Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (26 page)

There was no way they could have persuaded him to defect, not under normal circumstances. Yet every man had a price, and they'd found his. Persuaded him to sell out his allies in return for guarantees about something he held dear. He'd come cheap, the price a simple promise. He looked at Khalil.

“We have them, my friend. They’re leaving the fort, and I know the route they’re taking. If we drive fast, we can be in an ambush position before they reach the border.”

Khalil stared back at him. “You’re sure about this?”

“There is no question.”

He showed his teeth in a fierce scowl. “I will alert the men to start moving. Remember, Jafaar, Talley’s blood is mine.”

“I have already agreed. He is yours.”

"Good. We must hurry to the ambush point; my knife craves to peel the flesh of his body, slice by slice."

* * *

They drove across the darkened surface of the desert. His main concern was the noise of their engines would be a giveaway, although sound did strange things in the desert, more so at night. On balance, he felt they had as good a chance as any of getting away. They'd made seven klicks when all hell broke loose behind them. First to arrive was the noise of powerful diesel engines on the move. He glanced aside at Bielski.

"It sounds like the Russians are on the way back. The question is, will they stand-off and bombard the walls again from a safe distance, or go straight in?"

"They'll slow down and hit the fort with a bombardment from their main guns, is my guess," Bielski replied, "When they think they've blasted us into little pieces, they'll send in the infantry to finish us off."

Talley nodded. "That's the way I’d do it, in which case they won't get caught up in the explosion when Drew's charges detonate. On the other hand, these are Russians. Who's to know what they'll do. They had to know they were hitting a NATO outfit, so whatever happens, it's just too bad."

"It's just a pity those ISIS bastards don't meet up with them inside the walls. That I would like to see."

"It's a thought, but be thankful we're leaving ISIS somewhere over to the east. The last thing they'll suspect is for us to head to the south. With any luck, we'll have a clear run all the way to the border."

"Amen to that," Drew sang out from the back, "Boss, she's not taking well to the journey. The pumping and rolling around is giving her a lot of grief. I'm trying to hold her and absorb some of the shocks, but I don't like the way it's going. What I'm saying is we need to get her out of here as fast as possible. If we do bump into any ISIS, we'll try to go around them."

He leaned over to look closely at the girl. With each jolt of the suspension, she uttered an anguished moan. The shivering had come back with a vengeance, and she gave all the appearance of someone who was in desperate need of an ER room.

"Do your best, Drew. Keep her alive until we cross the border, that's all I ask. She's CIA, so even Peterson can't refuse to send emergency medics once we're back in Iraq. Two hours, that's not much to ask. Whatever you need, do it."

"I hear you. One priority would be an emergency transfusion, but we've no idea of her blood type. Even if I could rig something up to transfuse type O blood, the risk of infection would make it more dangerous than doing nothing. All we can do is get her to a hospital fast."

He transferred his gaze to Bielski. "You hear that?"

"Copy that." The Pole put his foot down harder on the gas pedal, and their speed increased until they were almost flying across the sand. Behind them, the Oshkosh kept pace, although Talley knew they were at the limits of what the laden truck could do. He briefly considered ordering Bielski to go all out, leave the truck behind, and make a fast run for the border. Then he dismissed it. They were inside bandit country, and if they ran into trouble, they'd need to fight their way out. In which case, lacking the main body of his men, their chances of survival would be somewhere between very slim and zero.

He tried to relax. They'd slipped out under cover of darkness and left their enemies behind them, a long way behind them. At that moment, the bellow of a T-80 main gun echoed across the sands. The Russians were back.

* * *

"Fire!" Captain Fuentes roared into the internal microphone. A split-second later, the 125mm smoothbore gun roared as the high explosive shell left the barrel. Two seconds later, another roar announced it had reached the target. He'd switched on his night vision targeting system, and he smiled as the shell scored a direct hit, ripping out huge chunks of masonry.

He'd changed his mind about mounting a direct attack on the fort with Major Rostov. They'd caught his armor unawares before with the Sagger anti-tank missiles. Who knew what other surprises they had waiting. It would be better to let the Russians go in first, and do what infantry did best. Take and hold the ground, after the artillery had churned the defenses into so much rubble and torn flesh.

The main gun crashed out again, and yet another shell smashed into the wall. His other two tanks were firing now, and the noise was deafening. They kept it up for five minutes, each tank firing twenty high explosive shells. Sixty shells exploded against the masonry, and now it was obvious there was nothing more to impede Rostov's Tigers from going in.

"Cease fire!" he bellowed into his microphone. He shifted to the command net. "Major, it's all yours. We'll stand-off here and cover your approach."

"Very well. All vehicles, attack, attack, attack!"

The Cuban Captain watched the Russian Tigers gather speed until they were racing across the sands toward the breach in the wall his guns had created. The BTR-90 followed close behind, although it was beginning to fall back. They were less than one kilometer from the fort when he realized dawn was breaking. He could see without using night vision. He switched it off and popped open the turret hatch. It was good to smell the clean, desert air, to feel the coolness against his skin before the sun rose in the sky and turned the day into yet another burning hell. The hatches on the other T-80s opened, and his junior commanders stuck their heads out and gave him a cheery wave.

They watched the Russian vehicles as they charged nearer and nearer to the fort. Each Tiger had a small pennant fixed to the radio mast, and it was like watching an old-fashioned cavalry charge. Easy to imagine the Lancers mounted on their huge horses, galloping at full speed toward the enemy. Something else occurred to him. An old saying he'd read somewhere, when he was learning English.

'It's magnificent, but it isn't war.'

In that instant he knew something was wrong. He didn't know how he knew, except that every instinct screamed trouble. Since they'd started shooting at the walls, there'd been no return fire. No Sagger missiles launched in an attempt to wipe out his T-80s. It could mean the enemy had left, which would be the sensible move for them to make, except for one big question. What had they left behind? Tactical doctrine would dictate doing everything possible to prevent a vengeful enemy from coming after you when you are making an escape. In practice, that usually meant booby traps, although it could also mean an airstrike or even a pounding from distant artillery.

Yet he knew an airstrike was highly unlikely, the Iraqi coalition was not operating inside Syria. As for artillery, it was non-existent. That left the booby traps. He reached for his microphone, switched back to the command net, and called Rostov.

"Major, it could be a trap. Pull up! Pull up!"

It all happened as if in slow motion. Rostov's lead jeep disappeared through the gap in the wall, and the other vehicles charged in behind him. Only the BTR was out on the sands, doing its best to close the distance. No doubt, the vehicle commander was worried he would lose out in his share of the glory. Possibly even in his share of the loot, should there be any.

Rostov didn't reply. Fuentes could hear the sound of wild shooting, as the Russians sprayed bullets at random. Their idea was to shock and awe any enemy who tried to resist their attack. The first sign of something going wrong was when a cloud of smoke and dust rose over the fort. Less than a second later, an enormous explosion assaulted his ears, and incredibly, he saw a GAZ Tiger fly into the air, and then crash back down inside the fort. The BTR skidded to a stop half a kilometer from the fort, and he heard them call Rostov for orders. There was no reply. There never would be.

He was about to give the command for his tanks to move out and search for survivors. It was obvious they’d mined the fort with a massive quantity of explosives, and they'd driven into the trap. Then the commander of the tank to his left, Sergeant Vives, shouted into the radio net, "Captain, the smoke, it's a strange color. I've never seen anything like that before."

Fuentes focused his binoculars on the dense cloud spreading outward from the fort.

Vives is right. It’s like nothing we’ve encountered before. Perhaps they’d stored some kind of fertilizer inside the fort, but why would they need such a chemical out in the desert?

As he had that thought, a warning bell rang in his head.

Chemical!

He grabbed the microphone. "All crews, button-down for possible chemical warfare attack. I repeat, chemical warfare, get into your NBC suits. We could be facing some kind of toxin or other nerve gas, so make sure your holes are sealed, and pump up the internal pressure to prevent the ingress of any gas. Drivers, we're pulling back two kilometers. Go to full speed."

"But there could be survivors," Vives objected, "We should go in there to help them."

"Are you mad?" he snapped back, "I believe they've exploded some kind of nerve gas inside that fort, so anyone in the vicinity is either dead or as good as dead. Activate protocols for chemical warfare, and I'll contact Damascus and ask them for instructions."

As he struggled into the cumbersome suit, he did his best to contain his terror. Bullets and bombs he’d face down and deal with. Nerve gas was something else. Even with their armor sealed against gas, there was always the possibility of a leak. When he had his respirator into place, he plugged in the radio and called the crew of the BTR.

"This is Captain Fuentes. Have you activated your chemical warfare drills? You should take immediate precautions."

He waited, but there was only silence. He tried twice more, but the steel hull of the distant APC remained motionless on the sand. Then he switched back to the command net.

"This is Fuentes. We are returning to Damascus."

As expected, Vives wasn't happy. "Sir, there could be survivors..."

He choked back the angry retort. The thought was humane, a credit to the man.

"Vives, do you want to see your family again? Or would you prefer to die in a pointless attempt to rescue men who are already dead? Our job is done here. We're going home."

* * *

The first shots rang out, and an RPG whistled a meter above the hood. He had to admire the professionalism, even as he began searching for targets. ISIS had chosen a perfect place and the optimum moment. They'd been driving along a strip of sand less than thirty meters wide with a high dune on either side. As they drove into the tiny valley, he’d said to Bielski what a perfect place it was for an ambush.

The Pole had turned his head and grinned. "I thank our lucky stars we left the enemy a long way back. I guess they're still sitting up on the hillside overlooking the fort."

“Damn right."

Even as he said it, he recalled a word that should sound a warning to any warrior deep inside enemy territory. Hubris. An arrogant, overconfidence, the feeling that you know better, that you are more successful than your opponent. The ancient Greeks regarded hubris as mocking the guards, with the inevitable result the gods would exact revenge and take punishment.

"Drew," he called over his shoulder, "are you locked and loaded?"

A pause. "Always am."

Bielski swerved to avoid the RPG and jinked away from the incoming gunfire.

"What you want me to do, Commander? Do we stop and fight them here, or try and outrun them?"

"Keep driving."

He glanced behind. The truck was still with them, and he felt relief until a moment later, it started to slow and then came to a stop. The Iraqis had started running. Bino led them, and at first Talley thought he was charging the enemy. Then he realized they were running back the way they'd come, and he cursed himself for trusting the Iraqis. He turned to Bielski. "Go back to the truck. Our men are in the cab, and they'll need help."

"Motherfuckers!" The Pole spat out, but he swung the wheel around in a tight turn and headed back to the Oshkosh. The truck was still stationary, and Talley exited the Humvee while it was still rolling. Guy jumped down from the cab of the Oshkosh.

"Bastard Iraqis, they poked a half-dozen rifles through the rear window and forced us to hand over our guns. They've taken off."

"I saw them, like frightened rabbits. Why did I ever trust the bastards? We have to turn around and head back the way we came."

"Not going to happen," Rovere said quietly, "Look behind us. They've blocked the valley."

They'd come out of nowhere, a procession of Toyotas trucks they'd parked bumper-to-bumper to block their escape route.