SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops IV (24 page)

“Lt, you heard? We have a guy with an RPG on the loose.”

“Copy that. Can you deal with him? A short-range hit from one of those babies would hurt us bad.”

 
“We’ll do what we can, but it depends on him showing himself again. It would be best to go out and take him, man to man.”

“Your call, Chief. Keep me posted.”

“Copy that.”

He turned to Whitman. “Jack, there’s a chance we can scare him out of that alleyway. I want you to empty a belt into the entrance, and see if the ricochets buzzing around can scare him into running. Vince, you need to be ready if he shows.”

“I’m on it, Chief.”

Whitman nodded and swiveled the barrel of the M249 around to face the alleyway. He nodded at Nolan.

“Set.”

“Fire!”

The M27 link belt used by the Minimi carried two hundred 5.56mm rounds. Whitman fired in long, stuttering bursts, emptying the belt in less than two minutes. Nolan and Merano looked on, shocked. The gunfire had gone high. Instead of sending a raking hail of ricocheting bullets to gouge out the unseen part of the alleyway, his burst had only destroyed roofing tiles for several hundred meters around. Yet as far as they could see, he’d missed the target altogether.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Nolan shouted angrily. “What the hell made you shoot so high?”

Whitman shook his head. “I’m real sorry. A shower of grit flew into my eyes just as I pulled the trigger. I thought I was on target, but…”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Reload, and make sure you rake that alleyway good this time.”

Nolan cursed. They’d just handed the missile shooter a free ticket to get out unscathed. Except that the guy may not be angling to get out. He wanted to get a shot at the hated American Humvees from behind. And when the Stryker appeared, it would be like a gift from the gods. Yes, he’d still be there. Jack snapped in a new box mag and took aim. They waited, nothing.

“What is it now?”

“I’m real sorry, Chief. She’s jammed. It must have been a bad belt. It’ll take me a half-hour to clear it.”

“Fuck that. I’ll call it in to Boswell.”

The Lieutenant listened to what had gone wrong. Boswell was learning fast. It was a time for solutions, not recriminations. Nolan noted his voice was still confident. He was acquiring the skills needed to lead a Navy Seal unit in the field, and get them back home again.

“Can you take him, Chief?”

“Sure, I’ll go out there and locate him. Vince is still up here. He’ll keep me covered. It’s the best place for him. I’m sending Whitman down to get ready to leave. I’ll make my away across the roofs to try and come in behind him, so I’ll keep you up to date.

“Copy that. Good luck.”

Nolan coughed as a wind came up and gusted over the rooftop, swirling dust and sand into his throat. He shrugged and turned to Vince.
 

“You heard Boswell?”

“Sure. Whitman, get downstairs to the Stryker, and take that useless piece of shit gun with you.” He turned back to Nolan. “I’ll stay here, Chief, and if that bastard shows his ass, I’ll blast it.”

“Yeah.”

Nolan loped off, running crouched down toward the back of the rooftop, and when he was out of sight of the street, he moved to the edge and stepped across the small gap onto the next roof. It was the mosque, and he could hear raised voices coming from inside.

I’d dearly like to know what they're up to. A Mosque in a Taliban controlled area sure won’t be offering me a cold beer
.

He weaved his way around roofing vents and curved minarets that had been added to the original building to make it look like an Islamic place of worship. There was a public address system fastened to the edge, overlooking the street. Four battered tin loudspeakers, which would convey the voice of the Muezzin to call the faithful to prayer.

And maybe a few of the unfaithful,
he mused to himself.
These guys seem
to make up their own rules about their beliefs. I can’t believe the Prophet envisaged some of the outrages that have been perpetrated in his name.

He hid behind the largest of the minarets, and the angle was enough for him to look down the alleyway. He cursed. The shooter was there about ten meters back from the street, but this guy was a careful one. He was hidden inside the low-walled front yard of a stone house; thick walls with ornamental gaps in the stonework, angled so that he couldn’t guarantee a hit, not with a carbine length weapon like the MP7.

Shall I try to clip the gomer through one of the gaps? But if I miss, he’ll take off like a frightened rabbit. No, I’ll have to do this the hard way. Mano a mano.

He crossed to the next rooftop, a small apartment block, and let himself into the stairwell through the roof access door. He was almost down to the first floor when a woman in a blue burqa came into view. She flinched, startled as he passed her, and he grinned to calm her fears. The sight of an armored, camouflaged trooper carrying a submachine gun was not what she’d expect to see outside her front door. Not every day, anyway. He put his finger to his lips. She nodded and stared at him through the mesh of her garment.

“You are American?”

She spoke English, which was unexpected.

“Yes, Ma’am. Go inside and keep your head down.”

She stared at him through the mesh. “There is a man with a rocket waiting in the alleyway across the street.”

“I know there is. Go inside your home, Ma’am.”

“I can show you a way to get behind him, if you wish.”

Nolan could hardly believe his ears. “You what? Why would you do that?”

“I was a schoolteacher once, before the Taliban bombed my school. If I try to teach the girl children, they will kill me. If I do not wear this burqa, they will kill me. I hate them. I want to see them all dead, and this land rid of their evil kind.”

He heard Boswell in his earpiece.

“Chief.”

“Go ahead, Lt.”

“We need to hurry it up. Danial doesn’t look too good. It seems they hurt him bad, kicked him in the stomach, and maybe broke something. He needs treatment, and fast. Right now he’s bleeding from the mouth.”

“Copy that. I’m moving as quick as I can.”

He looked at the woman. It could be a trap, but he had no time to waste. “Show me the way, Ma’am.”

She led the way down the stairs and out the back door of the apartment block. Nolan had taken his pistol from the holster and was carrying it in his hand. The MP7 might be awkward for fighting inside the confined spaces. In addition, the Sig had a suppressor fitted that would give little away to the enemy. As they walked out the back door, a man walked in, and they almost ran into each other. He wore a black turban and carried an AK. Taliban for sure, the ID was near enough. Nolan raised his pistol. It coughed twice, and the guy was thrown back into the dirt. The woman turned briefly and looked down at him, and then she continued on. They walked along a narrow lane, so tight Nolan could feel his shoulders touching the walls either side. It was clogged with rubbish and debris, and stank to high heaven, but soon they came out on the main street, and the stench eased. In front of him was the alleyway he needed, around a slight bend that would shield him, so he could cross unseen.

“I’ll take it from here, Ma’am. Thanks.”

She shook her head. “I will show you the rest of the way. It is not so easy.”

She ran lightly across the street and into the front door of another crumbling apartment block. He followed through the hallway and out another back door. They circled around and she stopped him.

“The man you seek is around the next corner. He is sheltering behind a low stonewall. If you are careful, he will not see you approach, and you will be able to kill him.”

He nodded. “Ma’am, you have my sincere thanks. Anything I can do for you…”

“You already have, Mister American. That man you shot.”

“Yeah, what about him?”

“He was my husband. He has been beating and abusing me badly ever since I was forced to marry him. He was a cruel, heartless bastard, and now he is dead, I can try to escape from this place.”

“Well, yeah, right, anytime.”

Her husband! Christ, these people!

He watched her walk back the way they’d come, still shaking his head in disbelief. He carried on working his way toward the shooter, holding his MP7 in the crook of his left hand and the Sig in the right. He’d only moved another ten meters when he ducked behind the cover of a stone pillar. He’d seen another insurgent clutching his AK-47 race across the alleyway to join the missile shooter behind the wall. Nolan called it in.

“Vince, do you copy?” He kept his voice to a low murmur.

“Loud and clear.”

“Can you see anything down here?”

“Negative, Chief.”

“Understood. Listen up; I have two, repeat two, hostiles. I’m behind cover. Could you scatter a few rounds this way, and see if you can get them to make a move.”

“Coming up, keep your head down.”

Merano fired off ten rounds in rapid succession. The rifle hardly made a sound, but Vince’s sniper rounds skidded all over the alleyway, sending chips of stone and pieces of lead flying and zinging around his position. One of the hostiles screamed. He’d just taken a ricochet; maybe just small piece of stone had clipped him, but enough was enough. It was sufficient incentive for them to move to a safer position. They came dashing into the alley once the firing had stopped and raced along toward the end, one man clutching the RPG, the other his assault rifle. Nolan stepped into their path and smiled. Their jaws dropped wide open.

“Salaam alaikum.”

They stopped dead and stared at him. He put two rounds into each man. The guy with the AK must have had his finger on the trigger, as it fired off a short burst before it fell from his lifeless hands. Nolan picked up the fallen RPG and hightailed it back the way he’d come. Almost immediately, Boswell’s voice came into his earpiece.

“Chief, what was that shooting?”

“Nothing to worry about, Lt. The missile shooter is dead, and I have his weapon. I didn’t want anyone else tempted to give it another try.”

“Nice job. I’ll call Vince down from the roof. Come right in, and we’ll make tracks out of here.”

He acknowledged and gave Vince the news they were leaving. He found Danial in a bad way when he finally climbed into the armored hull of the Stryker. Vince climbed aboard, and the hatch clanged shut while Nolan tried to talk to the wounded Pakistani. Whitman was doing his best to make him comfortable, but the old man’s face was contorted in pain.

“Danial, hang in there, buddy.”

He lowered his ear to the man’s lips, to hear his whispered words.

“Nolan, if I don’t make it, my son. You must…”

He lapsed into semi-consciousness. Boswell was watching, his face set with concern they might lose the old man, and he gave the order to move out fast. The Stryker lurched into motion, and Nolan bent back down close to Danial’s head as his eyes flicked open again. He could see fresh blood coming from his mouth.

“How are you doing, Danial?”

The Pakistani grimaced at him. “I have been better, my friend,” he whispered. “My stomach, it hurts bad. I wish I could help you before I die.”

“You won’t die. Stay with us, my friend. We’ve been through too much for you to give up now.”

Nolan grimaced.

It's been a copybook hostage rescue so far, even taking down a score or more of enemy insurgents. The action was both furious and bloody, but then again, this is a Taliban controlled area, what else can you expect?

 
He recalled watching the film ‘Black Hawk Down’, about the debacle of Gothic Serpent. It was an operation carried out by Delta and US Rangers, with the primary objective of capturing warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid. It was devised by JSOC, the Joint Special Operations Command who commanded the Navy Seals, as well as a number of other SpecOps units. In the film, hostile civilians gave minute-by-minute progress reports on the American incursion to their warlord leader.
 
Whatever happened in the actual operation, the end result was the same. Both Rangers and Delta had to fight a running battle just to subdue the enemy enough to extract themselves and their wounded from a nightmare scenario, a seemingly endless procession of heavily armed civilians who took a ghoulish delight in desecrating the bodies of those Americans they managed to kill. The weapon that had caused them more trouble than any other was the RPG shoulder-launched missile system. Every soldier in a low flying helo or thinly armored vehicle had a healthy respect for these devastating weapons, which the Russians had sold in tens of thousands to emerging Third World countries. They could even cripple APCs with a single rocket, providing it was aimed at the correct place. And then a thought struck him.