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

The Brit had everything covered for the hazardous trek through war-torn Beirut. Hazardous, because if they encountered a force of Hezbollah, their friends would come pouring out of the woodwork once the shooting started. Which would mean the operation to free Andreas Jensen could be ended before it even got off the ground.

He allowed Raul to get ahead and then led the rest of the men out. Jesse Whitefeather peeled away on the flank and was swallowed up by the night. Guy came in beside him, and the rest of the men followed at intervals. Behind them was Beirut International Airport where the shelling was still going on. In the distance, the night sky was lit up by tracer fire. Ahead, parts of the city were on fire, as rival groups of fighters set about doing what they did best. Utterly destroying those parts of their town that were still intact, and churning up the rubble of those they had already destroyed. In the name of Allah the merciful, of course.

He heard the faint sound in his earpiece, the beep that signified an incoming secure call. He pressed the button, and the familiar voice of his boss, Admiral Brooks, came through to him.

"What's your situation, Commander?"

He didn't reply at first. It wasn't like Brooks to be so anxious.

Why is he calling only minutes into the operation?

"The team landed safely, Sir. We're on our way to the stadium."

"Understood. We may have to call a halt. The kidnappers have been in contact with increased demands. They want money."

He waited to hear what crazy price they had put on Jensen's head. Calling off Echo Six from the rescue and paying a ransom was the wrong way to go, unless you wanted to encourage the camel jockeys to do the same thing again, and again, and again.

"It's what we expected. The release of a bunch of convicted terrorists from Israeli jails, and the payment of ten million dollars."

"You're not going for it, surely? You know what'll happen?"

Brooks sounded tired. As if the pressures of his job, decisions that could condemn men and women to die, weighed too heavily on his soul.

"It's not that simple. The stakes have altered. Hezbollah took a busload of kids, Christians. They were on a school trip to Jerusalem. The bus was heading for the Israeli border when they turned it around. They're holding them with Jensen and several other civilian prisoners. They say they've surrounded the building with explosives. If we try anything, they'll detonate."

Nava, could she be held with the hostages? It’s possible. In which case an attempted rescue could result in the death of the woman I love.

Yet he forced himself to put her fate on the back burner, for now. He was a soldier, with a soldier's job to do. He realized Brooks was still speaking.

"I'm sorry, Sir, what was that?"

"I said they repeated the time limit, nothing's changed. Five days, if we haven't released the prisoners and paid the money by Thursday, they'll kill them all. You have to hold until I get a decision from the UN. The Secretary General has been informed, and he'll make the call."

He checked his watch. It was 0400 hours on Sunday morning. If they hadn't freed the hostages by midnight on Thursday, they could die. He was in no doubt they'd have to be freed by force. The money wasn't a problem; the stumbling block to any ransom payment was Israel. The State of Israel was not part of NATO, and the idea they would free hundreds of militants to create mayhem inside their borders, in return for freeing a VIP who held no importance for them, was ridiculous. Even if it were the Israeli Prime Minister himself, they wouldn't give in to blackmail from terrorists.

"We can't wait for the Secretary General. Every minute we sit on our asses, is a minute we're giving the terrorists. We have to go in, hit them hard, and free those people."

"You didn't hear me, Talley. The hostages are in a building wired to explode."

"You know the Israelis will never release those militants, Sir. We have to work this out ourselves."

Brooks sighed. "I agree with you, but my hands are tied, and I'm under orders from the NATO Supreme Commander as well. We have to wait."

He thought of Nava, shivering in some filthy cell, maybe locked in with other hostages, frightened children, and the UN Commissioner in his expensive suit. He'd be minus his Patek Philippe by now. Surrounded by blocks of explosive instead, wired to detonate when their captives pressed the button, and calculating how to persuade them to have a change of heart. He knew Nava would be looking at the problem in a different way to the diplomat. She hadn't survived, and brought her people through the vicious cruelty of the Syrians, without an inner strength he still found astonishing. He knew she'd already be planning to turn the tables on the terrorists and escape. Even if it meant she was killed in the process. He couldn't allow that to happen.

"We'll continue to the stadium and meet your Mossad contact, see if he has any information. We can hold there until you green light the operation."

"If we green light the operation," Brooks warned, "The UN believes they can make an agreement with the terrorists."

He managed to stop himself from laughing out loud. "With Hezbollah? Do they intend to find a way to feed the world at the same time? And bring about world peace?"

Another sigh, "Yeah, I know. I'm the middleman here. I wish things were different, but they aren't."

"We'll go on to the stadium and contact you there."

"Make sure you hold there," Brooks warned, "That's an order, Talley. Don't go off killing any of the locals."

Brooks clicked off, and he signaled to Guy for them to move off. The stadium loomed in the distance, backlit both by starlight and the occasional shell that exploded nearby. It was a concrete building, which had fallen victim to the war that turned Beirut into a fiery hell for its citizens. Home to the Nejmeh Sporting Club soccer team; the directors were making an effort to rebuild and repair the worst of the damage. Even before the concrete mixers and cranes were removed the place was renamed, The Martyr Rafic Hariri Stadium, after the Lebanese Prime Minister assassinated by the Syrians in 2005. Muslims were quick to use the gun to settle scores, and just as quick to remind the world of the victims, by naming public buildings and facilities after them.

I guess there'll be a couple of Osama bin Laden streets somewhere in the Islamic world.

They stopped and waited for Raul to call in.

"Echo One, this is Echo Six. There's a problem up here."

The Latino’s voice was little more than a murmur, so he was close to the enemy.

"Hold, I'll come up and take a look."

He edged forward, taking care to make no noise. Raul was crouched down behind a low wall. He pointed to the stadium, and Talley gazed through his night vision goggles. A group of men, six in all, were clustered around a truck stopped outside the perimeter fence. Another Technical, this one was a dark red Toyota Land Cruiser with a monstrous recoilless rifle mounted on the bed. He recognized it as an old Soviet era B10 82mm. Old, but still lethal.

"I don't know why they're there," Raul murmured, "It doesn't make any sense."

"You're right, unless they're waiting to ambush someone. They're keeping quiet and not showing any lights."

As he spoke, they both heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. A large saloon car came into view, a powerful, dark blue Audi A8. It stopped a hundred meters short of the stadium, parked on a small strip of grass, and four people climbed out. Two young men and two girls. In their haste, they failed to notice the Land Cruiser parked in the shadows. They were unarmed, except for the bottles of wine they were clutching, and it was obvious why they'd come. They were talking and laughing with each other, and then they sat on the grass next to the car, opened a couple of the bottles, and handed them around. The two couples started to caress, and for a few seconds, the only sound was the clink of the glasses and the happy giggles of the girls.

Talley looked at the fighters and watched them manhandle the Land Cruiser, turning it around by hand to keep silent. At first, he assumed they were taking precautions against another force hidden close by. The youngsters offered no threat. But when the artillery piece was pointing at the Audi, they fired. There was an explosion like a clap of thunder, and the German car exploded into a thousand pieces, flaying the four young people who had been sitting next to it. When the smoke cleared, there was only debris, metal, and flesh.

He heard Raul mutter, "Bastards."

"They're total bastards, and they're about to get their asses kicked. We can't get past them. They're blocking our way, and it's obvious they're out to shoot anything that moves. There's only one way to deal with them."

He keyed his might. "Echo Two, this is One. We have a situation here."

"We heard," Guy replied dryly, "What do you need?"

"Send the snipers forward. We'll take these gomers down in one go. Tell Virgil to bring up the Minimi, in case any of them get away. We have to get into that stadium, and we don't want any squirters running around kicking up a rumpus."

"They're on the way."

A few moments later, the three men appeared. DiMosta and Whitefeather lay down against the low wall, with their long Accuracy International rifles resting on the parapet and pointed at the enemy. The dedicated sniper rifles fired deadly .338 Lapua Magnum rounds, a heavy projectile that traveled with a flat trajectory at short to medium range. Virgil Kane brought along the Minimi, the NATO issue machine gun that fired 5.56mm bullets from a huge 200-capacity box magazine. Adopted by the US military and renamed the M249, the weapon was light enough to be carried by Special Forces. And powerful enough to slice through enemy forces that could otherwise overwhelm a small unit in the field.

Virgil unfolded the bipod and set his machine gun on the ground, close to the wall. The three men waited to go about their deadly business. The snipers focused on their targets with the precision Schmidt & Bender telescopic sights. Virgil had no need of such precision. The Minimi had other virtues, like an awesome rate of fire.

Talley took a last look at the six targets and quietly gave the order.

"Fire."

The rifles were bolt action, and only a sniper with vast experience and incredible skill could spit out fast, well-aimed shots, almost as if they were using semiautomatic weapons. Each man fired six shots, two for each target, and the 'thump, thump' of the double taps would have been inaudible from more than a short distance away. Each bullet found its target, but only five bodies fell. The sixth man wore a ballistic vest underneath his coat, and although the heavy slugs knocked him over, he was uninjured. He jumped into the Land Cruiser, started the engine, and slammed his foot down on the gas pedal.

The snipers couldn't get a good shot at him because of the bulk of the recoilless rifle that blocked their view of the driver. But Virgil was ready. He didn't wait for the order, just aimed in the direction of the Toyota and opened fire.

The Minimi fired at a rate in excess of one thousand rounds per minute. In little more than ten seconds, the box magazine was empty. Drew Jackson was moving forward to load a spare magazine, but it wasn't necessary. The SUV was riddled with holes, the incredible kinetic force of the vast number of rounds turning it into little more than a sieve. The driver was hit several times, and at least one of the rounds took him in the head. The Toyota left the road, smashed through the perimeter fence, and rammed the concrete outer wall of the stadium. The hood flew off, and a cloud of steam poured out from the overheated engine, which died after a couple of seconds.

They waited in case there was an explosion and fire, but after thirty seconds, Talley raced forward to check. The driver was dead. One of Virgil's rounds had smacked into the back of his head, perhaps a ricochet from the number of bullets that tore into the vehicle. He walked up the street to check the Audi in case there were any survivors. They were also dead, their bodies scorched and broken by the blast of the heavy shell that hit their car. Smoke was still rising from the wreckage, and he almost gagged at the stink of burned flesh.

There was nothing to be done, only to reflect on the cruel and unnecessary killing, four youngsters making out far from the carnage of the city in flames. But not far enough. Their murderers were dead too, but it was scant justice.

He returned to where his men waited.

"We're clear," he keyed his mic, "This is Echo One. Hostiles are down. Guy, bring the men up. We’re going into the stadium, and see if we can find this Mossad contact."

He waited a few moments for the rest of the men to come up, and they went forward. The main gates to the stadium loomed large in front of them, and they were obviously locked. But as they hesitated, a small gate at the side opened. They brought up their weapons as a man stepped out. He didn't seem fazed by the heavily armed men who confronted him. Instead, he gave them a slight smile.

"Good evening. My name is
Abdul Muzaka. I have been expecting you."

They stopped and stared. Arab contacts were not unheard of, but never trusted, not entirely. His smile faded.

"I see you don't trust me. I imagine you haven't found Arabs to be the most honest of people." Talley waited, and the man smiled again as if he was enjoying some kind of a private joke, "So it's as well I'm not an Arab."