Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (13 page)

Al-Khalil controlled a shiver. He'd been party to throwing homosexuals from the roofs, as well as other undesirables, including those who'd failed him. He met the other man's eyes.

"I will not fail, Hasan Jafaar. I give you my solemn word. As Allah as my judge, those men are as good as dead."

Jafaar seemed amused. "Why, Khalil, Allah is your judge. As well as your jury and..."

He left the last word unsaid, but Khalil had no doubt what it was. His executioner. He repeated, "I will not fail. Those men are dead. Talley I want alive, at first."

* * *

They'd come within three klicks of Al-Amoh, and the operation was dead. It was an old, desert fort surrounded by a high wall, and men, black-clad men, patrolled around the top. Rovere suggested a night attack when they wouldn't see them coming, but diMosta was already scoping out the defenses and shook his head.

"It's a non-starter. You see those mounts at intervals around the walls? Night vision equipment! They'll be watching every inch of the approaches, and unless my eyes deceive me, the ground around that place is as flat as a billiard table. That cairn of rocks is the only cover. It’s about halfway across. Even if we made it there, they'd see us the moment we tried to cross the final stretch."

Talley did his best to fight back a dark feeling of gloom, as his familiar feelings of hopeless began to resurface. They'd come so far, just to hit a brick wall at the last moment. He looked at Vince. "We could go in on foot."

The reply was immediate. "Same difference. They'd see us, and even if they didn't, look at the surface of the sand. It's like it's been raked and smoothed. We'd leave a trail a blind man could follow."

He didn't reply. The sniper was right, what they were looking at was the perfect defensive position. The correct way to attack such a target would be with armor or air support. Either of which would bring in the attentions of the Russians, who they knew to be in the vicinity. There had to be an alternative, and he racked his brains to think what it could be, but he came up with nothing. He glanced at his wristwatch. It would be dark in an hour and a half. It had been a long day, and he called out to Guy.

"We'll rest up here and try to figure this out. Tell 'em to get some food, but stay behind cover. Keep movement to a minimum. We don't know what they can and can't see from inside that place."

"Copy that. You okay, Boss? You look kinda strained."

He summoned a chuckled. "Just trying to work out who are our friends and who are our enemies. I'm not sure who's worse, Petersen back at Sykes, ISIS, or Salim's bunch of sorry bastards."

He grinned. "Petersen, no question. I'll pass the word, and tell them to get some rest. Maybe it'll become obvious after dark."

Or maybe it won't. What wouldn't I give for a pull on that flask?

Captain Salim had parked up his vehicles nearby. Talley was amused to see he'd assigned a man to stay in the driving seat of each one, ready to make a fast getaway. He tried to keep the smile off his face.

"We'll stay here, Captain. Get some rest."

"Yes? That is good. I am in need of a cooked meal. It's been a hard day."

"Yeah, war is like that. Fighting builds the appetite."

Lieutenant Bino grinned, but Salim missed the irony. "Indeed it does."

"Which is a pity," Talley went on, "We can't prepare hot food, Captain, not this close to the enemy."

"We're five kilometers away!"

"Close enough for them to spot the heat signature of any kind of stove."

Salim growled a curse in Arabic and ordered one of his private soldiers to come to him. "I want a meal. Something cold, and tell the men to feed themselves with their dried rations."

"Captain, does that mean you'll be eating dried rations as well?"

Salim lashed out and caught the man a glancing blow to his head. "You fool, I am the senior officer. My personal stores are in the back of my Humvee. You'll find an insulated box with cold cuts of meat, salads, and two bottles of wine. Bring me the white. The evening calls for something fine and dry."

The soldier saluted and ran off to do his bidding. Talley didn’t say what was in his mind.

White wine? Jesus Christ.

"Captain, I wouldn't drink too much. We may be in action tonight."

The Iraqi regarded him coldly. "I will decide what I eat and drink, Commander. I will also decide whether or not to join in the attack." He half turned in dismissal, "If you don't mind, I have things to do. I need to clean up ready for my meal."

Talley left him and rejoined his men. They were sprawled inside the cover of a natural bowl in the low hills, with a natural screen of tumbled rocks high and wide enough to screen the vehicles from the fort. He fought down his anger at the Iraqi officer and found a place to bed down in a dark niche in the rocks, little more than a shallow cave. Out of sight of his command, a place he could be alone with his thoughts.

As the light faded, and night crept across the desert, he felt the pressure of the flask against his chest. He was unable to resist the lure of its soothing contents, unable to fight down the feelings of inadequacy at being unable to handle the Iraqis. Conscious they were facing failure, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. His hand slipped inside his camos and came out clutching the flask. He took a sip, then another, and flushed with guilt and shame, put it back out of sight.

He knew where he'd arrived, at the lowest ebb in his life. On a live operation inside enemy territory, and he was sipping alcohol like a skid row wino. Back home, he'd failed in every way.

Face it! I'm a loser. No better than Captain Rashad Salim, of the Iraqi Special Forces. No, I'm better than him, but the end result is just the same. Failure.

He felt the weight of the flask and started to reach inside his camos for another swig when a dark shape materialized, a shape that came with an unmistakable spicy musk. Geena. She touched his face, as if to reassure her he was real, or maybe still alive.

"Commander Talley?"

"Yeah. Abe."

"Short for Abraham? The god of Israel?"

It's been a long time since he'd heard that. "My parents were Old Testament folks."

"That explains it." A pause, "Abe, I can smell alcohol."

"I guess you can. We use it to clean wounds."

She didn't answer the lie, neither indicating belief nor disbelief. She slipped next to him so her warm body was touching his. He felt the heat of her burning through his camos, even through the armored vest. She touched his chin, and he realized what she was doing, undoing the strap of his helmet. He put up a hand to stop her, but she pushed it away.

"You need to be more comfortable if you're going to get some rest. It will be a long day tomorrow."

She removed the helmet, and he felt the stirring of arousal, as if she'd just removed a more intimate part of his clothing. She didn't stop there, but began to undo the snaps holding his vest in place. She dragged it off him, and for some crazy reason, he didn't object. It felt good. The desert air was starting to cool, and he felt a whole lot better. He decided she deserved at least a miniscule chunk of gratitude.

"Thanks."

"That's okay."

He realized they were both speaking in a low murmur, as if there was some kind of conspiracy going on between them. "What do you want, Geena? Why are you here?"

The night had clamped down like a dark blanket, and he felt rather than saw her shrug. "I thought we could discuss how to get into that fort."

His interest flared. "I get the idea you came here with something to offer."

The double meaning wasn't intentional. If she noticed, she ignored it. "I have. I visited that place with my father, and I can still remember a few things about it. Tell me, what are the main obstacles we’re facing? Is it the open ground around the fort, or the men with machine guns and RPGs manning the walls?"

"All of it. Open ground and heavy machine guns. That's what we're up against. Then there are the Iraqis we brought along. We need them, even though they’ll be useless in a fight. Ordinarily, I'd call in air support, but the Russians have altered the equation. That's about it, machine guns, open ground, Russian aircraft, and our Iraqi allies."

He was wrong. They were up against a whole lot more.

Captain Yuri Semyonov enjoyed the massive punch of the twin Gavrilov R-195 turbojets as they punched his Sukhoi SU-25 up into the clear blue of the dawn sky. The raid was something of a compromise after the bombing of Palmyra the day before. Once again, he’d protested the choice of targets, the appalling civilian casualties, so-called collateral damage, and again they’d overruled him.

"Captain, the way to beat these people is to kill them by any means possible. Hunt them down and kill them, the way you would a pack of rats."

He'd started back at his senior officer, Colonel Demidov, a man who appeared mesmerized by the prospect of achieving a quick victory at any price, including that of his fellow Russians. "Sir, those were non-combatants down there. My wingman reported one set of coordinates proved to be a school. After he'd fired two Kh-29 air-to-surface missiles, he went down to inspect the damage. The missiles took off the roof, and he could see the lines of desks inside the classrooms."

Demidov made a motion with his hand, as if to wipe away any suggestion of mistakes in the mission targeting. "It could still have been an ISIS strongpoint. You know as well as I do, Yuri, ISIS likes to hide behind civilians."

"So do we drown ourselves in the blood of innocents? Are we murderers, Colonel, or professional soldiers?"

The Colonel's expression darkened. "We are here to obey orders, Captain Semyonov. I suggest you keep that in mind, and remember there is an alternative. I am aware the officers' quarters here are not too comfortable. However, you would find the accommodation on offer in Siberia to be substantially worse."

He made an effort to calm his anger. He knew Demidov wouldn't hesitate if he thought he was inciting what amounted to a mutiny, refusing to carry out fire orders. The Colonel wasn't a bad man. In fact, he cared about the welfare of his men, and was always chasing the brass for more and better equipment, leave passes, and improved living accommodation. However, he cared about the mission directives handed down from the Russian Ministry of Defense in Moscow even more. He had his eyes on a General's stars, and he wouldn't want a mere captain to screw his chances.

"Yes, Sir, I understand."

"Good. I don't want to hear any more, is that clear? You will follow orders, and try to understand, my young Captain, they are handed down to us for good reason. Even though we may not understand it at the time."

"Yessir."

"Very well. You know Major Rostov didn't make it to the target."

Semyonov stifled a chuckle. It was all over the base. The Pig had made an error in his navigation, and instead of leading his men to Palmyra, had crossed the border into Jordan. The Jordanians escorted his convoy back to the Syrian border, a huge embarrassment to the Major. "I heard something to that effect, Colonel." He could see Demidov struggling to control his own amusement.

"Indeed. We have a new target to hit today. A combined air and ground assault on a known ISIS position, not too far from the Iraqi border. Major Rostov's men will leave at dawn and drive at top speed to be ready to go in after your aircraft have unloaded their ordnance. Let's make it a good one, Yuri. There are no civilians reported in the area. This is a purely military target. Go in there, and fire your missiles. You'll be carrying a single laser guided bomb on each aircraft, the KAB-500. The target is an old fort. If any part of it is underground, the bombs will penetrate and destroy them, as you know. When you've unloaded your ordnance, make an extra pass and rake over the rubble with cannon fire."

Semyonov winced. "That's a lot of effort for an old fort, Colonel."

"It is, yes. However, a prisoner told us ISIS regards this place with some importance, although he couldn't tell us why. If we wipe the facility off the map, it won't matter either way."

The Captain assumed the prisoner had died under torture and so couldn't be questioned further. The Soviet Union had disappeared, but the techniques they used to pry information out of prisoners were unchanged. "And Major Rostov? What is his part in this operation?"

"Mopping up, that’s all. His troops will go in and search what’s left after the raid. Make sure there are no survivors, and of course, collect any documents or other intelligence that may be useful to us." Demidov yawned, "It's been a long night, my friend. I've spent most of it on the telephone to the Jordanians, trying to convince them we're not about to invade their country. I'm going to grab a couple of hours’ sleep before the operation gets under way."

Semyonov ignored the dismissal. He had one more question. "This old fort, Colonel. What is it called?"

The Colonel flicked through some papers on his desk and yawned again. "Al-Amoh. A flyspeck in the desert, and soon it will cease to exist, dismissed!"

They exchanged salutes, and Semyonov went to give his men the details of their target. At least they could bomb and strafe this one with a clean pair of hands.

* * *

She didn't say anything for a long while, just huddled close to him in the rock niche. He enjoyed the closeness and started to relax. Leaving the chimera of his troubles a long, long way behind. His eyelids began to droop, and he thought about this girl who'd come to...what?

Do I trust her? She’s a Syrian, at least by birth. As well as an American after immigrating to the U.S. and becoming an employee of CIA. It’s answer enough. I don't trust her.

By some trick of body language, he must have communicated his emotions to her.

"You don't trust me." Her voice was a low murmur.

"It's not that. It's just...I don't know you. You had something to say about the defenses of that fort. I get the idea you may know a way around them."

He felt her nod her head, as her hair brushed against his face. "I think so, yes. If we can't cross the walls, we either have to go over them or under them. Going over them isn't an option. We'd need a helicopter, and in this region, if the Russians pick it up on radar, they’ll shoot it down."

"It's a strong possibility."

"Right. That means we must go in under the walls. Abe, do you know what a qanat is?"

The word sounded familiar, and then it came to him. "An underwater pipe or tunnel to carry water long distances under the desert. What does that have to do with Al-Amoh?"

"I explored a qanat under the fort a long time ago. As I recall, there's a kind of junction of tunnels under that place, very old, in fact, ancient. There's no guarantee they'll still be open. There could have been roof falls, or they could even have been filled in if they'd become unstable." He felt her shrug again, and once more, strands of her hair brushed his face. He wished she'd do it again, "But there's another problem."

"There always is."

She made a low chuckle. "The way into the qanat is through that cairn of rock, midway across the sand."

He climbed to his feet and stared across the flat, even field of sand. Night vision equipment was unnecessary. The moon was high, and the rocks were a prominent feature in an otherwise featureless landscape. He could make out the men walking around the walls of the fort, their faces always staring outward, guarding against the threat of an attack from outside. Although not from inside.

He considered what she'd told them about the qanats and measured the ground they'd have to cross. Keeping the rocks between them and the fort, it was doable. Difficult, a long, slow crawl, but they could make it, with any luck. Then there were the underground tunnels to negotiate. They could have ceased to exist, the roofs fallen in, or be in such a parlous state that the movement of a few men could bring down the roof in a catastrophe that would bury them all.

Yet...what choices do we have?

He saw a shadow moving toward him and made out the figure of Rovere. When he looked behind him for Geena, she'd gone. The Italian looked cheerful.

"I've been staring at the ground for half an hour, and I can't figure out how to do it."

"Geena had an idea. I was talking to her just now."

"Talking?"

"That's right, yeah, talking."

Rovere's smile was wide, and he showed a row of dazzling white teeth. "She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed. She’s woman, and therefore to be won.”

"Huh?"

"Geena Blake. You've taken a shine to her, Boss."

"I told you, we were just talking."

"Sure. A friendly chat over cocktails, is that it?"

So he’s smelt the booze on my breath. I need to be careful.

"Just a chat, she thinks there're underground tunnels they built for carrying water. They lead right inside the fort. It could be our way in."

"Could be?"

He pointed to the cairn of rocks. "The entrance is in there. We'd need to reach that place without them seeing us."

Domenico focused on the sand and on the rocks. He worked out the angles and considered for a moment. "It's possible. When do we go?"

"About 02.00 should do it. They'll be tired, so there's less chance of them spotting us." Talley explained about the unknown condition of the qanats.

Domenico agreed. "It's the best chance we have. What about the Iraqis? Are you planning on them coming in with us?"

"No, I've worked out how best to use them. They'll establish a rearguard here and wait until we're inside. We’ll give them a signal when we’re in, and they can charge across the desert while we take on the men inside. Chances are we'll need them if we find the place is well defended."

Rovere eyed him skeptically. "You think they'll come and fight?"

A pause. "They have to fight. I'll talk to 'em and spell out what would happen if they were left out here on their own."

"ISIS fodder. That should give them a good reason to help out." He grinned, "Thou ominous and fearful owl of death, as Master Shakespeare put it so eloquently."

"Right. I'll go talk to them. Let them know we're moving soon."

He went to look for Guy, but Rovere clamped on his arm. "Boss, a word if I may."

He turned to face him. "If it's about Geena, I told you, we were talking. Nothing else."

"It's not about Geena. It's something that would improve our chances of completing the operation and getting out alive."

"It's not about Geena?"

"No."

"Okay, what is it?"

"Knock the booze on the head. It isn't you, Abe."

He struggled to find an answer, and the first thing that came to his mind was to deny it. Rovere saw it in his eyes.

"We all know, Boss. I can smell it on your breath even now."

"You can?"

"Yes. How long has it been going on?"

He felt his anger surge through him. "That's none of your damn business, Lieutenant."

As fast as the rage came, it died away, and he felt shame. Rovere waited a few seconds before he spoke. "It's all of our business, Abe. If you're not up to scratch because of the booze, you could get us all killed."

He inclined his head, unable to find the words to reply.

"What made you start? Was it Kay and the kids? Something bad happening?"

"That was the start, yeah. Bad doesn't cover it. She's taking the lot. The kids, the house, every penny I own, and most of my monthly pay check."

"That's bad," he sympathized, "but it's not just that, is it?"

"It's this fucking job, Dom. Look at it. It should be the best job in the world. Leading a small unit of Special Forces, breaking heads of bad guys anyplace our bosses send us. It's like a rollercoaster adventure almost every day of the week."

"In theory."

He swung around. Guy Welland had come up behind him, silent and unseen. The way the former SAS man always moved.

"I didn't know you were around."

His teeth flashed white in the moonlight. "I'm always around when there's a problem." He looked at Rovere. "Is it the same problem? I can smell it from here."

Talley scowled. "Dammit, does everyone know my business in this outfit? Christ, can't a man have some secrets?"

"Not when the security of the unit is at stake, no. In answer to your question, we all know about the hip flask you keep tucked into your camos. You're a good leader, Abe, but a lousy liar. You need to ditch the bottle, and right now."

"Guy, I'm in command here."

His number two held out his hand and waited. Talley felt the opposing tugs. To hand it over and lose the soothing feel of the alcohol pouring down his throat, or to keep it, and then...what? He knew the answer. It was out in the open, and he felt some relief as he started to calm down. He took out the flask. Guy unscrewed the cap and poured it onto the sand. "Is that it?"

Talley worked to keep his racing thoughts together. He knew he was close to panic. "That's all of it. You gonna report this to NATFOR?"

He chuckled. "Not in a million years. We don't work like that, Boss. Okay, how're we going to get inside that place?"

He explained what Geena had told him about the qanats. He didn't look happy. "Do you trust her? If she's from around here, who knows what pressure she's under to betray us?"