Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (21 page)

He took a few deep breaths and looked at his wristwatch. The light was starting to fade, and he knew if he continued traveling through the night, something bad was going to happen. He looked for his second-in-command, Junior Lieutenant Romanov. The man was standing a few meters away, chatting to an NCO. He raced over when he saw Rostov’s furious wave.

“I’ve decided we’ll stop here for the night. If we continue to travel with this pack of fools, they’ll run the vehicles off the road, and we'll have to go in on foot. Tell the men to dismount, put out a secure perimeter, and make sure they carry out their maintenance tasks before you dismiss them. Check everything, the oil in the engines, the water, the tires, the ammunition and shells, and tell them to clean the personal weapons.”

“Personal weapons?”

“Of course. Assault rifles, pistols, and if they’re carrying fucking combat knives, they can sharpen the blades as well. See to it, Romanov. Bunch of mental defectives. When they’re done, they can help themselves to rations and bed down for the night. We leave just before first light in the morning.”

The Lieutenant threw up a smart salute and rushed away to obey his orders. Rostov watched the crew of the broken down Tiger struggling to push it off the track. The Corporal saw his gaze and spoke to him, “Sir, it’s very heavy for the four of us to push, and the sand is soft. May we use some of the men to help?”

He glared at him for a few seconds to ensure he got the message. “Not in a million years. You caused the problem with your stupidity, and you’ve held us all up. Do it yourselves, and if you bother me again, I’ll have you washing the sand off the vehicles.”

“But, Sir, we don’t have any water to spare. Not in the open desert.”

“Then you’ll have to piss on them. Now fuck off and leave me alone!”

The man ran off, and the Major watched his men scurrying around to carry out his orders. They knew when to avoid him, and this was one of those times. They were going into battle, and someone would have to lead the advance. He was sorely tempted to make the fools ride all the way on the hull of the BTR. He’d do it, too, just to make an example of them, except he couldn’t afford to lose men. It would look bad on his service record. He took a last glance around, checking that the sentries had been posted and were on alert. Then he climbed into the rear seat of his Tiger, where he stretched out and covered himself with a thin blanket. He didn’t need to issue the order for the private soldier who acted as his servant to bring him fresh coffee in the morning, one hour before they were due to leave. The man knew better.

He closed his eyes and tried to doze off to sleep. In his dreams, he was racing through the rubble of the fort, cutting down the last of the survivors with short bursts from his machine pistol. His footsteps were slowed by the state of the ground, which although it hadn’t rained, was wet, so the sand clung to his boots and made every step hard. When he looked down, it came to him it wasn’t water from the skies which had turned the sand into cloying mud. It was blood, the blood of his victims. He would use as ink to write out his report. The blood that would float his promotion hopes to the very top. He would succeed where Semyonov’s aircraft had merely scratched the defenses. The men in Damascus would think seriously before calling him The Pig again. Even pigs had teeth, and some had tusks, sharp points with which they could wound an opponent.

* * *

She knew she was dying. Her breath came in short pants, and she suspected somewhere further along the qanat the roof had collapsed and made the tunnel impassable. She couldn’t go back. It was impossible. Stones and grit has slashed at her bare flesh, and at first, the agony was intense. After the first hour, the terrible pain began to recede as her mind wandered into a kind of fugue state.

Reality faded, and her whole world was the tiny, dark tube through which she pulled herself along. First, her hand would feel ahead to grip part of the rough side of the qanat, and she’d pull herself a few inches nearer the rocky cairn in the center of the desert. The action of pulling herself along the shaft stretched out her legs, and she moved first one knee, and then pushed with the other. Another push and the next knee progressed a few inches. Her hands reached out, finding something to grip, and she’d made another few inches of progress.

It was a mistake not wearing her clothes. The rough floor and sides of the qanat had flayed the skin from her body. She was bleeding from a hundred tiny cuts. Although it did have one advantage, the blood acted as a kind of lubricant and helped her to slide over the sand and stones. She lost track of time and had no idea of distance. All she knew was she would keep pressing ahead. It was the right thing to do, to try to save those men. At the same time, she didn’t feel she’d pulled her weight during the operation.

She was aware of the sneers from some of the men. The Iraqis, of course, but that was to be expected. They were Muslims, and like most Muslim men, regarded females as beneath contempt. But it wasn’t the Iraqis; it was one of Abe’s men. Guy Welland, the Brit SAS man who looked like he’d been carved from a block of solid granite.

She knew he distrusted her, despised her because of her Syrian origins. She also knew why. She’d overheard Guy talking, and he’d used a few words of Hebrew slang. He was a Jew, and the animosity that existed between Syrians and Jews was no secret, more specifically, ever since the Six Day War in 1966. Those fateful six days when the combined might of five nations, including Syria, attacked Israel in one massive blow. They lost. Even before the first Arab set foot on Israeli soil, the fighter jets of the Israeli Defense Force took off and destroyed the bulk of the Arab aircraft on the ground. The rest was history.

She lost control and heard someone laughing like a maniac. After a few seconds, she realized it was her own voice, and perhaps she had good reason. She was dying down here, short of air, short of courage. She’d thought she could carry it off. She wanted to show Abe and his men, as well as the Iraqi bastards, that a woman was as good if not better than any of them. What was she now, nothing more than a lump of bloody bone and gristle advancing toward her death?

Would they dig out her body, once they knew she was never going to emerge from the qanat? Probably not, it was in enemy territory, so this would be her tomb. She chuckled to herself again, and her throat was so hoarse and dry, blocked with sand and dust, it came out more as a cackle; like a witch, a djinn, a magical demon, breathing fire, and wings behind its back. How wonderful if she could fly out of here, or could conjure up some magical spell that would miraculously bring her to the surface. To breathe the fresh, clean air of the desert, to feel the wind on her body, just once more.

She looked down at her wrist to see if she could see the time, to know the hour of her death, but she'd lost the watch some time ago. She'd no idea of how long she'd been in this place. Hours, days, it could have been weeks. No, not weeks, she'd have died from lack of water. How ironic, to die of thirst in a dark shaft designed to carry water. Cool water, as cool as the air she could feel on her face. It must be her blood that had cooled. No, that was impossible, her skin was dry. She touched her face and looked at the hand. No, it was dry, covered in a dark crust of filth, dust, sand, and blood.

I can see my hand! How can that be?

A few minutes later, she came to the end of the qanat. She pulled herself up through the rocks, forgetting everything, forgetting the homicidal enemy who'd be waiting for her, and the little Beretta still concealed in her bra. She'd lost the Sig Sauer. It must have happened in one of her moments of semi-coma, but she didn't care. They could do what they liked to her. At least she would die in the open, breathing real air. That was what mattered. Even if it prolonged her life for scant minutes until they killed her. She had no illusions. She had minutes left to live. She was dead. Her one hope was that Abe would know she'd succeeded, and that she'd made it through. She put her hand to her breasts to brush away the dust and touched the transmit button.

There’s something I have to remember, what was it? Two clicks if I make it through.

She pressed it twice. It didn't matter now, save for the fact it was her last final triumph, the proof she was a person. Not a woman, not a despised Syrian, but a living, breathing, CIA agent, a female agent. For a few minutes more.

* * *

Abu Abbas had a lot to think about. Khalil was focused on revenge for the execution of his men, and he wouldn't rest until the man Talley was dead. Wouldn't care how many of his own men he sent to their deaths until he'd achieved that end, like he'd already sacrificed Abbas' men during the abortive attack on the enemy. He was beginning to wonder if their operation in Eastern Syria was cursed because of Khalil’s insane determination to throw away the lives of their precious fighters, as if they were worth nothing.

He was on watch, looking toward the distant fort. They’d insisted the weapons stored inside were essential for the success of the ISIS cause. Vital if they were to establish the Caliph, the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria. Yet all he’d seen was a succession of setbacks over the past weeks, setbacks that could be attributable to poor leadership, bad luck, or something else. Something over which none of them had any control.

He was turning his head to scan the desert around them. It was already early dawn, and shadows could play tricks on the eyes.

Was that a movement out on the sands?

Before he took a second look, something else caught his attention. A dark shadow had emerged from the rocks about three meters away from where he stood. He swung around and felt an icy grip on his heart.

It was something from his worst nightmares. The dead had risen, materialized from the depths by some dark magic. The apparition was gruesome, a body covered in blood and wounds, wearing nothing but a few tattered fragments of underwear.

A female djinn, a ghost, an apparition, or a zombie sent from the depths of hell to punish us.

The terrible figure plodded toward him, and he could see its staring eyes boring into him. Dark, flashing eyes, and then it showed its teeth, as if it was about to bite into him.

Without thinking, he gasped, “No! You are dead. You must go back!”

The undead replied in a voice that was a low, hoarse murmur. “Yes, I’m dead. Dead!”

He’d heard enough, and he ran. Ran towards where Khalil was starting to stir, and the men around him were preparing their breakfast. A few were praying, too few. Perhaps if there’d been more, the terrible thing wouldn’t have come for them.

“Djinn! Run away!”

Khalil was the first to recover. “What the fuck are you talking about? Have you been smoking hashish?”

He didn’t stop to reply, but kept running and shouting, “It’s come for us! They’ve summoned a creature from hell!”

He was already a hundred meters away when the terrible creature stumbled toward their camp. Khalil was struck down with terror.

Is it possible?

He didn’t stop to think anymore. He was already racing away, following his men down from the rocks and across the desert floor. Running to the distant hillside two and a half kilometers away where Hassan Jafaar waited with the men.

His mind went blank as he ran, and several times he looked back. The figure was still there in all of its bloody, torn terror, watching him, watching all of them.

Is it about to take wings and follow us, or perhaps scuttle back underground to re-emerge somewhere else, to snatch our souls and take us into the very depths of Satan’s domain?

The captive Iraqis had started to scream, and their physical cries echoed across the sands.

Too bad! If the creature wants to return with the living, to pluck them down to the fiery depths, she can have them.

He heard the double click, and they couldn't wait any longer. Every second would count if they were to save the girl and rescue the Iraqi captives. Dawn had exposed the desert to even a casual gaze, and any chance of concealment had gone. He catapulted to his feet. “Run! Hit them hard before they recover. Kill them first!”

He ran, the loose sand plucking at every step as he forced his tired, aching limbs across the space dividing them from a girl who'd showed them the real meaning of courage. Buchmann overtook him, running like a monster automaton. If he’d suddenly sprouted tracks to cross the desert, Talley wouldn’t have been too surprised.

Yet strangely, no one shot at them. No fighters crowded the rocks, pouring down semiautomatic fire to cut them down before they reached the cairn. No ISIS stood with RPG launchers on the shoulder, to fire rockets into their midst and blow them into bloody ruin. All he could see was a solitary figure standing on the pinnacle and watching their approach.

As they drew closer, he shuddered. Her skin displayed intricate patterns of blood. Dark red streaks that had dried on her body, interlaced with more bleeding as it leaked from her wounds. Where there was no blood, there was dust glued to escape yet more blood. Her underwear was shredded and in tatters, torn in her tortuous journey along the qanat. Her hair was matted and stood up in wild points like some neo-punk style created by a mad hairdresser. Geena didn’t move, just stood, like a statue.

A dead statue, that’s
impossible. She was still standing, yet for how long? No one should endure what she has gone through. Yet she's done it, but where is ISIS?

He reached the base of the rocks, with Buchmann three meters ahead of him. The German raced to the top and swept the girl up in one huge arm. He swung his assault rifle side to side, searching for targets. Talley reached him and gently took possession of the girl.

Her eyes were open. “Abe. I’m sorry, I couldn’t stay alive, but I made it. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

He held her close and used the warmth of his body to comfort her. “You’re alive, Geena. Alive. Where is the enemy? Did you see any when you got here?”

Buchmann answer the question for him by pointing toward the low hills. A group of men was running, a chaotic, panicked run. They didn’t stop until they scrambled up the hill and disappeared into the rocks. “I reckon something frightened them off.”

The explanation came from Captain Salim. He pointed at the girl. "It’s a ghost, a djinn, sent from hell to capture our souls. Kill it! Kill it!”

Guy ran up at that moment and looked from one to the other. “What the fuck’s going on here? Where are they?”

Salim was still pointing and gesticulating at Geena. The Brit looked at her for long moments and grinned.

“It’s Geena Blake. Geena, the CIA Agent, what are you talking about?”

“She’s… She’s…” He faltered, and they could see his mind starting to recover, “I thought…”

Rovere produced a knife and sliced through the bonds that held the captives, and they searched the hidden spaces and crevices for any sign of ISIS. They’d gone. Except for Geena, and she was dying. She’d lost too much blood, and her slight frame was shaking after the incredible journey she’d undertaken to reach this place. He suspected there'd been little air in the qanat. There'd been a combination of blood loss, oxygen depletion, and the massive effort required to drag her failing body along the claustrophobic shaft had been too much.

He barked out an order, “Guy, were going back to the fort. She needs treatment. There’ll be first-aid gear in the vehicles, and if she’s still alive, we’re heading back. Only chance is to get her to a doctor, and fast. Let’s go!”

He took the first step, and to his astonishment, Buchmann scooped the girl out of his arms. He ran ahead across the sand, a huge figure, like a mechanical behemoth, holding the girl as if she was a doll in his arms; almost a rerun of King Kong, carrying the girl across the ruined streets of New York City. Talley caught up with him and ran alongside, but it was hard. Buchmann’s pace was astonishing for such a huge man. He hefted the girl as if her weight was no more than that of a paperback book.

Along the way Talley talked to her, encouraged and cajoled her, anything to keep her mind working, and to keep her alive. It was hard. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, and shallow breaths scraped through her tortured lungs. There had to be dust and sand in her throat, but he’d worry about that later. All he could think of was to get her back to the fort, use their first-aid kits to clean up the worst of her wounds, and drive back across the Iraqi border.

Bino had seen them coming and ordered his men to clear enough of the stone blocks for them to stream inside the fort. Buchmann and the girl were first, followed by Talley, the rest of the NATO men, and then Salim's Iraqis. The German ran straight to the lead Humvee for the first-aid kit. Bino followed them, and Buchmann snarled, “We need medical gear, and fast. Everything you have! Macht Schnell!”

He gently laid her down on the sand, and Talley snatched the small satchel of medical supplies from the Iraqi Lieutenant, ripping out dressings, swabs, and antiseptics. Drew caught up and plunged an antibiotic needle into her arm, and then another into her leg just to be on the safe side. Then they started work. Rovere, ever the attentive Italian, produced a groundsheet, and they moved her onto it. Drew produced scissors and started cutting away the remainder of her underwear. He gave Talley an apologetic look.

“I’m sorry, Boss. It's embarrassing, but…”

“It’s not embarrassing. I just want her to live. Whatever it takes, Drew, she has to live!”

“We’ll do our best.”

He thanked him and he continued to swab away the worst of the blood coating her body. Once they’d cleared the cuts and grazes, they could reapply more antiseptic and try to dress them, but it was going to take a lot of time. Time they didn't have. Time she didn't have.

Guy had led the men away to give them some space. It was the decent thing to do. Two men could work on her at any one time. Besides, they were still soldiers and still deep into enemy territory, holding the fort that the enemy would want back, sooner or later. Probably sooner.

They worked until mid-morning when the sun was high in the sky. When Bino saw her exposed out in the open, he dragged out a canvas tarpaulin. A minute later, he had it rigged on two aluminum antennae poles dug into the ground to make a makeshift awning. From time to time, he glanced at the girl. It wasn’t a lascivious gaze, which Talley would have expected. Muslim men were notorious for their deep fascination with the female figure. This was something else, sympathy and more, admiration for saving his comrades.

They cleaned her up as best they could, and he called Bino to clear the back of the Humvee, ready to transport her. He took down the improvised shelter, but before they could lift her unconscious body inside, Guy waved from up on the wall. The meaning was clear.

I’m needed, more trouble. ISIS may be coming back.

He ran up the stone steps and joined his number two. Guy pointed to the west. He didn't need binoculars. They were less than two klicks out, a convoy of light, jeep-like vehicles led by an APC.

"Russians," Welland growled, “Thank Christ we’re not facing another bunch of hostiles. If they’re in a good mood, they may even lend a hand. I’ll go down and greet them. At least we’re all on the same side.”

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

* * *

Rostov had halted the convoy, and he stopped his jeep alongside the BTR. The Russian clambered onto the hull to give him a good vantage point. He was able to study the distant fort through his binoculars.

“That’s not ISIS. What are they, Americans, NATO? What are they doing here?”

His second-in-command, Captain Leonid Kerensky, climbed up next to him and stared at the distant target. “Those are NATO uniforms, Major. There’s no question. What I don't understand is why would the Russian Air Force bomb NATO troops? What was Semyonov thinking of?”

The answer came to Major Rostov a second later. The man he despised, the flying truck driver, Yuri Semyonov.

The pilot has fucked up!

It was like a gift from the gods. Although Russia and NATO had no agreement inside Syria, there were rules of war which nations were required to obey. One of those was not to drop bombs on troops carrying out the same task as your own country.

“He bombed a friendly power. Semyonov bombed NATO.”

“He must be mad!” Kerensky murmured, “Insane. When they find out about this in Moscow, they’ll strip him of his rank and send him to guard a shithouse in northern Siberia.”

Rostov felt cheered by the prospect, but then another thought came to him. “There’s a much greater problem, Kerensky. When NATO find out we’ve been bombing their troops, what are they going to do?”

The Captain shrugged. “I don’t know. They’ll send a delegation to Moscow to complain, I guess.”

“Or they’ll bomb us. Semyonov just declared war on NATO, and if they find out the truth, the skies above us will echo to the sound of their drones and fighter-bombers.

“If they find out?”

“That’s right. How far back is the Cuban armor?”

“My guess is two hours, Sir.”

“Two hours. Captain, our orders are to take and destroy that fort. If we carry out our orders, and make sure no one escapes alive, there’d be no witnesses to what Semyonov has done.”

Kerensky, for all his eagerness to see action, was aghast. “You’re suggesting we should continue an illegal act of war against a friendly power! Sir! That would be a war crime.”

“No witnesses, Kerensky, who would lay the charge against us? Even if anything did leak out, Semyonov is the man who caused it by bombing a NATO position. Moscow cannot fail to be impressed by our efforts to contain the problem. Pass the word. We’re moving to attack. Radio the Cubans, and tell them to go to full speed. I want them here as fast as possible. We’ll charge the main gate with the armor in the lead, smash our way inside, and gun them all down. There’s no other way, Captain. If we sit on our asses and do nothing, we may as well wait for the F/A 18s to come over and start firing their missiles at us. We won’t just be fighting ISIS. We’ll be fighting NATO. Get them ready. We’re going in.”

* * *

The Iraqis had once again blocked the gateway with the big chunks of stone. Guy climbed nimbly over them and jumped down to the desert floor. He started walking out toward the Russian convoy. At first, it didn’t move. Then he saw the lead APC, a BTR-90 start racing across the sands toward them. The other vehicles, the new GAZ Tigers, formed a line abreast either side of the APC. It was more like a skirmish line than a routine patrol. He started to feel uneasy when the Russians picked up speed, kicking up clouds of dust and sand behind them as they accelerated. Seconds later, they went to full speed, charging straight at him, and the autocannon mounted on the APC opened fire. As the heavy shells smashed into the stone defenses, he threw himself back over the blockade and shinned down inside the fort.

“Attack! We are under attack. Boss, they’re coming in. I don’t know if we can stop them. That APC can chew our defenses into bite-sized chunks.”

Talley was still up on the wall, and he waved an acknowledgement. “Get back up here. The stupid bastards have gone crazy. Drew, fire up the radio and contact Brooks. Tell him everything. We have a situation, and we need support, like yesterday. Captain Salim, get your men up here. We need to stop these Russians. What the hell's got into them?”

No one replied. They were too busy firing long bursts at the incoming vehicles, trying to keep them away from the walls. The GAZ jeeps veered away. They were thin-skinned, and the defenders' fire had already torn holes into their paintwork. Not so the BTR, it rolled right up to the gate, its autocannon still firing, tearing their temporary barricade to little more than a heap of broken stone. They were helpless to stop it, and Talley considered falling back to the shelter of the underground passage.

Then Buchmann pushed him aside as he raced along the wall, clutching the grenade launcher. He stood next to the main gate, took aim, and fired. Once, twice, and then the third missile left the launcher. His hands worked as if in a blur, machine-like, and the weapon sounded as if he'd fired it on semi-auto. The first grenade exploded on the armor and did little more than give the crew inside a headache. The second landed next to the front wheels, but the tires were run-flats. Slivers of hot steel ripped out chunks of rubber, but did little apparent damage. The third grenade was a different story.

The gunner had switched aim, seeing the new threat. A hail of heavy cannon shells crept toward Buchmann, who was busy loading a fourth grenade, the fifth ready in his huge paw. He ceased fire when the third explosion rocked the APC. The Shipunov autocannon stopped firing, and for several seconds, silence returned to the isolated desert outpost. Then the secondary armament, a PKM light machine gun, began spitting out bullets. These were the lighter, more conventional 7.62mm shell. Not enough to tear great chunks of masonry from the defenses, but to demolish them piece by broken piece.

The APC was on the run. A second later, the vehicle commander popped smoke from the dispensers mounted on the hull, and the driver went into reverse. They backed away several hundred meters, then the ungainly vehicle U-turned on the sand and raced a half kilometer, where the GAZ Tigers had laagered in a rough circle. Talley ran to the big German and slammed a hand on his back. "Heinrich, you did it. Damn, that was something. You took on an armored car with a grenade launcher. We owe you, all of us."