his team fondly. Jesse Whitefeather, who was standing alongside Vince DiMosta. Both men were snipers, capable of shooting at long range with an accuracy that was almost unequaled. Heinrich, German, and a tank of a man, built like the Panzers his forefathers had raced across Europe in Hitler's futile bid to conquer the world. Lieutenant Domenico Rovere, Italian, and the unit joker. A tough and fearsome operator, when he wasn't casting his eye over the local girls, or firing off a lightning fast quote from his hero William Shakespeare, perfect for any occasion. Virgil Kane, a wiry southerner, with the looks and build of a farm boy; and a lethal skill with an M249 Minimi machine gun that had brought them out of more than a few bad situations. The big, black former Delta Force sergeant, Roy Reynolds. Before Buchmann took over the job, he was the unit’s lead breacher. Roy was the rock-solid foundation of the unit, combining the massive strength of Buchmann with many of the tactical skills of Guy Welland. There was Daniel Caron, the new man. French, recruited from the Brigade des Forces Spéciales Terre, BFST. And Ray Bennelli from Delta Force.

They were all good, the best of the best. He regarded his troopers with pride; the unit numbered twenty in all. A hard, tough and compact strike force, that could and did go anywhere in the world they were needed.

Every man came from a Special Forces unit of member countries. Like the US Delta Force and Navy Seals, the German KSK Kommando Spezialkräfte, the French BFST, the Italian Alpini Parachutist battalion Monte Cervino, and the British elite Special Air Service. Talley's second-in-command, Guy Welland, standing nearby, was a former SAS trooper. An operator of medium height, Guy was anything but medium build. The Brit had shoulders the width of library shelves, and even in a tough outfit, he stood out as extraordinary. His dark, brooding eyes were always on watch, always alert for a hostile threat. When he perceived a threat, his strength and speed of response were nothing short of phenomenal. Guy was just a sergeant, and Echo Six had commissioned officers, senior in rank to a sergeant. Yet he was second-in-command to Talley, for Echo Six had a single criterion for promotion. Merit.