Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (4 page)

He was in the lead Rover, staring ahead through his binoculars and about to point out where the track veered to the northwest up ahead. Before he could open his mouth, the Pole had to fight the steering as the front wheels bounced into a deep rut, almost causing them to overturn.

He glanced in the mirror, but the two vehicles following had seen them swerve and steered away. He brought his gaze back to the driver, and then focused his eyes on a movement he’d seen in the distance. Smoke. No, it was sand. A vehicle, or multiple vehicles, was moving somewhere out there. In this place, it could mean trouble. Trouble called ISIS. He turned to his number two, Sergeant Guy Welland. Guy was a veteran of the British SAS, the Special Air Service. He had the best tactical brain of any soldier he’d ever known.

“Over there, you see it?”

Welland had seen the direction of his gaze and had his binoculars to his eyes, staring into the distance. “It looks like a small truck, could be a technical.
”

Technical was the name given to the small, domestic trucks used by insurgents to mount heavy machine guns and even small missile systems.

He didn’t bother using his own glasses. Guy Welland had better eyesight than most birds of prey. If he’d called it as a small truck, that’s what it was.

“We need to check it out. Could be smugglers, maybe, or even a local warband out to cause trouble by robbing the locals.”

I just hope to Christ it’s not ISIS. I was beginning to enjoy a peaceful life at Sykes. The last thing we need is ISIS starting a new campaign.

He shouted at the driver, “Bielski, get after them.”

The Pole muttered something inaudible over the roar of the misfiring engine and adjusted the steering to put them on an intercept course. Talley pressed the talk switch on his headset.

“Rovere, we’ve sighted possible bandits. We’re going after them.”

The Italian didn’t sound too troubled. “As long as it doesn’t make us late getting back. You know I have a dinner date.”

“Lieutenant, you’ve about gone through every available female back at Sykes. Is this the last one?”

Rovere’s reply was immediate, “Love is like a child, that longs for everything it can come by.”

He sighed. Domenico Rovere had a reputation as a ladies’ man, as well as a devoted slave to every word written by William Shakespeare. He never let an opportunity pass to reinforce that reputation. There were maybe three or four eligible young women at Sykes, and they all knew he’d made it a priority to sample the delights of each one. Although where he anticipated finding a restaurant in the middle of the Iraqi desert was a mystery. Maybe he’d woo them to bed with a Shakespearean sonnet.

Maybe not!

“Put it out of your mind, Rovere. Tell Roy to follow us, and make sure your men are ready. It could be nothing, just smugglers, even a local Mohammed moving house. On the other hand, it could be…”

“ISIS.” The voice that came over the radio belonged to the man in command of the third vehicle. Roy Reynolds, the black former Delta Force Sergeant, and built like a house. Talley had split the 'hard men' between the three vehicles. Guy was with him, Buchmann, the giant German rode with Rovere, and in command of the third Rover was Reynolds.

“ISIS hasn't been around much lately, not in this patch of desert. They say it’s just routine, but who knows?”

Guy tapped him on the arm. “Boss, they’re back.” He was still staring through binoculars.

“They?”

“The Islamic State. I can see the flag. They’re flying the black ISIS flag, and the truck has the usual complement of men in black pajamas riding in back.”

“Shit. What about heavy weapons?”

“That’s a negative, far as I can see.”

“Roger that. Bielski, put the pedal to the metal. Catch up with that truck and go past him. We’ll sandwich them between us and force them to stop.”

The driver muttered something in Polish, and Talley didn’t ask for a translation. Their speed had increased, although by a mere fraction.

“Bielski, move it. It’ll take us until nightfall to catch them at this rate.”

“My foot is down,” he snapped in his mangled Polish English accent, “I keep telling you, this vehicle is crap.”

From the back, Welland growled, “There’s nothing wrong with Land Rovers. Good vehicles, they’ll take you anywhere.”

“If you have all day,” Bielski muttered a reply.

Talley sighed. Budget cuts were the bane of everyone’s life in the modern military. It was no different in Iraq, where the politicians considered the war long past its sell-by date. There wasn’t any more money. They’d already moved on to new and different wars. Iraq would have to take care of itself.

He tried to smooth it over. “Just do what you can.”

“I already am.”

They were gaining ground, and at current speeds, he estimated they’d get close to the hostiles in about ten minutes. Whether they’d be able to overtake depended on what they were driving. He hoped it was something crappy, like the Indian or Russian imports that came into the country. As they drew nearer, he was able to make out the black clad fighters in the bed of the vehicle. They were staring back at their pursuers and making no effort to engage.

At first, he wondered why, and then he recognized their brand and model of SUV. A Toyota Land Cruiser, it was modern, and he knew they were in for a race. The Toyotas were good for speeds of around one hundred miles an hour on a smooth road. The misfiring heap of junk they were riding in would struggle to hit seventy.

He murmured a silent curse, checked his rifle, a Heckler and Koch HK 416 5.56 mm, and waited. Behind him, their demolition specialist, Drew Jackson, had poked the Minimi out the window and was looking for a shot, a chance to stop the insurgents. They came within six hundred meters of the racing Land Cruiser, and he worked out the angles. There was a small chance of giving him a shot. There was no other way.

“Bielski, vector left, give Drew a clear field of fire.”

“Copy that.” He swung the wheel hard over, and they raced over the sands, putting the enemy vehicle into the sights of Jackson’s machine gun.

“Hit them.”

Drew squeezed the trigger, but the driver of the enemy vehicle had already anticipated him and accelerated away. The burst went wide, and then the hostiles in the back of the fleeing vehicle opened up on them. Bullets whined around them, and Talley again cursed the second rate patrol vehicles that put them at such a disadvantage. The Pole was doing his best, but already the Toyota was drawing ahead. He looked aside in astonishment as Roy’s SUV began to overtake them. By some miracle, they hadn't neglected it as much as the other two, and they took off in hot pursuit.

The enemy saw the danger and started shooting short, controlled bursts at the NATO SUV, and a second later, the windshield starred as a number of bullets found their target. He pressed the talk button.

“Is anyone hurt, Roy?”

“Negative, Boss. I'll do what I can, but the engine’s starting to overheat. We can’t keep this up for much longer.”

“Copy that, do your best.”

He looked back at Jackson, who was trying to line up a shot with the Minimi. “Any chance you can slow them down?”

“Look at them go, Boss. Tell me what you think.”

Talley glanced out at the Toyota. It was pitching and rolling as it tore across the desert sands, an almost impossible shot. Even worse, the driver had pushed it even harder, and it was drawing further away with every passing second.

“Roy, you’re all we have. Stay with him. We’ll catch up.”

“Stay with him? We can’t even keep the engine running. We need…shit!”

As he swore, the Rover’s speed bled away, and he started to fall back.

“What’s up, Roy?”

“Overheating, we have to stop.”

“Roger that. We’ll stay after them. Try and get it running again and come after us. We’ll…”

He grunted as Bielski hit another deep rut. This time, he couldn’t swerve away, and the Rover went up, up, up, on two wheels. For long seconds it teetered on two wheels as it bumped along the uneven desert. He almost managed to bring it back, but a stray boulder less than a foot high lay unseen in the path of his front wheel. Another bump, a hard lurch, and they went over onto their side. The aluminum panels scraped along the sand for almost fifty meters while the men inside held on grimly, waiting for it to stop. Finally, it came to rest, and the engine cut out.

He felt his limbs to make sure nothing was broken. “Is anyone hurt?”

Three voices came back as one. “Negative.”

“Good. Get out of here. Let’s see if we can put this thing back the right way up.”

The door had jammed, but he squeezed through the open window and climbed to his feet. Rovere’s vehicle had halted close by, and Roy caught up, with steam pouring from the hood. The big, black Sergeant leapt out. “You need any help, Boss?”

He brushed the worst of the dust from his helmet and face. “We’re going to upright her, as soon as we’re sure she’s not about to catch fire. What about the Toyota?”

Welland was staring into the distance. “There. I reckon we just lost the race.”

He looked ahead at the Toyota. They’d halted and were staring back at them, waving their black flag. Faintly, across the distance that separated them, he made out the shouting and the jeers.

“Sonofabitch, they’re laughing at us.”

Bielski came up to him and looked at the distant hostiles. “They’re not laughing at us. They’re laughing at these crap vehicles. I don’t blame them.”

Guy Welland and Drew Jackson had opened the hood to check out the engine. The SAS man put a hand on the Pole’s shoulder. “One more insult to British engineering, my friend, and you’re on my shitlist. You can take over as Lieutenant Rovere’s driver and put up with his endless boasting about women and his Shakespearean drivel. Get moving and round up the others. We need all of us to push her back over.”

“You won’t put me with Rovere?”

“Just get on with it.” The trooper left him, and Welland looked at Talley. “I don’t like it when those ragheads laugh at us, Boss. I don’t like it at all.”

He grimaced. “Me neither.” He glanced back at the distant Land Cruiser, and all he saw was the cloud of sand as they drove away and disappeared behind a low range of dunes. Inside, he felt a surge of resentment at the camel jockeys who’d allowed the Rovers to fall into such a poor state. Nevertheless, he pushed it aside and concentrated on putting his shoulder against the upturned vehicle to right it back onto four wheels.

Welland and Bielski snatched open the hood to check for fuel leaks. Drew Jackson, who was more than just a demolitions and communications specialist, had his head inside the engine of the third Land Rover. Talley doubted he’d be able to make repairs, and they’d have no choice but to give up the chase and tow the crippled vehicle back to Sykes.

His number two brought his head out from under the hood. “We’re good, no gas leaks. We can go anytime we want. I guess there’s not much we can do about Reynolds’ vehicle. I hate giving up on those bastards. You know what it means. We'll have to do it all again. Sooner or later, they’ll come around shooting up the locals. When that happens, we need something fast to go after them.”

Talley knew he was right. Without adequate vehicles, ISIS would run rings around them. “Let’s see how Jackson did. He’s worked miracles in the past.”

The Brit was grim-faced. “Not this time. Did you see the cloud of steam that came from the hood? It's the radiator. It’s fucked. We'll need a workshop to fix it.”

They started walking toward the broken down SUV and made it halfway when Drew put up his head, covered in grease, and shouted to Reynolds who was sitting in the driver’s seat. He pressed the start button, and several seconds later, the engine burst into life. Drew grinned in relief.

“Nothing to it. Someone had repaired a cooling hose with a lump of ordinary sticking plaster. The kind of thing you put on a small cut. I had some self-sealing tape, and I’ve done a repair on it that should be stronger than the original.”

Talley fixed him with a stare. “Are you telling me we’re good to go?”

He shrugged. “I wouldn’t go that far. It's good for maybe a few hundred klicks. After that… who knows?”

“A few hundred klicks is good enough to me.” Talley grinned, “Bastards, we’re gonna wipe the smiles off their faces. Mount up. We’re going after them.”

The men gave off a ragged cheer and rushed to their vehicles. Thirty seconds later, they were driving across the desert, with a careful eye fixed on the vehicle tracks ahead of them. They made another fifteen klicks, and then he saw a narrow valley, a dried up watercourse, where the tracks disappeared. He signaled to Bielski to follow.

The vehicle dropped into the riverbed and bumped along the stony bottom. Talley had a prickly feeling along his spine. If he were setting up an ambush for the enemy, he’d choose this kind of a place. At that exact moment, a line of machine gun bullets tracked across the ground a few meters ahead of their wheels. He flicked the transmit button.

“Ambush! Get out and find some cover. Watch out for incoming RPGs. The bastards have got us cold. Vince, find a good position and start shooting. Roy, I want the Minimi shooting inside the next five seconds, Drew, you to the left of our position and Reynolds on the right. Heinrich, are you carrying that grenade launcher?”