Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (23 page)

“What can I do, Heinrich?”

“I need more weight. Stand behind me, and when I charge the door, add your weight to mine. It could be enough to shake it loose.”

“You got it.”

He stood behind Buchmann and put his arms around the man’s huge body. Holding close to the other man, the German snarled, “Los!”

They charged and smashed into the unresisting steel.

“Look! The door has opened an inch. Again, Commander, and this time put everything into it.”

“I did put everything into it, Heinrich.” Outside, he could already hear the first of the Russian tanks opening fire with their main gun. First the roar as the shell left the barrel, and then the explosion from the warhead impacting on the walls. They were about to charge the door again when Reynolds appeared on the steps.

“Boss, they’ve brought up an entire squadron of tanks, T-80s. Bastards have started destroying the wall, and I doubt we have more than five minutes before they get inside. When they do, we can’t handle armor.”

“Understood, Heinrich, this is our last chance. Roy, get behind me. We’ll use the combined weight of us all.”

He gripped Talley from behind. “I’m ready.”

Once again, Buchmann screamed, “Los!”

They charged, and if they needed any reminder of how desperate their situation was, three Russian tank shells struck the walls outside in quick succession. The noise of breaking masonry was loud in the confined space. As they charged the door, Buchmann let out a blood-chilling scream. In that compressed moment of time all that stood between them and their deaths was a door, an Arab chunk of metal that had defied them for so long.

At the last moment, Roy pushed off with his huge, muscled body, slamming into Talley, who pushed into Heinrich. The German threw everything at the door, and they kept going. The door had smashed off its hinges and into the underground room. Buchmann vaulted the ruined steel, and they were inside. The first thing they noticed was that the lights were switched on, strong, guarded bulkhead lamps bolted to the concrete walls. The second was the two men, both Arabs who crouched near the rear wall of the room, which was about ten meters square. At first, Talley thought they were cringing from the assault on the door. Then he realized it was something more. They were blocking them from reaching another door. This one was different.

Buchmann threw the rock to one side, and it hit the concrete floor with a force so heavy they felt the vibrations through their boots. Talley used his M4-A1 to cover the two men. There were plenty of weapons they could have used to fight with. It was a well-stocked armory. Instead, they were babbling in incomprehensible Arabic, both of them terrified and harmless. He ignored them and glanced at Reynolds.

“Roy, grab some of these RPGs and hand them out. Our guys have to hit the enemy before they punch that many holes the walls it makes them look like Swiss cheese.”

“Copy that.”

He gathered up a handful of RPGs in his huge arms and ran out of the room. They heard his boots pounding on the staircase, and then his voice shouting to the men outside, “I’ve got the anti-tank gear! Give me a hand here.”

Talley stared back at two Arabs. There was something going on here. Something he didn’t understand, and that held the key to this strange installation. “Do any of you speak English?”

One stepped forward, eager to please. "I speak some English. Don’t kill us. Don’t kill us. We can help you.”

“What’s behind that door? What are you hiding?”

He didn't answer. Buchmann pushed them aside as if they were sacks of hay, and put a hand on the door. It was locked from the outside with heavy steel clips, like those they used on submarines. He reached for the first lever.

“No, please no! Don’t open that door.”

Both Arabs were kneeling on the concrete, their arms outstretched, pleading, imploring.

“What’s behind it? Why shouldn’t we open it?”

They looked at each other in terror, and some agreement passed between them. The man who spoke English began explaining the sickening truth. ISIS was known to experiment with biological weapons, as indeed did their enemy, the Syrian government of Bashar Assad. They'd come up with something new. Mustard gas laced with some kind of dirty uranium or plutonium. They couldn’t explain which. A weapon that if deployed could wipe out tens of thousands of enemy combatants, Coalition soldiers, before they discovered what they were up against.

“How safe is it?” Talley snapped out, “What’s the problem with opening the door? Is there some kind of a leak?”

The man gabbled out the truth. “Yes, yes. It was supposed to be safe, but when one of our men went in there, he was dead within minutes. There must be a leak. They left me behind to find out how bad it is, but I knew if I opened that door, I would die.”

“So what were you going to do when they came back?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Tell them lies. Tell them anything. I don’t want to die, that’s all I do know. I have a wife and children in Raqqa, and I’d like to see them again.”

“Yeah, tell that to all the men they murdered. They had families, too.”

The Arab slumped. He’d probably assumed Talley was about to put the bullet in him. Instead, the NATFOR commander snapped an order.

“Both of you. Grab as many RPGs as you can carry and come with us. There’s Russian armor outside the walls, and if we don’t stop them, the next time your wife and kids see you, you’ll be lying in a coffin. Heinrich, lend a hand.”

They seized more launchers, and he led the way back up the stairs. Buchmann brought up the rear, keeping a watchful eye on the two Arabs. They appeared beaten, but he was wary of the possibility of a last-minute change of heart. The interior of the fort was shrouded in dust from the explosions, and as they ran toward the walls, two more shells smashed into the stonework. So far it was holding, but it wouldn’t for much longer before it collapsed.

He raced up the steps to the top of the wall where Guy and Roy were assembling the launchers. Their hands moved frantically over the unfamiliar mechanisms. A minute later, they were both ready. Guy nodded to Roy, and they leapt up at the same moment to shoot. Talley was standing with them, and to his shock the nearest Russian tank was a mere two hundred meters from the wall. As he watched, smoke billowed out of the barrel. Then the explosion of a shell fired from the main gun sent a shockwave roiling around them. The shell impacted the wall two meters from the original gateway, and this time chunks of stone cascaded to the ground. They had one advantage. The smoke from the shot, and the additional dust cloud from the impact, gave them a degree of cover. A smoke screen, and both men took advantage to launch.

The T-80 tank was not a new design, first emerging from the production line in 1976. The frontal armor was massive, a full fifty centimeters. Both rockets scored hits on the nearest T-80, one on the sloping front and the other a direct hit on the turret. They may as well have thrown stones for all the good it did. The tank merely reversed away, and they watched the main gun turn to point at their position on the walls.

“Down, get down!” They jumped, a four-meter drop to the ground, just as the shell smashed into the wall. They sprawled on the sand as the shell hit, and small chunks of stone cascaded down around them.

“We can’t take much more of this,” Guy frowned, “The RPGs just bounced off the hull. The best would be to come at them from behind, but that’s impossible. The minute we came out from here, they’d shred us with machine gun fire.” He pointed up at the sky. “You can forget waiting until it’s dark. We have several hours until nightfall. We have two choices. Either we make a run for it, or we surrender. If we run for it, they are bound to see us, and they’ll hit us with 125mm shells. On the other hand, if we don’t make a run for it, they may decide they don’t want witnesses.”

Talley gave him a quick glance. “What you’re saying is…”

“We’re screwed, yeah. Unless you can pull some kind of a rabbit out of a hat, we are well and truly fucked.”

From five kilometers out, Hassan Jafaar and Khalil watched in astonishment as the Russians attacked the fort in force. First the autocannon, backed by machine guns. A few minutes later, and the Russian armor appeared. Khalil glanced aside at the older man.

“Why are they doing this, Hassan? I thought they were both here to attack us. I don’t understand why they are attacking each other.”

The older man shrugged, although his eyes were calculating. “I have no idea, my friend. Only that they’re doing our work for us, although we have a problem that I don't know how to resolve. The Russians will take the fort, it’s inevitable, and they'll discover our weapons. The chemical weapons.”

“If they reveal what we are doing to the world, it could encourage more countries to join the fight against us.”

Jafaar frowned. “I don't see it that way. We know Bashar Assad is not averse to using chemical weapons. It may be they'd feel it would be an embarrassment to their sole ally in the area. There is something else. The mustard gas came from Assad’s own laboratories, stolen by one of our people. The Syrian government markings are still on the containers. Will they want the world to see what their ally has been doing? Somehow, I doubt it.”

“You think they will say nothing?”

“I think there is much here that we don’t understand. Do you recall the old saying? The enemy of my enemy is my friend. It’s an amazing turnabout, but all of a sudden, the Russians are on our side. When the NATO men and their Iraqi dogs are all dead, the Russians will leave."

Khalil frowned. "If they take the chemicals, that'll be a serious setback to our cause."

Jafaar sneered. "I doubt that will happen. In fact, I can guarantee it won't happen."

“Why would they not remove our chemical weapons? Surely they know we will attack them with them if we have the chance.”

The older man looked smug. “Khalil, I made contact with a man inside the fort, an Iraqi soldier. I persuaded him to help us."

"An Iraqi? They hate us!"

"Not when you can destroy something they cherish more than life itself. He is on our side, no question. The last message he sent suggested there was a leak inside the secure containment room. If they open the inner airtight door, they will start to die within minutes. The concentration of lethal toxins in a confined space would be massive; the normal time for the chemicals to kill will be much shorter.” He bared his teeth in the rictus of a vicious smile, “Who knows, they may kill all of the infidels, and save us the trouble.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We will move on, in case the Russian aircraft return and find us. Don't worry, my friend. If the NATO and Iraqi troops manage to escape the Russian trap, we will return and laugh over their bones. They cannot survive. If they leak into the open, the chemicals will give them a death so terrible they will wish the Russians had killed them. Moreover, if the gas doesn't leak, the Russians will kill them, anyway. They will soon be dead; it is just a matter of how and when. The Prophet wills that they should die.”

“Bless His holy name." He paused and stared at Jafaar for a few moments. The older man shifted, looking uneasy. He suspected what was coming.

"I am not leaving, Hasan. I will stay here with my men. Until I can see the rotting corpse of that NATO commander, Talley, I will not rest. I cannot rest. The souls of the men he killed. My own men, gunned down in cold blood, scream for vengeance."

He sighed. "Khalil, you're not thinking straight. Over there," he waved a hand in the direction of the fort, "we have a NATO force with a number of Iraqi troops. Inside the fort, there is a large quantity of leaking containers with enough chemicals to kill us all. Moreover, to the west, the Russians are out there somewhere. If you stay, you could all die."

"We will stay. If you wish, Hasan, you may leave. However, my men will not leave here until we have justice. Until Talley is dead, and I can inspect his bones."

Jafaar was trapped, and he knew it. If he left, the men could claim he'd abandoned them, and more important, abandoned the vow of revenge called by Khalil. He nodded, reluctantly. "Very well, I will stay, too. Until this Talley is dead."

"Until he is dead," the other man agreed.

* * *

“Sir, Sir!”

Talley looked aside. An ISIS captive was tugging at his sleeve, trying to get his attention. “Yeah, what is it?”

“Sir, those RPG missiles, they are useless against tanks.”

“No shit. You got any more pearls of wisdom you want to give me?”

The Arab didn’t answer and ducked as yet another tank shell exploded against the wall, bringing down more masonry. They had no choice but to cover their heads to protect themselves from the shower of broken rock. As the dust cleared, the man dusted himself off and looked back at Talley. “That’s why we brought in the supply of anti-tank missiles.”

“Sure you did.” Then the words hit him, “You’re not kidding? You’re telling me you have anti-tank missiles in the armory?”

“Yes, we have ten man-portable 9M14 Malyutkas.”

Talley tried to think of the capabilities of the Malyutka. It had a NATO designation of Sagger. “Tell me about them. You know we’re looking at one hundred and fifty millimeters of frontal armor on those T-80s. I forget the penetration power of those things?”

The man’s reply was straight to the point. “Two hundred millimeters, Sir.”

They both ducked down as three more shells smashed into the wall. The top two meters of a piece of wall next to the gateway had disappeared. It was as if some ravening monster had bitten a chunk out of it. Guy was already racing to the gap to check the strength of the remaining stonework, and he left him to it. He catapulted to his feet and shouted at Roy, “Move! Get these guys back down to the armory, and make them show us the anti-tank missiles. Let’s go!”

They dragged the two Arabs to their feet and started running. “You don’t understand! The missiles are stored in the same area as the chemical weapons. We can’t go in there without protective clothing.”

They were still running, dragging the two ISIS along with them. “Do you have protective clothing?”

“Yes,” he gasped, “but the risk is enormous. We have no decontamination facilities, nothing. If anything goes wrong…”

“I don’t give a shit if anything goes wrong,” he snarled, “When we get down there, you’ll get into a suit, go into that room, and bring out what we need.”

“But…”

“Forget the buts. You do it or you die.”

They reached the armory and raced through the shattered steel door. The airtight door stood facing them on the other side of the space, and he felt a lurch in his guts, wondering what waited for them on the other side. The Arab rushed to a heavy steel locker, snatched opened the door, and pulled out two suits. He started to hand an NBC suit to the other Arab, but Talley stopped him. "Hold it! You're not going in there together. I'll take the other suit."

Roy stared at him. "Boss, that's crazy. These old Russian suits are not guaranteed to block out the contamination. That's chemical and nuclear in there."

"I know, but I'm not letting these two guys go in together." He stared at the English speaking Arab. "How will it be in there?"

"The mustard gas is residual, and it's unlikely to be airborne. If we're quick and touch nothing more than the missile casing, our exposure should be slight."

"Should be?"

"Yes. I can't be certain."

"Okay, let's get this done. Roy, close the door when we're inside to minimize the escape of the gas. I'll knock when we're ready to come out."

"If you think that's the way to handle it..."

"It is."

He started to pull on the suit, a mass of heavy, impermeable canvas, stiffened with a thick rubber coating to stop the absorption of gas. A Soviet design, and totally unsuited to the heat of the desert environment. These suits would also have a thin, intermediate layer of some kind of lead alloy. The idea was to block radiation, although whether it would work or not was moot. Some, although not all, Russian equipment was notoriously shoddy and inadequate. Not that they had any choice. When he was done, Roy handed him the respirator. A Soviet style gas mask, which he was certain would be useless against radiation, although it would hold back the mustard gas. He pulled the hood over his head, dragged on the heavy gloves, and glanced at the other man.

The Arab was slow putting on his suit, and Roy delivered a light punch on the side of the head to remind him of the need to hurry. Finally, they were ready. Talley was already perspiring, and the visor of his respirator had started to steam up. He couldn’t take time to clear it. The Russian tanks had begun a constant barrage of shells, and they were minutes away from annihilation.

He looked at Roy. "Stand back from the door. We're going in. Fasten it when we're inside to stop any chemical leak."

"Okay."

Talley unclipped the door and pushed the Arab inside. The lights had come on automatically, and the chamber was brightly lit. Of similar size to the outer room, all it contained were steel cylinders, about twenty of them. On racking at the side of the room, he saw the boxes with Cyrillic markings. Not boxes, more like small fiberglass suitcases, designed to protect the delicate internals of the missile guidance systems, and to act as a launcher.

"They're the anti-tank missiles, all we have," the other man whined. His voice was muffled by the gas mask, however, not enough to hide the abject terror in his voice.

"Okay, stack them by the door, all of them."

While he worked, Talley inspected the cylinders. The markings were in Arabic, suggesting some local laboratory had made them, but he had little doubt as to the original source of the chemicals. Russia. Supplied to Assad and stolen by ISIS sympathizers. Although even the Russians wouldn’t have been stupid enough to supply nuclear materials to the Mideast, they must have been sourced on the black market, alternatively, supplied by an Islamic nuclear power. Last time he checked, there was a single Islamic nation who had the capacity. Pakistan.

He swiveled around as the Arab spoke from close behind him. "I've put the ten missiles by the door, and I brought a Geiger counter. We can check the levels of radiation when we're outside."

"Okay, let's do it." He hammered on the door. Roy opened up, and he told him to stay back while they brought out the missiles.

Reynolds moved to carry some of the cases up to the walls, but Talley stopped him. "They'll be saturated with radiation and mustard gas. It has to be done in NBC suits, so stay well back."

"You mean you're gonna deploy and fire them in those suits? Shit, you must be cooking inside those things."

"It's only heat. If we take them off, we'll cook with radiation, so I’ll stay with the heat. Stand back, we're going out there. You!" he gestured to the Arab, "Carry two missiles. I'll take two."

"It's too heavy," the ISIS man gasped, "I won't make it up to the walls carrying two."

"Sure. Roy, the moment he drops a case, put a bullet in him."

"With pleasure."

They raced back to the walls, and the situation had become even more desperate. The Russian tank squadron had settled a steady rhythm of fire, and shell after shell smashed into the crumbling walls. Through the sweat and the fog of condensation that obscured his vision, he estimated they had little more than a minute, two at most, before the wall disintegrated. It would leave a section large enough for the enemy to drive straight in. He bounded up the steps, avoiding the scattered chunks of masonry. Guy went to help him, but he waved him away.

“Stay away, stay away! This stuff is red-hot with radiation.”

He unsnapped the first fiberglass case, which also served as the launcher. It was hot and difficult sealed inside the NBC suit, and the constant pounding of the shells on the walls were a distraction he had to ignore. He was almost ready when a massive blast occurred as two enemy shells struck the same piece of the wall at exactly the same moment. A secondary roar signaled the end of a section of wall. They'd blasted a gap almost wide enough for a vehicle to pass, almost, but not quite. He finally got the missile positioned on the strange looking suitcase launcher and looked over the wall. He had to duck down again, as yet more shells smashed into the masonry close to him, and then they shifted their aim to widen the gap they’d made. He took a final look around, checking no one was close enough to suffer burns when the missile motor ignited. The Arab dressed in the NBC suit had already part assembled a second missile, and he nodded approvingly.

“As soon as that one is done, keep putting them together. We’ll need them all to deal with that armor.”

“He looked up, “I will do everything you say, but please, don’t kill me.”

“You get all these missiles assembled, and make sure it’s done properly, and I guarantee you live.”

“Thank you.”

“But if you don’t carry out your side of the bargain, I guarantee you will die.”

The man looked up, and like Talley’s visor, his faceplate was fogged with condensation. He nodded once and continued with his.

Talley peeked out again and this time steeled himself to stay exposed, in spite of the hurricane of bullets and stone chips whistling all around him. It was like being in the middle of a vicious hailstorm, and he could feel small chunks of stone slamming into the NBC suit. The material was so thick and stiff it was almost like wearing body armor, although he reminded himself a stone chip was one thing. A 7.62mm machine gun bullet was something different.