Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (3 page)

Guy turned to
Talley. "They asked me to have a word with you, Boss. Something about some sort of Indian ritual they want us to take part in."

Talley grimaced. He'd seen it before, and it wasn't entirely unexpected tonight. Second Lieutenant Jesse Whitefeather, the tough, inscrutable American Indian recruited from the USMC, and who sniped for the outfit, was enjoying his birthday party. The room stank of weird herbs they had burning in the corners of the room. There was also a definite odor of Mary Jane in the room, but he chose to ignore it. If his men wanted to smoke a little pot to let off steam, they were entitled to do so, as long as the MPs didn't put their heads inside the door.

The ritual wasn't so bad. Whitefeather had a pipe, an Indian thing that he filled with a foul smelling mixture, and they each sampled it as part of the celebration. The full-blooded Apache took it from person to person, smiling as Talley sat down and coughed his lungs out after a particularly deep ingestion of smoke. Then he took it himself, a deep, deep ingestion of the peculiar mixture. The whole room went quiet, as Whitefeather seemed to sink into a trance. For long moments he sat still and silent, his head staring straight ahead. His eyes were wide open, yet seeing nothing; at least, nothing in that room.

Finally, his whole body seemed to slump, as whatever had occurred had come to an end. He closed his eyes momentarily, shook his head to clear it, and then stared straight at Talley. The Commander felt a twinge of unease.

"What is it, Jesse?"

"Someone close to you, on a journey."

He nodded and smiled. "Nava Khalil, yeah, she’s traveling to Israel." He looked at his wristwatch, "She'll be there by now."

"No."

Talley felt a lurch in his guts. "Are you telling me there's a problem? For Christ's sake, Jesse, what is it, an accident?"

To his relief, the Indian replied in the negative. "No, Jesus Christ, nothing like that. It's just that, well, something's wrong. I don't know any more. I'm sorry, Boss. It's probably nothing; just their flight was delayed maybe. Or I've had too much booze tonight. It's time for me to lay off the sauce," he grinned, trying, and failing to lighten the moment.

Talley jumped to his feet. "I'll check with the communication center, see if there's anything on the computers about her flight. I'll be back later."

"Hey, there's no need to..."

But he'd already left the room. He went down three floors to the giant NATO communication center. The supervisor, a Frenchman, was unusually friendly. He invited him in and gave him the use of a terminal. Talley checked out the flight from Damascus to Ben Gurion and found the aircraft was due to land in four hours. This meant it hadn't taken off yet. That was strange. It must have been delayed for a long time, a very long time. But then again, Syria was little different from other Middle Eastern countries. Prone to chaos and confusion whenever a ragged band of Islamists ran around brandishing assault rifles, killing people, and shouting the praises of Allah.

Thank Christ she’s getting out.

There was nothing he could do, not until the aircraft was on the ground in Israel. If he tried chasing the airline right now before the flight had even taken off, they'd think him crazy. He resolved to be patient and wait for the aircraft to land in Israel. He'd call ahead in a few hours and make sure there wasn't a problem. In the meantime, one of his men was enjoying a birthday party, and it’d be bad form not to go back and join in the fun.

* * *

He woke up the next morning in a hotel room and recalled they'd got into a drinking bout. They’d carried him and several others too inebriated to walk to a procession of cabs, which took them their hotels. His awakening was greeted with a loud hammering, as if the hotel was in process of demolition. That was before he understood the noise was coming from inside his brain.

Never again!

His arm, his right arm, was numb. Again. He started to pummel some feeling into it, but it was fully an hour before it started to respond.

Damn, should I have gone back to that medic? But what could he tell me? That I have an incurable disease of the nervous system? No way, I’ll wait it out, at least for now. Maybe it isn't so bad.
Maybe it is.

With a start, he remembered he'd forgotten to check that Nava's flight had landed safely in Israel. He groped for the bedside phone, using his left hand, and put the call through to the El Al agent in Brussels. The breezy reply was reassuring.

"Yes, Sir, the flight landed safely at Ben Gurion, at 2300 hours."

He breathed a sigh of relief.

Thank God.

"Could you tell me if my friend landed okay? Her name is Nava Khalil."

A pause. "Really, Sir, if she was on the aircraft, she'll be fine."

He remembered Jesse Whitefeather's strange premonition. He had to know.

"This is important. Her people were lost in Syria for many years, and they've only just managed to get her out to Israel. It's…"

"Of course, I understand. She is making Aliyah?"

"Yes."

El Al was the national airline of the State of Israel, and no stranger to adversity, especially from a country such as Syria. She would understand.

She came back after a few minutes. "Can you confirm the name?"

He spelt it out for her, and she went away for another couple of minutes. He felt ready to explode with frustration.

Nava, be on that plane.

When she returned, her voice had lost its sparkle. "I'm afraid the aircraft was forced to stop at Beirut for a few hours, due to a mechanical fault. When the flight resumed, she failed to appear. Nava Khalil and another girl, Hannah Bennadi."

"That's impossible. How could they have missed the flight?"

He heard her talking to someone else in the call center.

"It seems these two girls took a cab into Beirut to look around while they were waiting for the flight to resume. They never came back."

"Beirut! What the hell were they doing? It's a war zone."

"It's a lot better than it used to be," she replied, "Much calmer. Although…"

"Go on. You were going to say…"

Her voice was sad and regretful. "I was going to say, we heard there's been fighting in the city during the past forty-eight hours. I'm sure it's nothing to worry about. The girls may have taken shelter from the shelling."

Shelling!

He wanted to get his hands around the throat of whoever had been stupid enough to let two young women wander off into Beirut, into the heart of yet another of their interminable conflicts. Except that it wouldn't do any good. He thanked her and hung up the phone. He immediately dialed NATO Headquarters and spoke to his old boss, Vice Admiral Carl Brooks; the short, black fireplug of a US Naval officer who ran NATFOR.

"Sir, I need to take a few days leave."

He explained the problem, and that he needed to get to Beirut. Fast.

"You can take some leave, Commander, but I need a favor as well, and this kind of ties up with a problem that's just arrived on my desk. A United Nations Commissioner is visiting Lebanon, traveling via Israel, some kind of a fact-finding mission. His office asked NATO to deliver a packet of documents he'll need to brief him about Beirut. It all flared up after he left, and it's vital the information is put into his hands before he gets into serious discussion. His aircraft is currently on the ground at Ben Gurion, so you can fly there first and hand him the documents. This stuff is sensitive, and it must be handed to him personally. We cannot transmit it electronically, for obvious reasons."

He was irritated at first. After all, it sounded like a job for a low ranking messenger, not a unit commander. He said as much to Brooks, but the Admiral explained the packet was ultra-secret. So much so, that if it fell into the wrong hands, it would cause severe embarrassment to a lot of people, both in NATO and the UN. He agreed, and in return Brooks arranged for NATO to handle his journey from Brussels to Israel. Just over two hours later he checked into the airport, doing his best to control his impatience at the interminable delays.

The flight was more than four hours, and part of the journey took them over the Eastern Mediterranean. At one time, he looked down and saw the unmistakable sight of a full Carrier Battle Group. From his briefings, he knew they'd dispatched the USS Nimitz to the Mediterranean to beef up the Sixth Fleet, part of the NATO response to the problems in Syria.

When do these pisspot Islamic countries not have problems?

As they flew past the Nimitz, he felt a stirring of pride. One of the largest warships in the world, the nuclear powered carrier was commissioned in June 1975. The ship was named for World War II Pacific fleet commander Chester W. Nimitz, and weighed over one hundred thousand tons. She had a ship’s complement in excess of three thousand men, and the air wing alone consisted of almost two and a half thousand men.

The statistics were mind-boggling, but it was enough to know she was a superb warship, able to project massive force anywhere in the world. It was immensely satisfying to know his country, America, had built such an awesome vessel. And America was the major part of NATO, the organization that employed him, for now. He pushed his own problems to the back of his mind.

I have to look ahead. There’s something far more serious than illness to take care of. I have to locate Nava and bring her home. No matter what it takes.

He arrived in Ben Gurion just over three hours after take off, having gained an hour because of the time-zone difference. But it was already 1630 hours, and he was conscious of the period that had elapsed since Nava had disappeared. More than twenty-four hours were lost, and with every hour she was missing, it would be more difficult to find her. When he checked the board, there were no flights due out to Beirut until the following morning, but he knew the UN Commissioner was due to depart for Beirut at 2030 hours that evening.

The UN Commissioner was holding court in the VIP lounge. Talley waited by the door until the great man had finished speaking, and then a flunkey allowed him forward. Andreas Jensen was Danish, a tall, slim, smooth diplomat; his suit, like his haircut and his expense account, neat and very pricey. He stared coldly at Talley for a few moments, and then raised an eyebrow. It was the invitation to speak.

"These documents, Sir, I brought them from Brussels to hand to you personally."

Jensen nodded at his aide, who reached out a hand to take the proffered file. Talley held on.

"Sir, my orders are to hand this to you personally."

His expression was even colder, but finally he sighed and held out his hand. "Give it to me."

He passed over the file. As his hand stretched out, his shirt cuff slid back, revealing his wristwatch. A Patek Philippe, solid gold, 24 carat, with tiny inset diamonds in the face.

Naturally.

"Sir, I'd be careful showing that watch around. It would be a prime target for thieves if they caught sight of it."

The Commissioner gave him a stare that dripped with icy contempt. He held it for a couple of seconds and then glanced again at his aide.

"When I need your advice, I will ask you for it." He turned to his aide. "If you would show the Commander out, I believe our business is finished."

Except Talley wasn't finished.

"Sir, I have a favor to ask you. I need to get to Beirut on an urgent matter. I wondered if I could travel with you in your jet."

Every man gaped at him, astonished at the blatant infringement of protocol. The aide dragged him away, murmuring, "You can't make that kind of request to the Commissioner. It would have to go through the proper channels."

Talley glanced up at Jensen, but the man's expression hadn't changed. These people took their exalted rank seriously, but it had been worth a try. He resigned himself to wait until the next day to reach Beirut and start the search. He also made himself a promise.

If Andreas Jensen ever comes to me for help, he'll get nothing. The guy’s a pompous ass.

He drifted back into the main terminal and found a restaurant where he could eat. The food was lackluster and uninspiring, served by an Arab who regarded his uniform with suspicion. Inwardly, Talley smiled. The guy looked like so many other Arabs he'd fought on battlefields across the Islamic world. The difference was that instead of an AK-47, he held a jug of coffee. A lesson his people would do well to learn. You earned a living and provided for your family by working hard, not be killing people.

The food was as grim as he'd expected, like airport meals the world over; some kind of Arab cuisine that tasted like curdled goat piss. He abandoned it after a few mouthfuls and refreshed his coffee. He couldn't stop thinking about Nava, and he went to the airport bookshop to find everything they had about Beirut. It would be a long night in the terminal, and he'd have a chance to catch up on some local knowledge.

He found a bench seat and sat down to read. After a half-hour, he went to the bathroom. As he pushed open the door, he could hear raised voices inside, the harsh cadences of Arabs speaking English, and the smooth, almost accent less tones of Jensen, the UN Commissioner. Something was wrong. He entered the facility unobserved, to weigh up the situation.