Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (17 page)

"We're trapped inside by strong Hezbollah forces. I need air support, and you have the laser target designators."

"Ja, we can do that."

"We'll feed you the targets from here. You can identify and send the data to the Nimitz over the encrypted satcom, and we’ll coordinate on our local commo."

A pause. "We have the LTDs, but no satcom. The man carrying the equipment was shot to pieces during our attack on the camp."

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

With a huge effort, he controlled his fury.

"Understood. Stand by, Alpha One. We'll see what we can do from here."

But even as he spoke, there was a renewed burst of firing, and every window in the banking hall was blasted in a hail of gunfire from outside.

"I reckon they're preparing for an all out attack," Guy murmured, "So it looks like Plan C didn't come to anything."

"Maybe," he replied absently.

He keyed his mic and spoke to Rovere. The Italian had managed to conceal his small force, and the incoming hostiles had gone straight past them. It meant he had some men out of the direct line of fire, as well as Werner Best's unit, who were still working their way around to the west of Masnaa.

I have to use them in some way, but how?

Even as he thought about it, someone shouted there were more hostiles arriving, and the weight of gunfire smashing around the bank grew even heavier.

He knew it was only a matter of time before they brought up either RPG rockets or the ZSU flak gun. Maybe both. For the first time in his career, he thought about surrender. Not for himself, or his troopers, but for the hostages.

It may just be possible to negotiate their safety. The Islamists were animals; that was true. But even animals can change their minds if there was some advantage for them.

But what do they want? It’s impossible to meet their original demands, but there must be something that’ll satisfy them, enough to spare the hostages. Or are we all doomed to die in this stinking, squalid refugee camp?

Even as he acknowledged that possibility, he felt his anger and rage build. He didn't fear death, not for himself. Nava was dead, there was no doubt about it, and he knew it was likely this would be his last mission, in which case he had little to live for. That wasn't true. He had his kids back in the US who lived with his first wife. They needed him, even if she did put every obstacle in his way to him seeing them.

They’re worth fighting for, worth giving up everything for, even if I’m destined to be an invalid. But if we can't come to an arrangement with Hezbollah, none of it matters. We’ll all be dead before long.

"Boss!"

It was Heinrich Buchmann who'd called to him. "What is it?"

"They want a parley," he shouted, "There's a guy across the square, and he looks as if he could be their leader. You know, the big black turban, brown robe. It usually means the man in charge."

Talley peered through the corner of one of the broken windows. Sure enough, the man stood out in the open, unafraid. A huge, black bushy beard partially concealed his heavy, hooked nose. He held himself erect, and there was a look of absolute power and authority about him. And cruelty.

"Open the doors. I'll see what he wants."

The heavy wooden doors crashed open, and he walked outside into the growing dawn. They faced each other, twenty meters apart.

"You know you're trapped, infidel. I will offer you a chance to surrender. You have sixty seconds to lay down your arms. After that, I have men surrounding the square with RPGs, and we will reduce the building in which you shelter to rubble."

"What about the hostages? They need to get home. I want…"

But the man was already turning away. He stopped a moment and looked back at him.

"Fifty seconds, infidel. If you do not throw down your weapons and come out, you will all suffer the consequences."

Fifty seconds! It's come down to that tiny speck of time. Is there anything I can do inside of a few seconds to turn things around? No. This time, we really are fucked. We can't continue the fight because it’ll result in the deaths of all the hostages.

He went inside and looked for Guy. It was time to pass on the order to surrender.

Something had changed, and he wracked his brains to work it out. The night was almost gone and the dawn’s rays were starting to light up the town, but it wasn't just that. He couldn’t work it out, but Guy got it.

“It’s stopped raining, and the sun will be out in a few minutes. I never did want to die in the dark and wet.”

“Verdamt,” Buchmann exclaimed, “I have no wish to die anywhere, anytime. There must be a way to deal with these Arab scum.”

Like a squadron of fighters from the Nimitz.

“Put the weapons down, men. This is the end.”

Damascus, Syria

She prepared herself for more painful, dark solitude, and attempted to adjust her position to minimize the agony of the ropes biting into her limbs. A few minutes later, she was surprised when someone unlocked the door to the basement. They switched on the overhead light, a single, bare low-wattage bulb. She blinked several times as her eyes adjusted to the glare, and then she focused on two men who'd entered the whitewashed room. They were Arabs, of course. Strangers, both in Westernized clothing, jeans and T-shirts. One of the men opened his mouth in a sneer, revealing the familiar blackened and rotting teeth.

"Welcome to Syria."

Syria! They brought me back to the country I fought so hard to escape. After everything I’ve been through, it was all for nothing. The Syrians will have a single course of action when they discover who I am, death, and a very cruel death, even for a race of people renowned for their excessive cruelty.

She looked away, but the man gripped her hair to turn her face toward him and untied her gag.

"I'm going to release your hands, and I want you to remove all of your clothes. All of them, everything."

She stared at him in horror.

So the rape and torture is about to begin.

She summoned up the last of her strength to resist.

"No! I will not undress. If you want to kill me, go ahead. But I’m not one of your frightened Muslim girls, you filthy piece of Arab shit. Don't think I'll make it easy for you. I’d sooner die first."

The man raised his hand to slap her face, but the other Arab grabbed it to stop him.

"No, Naseem. We have to keep her looks. Otherwise the customer won't be interested."

She understood then. This was part of her journey, her long Odyssey. They would sell her like a piece of cattle, sold to a Saudi Arab. He would keep her fettered in his dungeon and abuse her when it suited him. It meant her stay in Syria would be brief, but the fate that awaited her could be even worse.

She fought and struggled as soon as they released her hands, but the two men were too strong and powerful. Moments later, she was naked. She held her hands in front of her to hide her breasts and genitals, but the man named Naseem forced them away.

"This will only take a few minutes, but if you continue to resist, we have ways to administer torture that will not leave any marks. And you will still do as we say. Keep your hands down if you know what's good for you."

She obeyed, and the other Arab took a mobile phone out of his pocket. He fiddled with the screen for a few moments. Then an LED lit up, and she knew they were making a video of her. She could feel the tears rolling down her face, knowing how powerless and humiliated she was with these men.

The filming lasted five minutes, and then both men looked at the screen as they played the video.

"It's fine. I'll send it on to the Saudi," the man with the phone said, "Get her dressed, and if he wants her, we’ll take her straight to the airport. His plane is on the tarmac right now. It's due to leave in the next couple of hours."

She shook off Naseem when he tried to help her, and put her clothes back on. They left her alone in the locked, dark basement for a short time and then returned. They were both smiling. Anticipating their blood money.

"You're in luck. He's agreed to buy you. You'll be happy to know he's paying a high price. He said you would be the shining star of his collection."

She wanted to vomit, but all she managed was a dry retching, as she hadn't eaten food or drunk any water for so long. She suddenly felt giddy, and she dropped to her knees. One of them looked at her suspiciously.

"Are you ill?"

"I need water," she whispered, "It's been so long since I drank anything. And food, I haven't eaten since I was captured."

"We don't want you passing out, so I'll bring you water. You can eat on the plane. I understand the Saudi has his personal chef to prepare the meals."

He left and came back with a small plastic bottle of water. She drank it greedily, although it was lukewarm and had a metallic taste. But it was liquid, and she felt refreshed. She handed back the empty bottle, and the man tossed it to the floor. He nodded to his companion.

"We must hurry. He won't wait for very long."

They held her arms and bundled her back up the steps, and along a narrow hallway that smelled of damp and mold. At the end, they went through a door, and she was suddenly in blinding sunlight. Their vehicle was parked outside, a dusty Mercedes limousine. The trunk was open, and her terror resurfaced.

"Please, no, don't put me in there. I'll behave."

Both men laughed. One lifted her by the arms, the other by the ankles, and they tossed her into the trunk like a sack of potatoes. The lid slammed shut, and once again she was sealed in the darkness.

This time the journey was short. She estimated it lasted fifteen minutes, and the car stopped. The trunk opened and she looked around her. She was on the edge of a busy airport, which she assumed was Damascus International. A kilometer away, a big Airbus passenger jet was taxiing out to the main runway. But they were in the general aviation area, and standing in front of her was a sleek, gleaming white Gulfstream corporate jet.

She glanced around for an opportunity to escape, but there was no time. Her captors took an arm each and bundled her toward and up the Gulfstream's airstair. She struggled to get away, but their grip was like iron, and when they reached the top, they threw her through the door into the cabin. She fell to the floor, sprawled on all fours, and her only compensation was the soft, thick carpet that cushioned her fall.

"Welcome to Sheikh al Saif's aircraft," a voice said softly. She spoke in English.

Nava looked up. In front of her was a young woman, smartly dressed, in a dark gray flight attendant's uniform. She was slim and attractive, with perfect make up and a small smile that showed gleaming, even white teeth. She wore a cream silk scarf over her head. After everything she'd been through, this girl looked human.

 
Maybe she can help me.
Her hopes soared.

"Those men kidnapped me," she exclaimed, in the faint hope the young woman would be prepared to listen.

Her smile widened. "Kidnapped? I don't think so. I overheard some of the transaction, and it's completely legal. You now belong to Sheikh al Saif, who also happens to be my employer. He is your new master."

"You cannot buy people. Everyone knows slavery is illegal."

"Not in Saudi Arabia."

As she spoke, she was aware of the aircraft door closing behind her, and the noise of the engines starting. She was sealed inside the metal tube with no way of escape.

"You can't buy people," she said again. "It's wrong! Help!"

"Let me help you to a seat," the girl said gently, "I'll get you strapped in for take off. As soon as we're in the air, I'll bring you something to eat. They tell me you haven't eaten for some time. And then you can use the bathroom to clean up. Sheikh al Saif is in his personal quarters at the rear of the aircraft, and I'm sure he will want you to look more presentable when he inspects you for the first time."

The girl was surprisingly strong, and she hoisted Nava to her feet and helped her to a luxurious, leather seat with a table in front of it. Almost as soon as she was strapped in, the engine note changed to a roar, and the Gulfstream raced along the tarmac and lifted into the air. She looked out of the window, watching the ground recede beneath her as the aircraft carried her to her unknown fate, and her new life as a slave.

"I thought you might enjoy a light salad, perhaps with some slices of cold beef."

She looked up at the face of the flight attendant who was standing over her.

"It is delicious, and you must keep up your strength."

She nodded, and a few minutes later the girl brought her a tray carrying a gilt-edged plate, bearing her meal. There was also a small, crystal jug of iced water and something infinitely more useful. Her eyes lit up, a heavy, silver-plated knife and fork glittered on the tray. The knife looked sharp.

Sharp enough. Soon it will all be over.

She thanked her and started to eat. After a few minutes, she glanced around, but no one was paying attention to her, and there was no one nearby. She gripped the knife, rested her forearm on the table, and aimed the blade. She knew from her medical training she would need a vertical cut along her artery. A crosscut, the method employed by most would-be suicides, would be unlikely to result in death. She sliced down with all her strength, and she felt satisfaction in the knowledge it was almost over.

When the blade cuts deep, my life will end, and I’ll cheat these people of their prize
.

The blade was still an inch above her skin, when an iron grip fastened on her wrist and stopped it dead. She looked into the impassive gaze of a man she hadn't seen approach. He was huge, built like a heavyweight wrestler, yet he was obviously capable of moving like a leopard. He stared into her eyes as he deftly took the knife away from her.

"Perhaps it would be best if you ate with your fingers, Arab style."

She didn't reply, and he walked away with the cutlery. Her chance had gone, and she sat for a long time, allowing the tears to wash down her face. She knew now it was truly over, she'd lost her chance, and she would soon enter a half-life of torture and slavery. Until she was no longer any use to them, and they killed her. The flight attendant returned and removed the remains of her meal, which she'd hardly touched. The big man came and fastened her wrists to the seat. Then he sat down in the seat opposite, smiled at her, and turned on the television screen to watch a movie.

She kept her eyes tight shut, but the soundtrack was unusual, and she opened them. To her horror, it was a pornographic movie, but this was no ordinary porn. On the screen a young woman was being tortured, tied to a long table, while a man in a black executioner’s hood pressed lighted cigarettes into her flesh. The sound she heard was the long, low keening of the girl's agony, and opposite her, the big man's face was fixed in an expression of ecstatic enjoyment. She sat back and closed eyes. Now she knew what was in store for her, and her failure to kill herself meant she might have lost the last chance to avoid her fate. She was headed for the very depths of hell.

Abe, where are you? Why didn't you come for me?

* * *

"Echo One, this is Echo Four. Do you read?"

Talley had been reaching down to put his MP7 on the ground when the voice came into his earpiece.

Drew Jackson!

He could hardly believe it. "Loud and clear, Drew. Where are you?"

"I'm outside the building. When the shooting got real bad, I looked around for cover. I ducked into a kind of niche set into the wall, and I must have been hit by a piece of falling masonry. I've only just come to."

"The satcom, Drew. Is it working?"

A pause. "It looks fine."

Talley felt a surge of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, we have a chance.

"Put a call through to Admiral Brooks. Tell him to contact the Nimitz and get a Squadron of F/A-18s into the air. I don't care how he does it. Tell him it's that or the UN Commissioner is as good as dead, along with the rest of us."

"Copy that. I'll call back when I’ve talked to him."

"We're not going anywhere."

The rest of the men were watching him, uncertain what to do.

"Belay that, we're not going to surrender. Secure the doors, and stand by to hold them off until the Navy arrives. Guy, contact Rovere and warn him there's an airstrike coming in. He'll need to get under cover. And make contact with the guys we left outside the camp at the well. Give them the same message."

"The nick of time," he smiled.

"You could say that. Make sure the hostages are safe downstairs. There's going to be fireworks."

"You don't say."

The explosion smashed against the stout wooden doors of the former bank. Habeeb had run out of patience and had ordered a shoulder-launched missile to be fired. But the thick, hardwood doors were strong, and it would take time to break them down. Guy ignored the commotion and stayed calm as he contacted Rovere. Goldstein and Zaki, helped by a couple of troopers, were herding the former hostages down to the vault. Most went willingly, understanding it would be the safest place during the coming action, but Andreas Jensen was not one of the willing. He walked up to Talley, his face set in an angry grimace.

"You're throwing it all away, man. We had a deal with that Arab, a good deal. We could have been out of here."

He turned to him. "Commissioner, you need to get into the vault. With any luck, we'll have an airstrike inbound, and this place is likely to get dangerous."

"But… we had a deal," he repeated.

Talley turned on him, and all the fury of the past days came out; the loss of Nava, whose corpse was almost certainly buried in the rubble of Beirut; the loss of one of his men, a soldier who wouldn't go home. Not even his body for a decent burial. They weren't even out of here yet, and he'd been on enough missions to know they were likely to take heavy casualties fighting their way out. And then there was his career, almost at an end. It certainly would end when they got back, if they got back. And now this bureaucrat thought he could deal with these Islamist animals.