Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  She looked surprised. "Raider, I told you before. My ancestors were Jewish immigrants. The family name was Blaskov. They changed it when they landed at Ellis Island."

  "So I guess you have relations in Israel."

  "Of course I do," she smiled, "I thought I'd told you."

  "No, you didn't," he replied weakly.

  "I'm sure I did."

  "Maybe I wasn't listening," he nodded, feeling too sick to reply. Alexander Dragan, the Ukrainian billionaire, was a Jew. Deep down in his subconscious, an alarm bell was ringing. His mind reeled as he stared at Angelina's beautiful face.

  Whose side is she on, the US, CIA, Israel? All of the above, or is it a fantasy? After all, I’ve taken one too many blows to the head.

  He slipped into sleep, still exhausted by the damage his body had sustained over the past days and weeks. When he awoke, she was still there.

  "How do you feel now?" Her smile was warm and sincere.

  "Okay, I guess." The reply was cold, and her eyes crinkled in dismay.

  He hadn't meant to be offhand, but it still troubled him. She ignored his coolness and bent to his naked body. Several minutes later, it all faded into the netherworld of arousal, of passion, and he marveled as he always did at her beauty. He made up his mind there and then. He would never know the truth, not all of it, maybe not any of it. All he knew was whose side was she on. His side. He'd take what she had to offer, and think himself a lucky man. A stupid man, maybe. A foolish man, some people may say, but a lucky man, no question.

  Whatever else she is or isn't, she's on my side. I'll settle for that.

  "Lay back and relax. Yeah, just like that." Her grin was lascivious.

  Oh, dear God, that's so good.

  "Angelina, you're the best in the world."

  She moved her lovely head and smiled down at him. "I know, my darling. I know."

  He smiled back at her. She was almost everything to him, almost as much as his daughter.

  Abigail’s home at last, and I’ll do anything to keep her safe. She’s worth everything to me. Worth staying alive for, and dying for. As many times as it takes.

  THE HUNTER KILLERS: EGYPTIAN DAWN

  By Eric Meyer

  First Edition

  Copyright © 2013 Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  Chapter One

  A mosque in Cairo, Egypt

  He kept them waiting. They had to know who held the real power in this place. Finally, he entered the room and acknowledged their greetings. Below, he could hear the calls of the faithful as they chanted responses to the prayers. The room was above a mosque and richly furnished, with deep Persian carpets on the ornate floor and exquisite tiles covering the walls; a perfect place for a Mullah to meet the faithful without suspicion. A man in military uniform stepped forward.

  "This is an honor. The work you have done to further the cause of Allah is famous across the entire Islamic world."

  He cautioned himself to be careful. The man who greeted him, General Babu Sadat, was a member of the cabal of Army leaders who now controlled Egypt after the fall of President Morsi.

  Sadat was one of the prime architects of the downfall of the Muslim Brotherhood. He was also the de facto leader of this group. Their aim was to take over the reins of power, and to fill the vacuum when the Egyptian administration collapsed. It would mean Babu Sadat, a distant relation of the former Egyptian President, Anwar Sadat, was within sight of his lifelong ambition; the leadership of Egypt, and to follow in his illustrious predecessor's footsteps. After all, it was only his right, to inherit the mantle of President. The problem was he shared the current leadership with a number of other Army generals, and each was anxious to beat the others to the top spot. Sadat had so far stayed outside of the bruising internal politics. He had a better plan. He'd called in outside help and decided to use a different weapon to give him power. Mullah Mukhtar, late of Afghanistan, and a thorn in the side of the American-led ISAF forces, had brought with him the perfect weapon to put Sadat on the presidential throne. Islam.

  Mukhtar enjoyed their praise for a few moments, and then bade them to take their seats. The furniture, the chairs, and the long table, were as ornate as the rest of the room. Richly carved in hardwood, probably centuries old and worth a king’s ransom. They sank into the embroidered silk cushions, but he still stood.

  He stared at them for long moments, letting the tension build. He was a tall man, with a pronounced paunch that suggested a life of easy living. His right eye constantly wept mucous, after he’d picked up an infection that had gone untreated. His long, bitter face was etched with deep lines, in part the legacy of a long career spent evading the military; first the Soviets, when he’d been a new Imam attached to a Mujahedeen unit. He’d been married, but during a raid on Tora Bora by the Americans his wife was killed. He’d already begun taking vengeance on those responsible and would savor the moment when the rest of his wife’s murderers met their fate.

  When the Taliban came to power, Mullah Omar, who saw him as a rival, had sidelined him. During the American occupation, he began the long fight back to power. It meant a lifetime living in hiding, moving from place to place, hurried meals and sudden dashes to avoid the security sweeps. But he’d survived, with only a limp where an American bullet had smashed his left anklebone. The pain was always there, and he comforted himself that it was a constant reminder of the enemy. He wore his usual gray robe and black turban of a Mullah, and his voice was a harsh and angry bark; an angry, compelling voice that made people listen.

  "My friends, our successes in Afghanistan have been paid for in blood. If we are to succeed in Egypt, we will have to pay in the same coin. We must spill blood, as if it was an unending torrent."

  He noticed them shift uneasily. These were men of power, men of influence. It was fine for blood to be shared, as long as it belonged to someone else. He hastened to reassure them.

  "Your task, however, will be to stay out of sight. You must urge the mob, our foot soldiers, to go out into the streets and express their rage with the current regime. The demonstrators must use extreme violence." He looked at Sadat, "Your task, General, is different. You must encourage the Army to attack the demonstrators, using every means possible. If you do your jobs properly, the streets of Egypt will run red with the blood of both sides. Make no mistake, this is a hard task, but those who die will be martyrs. Many will die, and many will receive fatal wounds. But I can assure you; all will be rewarded many times over in heaven. It is the holy word of the Prophet.”

  "And the Muslim Brotherhood?" Mustafa Khaled asked. He'd been a junior minister in the previous Mubarak administration. It was no secret he yearned to win back his former position, and his perks, of course. "What about them?"

  Mukhtar chuckled. "Each day, my friend, I ask myself the same question, but with a different emphasis. ‘What about the Muslim Brotherhood?’ When I pray for guidance, I hear the same answer. They are finished. Their regime was an insult to Islam and the Prophet, praise be to his name."

  No one present bothered to ask why they were an insult to Islam. If the eminent Mullah from Afghanistan said it was so, that was good enough for them. They were merely obstacles to Egypt's real rulers holding the reins of power. The people in this room would soon take their places as the rightful leaders of the nation.

  "And your role?" Sadat asked, his voice silky smooth, yet with an edge of sarcasm. As if he wanted to make it clear he was well aware that Mukhtar was in Egypt for one reason only, personal gain.

  The Mullah nodded. It was true. There was no secret about why he was here, except that his personal gain would be devoted to the glory of Allah. Whatever rewards were heaped on his head if they succeeded were purely incidental.

  "My role, General, is to continue to visit as many towns and cities as I am able to reach. To speak to the faithful in the mosques and explain there is a way out of their troubles. That one man is on their side, one man who will give them everything they have ev
er wanted. When I am finished, General Sadat, they will revere you almost as much as the Prophet, praise be to his holy name."

  It was a simple plan, as most plans were. Not unlike the one the Nazis used in Germany to gain power. To set one side against the other, with hundred of pitched battles fought in the streets. To blame everyone else for the trouble, and when the country was plunged into despair and bankruptcy, a man would step forward to offer them a solution, a way out of their troubles. When they took power, then the second part of the agreement would come into play.

  Egypt had something the Taliban lacked. Modern weapons, tanks, armored vehicles, even an air force and a navy. Once Egypt was firmly in the hands of the faithful, those weapons would be deployed in his own country, in Afghanistan. And for the first time, an army would confront the infidel Americans and their allies as powerful and well equipped as their own.

  Sadat nodded thoughtfully. "You think you can persuade them?"

  "I know I can persuade them, General. It is already under way. Within weeks, they will be throwing themselves onto the guns of your soldiers. The entire nation will be enraged, and they will look for a solution to stop the bloodshed. I will present you, General, as that solution. They will welcome you with open arms."

  "It is no more than my destiny, Mullah. And when I have power, I will keep my agreement. The weaponry and technology of the mighty Egyptian Army will be available to the Taliban. You will have the means to end the occupation of your land, a land that is so beloved of Allah. A land that like Egypt will need a strong leader, a leader who is beloved of his people."

  Everyone in that room saw the Mullah and the General exchanged glances, and if any man was in any doubt about the arrangement, their doubts were dispelled. Put simply, it was a quid pro quo. Help me to power, and I'll help you. That was no problem, for there would be many rewards for those who supported the new leaders. Rewards such as power, money, and land would be theirs for the taking. And if a few thousand, or indeed tens of thousands of people had to die, so what? Hadn't the Mullah just said they would receive their rewards in heaven?

  "What about the Americans? Is it possible to keep this secret from them?"

  The man who had spoken was Gamal Al-Ghitani, a member of the Egyptian Parliament and Minister of the Interior. As such, he had direct command of the Mukhabarat. They were the Secret Police, with a reputation for brutality that was legendary, even in a Muslim country where brutality was the norm. Mukhtar had to be cautious. Al-Ghitani had once made an unsuccessful attempt to stand for the Presidency. It was possible he was thinking about another try. The Mullah made a mental note to speak to General Sadat about him. A solution would have to be found. A permanent solution, for no doubt he had deputies who would be more than delighted to take over his job. For now, he kept his voice pleasant.

  "And if they do find out? What could they do? This matter will be decided between our own people. A bitter battle between the Army and the people that will only be resolved when General Sadat steps forward to take power and save the nation."

  "But what if they do try and send someone to intervene? It could cause some serious problems. Especially if people find out it is we who are engineering the troubles.”

  Mukhtar nodded. "The Soviet leader, Joseph Stalin, had an answer for that kind of problem. ‘No man - no problem.' If any Americans set foot inside Egypt with the intention of disrupting our plans, kill them."

  Al-Ghitani nodded and returned the smile. "Yes, I think my Mukhabarat can manage that, with help from the military if needed." He looked at General Sadat, who nodded his agreement.

  Several of them chuckled, but Mukhtar held up his hand for attention.

  "You should know I have brought in a few of my men from Afghanistan, to head off any problems. If any of you hear of any attempt to intervene, tell me at once. I can assure you, my fighters are more than skilful at killing Americans. Gentlemen, I offer you a toast.” They picked up their goblets of iced, freshly squeezed lemonade. “Death to the Americans.”

  They drank and applauded. This was music to their ears. Murdering Americans always carried the risk of reprisals, but when someone else did the killing, that was different. Outside in the street, the sound of shouting and screams mingled with the rumble of engines from armored vehicles. The stink of teargas began to seep into the room.

  "That damned smell," Khaled grumbled, "It makes it difficult to think. These people have no consideration."

  He got to his feet and closed the window. The rest of them nodded approvingly.

  Mukhtar continued. "Next, we need to consider the government contracts for those who have supported us. Perhaps we can draw up a list."

  They gestured and shouted over each other. This was the real reason for this meeting as far as they were concerned, to organize the division of the spoils. They knew that in the next few minutes, fortunes would be won and lost, and these men would be the winners.

  * * *

  Rockport, Maine

  "D’ya feel lucky, Punk?"

  I stared at the man standing at the polished mahogany bar. He was right next to me, his hand held up, the fingers cocked in the shape of a pistol. He waited for a reply, and his lips flared into a satisfied sneer, as if nobody had ever asked that question before. It's one cross I have to bear, though not the only one, and all because of a stupid resemblance to a certain movie star; a very slight resemblance, in my opinion. When you're tall and rangy, with the rigid, upright posture of a soldier, and ‘Dirty Harry’ sideburns, you become a target; the butt of fun for every joker across Christendom. I never claimed any resemblance to Eastwood. I’d even considered growing a beard to make sure. But in a dimly lit bar and after a few beers, it was enough for some men to make me the target of their humor, even if they couldn’t get the quote right. It wasn’t vanity that made me grow my hair. I opted for long sideburns for a tactical reason. When you’re undercover in a warzone, it’s best not to look like you’re military. Most times when drunks had a laugh at my expense, I could ignore it. Other times, it was an annoyance, and this was one of those times. I kept my voice calm and steady. No need to upset the children.

  "No."

  "No? What does ‘no’ mean?" He was puzzled, as if the target of his joke should have responded in a different way.

  "It means that right now, Mister, I don't feel lucky."

  He stared at me, a big man, fleshy, his expression turning to anger. He was about my height, although fifty pounds too heavy, and five years too late with his workout schedule. He had the mottled, red face of a heavy drinker, although I was probably ahead of him on that score. I'd been hitting it like there was no tomorrow for the past few months. That about summed up my life. There was no tomorrow. Only today, time to enjoy a few more drinks before I left the bar and went home. Except this wacko was doing his best to pick a fight. He kept pushing.

  "You think you're clever, asshole? I was trying to be friendly. Maybe you'd like it better if I got mad?"

  I couldn’t give a damn. Either way, friendly or mad, he was just another stranger. Someone like me who’d had too much to drink. The comedian decided on the ‘get mad’ option, and he swung a haymaker, telegraphed from a mile away. I moved a fraction, let the fist fly past my head, and watched him teeter as the move caught him off balance. Then he stumbled and almost fell to the floor. I didn’t want him hurt, so I grabbed his collar and pulled him to his feet. It’s always best to try and be nice.

  "Take it easy, buddy. You'll hurt yourself."

  He cursed, struggled hard, and tried to swing another fist; so turning on the charm wasn’t working. This time I blocked him with a hard strike that numbed his forearm. I'd no wish to injure him. After all, he was just another drunk, like me, but he was at a disadvantage; there was a big difference between the two of us. Fighting was my business, or had been my business, but not just any fighting. I’d been a specialist.

  Until five months ago, I worked for the US government. Liam Schaeffer, formerly of the US Navy Seals, l
atterly a civilian contractor for the military in Afghanistan. Technically, the job title was ‘Security Contractor’, a tag that covered a multitude of sins, from door guards to undercover operatives who worked in the field. I was one of those.

  The Pentagon had woken up to the type of negative publicity they attracted in the early years, the kind where soldiers were accused of all manner of brutality. Killing the enemy wasn’t fair, or so the liberal press screamed. Then there was the negative publicity of long-haul Boeing C-17 Globemasters hitting the tarmac at Andrews AFB and unloading body bags. Some genius put two and two together and made four. Instead of soldiers, why not employ civilian contractors to do the dirty work? It meant the military kept their hands clean, and if the civilians got themselves killed in the process, they didn't figure in the statistics. As a result, the market for civilian contractors grew exponentially. Everything from men like me employed to carry out active military operations, to guards protecting sensitive installations; like the Ambassador's favorite restaurant. Really. When VIPs sit down for dinner they want to fill their bellies with something other than Taliban lead.

  My work was more specialized. I worked with three other guys, a classic four-man fireteam configuration, and all former Special Forces operators. All of us were persuaded to leave the service early, in return for pay packets that were almost obscene. Our task was simple. So crystal clear that no one ever got round to putting it on paper. We were detailed to hunt down certain Taliban gentlemen. These gentlemen were in command of Afghan warbands. Sometimes they ruled over entire regions of the Afghan and Pakistan badlands.

  They were easy to identify as a rule, for they invariably wore black turbans, carried AK-47s, and were liable to shoot American soldiers on sight. Once we located them, we killed them. Simple. Crystal clear. Unofficially, we had a nickname, the Hunter Killers, although the Brass denied all knowledge of the name. Sometimes, they'd mumble the acronym ‘HKs’. It sounded the same as the excellent German-made pistols and assault rifles, only those weapons existed. The Hunter Killers didn't. We were just civilian contractors, but we didn’t guard a five star eatery. We had other duties. We hunted men. And we killed them. And sometimes, it made me sick to the stomach.