Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (3 page)

He looked down at Bielski. "I need to join them. There may be other hostiles coming in. Are you okay?"

He bared his teeth. It was hard to tell if it was a smile or a look of pure, savage hate. "I'm good. You give 'em hell, Boss."

"I'll do that."

He raced away, but when he caught up with Buchmann and the rest of his men, it was all over, except for the machine guns. They'd ceased fire, and he swept his eyes over the moonlit area. Nothing. He swung down his NV goggles and switched on. Green light flooded the lenses, and a hundred meters away he saw them. Two Toyota Hilux trucks, each with the distinctive Soviet machine guns mounted on the bed. For some reason they were unmanned, and he jogged toward them. As he drew near, a man stood up on the bed of the nearest Hilux, examining the mechanism. He didn't need to be concerned. The shoulders, as wide as library shelves, were the giveaway. As well as baggy camos and an armored vest that failed to hide his compact, hard-muscled bulk. It had to be his number two.

He got to within a few meters of him. "Did we get all of them?"

Guy waved a hand around the desert floor. Six ISIS fighters lay on the ground, and through the NV lenses, he could see their blood draining into the sand, like dark green slime. "That's all I could find."

"It looks like their ISIS days are over. You know we lost two men tonight. Kirkenboom and Bennett."

Guy grimaced. "Three men, Leitmann, the new man. I saw him take a bullet in the throat as I ran past him. Poor bastard, he was dead before he hit the ground."

Talley reeled with the news.

Twenty percent casualties, on what they assured me was a combination of a training mission and a milk run operation against ISIS. Three men lost, and I came out here with fifteen. A simple operation, they said. Ambush a bunch of ISIS infiltrators. We came close to being wiped out, and all because of the bugbear of all soldiers. Faulty intelligence.

He snapped out of his reverie. There'd be time for that later. Once they were back at base, and they could go over the post-mission briefing, find out what went wrong. Except they knew what had gone wrong, and it was too late for the men they'd lost.

"Get them to load the bodies onto the ISIS trucks. We'll ride them back to base. We may as well make use of them; this particular ISIS group won't need them, not anymore. Dammit, Guy, what the hell is going wrong? How could our people have blundered so much to put us in the center of an ISIS position? Dammit, they nearly got us all killed. How could I have prevented this?"

"You shouldn't blame yourself, Boss. You're tearing yourself apart over someone else's mistake. I can see that."

He stepped close to the Brit. "Who're we fighting here, Guy? Who is on our side, and who is the enemy? Because right now, I don't have the faintest idea who's working hardest to kill us all, ISIS, our own people, the Iraqis, who?"

The reply was a murmur, "They all are, Abe, all of them. It's just some of 'em wear different uniforms."

"Right. At least we got them all this time."

He was wrong.

* * *

Hasan Jafaar, the wiry, ancient looking man whose image formed part of the intel photoset, was watching from behind a dune, little more than two hundred meters away. He had the benefit of advanced technology, a Starlight scope. The faces of the NATO men were as clear as if it had been broad daylight. In particular, he was interested in their leader. The man had reacted like lighting when Jafaar's ISIS fighters attacked. It made him dangerous.

He decided they were NATO Special Forces. He knew their camouflage uniforms were subtly different from those of the Americans. Not that it made any difference on the battlefield. These men were a thorn in the side of ISIS, a huge problem to the success of their cause. The task assigned to him was to remove any obstacles in the way of the Caliphate, the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria. These foreigners were one such obstacle. He passed the scope to the man who lay next to him. Khalil al-Khalil, commander of a successful ISIS warband, and the leader of the men supposed to be guarding him on this trip. Not getting themselves killed.

"Look at that man, Khalil. He's good. Without him, our men would have won that fight."

Khalil grunted as he took the scope. He'd had extensive battle experience and could appreciate the way the Westerners had reacted with skill and professionalism. Even without their leader, they were a huge threat. With him, they were lethal. He focused on the tall, slim, foreigner who carried himself with the easy confidence of an elite soldier.

"Yes, I see him."

"Good. I took a photo, and I'll make sure to pass it on to our men. When we get the chance, we should kill him first."

"A photo?" He stared at the older man in surprise.

"Indeed. Don't you know they issue photos of our senior men to their troops? My intention is to start doing the same thing. When I can put a name to that face, I'll make sure we find him and kill him. It would be good to announce his death at the hands of ISIS in the press."

Khalil laughed softly. "That would send them a message, Hasan. Yes, a name and a photo of the man we've just killed, that would tell them we can target any of them at will."

"Yes. And Khalil."

"Sir?"

"Thank you for leading me to cover. I thought our people would be able to beat them. After all, we have the heavy machine guns, and they should have destroyed them. I was wrong. They were too strong for us. It is essential if we are to be successful in the future to locate and kill their commanders. Without them, they will run like frightened dogs. This man will be the first of many. We will watch for him, and when he appears inside our territory, we will kill him."

"We will turn them into a frightened, leaderless rabble."

"Indeed. Come, we must leave. We have a long journey across the desert. As soon as I return to my base of operations, I will start to make inquiries about this man. Take note, my friend. You have just seen a dead man walking."

The inquiry lasted two weeks and concluded there'd been no intelligence failures. It was 'just one of those things.' Shit happens. The day after they announced the findings, they moved Echo Six across Iraq to the opposite border, close to Syria. Sykes Forward Operating Base, FOB, lay just inside North Western Iraq. The first orders came in the day after they arrived; a routine patrol, kind of a shakedown exercise. Part of Operation Inherent Resolve, the military operation launched in June 2014 and designed to contain and defeat the Islamic State.

"We must show the enemy who is in control of the border badlands, Commander. The border with Syria, that is."

He'd stared back at the senior officer. "Yessir. Right now, who is in control of that region? The last I heard, it wasn't the Iraqis. It was ISIS. I gather the insurgents kicked them out."

Colonel Irwin Petersen scowled. "The Iraqis are up to speed with their security, Commander Talley. All they need from us is the occasional helping hand in matters like equipment, logistics, and most of all..." He'd looked up, his small eyes squinting, "Training. If we don't pass on the benefit of what we know to these people, they'll never be able to handle it for themselves. We'd never get out of here. That's the key to it all, training."

Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley, former United States Navy SEAL, and now in command of a NATO Special Forces unit, Echo Six, didn't like it. Not since he'd brought his men back with three of them dead from the debacle in Eastern Iraq, and no one was prepared to give answers. Answers to why they'd vectored them into a position occupied by a strong force of ISIS, why three good and brave men had died, for nothing.

"Training, Sir? The last training mission they gave us cost the lives of three of my men. With respect, Colonel, NATO is handling all of our training needs. Our boss, Vice Admiral Brooks, can confirm that for you."

Brooks, a former U.S. Naval Officer, commander NATO Special Forces Command, also known as NATFOR. He was the man who'd transferred Talley's unit to Sykes FOB. Talley had yet to find out the real reason, although he was certain when he did, he'd wish he'd never asked. Sykes was in the hot seat, no question. When the wind was favorable, it was close enough to the Syrian border to spit over to the other side.

He glanced up as Petersen continued, "It's nothing special, Commander. This operation is just SOP for the border region. I've spoken to the intel boys, and they came up with a negative assessment of current enemy activity in the region. To be honest, I don't believe we need Special Forces at all, although there are other factors."

"Factors?"

The Sykes base commander, Colonel Petersen, smirked. "Factors, sure, first of all, I concur with intel. There's no sign of an enemy presence, so it should be a walk in the park." He held up a hand, as Talley opened his mouth to speak, "No, I know about that business in the east, but it's not going to happen here. I run a tight ship at Sykes, Mister, and you'd better believe it; my intelligence people work by the book, no screw-ups, no SNAFUs. However, there have been problems, insurgents crossing the border under our radar, so to speak. That's the kind of factor I mean, a few fighters freelancing on a lone mission. It could be you'll have a chance for some action, but it'll be strictly limited. That's the extent of what you'll come across, small stuff."

That was the start of it. "I don't trust intel, Colonel. Not entirely. If we're going into Indian country, I'd like to be sure there's back up in case the intel proves to be faulty. You said it yourself, they're the badlands."

The Colonel belly laughed at Talley. "Back up? Forget it. Like I said, the most you'll meet is the odd insurgent, and you hardly need a squadron of F/A 18s to deal with a camel jockey armed with a rusty AK. I repeat; there's no sign of enemy activity in your patrol area."

"Sir, things can change mighty fast out there. With the reduction in overflights, it's impossible to say how much enemy activity there is on the ground. Things change from day to day."

Petersen used one word to sum up his feelings. "Bullshit. I told you, my people have checked it out and given the region a clean bill of health. Watch my lips, Commander. There is no known ISIS activity in your patrol area."

Talley tried again, although he could see the peppery infantry Colonel was close to boiling over. "Sir, the Iraq Syria border is a known flashpoint. Sending an understrength unit out there with no support is putting men's lives at risk."

The Colonel slammed a fist down on his desk. "Understrength, is that what you said?" His voice had hardened.

"Yessir."

"I thought you Special Forces people were trained to handle anything the enemy threw at you."

"That's correct, Colonel, but we need the tools to do the job. I lost three men last time out after faulty intel led us into a trap. It shouldn't have happened."

Petersen snorted in derision. The Sykes base commander didn't like the NATO Special Forces officer, and he didn't trouble to hide his dislike. He was a rigid career man, a tight-lipped bureaucrat. Fussy and uncertain when faced by the hard-faced men who threatened to tear up his carefully controlled routine and spit it out onto the arid sands. His answer was to fall back on SOP, Standard Operating Procedure. The rulebook.

It didn't help that the Colonel happened to be short and slight, with the beginnings of a slight stoop. Probably the result of too many hours spent behind a desk. He ran a tight ship at Sykes, that's what he told anyone who cared to listen. He'd be damned if this tough-looking NATO jock was going to change things with his cockamamie statements.

Talley was his exact opposite. He had the tough, confident air of a man born to command, tall, long-limbed, with curly, dark brown hair over a smooth face. No stoop, and a face that showed the effects of wind and weather. His NATO pattern camos did little to hide his rugged physique and muscles like whipcord. To the Colonel, he was a dangerous man, a threat to his authority.

Petersen adopted a pugnacious expression. "Mister, do you think you know better than our various intelligence gathering agencies? Despite their massive resources, you think you're superior to them, is that what you're saying? Better than their satellite surveillance, armed drones, communications intercepts, and battalions of analysts." His face lapsed into a sneer, "Maybe you could replace them with a crystal ball, or whatever it is you Special Forces use to predict the future."

He put the accent on 'Special' and 'Forces' to make sure his feelings were clear.

I wonder which outfit has trod on his toes in the past. Navy SEALs, Delta Force, British SAS? It could have been any of them, but Petersen’s not the kind of officer to forget a slight.

He fought down a sharp reply and kept his voice level low. "It's an opinion based on combat experience in the region, Colonel. As I said, things change. We can't know what the enemy is planning tomorrow, or the next day, or the day afterward. Not unless we have someone inside the local ISIS regional command, and I'm not aware we do."

Petersen grimaced. “We do not. However, I won't go over this again. The worst you’ll encounter out there is some rustler stealing his neighbor’s goats. A flag waving exercise, to show the natives we're here, and we mean to stay and look after them.”

It was pointless to argue. “Show the flag, yes, Sir. I get it.”

“Damn right. Keep your weapons on safe, and remember; we’re looking to win hearts and minds here. Not go shooting up everything that moves. Watch my lips. There are no hostiles in your patrol area. None.”

“Copy that, Colonel.”

"Right. One more thing, you know about the ten most wanted photoset that intel supplied?"

"They gave us the mugshots before our last operation."

Just before they gave us a heap of intel that turned out to be a pile of manure.

"You still have them?"

"Yessir."

"Okay, so you know about Hasan Jafaar, and the other guy, Khalil al-Khalil. Right now, they're the most prominent of the ISIS insurgents, so keep it in mind. Show the photos around to anyone you meet. Find out if they've passed through the area during the past few weeks. As for the rest of it, you know the financial constraints we're all working with. The Pentagon has tightened up, as has NATO. There just isn't enough to go around, and if you need support, you can forget it. The area is peaceful, so stay out of trouble.”

"Even so, Colonel, we could hit problems. There're no guarantees out there."

He grimaced. "The cupboard's bare, Commander. If you do hit problems, I may be able to assign a gunship at short notice, but don't count on it. I won’t call on them unless it's a real emergency. They're flying every available minute. The crews are tired, and their maintenance is way behind schedule. Understood? Stay out of trouble."

"Copy that."

Talley had legitimate reasons for his concern, and it wasn't just the intel failures last time out. They were close to the Syrian border, and the region was important to the ISIS insurgents. It was true that lately, the Islamic madmen had been too busy creating mayhem in Syria to renew their cross-border offensive.

All we can hope
is that the situation doesn’t change. As for staying out of trouble, is this stuffed shirt serious? What does he think Special Forces trained for, washing down Humvees when they came in from patrol covered in dirt?

The border badlands were the perfect place for them to hit, if they so wished. ISIS was a terrorist organization. The purpose of terrorism is to terrorize, the words of V. I. Lenin, father of the communist revolution in Russia, master of the business of terrorism on a grand scale. What was the best way to succeed? Hit the enemy where they least expected it. ISIS had demonstrated time and again they were masters of that doctrine.

We’ll have to stay alert during every second of the patrol. The whole thing stinks, and I can almost smell ISIS out there. Waiting for us, like a bloated spider on a vast web.

He put it out of his mind. As he left the Colonel's office, he had a lot of other stuff to think about in his spare moments. It was all bad. Lately, his life had gone down the toilet. Problem number one was alimony. His ex-wife Kay had engaged a new, hotshot lawyer. A man who'd made it his mission to turn Talley upside down, and then shake every last cent out of his almost empty pockets.

Not that he begrudged Kay or the kids the lion’s share of his monthly paycheck. It was just he had to draw the line when they were trying to push him into bankruptcy. The threat was real. If her lawyer got away with his extortionate schemes, he'd be broke. They'd even frozen his bank account and put a lien on his monthly salary, leaving him about enough money for boot polish and basic items of clothing, little more than enough to cover one or two extras.

Problem number two was custody. She'd managed to get her lawyer to persuade the courts to pull his visitation rights. Effectively, she'd kidnapped his kids, blocked his access. To see them he had to go through the courts every time. That took money. The money her lawyer had sequestered.

The third problem was the 'one or two extras' he'd started to indulge in. He was broke, and they'd stolen his family. Outside the unit, he had no friends and no current girlfriend. Neither did he have any way of paying for a social life. He had one special friend. Its name was booze.

None of the men knew, he was certain of it, but he'd started to assuage the long, sleepless nights with frequent sips from a hip flask of Belgian vodka. The habit had even intruded into the daytime. It got bad after he’d lost three of his men on the last operation. The occasional sip was becoming a habit, and that knowledge made him feel guilty. He kept the flat, gunmetal flask tucked inside his shirt. It scorched a hole through his camos, as if the metal container had branded him with the Scarlet Letter B for booze, tattooed on his chest. Or was it A for alcoholic?

I’ll work it out. Somehow. I’m not a real
addict. Not yet.

He tried to put his problems out of his mind and force himself to relax. Petersen may be right. All they’d have to contend with would be the local bad boys, although he had other worries. Bielski had complained long and hard when he saw the vehicles they’d assigned to them to, with some justification. British Land Rovers were tough, go-anywhere four by fours, proven on rough terrain all over the world, in theory. They were also reliable, in theory. Until British engineering came up against the Iraqi aversion to carrying out mechanical maintenance, or any other hard, physical work.

“You’re not serious about us using these things, Boss? They’re worn-out crap. They belong in a breakers yard.”

Tadeus Bielski had joined them from Poland’s elite counter-terrorism unit, GROM. He wasn’t afraid to speak his mind, like most Poles. The vehicles were fitted with V8 engines, so they should have been fast and maneuverable. The truth was they were neither fast nor reliable, not any longer. NATO was currently undergoing budget cuts, and one of those cuts was to make use of Land Rovers handed back to them from the Iraqi Army. For 'handed back' read 'rejected.' They were a sorry bunch of vehicles. Even before they ran the engines, the flaking paint, sagging springs, and dented bodywork was an indicator of their mechanical state.

The Iraqis were delighted to let them have the vehicles after the Pentagon supplied them with newer, bigger and better Humvees. The Land Rover engines misfired, the suspension was almost non-existent, and even the upholstery was torn and in some places missing altogether. There was a rumor doing the rounds that the Iraqis had swapped out the good parts of the engines to fix their personal vehicles. It was impossible to confirm if it was true or just an urban legend, but it sure felt like it was true once you’d driven a few klicks in one of the wrecks.