Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (7 page)

"The schweinhund looks like an Arab to me," Buchmann muttered.

"Shut it, Heinrich." He went forward to stand in front of the man. His MP7 wasn't aimed at the target's belly, but it wasn't far away. "Abdul Muzaka sounds like an Arab name to me, Mister."

"It is, but it is not my real name. I am Shimon Goldstein. I am an Israeli."

"An Israeli, working here in Beirut?"

He grimaced. "I am Mossad. My government likes to know what these people are saying and thinking. You'd be surprised at the number of plots I hear of inside this place. The combination of football and alcohol are effective at loosening tongues."

"I can imagine."

"You'd better get your people inside. If the militias arrive to check out the gunfire, they will see the bodies and assume it was a firefight between opposing factions. If they see soldiers, they'll call in their fighters, and this place will become as bad as the rest of the city."

"You go first, Goldstein, and keep your hands away from your body. Don't try anything."

 
He turned without a word and walked into the stadium. Talley led Echo Six in, and they found themselves underneath the main seating area in a narrow, enclosed space. Goldstein's footsteps echoed around the concrete structure, and there was a sense of something eerie in the chilly darkness, as if it was haunted. What part of Beirut wasn't haunted, after the killings and the bloodshed? He continued through another door, and they entered the tunnel that led out onto the playing field. He turned to them.

"This is the best place for you to stay through the day. The stadium is closed at present as the team is playing away. You will be safe here."

Talley looked around. His men were already spreading out to check the surrounding area, but the reports all came in clear. Guy detailed men to go to the top of the stadium steps to watch for any sign of the enemy, and the rest of them relaxed. Dawn was just breaking, and they faced a long wait until nightfall when they would go after the hostages, assuming this contact was able to help them with accurate information. Beirut in the midst of yet another civil war was no place to wander around blindly.

"Please, come with me. I will prepare coffee."

The groundsman led Talley through a doorway into a small kitchen. The air was rich and heavy with the smell of freshly brewed coffee.

"I have been here most of the night waiting for you to arrive, so I have drunk enough coffee to slake the thirst of an army. I will make a fresh pot for you and your men."

Talley nodded his thanks, and the man bustled around with a battered and blackened kettle. A short time after, the odor of coffee was even stronger, and Goldstein filled a score of small glasses with the rich, black mixture. Before he could stop him, the man added several spoons of sugar, and he recalled that the locals liked their coffee that way. Black, strong, and sweet. The Mossad man carried the tray out into the tunnel and handed each of the men the syrupy coffee. Then he turned to Talley.

"Now that I have attended to the formalities, tell me what you need to know."

"The name of the group who kidnapped Jensen, that would be a start."

Goldstein nodded. He was a short man, with incredibly broad shoulders, and it was easy to imagine him pushing heavy equipment around the sports stadium to maintain the playing surface. He looked to be in his forties, with tousled, curly black hair and an untidy beard. His skin was pockmarked and swarthy, giving him the appearance of a typical Arab. Or Jew. Both races were of Semitic origin, and it was sometimes impossible to separate their appearance.

"That's an easy one. Hezbollah."

"Where do we find them?"

The Jew chuckled. "You may as well ask where you can find an Arab. They are everywhere."

"Don't they have someplace central, a headquarters?"

"They do. Their office is in Beirut, but if you think they'd hold a United Nations Commissioner there, you'd be very mistaken. The most likely location will be one of the refugee camps scattered around the Lebanon. But which one, I have no idea."

"If we can find where they're holding him, is it likely the other hostages will be in the same place? Or do they separate them?"

The other man's eyes narrowed. He was no fool, and he'd picked up the note of concern in Talley's voice.

"Almost certainly they will be holding them in the same place. You're talking about the Christian children? Or is it someone you know?"

"Both. Help us locate them. We have to get them out.”

"You know they're using them as a human shield, to prevent any rescue attempt? Find the children, and you'll almost certainly find Jensen and the other hostages. But surrounding them with explosives is as effective as putting them in a fortress. " He peered at Talley, staring into his eyes, "There is perhaps one of the hostages who is close to you?"

Is it that obvious? I’m in command of an elite squad of Special Forces operators tasked to bring out a kidnapped UN diplomat. Yet, I'm sorry, but Jensen is not my chief priority. I know it’s unprofessional, but I’m only human.

"Something like that. We need to talk to someone at the Hezbollah Headquarters in the city center. How do we get inside?"

Goldstein chuckled. "In a word, my friend, you don't. The Beirut Central Office of Hezbollah is heavily defended, and the chances of a Westerner gaining access are zero. And even if you did get inside, these people are fanatics. They would sooner die than tell you what you need to know."

Talley gave him a cold smile. "If dying is what they want, we're happy to arrange it. But we're wasting time. How do we get there?"

The other man shook his head. "You'll be committing suicide if you even go near the place. Believe me, what you're proposing is impossible."

"Maybe they haven't told you what we do. It's our job, making the impossible happen. Providing they're still alive."

The one factor no one could change. Death.

Nava, is she still alive? There’ll be a huge number of casualties from the shelling
and machine gun fire. She could be lying in the rubble. Dead.

The Lebanon, outside Beirut

The vehicle slammed into every pothole and rut on the poorly maintained road surface. Sometimes it lurched up over broken masonry, slamming her down hard against the steel sides when the wheels hit the road again. Her hands and legs were numb, the bloodstream obstructed by the tightness of her bonds. Before she lost all feeling, the agony became so extreme she felt she’d be better off dead, except she had too many things to live for. Important things.

Abe Talley, for one. The man she shared a special bond with. He’d be out there somewhere, hunting for her. Then there were the relations waiting for her in Israel, especially her beloved Uncle Mahmoud. But her overriding emotion, the burning need that kept her from total despair, was revenge. The Torah talked of an eye for an eye, but she wanted more, much more. The cruel and filthy defilement of Hannah’s body was so horrific that nothing could punish those men enough. She’d made a solemn vow to see these animals dead. No matter what it cost her, even her life, she would see it through.

It will be worth making any sacrifice to survive long enough to wreak vengeance on my Arab captors. To see their bodies left for the vultures to choke on.

The vehicle jerked to a stop, causing her to slam once more against the steel sides of the truck. Limbs that were numb were squeezed inside the ropes, causing more pain to knife through her body. She heard voices, Arab voices, harsh, hostile, and cruel. She realized they’d halted at a checkpoint. The doors crashed open, sending a shaft of sunlight to brighten her dark prison. She closed her eyes, blinded by the sudden flare of light, and opened them after a few moments. She could see a crowd of unshaven, filthy men leering at her. They were all heavily armed, chattering excitedly amongst themselves, waving their weapons, and shouting abuse. One of the men climbed into the truck, and she stifled a cry as he lifted the hem of her skirt with the barrel of his rifle.

I will not cry out! I will not scream. I won’t give them the satisfaction of knowing my fear.

 
Two more Arabs jumped into the truck, both men leaned down and started to grope her body. She felt one squeeze her breasts, his hands hard and rough, and the other slid his hand under the raised skirts and felt for her genitals. She clamped her mouth rigidly closed, determined not to speak a word of protest. She’d seen animals like these before. They fed on a vulnerable woman’s fear, and she knew any sign of her terror would inflame them more. She lay still, waiting for them to rape her.

“Stop!”

One of the Arabs who’d kidnapped her jumped into the truck and pulled them off her. He shouted at them in fury.

“Do you know how much this woman is worth when we sell her? If you damage her now, we could lose it all. Touch her and you pay us what she is worth. You can buy her. Go ahead; give me the money. Otherwise, leave her alone and find your own whore.”

“We were only having fun,” one of the men grumbled.

“I don’t give a shit. She’s ours, so fuck off out of my truck.”

They glared at each other for long moments, and Nava feared they were about to start shooting. But someone shouted at them from outside, and they climbed out, still grumbling. Her kidnapper remained in the truck, and she could at least feel some relief he’d stopped them raping her, for whatever reason.

Her relief was short lived. The Arab knelt down and put his hand beneath her skirts and felt inside her panties. She could smell him, the stale, unwashed stink of his body, the foul odor of his breath, gasping in deep, aroused pants. She felt him groping her genitals, and his fingers slid inside her vagina, his dirty nails sharp and ragged. She trembled with shock, with pain, and with outrage. But still she kept her mouth firmly shut. No way would she let him think he’d hurt her. The pig’s enjoyment would be massively enhanced if he realized how much agony and suffering he’d caused her.

But when I kill him, he’s just earned a ticket to even more agony, a thousand times more.

She saw the repulsive Arab grinning at her.

“I guess you would be a good fuck, whore. A pity I’m saving you for the Saudi, we could have had some fun. Then again, I guess you could suck me off. That wouldn’t make any difference to the deal. How about it? I’ll loosen your ropes and give you some water as payment. Maybe some food, if you're good."

She didn’t reply.

Who is this Saudi?

She conjured up an image of some fat, bloated Arab, only able to become aroused by inflicting cruelty on defenseless females.

Perhaps I’ll kill him, too.

He glared at her for a few moments, impatient for an answer. When she was still silent, he jumped to his feet, his expression even more hostile.

“Nothing to say, whore? You can stay as you are. Hey, what's that?" He'd caught a glimpse of her gold cross hanging around her neck; "I'll take that as a down payment."

He snatched it greedily from her, breaking the chain. He examined it and nodded contentedly. He sneered. "It'll do for now, but you'll regret not being more friendly. The sun will be up shortly, and this truck will become an oven. Have fun, whore.”

He exited the truck and slammed the door shut. She shouted a silent shout inside her mind, a terrifying, blood-chilling cry that welled up from deep inside her. A shout of terrible pain and rage. A searing scream that pronounced his death sentence, over and over, echoing across the invisible unknown.

* * *

Abruptly, a white-hot pain knifed through him, but it was inside his head, inside his mind, almost like someone had screamed into his ear. He put his hand up to check for a wound, but there was nothing. He knew there’d be nothing, at least on the outside. But deep down, someone had cried out to him, cried out in agony and despair. Not just anyone.

You’re alive! I know you’re hurting, but hang in there. I’m coming.

“You okay, Boss?" Guy looked concerned, "Someone just walk over your grave?”

He shook his head. “I’m fine, just a slight headache. It’s nothing. I'm going into the city to locate one of these Hezbollah guys, someone who can point us toward the hostages.” He held up his hand as Guy began to object, “I’ll take one man with me. Any more would be too obvious. Stay here with the rest of the men. If I need you, I’ll call.”

They argued, but Guy knew he was right. A unit of twenty men moving into the most heavily defended building in Beirut wasn’t an option. It was a job for stealth. In the end, he took Heinrich Buchmann; the big German was almost a one-man fireteam. After a great deal of soul-searching, Goldstein agreed to drive them to the lair of Hezbollah.

 
Talley took a last look around before he left, to make sure his unit was in a good defensive position, but he needn't have worried. Guy had positioned snipers up on the top of the stadium, and Minimi machine guns to cover the approaches. Goldstein had an old vehicle, a Volkswagen minibus, and they piled into it for the short journey into the city.

Dawn was breaking as they drove through the streets, and he noticed increasing numbers of armed men wandering around, guarding against any attack by rival factions. It was difficult to make out who belonged to which group. Hezbollah adherents, of course, sported beards, the so-called beard of the Prophet. In general, the Christians were clean-shaven, although not all, and the Druze fell somewhere in the middle. Then there were other groups with no religious affiliation, just local people trying to maintain some sanity in the midst of the bitter religious infighting.

The VW rattled and bumped over the poorly maintained streets. Goldstein seemed to have an instinct for avoiding the roadblocks, and when Talley asked him about it, he looked amused.

"Living here, it's something you need to learn if you want to survive. Although the main areas are under control of separate, well-defined factions, the battle lines are fluid. You always need to look ahead, and to listen to local gossip. A friendly street one day can be a death trap on the next."

"Have you lived here for long?"

"About ten years. More than enough to know your plan to enter the Hezbollah Headquarters is foolhardy. You're not dealing with amateurs. These people invented terrorism. They know every trick in the book."

"Maybe we can show them some new ones."

Goldstein gave him skeptical glance. "Or maybe they'll kill you."

He was about to reply when the other man pointed ahead. "It's that street over there. After we make the turn, the building is about two hundred meters on the right. I'll drive past, so you can see what you're up against."

He swung the VW bus through the intersection and drove along a street that was even more battle scarred than most others he'd seen on the way into the city. Entire buildings reduced to rubble by shellfire, and storefronts closed and shuttered. Abandoned vehicles, some of them burned out, lined the road, and the only building that appeared intact was their destination.

It was a modest, four-story office block, with the inevitable mosque next door. Outside the main doors, the owners had established a sandbagged machine gun post, and he identified a Russian PK machine gun on a bipod, deployed to cover the street. Two men manned it, a gunner and a loader. There were also two sentries outside the door, armed with AK-47s, and they watched the VW carefully as it drove past.

"If you're hoping to take them unawares, you're mistaken," Goldstein told him, "The people in that building are fanatics, and they take their security very seriously."

"What about the back way?"

"The entire rear of the building has been bricked up. There's no way in."

He drove around the corner so they were out of sight of the sentries, and stopped. Talley turned to Buchmann.

"It looks like we'll go in through the roof. I prefer to do it in after dark, but time is not on our side. Any ideas?"

"They're all flat, these roofs, so we should be able to cross them with ease."

The Jew was shaking his head. "The roof is also guarded. I've seen aerial surveillance photos, and they always have a man up there. He'll probably be stationed next to the elevator shaft, partly in shadow, so be careful. The moment he sees anyone approaching, he'll open fire, and they'll have a score of armed men up there before you get anywhere near."

"In that case, we'll make sure he doesn't see us." He pointed to an archway that led into a courtyard, "We'll go in through there and find a stairway to the roof. It would be useful if you waited for us."

Goldstein sighed. "I will wait here. I can open the hood and pretend I have engine trouble."

"It's appreciated." Talley looked up and down the street, but it was still very early. The street was empty, except for the occasional truck that drove past. They waited until the last vehicle had disappeared out of sight, and then he threw open the door and climbed out. Buchmann followed him across the sidewalk, and they dived into the archway.

They were hidden in the shadows, and he waited and listened for anyone nearby. There was weird Arabic music playing softly some distance away, and a baby was crying. Apart from that, there was nothing. He nodded toward the staircase.

"Let's go, but when we reach the top, take it slow. We need to check the roof out. We're only four buildings away from Hezbollah, and that sentry could spot us."

"Roger that. If we meet someone on the staircase, do I kill them?" Buchmann asked.

He grimaced. The German had proved himself more than useful in countless engagements. He was immensely strong, almost like a light tank fighting on your side. But Heinrich Buchmann was also a throwback to his German ancestors, the Nazi stormtroopers that rampaged through Europe during the Second World War. His capacity for brutality was breathtaking, and Talley had to keep him on a tight rein. More than once, he'd been tempted to dismiss him from the unit. There'd been times when he thought he might need to shoot him, to stop him killing innocent bystanders. So far, it hadn't been necessary, but he constantly had to remind himself to keep a check on the man's savagery.

"Don't kill anyone, Heinrich. If necessary, a gentle tap on the head to knock them out, and I mean gentle."

He heard the trooper grumble an objection, and he ignored it. So far, Buchmann had always obeyed orders, albeit reluctantly at times. When he ceased to obey orders, it may be the time to put a bullet through his head, to prevent him going on an orgy of destruction.

They reached the roof, several times almost slipping on piles of debris and garbage that lay strewn on the steps. The stench was terrible, a mix of rotting food, urine, and feces. When he pushed open the door to the roof, he felt relief at being able to take a breath of fresh air.

How can these people live like this?

They were hidden from the Hezbollah building by brick built ventilator shafts. He signed to Buchmann to hold position while he went forward. The light was still poor, and he couldn't see the sentry until a shadow moved, and he had him. Just as Goldstein said, he was lurking next to the elevator shaft. The distance was two hundred meters from where he crouched, and there was almost no cover on the intervening rooftops.

He called for Buchmann to come up to the roof, and they crouched down together. The German measured distances and angles, and turned to Talley.