Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (28 page)

"Wait! Buchmann, you carrying a grenade?"

"Ja, of course. I took a bag of grenades from the Syrians we killed at Salmeh."

"Toss one into the hut."

"Copy that."

He primed a grenade and threw it. They all heard the shrill scream of terror as the metal sphere clattered to the floor inside, and a man, an officer, appeared in the doorway, desperately trying to escape. He was a few seconds too late. The grenade exploded, picked him up from the ground, tossing him down in a broken heap.

"Good throw, Heinrich. I reckon that's it. Buchmann, drag the rest of the bodies around back." He looked around for Jackson. "Drew, that was good work. Give Heinrich a hand."

Rebecca ran toward Julio and began examining him. After a few seconds, she shook her head. The men began clearing away as much evidence of the fight as they could find. No one spoke.

Another man down. Another life. And there’ll be more when we reach Al Jasan, has to be.

Rebecca went to him. "I'm sorry. He's gone. One of the bullets struck him in the head, a direct hit to the brain. He wouldn't have felt a thing. We should bury him here.”

He thought for a few seconds. The rule was to bring fallen comrades home, dead or alive. But for Special Forces, it wasn't always possible. That’s what they signed up for, the chance they may end up buried in an unmarked grave in a foreign field.

"I'll deal with it. Guy, give me a hand."

He crossed to Garcia's body, picked him up, and put him on his shoulder. He was heavy, very heavy, but no way was he going to drag him along the ground like a sack of vegetables. He leaned on Guy, and they reached the rear of the hut where Buchmann and Jackson were tucking the bodies into the base of a clump of reeds at the side of a dried-up stream. Gently, he laid Garcia's body next to the others.

"Drew, I want to give Julio a sendoff. Can you rig something nasty, so whoever finds his body will blow everything to hell? I think he would have liked to know his last act was to kill a few more of the enemy."

Jackson gave him a sad smile. "Yeah, I guess we’d all want that. Heinrich, let me have the bag."

The German handed him the canvas holdall, and Drew took out four of the RGD-5 fragmentation grenades. He expertly rigged the first grenade, so when the body was disturbed, it would immediately arm and explode, with a simultaneous detonation of the other three, enough for Julio to take out a few hostiles. He stood up.

"That's it. I doubt they'll suspect anything. Julio is in Syrian uniform and lying face down, so they won't see anything out of place."

Talley nodded. "Let's get on the road. We can't spend any more time here."

As he walked toward the vehicle, he almost collided with Jesse Whitefeather. The sniper was standing motionless, his head cocked to one side.

"What is it?"

The Indian shook his head. "I'm not sure."

"Do you hear something?"

"I feel something, something out of place. It’s not right."

He waited for a few moments, but there was nothing. He heard Reynolds start the jeep they'd found at the checkpoint. He was waiting for them to climb aboard, and Talley dismissed Whitefeather's concern. The man was phenomenally gifted with eyesight and hearing that were almost superhuman. And something else, something that was hard to explain.

Intuition, perhaps. Hopefully, this time he's wrong.

Brooks appeared from around back of the building. He'd probably been making a final check. Talley went toward him, but to his astonishment, the Admiral tossed aside his weapon and sprinted toward the machine gun emplacement. A figure suddenly appeared amongst the sandbags, frantically working at the breach to charge the gun. The only way he could have hidden was if he’d played possum beneath the bodies of the gunner and the loader. It had worked, and he’d waited to get revenge for his comrades.

Brooks reached the emplacement, and then it happened almost as if in slow motion. The Syrian had the gun ready to fire and began swinging the barrel around to cut Brooks in a storm of heavy machine gun fire. Talley brought up his assault rifle, and the men around him followed suit, but none could get a shot at the Syrian, not without the risk of hitting Brooks. They closed, nearer and nearer, a race between the barrel of the gun and Brooks' legs, pounding like pistons. They saw the Syrian’s mouth open, and his teeth flashed white in a smile. Brooks had lost the race.

Should I fire? I could kill the Admiral, but if I do nothing, he'll die anyway.

The thoughts flashed across his mind in a fraction of a second before he made the only possible decision. He brought up the barrel of his assault rifle to the aim position, took up the first pressure on the trigger, and then stopped. The shot was loud in the frozen moment of the night. A dark patch appeared on the forehead of the Syrian, and he toppled backward, back into the machine gun emplacement. Brooks stopped, frozen like a statue. And then he understood. He went forward and knelt to check the dead man, but Whitefeather had not made a mistake. His aim was pinpoint accurate, and the Syrian was dead before his body fell back into the pit. He looked at Brooks, who’d started to move.

"Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Jesus Christ, that was a close one. My rifle jammed, damned Russian crap." With an effort, he calmed himself and smiled. "I reckon I'm getting too old for this kind of thing."

"Not too old to go for that machine gun, Admiral. If you hadn't seen him and rushed the emplacement, Jesse wouldn't have known he was there. If he'd brought that machine gun into the game, Christ knows what would have happened. That took some guts."

Brooks looked embarrassed. "More like sheer terror. When I saw him readying the gun, I thought we'd be gonners. Damn, that was close,” he said again.

They returned to the vehicles, and the NATFOR boss shrugged off the congratulations of the men. Talley smiled as he thought of the senior officer, an older man, charging the machine gun nest like some kind of Rambo.

"No, Sir, it wasn't 'nothing'. That was really something. There's not a man here who'll forget what you did in a hurry."

Rovere rose to the occasion. "He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a' tiptoe when this day is named."

The Admiral can sure stand tall after that show of bravery. Domenico got it right this time.

But Brooks’ next words sobered them all. "Those soldiers we shot. I went round there to take a look. Some of them were kids, some even younger than Ali."

"Kids?"

Not again.

Talley felt his guts churning at the thought of yet more children pressed into the slaughter, and they'd done the slaughtering.

"I hadn't noticed."

Brooks shook his head. “It’s no one’s fault. It's not obvious until you look closely. The one who tried to use the machine gun, he looks barely sixteen. Jesus, what kind of a war is this? What is wrong with these fucking Syrians?"

Children. This isn't what I signed up for. The last thing I want is to make war on kids, but what do I do when a fourteen-year-old approaches with an assault rifle pointed at my guts? Or a schoolgirl wearing a suicide vest, or a prepubescent kid with a grenade in his hand? We don't have a choice, none of us do. Except for one. One choice we can make, after the event. We can go after the bastards who’re more than happy to put their children into harm's way. To see them slaughtered. Islamists. Obscene cowards, they're not men, they're the scum of the earth, and they deserve to be put under the earth.

The last of the bodies were cleared away and hidden at the back. Talley took a last look around, and at first glance it looked as if the soldiers guarding the checkpoint had taken off for some reason. There was nothing to suggest there'd been a fight. Until somebody looked real hard, then they'd know. He checked his wristwatch. They had barely enough time to make Al Jasan before dawn. If they didn't enter the town in the hours of darkness, they'd be spotted before they even got close.

"Mount up, and split up between the two vehicles. Admiral, ride in the second jeep."

He knew until the old warrior had recovered, his reflexes would be slow, too slow to be riding point.

Brooks nodded, his face still showing his shock at his close brush with death, and swung himself into the passenger seat. Drew Jackson climbed aboard, toting one of the machine guns, and Buchmann joined them. The rest of them rode in the lead jeep, with Vince at the wheel. Rebecca stayed in back, doing her best to keep Ali as comfortable as possible, and conscious. If he weren't able to guide them into the last stage, their task would be that much harder. DiMosta sped away, and the second vehicle followed close behind.

The sky was dark, the road clear, and they were within one hundred kilometers of Al Jasan, about an hour and a half. Before they knew whether they'd be able to finish the operation, or if the Syrian troops ahead of them would prove too much. If that were the case, their lives would end in the harsh landscape of the Golan Heights. More bodies buried in unmarked graves, holes dug in foreign fields.

* * *

"Sir, I've tried twice to contact the checkpoint. There's still no reply."

Hafiz was irritated, why was the man bothering him now? He was far too busy planning the security arrangements for the attack. He thought about his narrow escape from the deadly CX9 that lay over Sheikh Najjar like a death shroud.
 
It had been a close run thing, too close, and he’d hurried to AL Jasan to assume command.

Anywhere, away from that sickening gas. Here, he could look forward to the bombardment, planned to take place in just over twenty-four hours. This time, the Israelis would be taken by surprise. The shells would wipe out their forward positions in the first few salvos. The supposedly invincible Israeli defenses would be reduced to a bunch of dying soldiers, gasping out their last breaths as the Syrian Army rolled over them, at last taking revenge for the insult of the Six Day War.

For a moment, he was lost to his dreams all glory and dare he say it, promotion. He pictured huge swathes of the State of Israel being crushed underfoot by the victorious legions of Syrian troops, and he would be there at the forefront. His name would be remembered as one of the victors of the war to obliterate the Jews. Abruptly, his daydreams ended at the reality of what the radio operator had just told him.

"What! What the hell are you saying, man? When we came through, I ordered those men to hold that position, and to stop any non-military personnel getting past. You know the region is full of rebels and foreign spies. If they manage to reach this place, they could ruin everything. Try them again! And report to me as soon as you've done so."

"Yes, Sir!"

The soldier doubled away, leaving Hafiz sweating with concern over that checkpoint.

Could the rebels have got that far? Surely not, it doesn't seem possible.

They were a disorganized rabble, and their military skills had proved time and time again to be third rate, but there was another possibility. The foreigners, the troops who had so far managed to evade his efforts to capture and kill them. All signs so far suggested there weren't many of them. Exactly how many still wasn't clear. Neither was their nationality.

 
Who sent them? They're obviously highly skilled, and if they get lucky, they could devastate my work here in the Golan Heights. Allah forbid, they could even destroy the CX9 shells. No matter what it
takes, I'll
deploy every man to stop them and kill them.

He looked up as the radio operator returned.

"Nothing, Sir, they still don't reply. Do you want me to try again?"

"No, dammit. Get the officers and NCOs here. I want an immediate briefing. Now, man! Don't just stand there."

Five minutes later, he was addressing his junior commanders.

"There may be a squad of foreign Special Forces, spies, coming here from Aleppo, intent on attacking us." He noticed some of them shift uneasily at the idea of tangling with Special Forces.

Too bad, they'll follow orders and defend this place. Otherwise I'll kill them myself.

"You can relax. They are few, maybe ten men, so we have more than enough troops to stop them getting near here. Because of the importance of this place, we’ll turn one of our artillery pieces around to cover the road from Aleppo. You can load with CX9 shells. I will allocate three for this purpose.

"What about the wind, Major?” a junior lieutenant asked him. “What if it is blowing in the wrong direction? The gas could come back here.”

Hafiz sighed.

Do I have to think of everything myself?

"Test the wind, you fool. You will find it is blowing in the direction of Aleppo. Perfect for a simple fire mission, and a good chance to try out the gas shells. Now move!”

“Should we issue NBC suits to the men, Sir?”

That fucking lieutenant again. I'll have to cut him down to size when this is over.

“There’s no need. The gas is going away from us, not toward us. Think, man. Now get on with it.”

“Yes, Sir.” The man saluted and hurried away, but not before Hafiz had seen the doubt etched on his face.