Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (11 page)

As he lashed out, blocked, retreated, and charged in again, he had a vision of Persian soldiers, savage in their vast numbers. Battling the tribes who’d dared to halt the ambitions of their savage and bloodthirsty king. They'd taken the Mideast, part of Africa, and turned their attention to Greece, cradle of culture and civilization. It was also the cradle of the Spartans. The Great King, Xerxes I, met the formidable warriors and came up against a foe that even in defeat blocked the expansion of his empire. The Spartans, under King Leonidas, fought against overwhelming numbers as Thermopylae, the gateway to Greece. They lost the battle, but won the war. Their savage professionalism made Xerxes realize he'd taken on an enemy that was vastly superior to his own slave army.

The thought flashed across his mind in the fraction of a second.

Will I
go the way of Leonidas, victorious in death and defeat?

Even as he had that thought, he glanced around and saw Bielski under pressure from two fighters coming at him from both sides. These men had bayonets fitted to the AKs. Sharp edged blades, the preferred torment of the ISIS fighter. Talley snapped off a shot that went wide of the mark, but still drilled into the foot of one of his attackers. The Pole sidestepped the second man and started slugging it out as the man with the injured foot howled in agony on the ground.

They were losing. He cursed the cowardice of the Iraqis, who'd run when they should have fought. They had superior numbers, twice as many men as their attackers. Yet they'd shown the yellow flag and fled for home. The surviving ISIS fighters had closed them in a ring, and he saw Drew stagger as a bullet sliced through his bicep, then flinch as another creased his chin, just below the Gallet half helmet he wore. A knife flashed, and he blocked the strike. He knew they could count the remainder of their lives in seconds.

Fuck those Iraqis. Fuck the CIA's much vaunted 'ruggedized' equipment. And fuck ISIS, for their implacable cruelty!

Bielski lay on the ground, and Drew was kneeling down over the prostrate body of Geena, unable to fight on he was trying to protect her. Virgil had tossed aside the Minimi. Either out of ammo, or it had jammed; it made no difference. He was fighting his own last ditch hand-to-hand tussle with two ISIS fighters. Both were huge, heavily muscled men who looked as if they could rip him apart with their bare hands.

He sized up the four men surrounding him. They were all smiles, all rotting teeth and foul breath, they were that close. He had a stupid thought, the last before he met his death.

Kay will never get the satisfaction of beating me, taking my family and my money. Like Leonidas, in death, I'll achieve victory, a pyrrhic victory, to be sure. One I envisage with no satisfaction.

He glared at his opponents. "Come on, guys, who wants to die first?"

At the same time, he snatched out his combat knife. It was all he had left, that and a few last breaths.

Guy Welland saved them. He came boring in, driving the LSV himself, Buchmann in the passenger seat, blazing away at the enemy flanks. In back, Jean-Paul Casta and Martin Cross were clinging to the framework. The vehicle bucked over the ruts and small rocks that littered the surface of the sands. They braked to a halt, throwing up a curtain of fine sand, and the ISIS fighters turned to face the new threat. It saved his life, and the lives of Bielski, Jackson, and Kane.

The respite gave them a chance to hit back at the hostiles. It was no fight for guns, not inside a swirling melee of men using fists, boots, and their rifles as clubs, as well as knives. Buchmann was the rock that anchored them. He roared defiance; screaming and shouting the same challenges as his Teutonic ancestors had done hundreds of years before.

"Bastards, fucking bastards." Repeatedly, the huge German screamed his challenge, "Kill the fuckers! No prisoners, no prisoners. Don't let them get away!"

"Hit them now," Talley bellowed over the noise, "Before they recover, hit them hard and fast!"

They pushed forward so close they could smell their enemy's breath and almost taste what they'd eaten for breakfast. They were inches away from unkempt beards and yellow-toothed snarls. Close enough for the scarred, pockmarked skin, and blackened teeth to repel him.

Bullets whistled around them, and it was impossible to see who'd fired them. The shooting was indiscriminate. The Islamists were shooting at their own men. He kept his head low as a long volley split the air over his head. Then he slammed into an ISIS fighter who went down, his head blown apart by his own side's bullets. He glanced around for Lieutenant Rovere, who was a hundred meters away, fighting his own battle against another horde of Islamists.

Damn those fucking Iraqis. If they'd stayed, we'd have dealt with the enemy and fought them off. Maybe even taken some prisoners, a valuable intel resource when get back to Sykes.

A man loomed up, and he started to bring down the stock of his M4, but he heard a familiar voice.

"Hold it, Boss, I'm on your side."

He pulled the blow and looked at Guy Welland. He could smell the aroma of fresh blood before it had a chance to soak into the sand. There was also the ammoniac stench from an enemy fighter who'd pissed himself in fear. They were winning. An enemy fighter rushed at Guy. The Brit casually shot him with his loaded P226. Talley clubbed aside another man racing in behind him. Then Guy pointed and shouted, "Heads up, there's more coming in."

He looked in the direction he'd indicated. A short distance away, more men were racing to join the battle. A half dozen fresh men with loaded weapons had come out of nowhere. Once they joined the battle, they'd outnumber them and wipe them out.

He was about to snap an order at Sergeant Welland but paused when they all heard the 'crack' of a grenade launcher. They watched Buchmann's grenade sail over the heads of the struggling men. It was followed a second later by another. The tiny, black steel object landed in the center of the racing Islamists, and their cries of alarm were cut off by the almost simultaneous detonations. The blasts scattered the six men like they were harvest chaff. Five lay dead in crumpled heaps. The sixth man kept going, staggering from the shock of the blast. Guy pointed his pistol, pulled the trigger, and he went down. Only two of their attackers remained on their feet. Both of them started to run, to the west, to carry them into Syria as fast as they could run.

"Rovere needs help," he called to Guy, "There's no time to right the LSV, so run!"

His number two pointed. "Boss, there's no need. They're not on their own. Look! The Iraqis are coming back."

He looked to the east. The Iraqi Special Forces vehicles were charging back. The Humvees were in the lead, and their Iraqi pennants streamed out in the wind. The infantry truck closely followed them, although the slower vehicle was falling further behind. The Islamists pressing onto Rover's beleaguered position saw it, too, and the struggle fell apart in a second. One moment they were fighting, the next they were running. Talley waited for the Iraqis to come up to where he waited. And then...

"What the fuck?"

They drove straight past, spewing up sand as their racing wheels churned up the desert surface. Engines roaring, gas pedals pressed flat to the floor, and Captain Salim's stretched tense face came into view for a fraction of a second as they drove past. He didn't even look at Talley or acknowledge them in any way.

Guy glanced at him. "This doesn’t look right. They're not here to fight. Something spooked them."

Both men looked to the east from where they'd come. A plume of sand hovered in the air, two kilometers away; a plume of sand that was drawing nearer.

"Hostiles, has to be." He looked back at the LSV, "Get it on its wheels now. There could be more trouble coming in than we can handle. Give me a hand, Buchmann. Get over here."

They rushed to take hold of the framework of the buggy, but the big German pre-empted their efforts. With a jerk of his huge muscles, the lightweight vehicle began to rise. He rushed to help, and then Guy, Drew, and Virgil were pushing hard. Slowly, the LSV came upright and bounced down on its springs.

"Drew, the engine, make sure it'll get us out of here."

He'd already raced to raise the hood. "I'm on it."

Talley nodded. "Where are the two men who came to help us, Casta and Cross?" There was a silence, "Guy? Where are they?"

The Brit couldn't meet his eyes. "They didn't make it, Boss. When they came running to help us, two of the camel jockeys were lying in the sand, sniping at us. They got both of them."

"Both? What about their armored vests?"

"Head shots, both of them. Lucky, maybe, or an accurate shot, it's hard to tell. Their bodies are over there, lying in a shallow gully."

"Let's take a look."

Jean-Paul Casta lay a meter away from Martin Cross. Both men had an arm outstretched toward the other. As if by reaching out and touching, they wouldn't die alone. Maybe it was just the way they tumbled to the ground, but he doubted it. He thought about the Palestinian girl they'd both fallen for. She'd learn of the deaths of her admirers soon enough. When she knew who'd caused them, fellow Muslims, it would be a bitter pill to swallow. Would it be enough for her to shake off the cloying chains of Islam? Probably. The Islamic ideal of violent death was sickening, more so when it had claimed the lives of lovers and friends.

He looked at Guy. "Wasn't Martin Cross SAS before he joined NATFOR?"

"He was, same unit as me, A Squadron, 22 SAS. Based in Hereford, we met on occasion. He was a good guy."

Talley offered him a sympathetic glance. "He gave his life to help us, they both did. They don't come better than that. Casta was Ten Air Parachute Commando, France's elite outfit. It was his ambition to join NATFOR, only for it to end like this. To come all this way, and then some stinking rag backshooter kills him."

He sighed as he felt the weight of failure clamp down on his shoulders. "Best get them into the LSV, assuming it starts. We'll take them with us and do everything we can to get them back."

"Sure. Rovere's coming in, I don't know what's happening out there."

They waited as his buggy skidded to a stop and showered them with sand. The Lieutenant leapt out to confront them. "We're in trouble."

Talley indicated the two bodies. "You don't say. How much more trouble can we be in. Our allies have deserted us, and we've lost two good men."

His eyes narrowed. "That we shall die we know. It is but the time and drawing days out, that men stand upon. Who did we lose?"

"Cross and Casta."

"They were the best." Talley went to make a comment, but Rovere cut him off, "There's no time, Commander. Not unless you want to lose your entire unit. DiMosta climbed to the top of a dune and looked at what's behind that plume of sand. Hostiles, ISIS, black outfits, black and white flags, the works."

"From the east? That's the direction of the Iraq border."

"Nevertheless, they're coming."

"Numbers?"

"His best estimate is around fifty. Now we know why the Iraqis turned and ran."

Talley glanced at the plume, which was much nearer. "They may have had the right idea, at that. Guy, get everyone aboard. We're leaving."

"Copy that. Which direction? What do I tell Bielski?"

"Syria."

He grinned. "I was afraid you were gonna say that. Bielski, we're leaving. Point the wheels to the west. We have less than a minute before a horde of savages arrives to kick the shit out of us. Drew, how's the motor?"

At that moment, it burst into life. Jackson drew his head out from under the hood and put a thumb up. "We’re ready to go."

Guy waved an acknowledgement. "Okay, get aboard. Let's move, people."

At that moment, Geena Blake got up from the ground and dusted off her clothes. "Did I hear right? Syria?"

Talley gave her a cold smile. "You did. There's no other way. If we try to head back, they'll be waiting for us. Besides, we have a job to do. Didn't Admiral Brooks tell us to take this Al-Amoh place and hold it for two days?"

She gave a shake of her head, and sand cascaded out of her hair. He forced himself not to laugh, but she caught the movement of his lips and frowned. "Things have changed. We didn't expect to meet ISIS this close to the border."

"Ain't that a fact? I recall saying something like that to Colonel Petersen."

She stared back at him and grinned. "He was wrong."

"They always are, Miss CIA. Thing is, it's guys like us who take the shit that gets kicked in our faces. Write it down and tell them that back at Langley."

"I will."

Bielski stomped his boot down on the gas pedal and drove away hard, away from the scene of carnage where they'd seen more than twenty ISIS die, their blood soaking into the sand. And two of their own. Almost as bad, they'd seen the Iraqis start to run, first one way, and then the other. It didn't look good for the future of Iraq. Although at that moment, it was their future that concerned him most.

He glanced behind to see how close the approaching enemy had come and got his answer right away. Enemy bullets started to kick up sand around them. They were closing fast, and they’d opened fire.

So far, the shooting was wild, spurting up sand that didn't come closer than five meters from the vehicles, but they were gaining. He called the rearmost LSV, "We need covering fire!”

Roy Reynolds was a man who could make a Minimi talk. The language it spoke was death.

“They’re just about in range, Boss, firing now.”

He cut loose with a long burst that he walked into the lead enemy truck. He scored a hit, not on the hostile fighters blazing away with their AKs, churning up the sand all around them like a strong wind at sea, blowing up violent wavelets. Instead, he aimed low, at the front tires.

The driver's side tire ripped into shreds as the machine gun bullets tore into it. The truck swerved to the left, and their momentum began to fall off.

"Fucking A," someone shouted. It sounded like Virgil, "That'll slow the mothers down."

Talley kept watching. The vehicle halted, and the other trucks stopped alongside. Men swarmed out like ants, and as he watched, a half dozen of them dragged a spare wheel ready to fit. A swarm of them gripped the side of the vehicle and heaved. One side of the truck came up in the air, and already a man was unbolting the flat tire.

"It won't stop them for long," he warned, "Bielski, keep the pedal to the metal. We have a long way to go before we make it home."

They caught up with Salim after another five klicks. The Iraqi looked lost, standing on the roof of his Humvee, staring around the dunes and hills with his binoculars. Talley left the buggy and strode across to him.

"Captain, what're you doing?"

He glanced down and snapped, "Looking for a way out of this mess. Did you see those ISIS fighters coming at us from the east?"

"We saw them. We also saw you turn tail and run."

He put down the binoculars. "We were outnumbered. They would have cut us to pieces. We have to find a route back to Sykes."

"There is no route back to Sykes, not unless you detour a hundred klicks across the desert, and you'd need to find a way through the mountains, Captain."

He looked at Geena, and his mouth dropped open in astonishment. For long moments, he seemed lost for words. Then he glared at her. "If I need advice on finding my way around this region, I'll ask a local. A hundred kilometers, pah! We'll slip past ISIS and be home in time for dinner."

"I am a local."

His annoyed expression turned to puzzlement. "A local? You're an American, why do you lie?"

"I was born in Syria, Captain, in Palmyra. My father often brought me to this region. His hobby was collecting potsherds."

"Potsherds?" He looked mystified.

"They're historic fragments of pottery, as well as fragments of stone and glass vessels. He had an enormous collection, dating back to Persian times, very valuable." She held up a hand as he went to interrupt, "The point is, it was critically important to document the location of each of the finds. That's what I did for him as a young girl. I happen to know the area very well, and I can assure you there's no easy route back to Sykes."