Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  As she spoke, a line of trucks roared past, loaded with men. More Shias. They looked at the Brit SUV, with its Western passengers and raised their weapons in a hostile gesture as they overtook the Land Rover.

  “This can only mean one thing,” she murmured, “He’s making a final play for control of Panjab. He wants to take over the city and everything in it. Including Stori Transport. And me.”

  Stoner looked sideways at her. “So it looks like he’s decided to elbow Khan aside.”

  “Yes, Mullah Khan must have lost too many men in the shootout at my place, and it’s weakened him. Mazari is an opportunist, and he’s sees this as his big chance.”

  Bukharin turned his head. “Remember, Stoner, Imam Mazari is the target. We’re here to prevent this town going up in flames.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” He shrugged, “It would be bad for business, that’s why.”

  “Bad for Mazari’s business. Good for Khan’s business, so what’s the connection between Ivan and Khan?”

  Bukharin shrugged again. “I have no idea. All I know is, we have to beat Mazari’s men, and it won’t be easy. Do you have any idea of how many men he has?”

  “We saw around twenty when they destroyed the Stori house.”

  The Russian smiled. “Good. We can handle twenty without problem. Let’s get some rest, and in the early hours we’ll pay this cleric a visit.”

  Stoner gave him a skeptical glance.

  What about the reinforcements we just saw coming past us? There’s gonna be problems, pal, and a lot of shooting.

  * * *

  Commander Abbas Akbari stared at the Imam, hating him for his stupidity. “We need Stori Transport. That is why I came, and that is what we agreed. We must gain control of the transport network for our trafficking operations. Without profits, we cease to exist. Yet you are no nearer the woman, Lena Stori. Do you know where she is now?”

  “Not yet, but my people are making inquiries. It seems she may have been aboard the aircraft you allowed to escape during the attack.”

  Akbari flushed at the naked attempt to pile blame on his head. He’d lost good men in the attack, and this man would do well to remember it. Later, there’d be a blood price to pay. It would be very high.

  “You have to locate her, or this is all for nothing, and I will have to report failure to our leaders in Kabul.”

  Mazari suppressed a shiver. “We don’t know where the aircraft landed, not yet, so she could be anywhere. In the meantime, we must attack and destroy Mullah Khan while he is weak. It is no more than they deserve.”

  “He is at his mosque?”

  “I believe so,” the Imam answered, “Where else would he be at a time like this? He stores his weapons in the basement, and he’ll bring in every man who can carry a gun to replace those he lost. “

  When Akbari didn’t reply, Mazari added slyly, “You realize he’s planning to take Stori Transport for himself. If he can seize Lena Stori, and force her to marry him before we take action, we’ll lose everything.”

  The Commander looked up sharply. “I trust that does not happen because of your failure to conclude the arrangement.”

  “I did everything I could,” Mazari flared.

  “Did you? I would remind you of our agreement. Our leader, Imam al-Sadiq, has made his wishes clear. Any failure to gain our main objective, the transport company, will break the agreement you made with Hezbe Wahdat. There is only one penalty.”

  Mazari quailed inside. He’d known all along he was taking a big chance in bringing in Hezbe Wahdat. Their business was killing, and once they were committed to a course of action, they’d wade through rivers of blood to complete it. He had to succeed, had to. It was that or death, a very painful death. He tried to reason with the Commander.

  “You must tell Imam al-Sadiq I have done everything possible to keep our arrangement. If there is a failure, it is not mine.”

  Akbari gave him a cold smile. “No one tells the Imam anything. He is answerable only to God. You know he is directly descended from the grandsons of the Prophet Muhammad, Imam Hasan ibn Ali and Imam Husayn ibn Ali. How can you give orders to a man whose bloodline comes from the Prophet himself, a man who talks directly to God? His word is law, Imam Mazari. I suggest you make certain there are no more failures.”

  The Imam inclined his head. “So be it. We will wait until dawn and then attack Mullah Khan. I promise you I will locate the Stori woman, and I will make her my bride the moment she is in my possession.”

  The Commander smiled. “You’d better. Do not fail us again. I will instruct my men to be ready. I have more due to arrive at any moment. This time we will attack in force.”

  “More men?”

  “That is correct. Imam Mazari, last time your assessment of the enemy proved to be wrong. I have requested another fifty men to complete this task, and they are nearing the city even as we speak. I have told them to report here as soon as they arrive. Just before dawn.”

  Chapter Eight

  They drove through the streets in convoy. Bukharin’s Land Rover took the lead, with the two GAZ jeeps in the rear. The Shiite mosque was a half-kilometer from the center of the city, and outside it was all in darkness. Stoner checked his watch, 03.30. The attack would go in at 04.00, the part of the night when men were at their lowest ebb. They didn’t expect to find the Imam inside the mosque. On the other hand, he was confident they’d find someone who did know where he was. It would be a simple matter to interrogate the man and get the information they needed, if necessary by force.

  They parked close to the square dominated by a modern building with the characteristic minarets on the roof, the Shiite mosque. Stoner turned to them as he finished checking his Desert Eagles and started to leave.

  “I need to go in first and recce the area.”

  “You sure you don’t want some help?” Greg asked.

  “You don’t speak Pashto,” Lena said before he could reply, “I’ll go with you.”

  Bukharin grinned. “You have an excess of volunteers, Stoner. You must be popular, yob tvoyu mat.”

  Lena looked puzzled. “I’ve heard that expression several times, what does it mean? It’s Russian, isn’t it?”

  They look at each other, embarrassed. “Yeah, it’s Russian,” Blum told her, “I guess it’s what you’d call foul language.”

  She sighed. “Tell me, I’m not a child.”

  A pause. “It means ‘fuck your mother.’ It’s common in Russia. They all say it.”

  “Not Ivan,” Bukharin grinned, “For some reason he uses the American version. Motherfucker.”

  “Charming.” She looked at Stoner. “I don’t know which is worse.”

  “You can think about it while I go in there alone. It’s a one-man job, the kind of work I trained for in the Navy. Sneaky work. I’ll go inside, grab a prisoner, and bring him out. We can take him somewhere quiet and find out what we need to know.”

  “What if he won’t tell you?” Lena asked.

  “He’ll tell me.”

  She shuddered at the cold, hard reply. “And if he doesn’t know?”

  “I’ll jog his memory.”

  He opened the door, put one foot outside, and stopped as Bukharin shouted, “Hold it!”

  He looked around. “What is it?”

  “Company. A convoy of trucks heading this way.”

  Stoner shrugged. “It could be a delivery of groceries.”

  “At this time of night? I think not.”

  The trucks drew nearer, more Toyota Hiluxes, and they were loaded with men, wild-eyed, heavily armed men. One of the vehicles carried a heavy machine gun bolted to the bed, and the barrel was starting to rotate toward them. Bukharin started the engine. “Time to leave. This looks like trouble.”

  He began driving away as the first truckload of men came abreast of them. A big, bearded man in the back leaned over, saw the Westerners inside, and shouted something. It wasn’t a greeting. The voice was harsh, threatening, and Lena
translated, “He says we have no business stopping outside a Shia mosque. We are to halt or they’ll shoot.”

  “There’s a third option,” Bukharin murmured, “We’re leaving.”

  He slammed his foot on the gas, and the SUV lurched forward. They careered away, with the two GAZ jeeps keeping pace. The hostiles recovered fast. A couple of assault rifles opened up, and lead hissed past them in the chill, dark night. They escaped the first volley unscathed, and then the heavy machine gun opened up. A line of bullets smashed into the stonework of the buildings around them, and the gunner began to walk the volley in toward them. They were close to disaster from the devastating fire of the 12.7mm rounds when the Russian swung the wheel to swerve into a wide intersection.

  They almost made it unscathed. The Rover went around the corner on two wheels. A line of heavy bullets punched into the differential drive of the rear wheels. The kinetic force of the hits was enormous, enough to punch the Rover onto its side as it slewed into the turn. They slid along the street in a screaming, tearing noise of steel and tortured aluminum. They scrambled out of the wreckage, and engines roared as the two GAZ jeeps hurtled into the turn after them. They slowed and willing hands dragged them into the vehicles. Archer jumped on at the last moment, missed his footing, and Stoner and Blum reached out to drag him to safety.

  Ivan’s drivers were already moving. As soon as they were aboard their vehicles, they floored the gas and roared away into the night. Away from the wrecked Rover, and the pursuing hostiles.

  “Bastards!” Bukharin snarled, “That was an ambush. How did they know we were coming to the mosque?"

  “They didn’t. They weren’t the same men we saw at Lena’s place; those guys came in an old bus, remember? This bunch had pickups. They’re reinforcements. I counted upward of thirty men packed into those SUVs. That’s on top of the fighters we saw at Lena’s place.”

  He stared back in astonishment. “Forty or fifty men?”

  “At least. Lena, we need somewhere we can hole up. There’s no way we’ll get near that mosque, not now.” There was no reply, “Lena?”

  They checked out the faces in the SUV and in the one behind. She wasn’t in either GAZ.

  “We lost her when the Rover rolled over. I’m going back,” Stoner shouted in desperation. He started to climb out of the still-moving vehicle.

  Greg stopped him. “Hold it, pal. They were all over the place seconds after we went over. You have to face facts. They have her. She’ll be inside the Shiite mosque by now. They know we can’t hit them while she’s in there. My guess is they’ll call Mazari back from wherever he’s hiding, and they’ll get ready for their next round of mischief. You know what he wants. A wedding.”

  “I have to get her back,” Stoner snarled, “I’m not leaving her with those animals. Once it goes ahead, she’s lost everything.”

  I’ve lost everything.

  “Yob tvoyu mat. That is what Ivan said not to happen.” He stared at Stoner. “If you wish to go back for the girl, then go. It may help us locate Mazari. He will surely come if he knows they have her.”

  “I’ll go with him,” Greg said, “You’ll have to take care of my dog.”

  “Leave him to me.” Crawford leaned forward from the back to stroke Archer’s head, “I’m starting to grow fond of this mutt. You want to sell him when this is all over?”

  “He’s family. There’s no way. He really belongs to my adopted son, Ahmed. He’d cut my throat if I let him go.”

  Crawford grunted his understanding as the two men prepared to go back.

  “If you can’t get her out,” Bukharin growled, “you can’t leave her in there. You know what I’m saying.”

  “If I don’t get her out, Russian, it’s because she’s dead,” Stoner replied, “Stop the jeep.” He looked at Greg. “Let’s go.”

  The dog whined as they left him in the doubtful care of Crawford, but they had no choice. They sped along the street, Stoner with his M4 A1, and Greg with a borrowed M-16. Where they were going was no place for a .50 caliber sniper rifle. They jogged along the darkened streets until ahead of them the target came into sight. The mosque was a blaze of light, casting shadows over the city that still slept an uneasy sleep.

  Guards patrolled the front of the building, and when they went to the rear, there were two more men stationed by the door. Greg pointed to the roof. Stoner nodded, and the two men retreated to the office building next door. They went inside and found it empty, which was no surprise in the middle of the night. They raced up the stairs to the roof and ran to the edge. The flat roof of the mosque was three meters away.

  “That’s some jump,” Greg said, his voice gloomy, “and a long drop is we miss.”

  “It’s a piece of cake, my friend. It’s only when you miss it becomes a long way down. If you don’t make it, keep your mouth shut. Make sure they don’t hear you.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try to keep it quiet when I hit the concrete.”

  Stoner grinned. “Way to go.”

  They walked back across the roof until they had a run of ten meters before they’d leap over the gap. He sent Greg across first. He didn’t want the Russian to chicken out at the last moment, like a horse refusing to jump a high fence. The jump was perfect, and he landed a good meter past the edge and climbed to his feet. Stoner started to run. A dead cinch, three meters, he could jump almost twice that distance on the athletics field.

  He was sailing through the air when a sentry appeared through the roof entrance door and walked toward them. The man didn’t notice them at first. He was too busy lighting a cigarette. As the light from the flare of his match died away, he saw movement, a dark shadow leaping from the adjacent building. He had his rifle slung on his back, which meant his hands were free. Not for long.

  The lighted cigarette stayed in his mouth as his hands moved to snatch at the AK and bring it bear on the target. Stoner almost landed on his feet. Almost. His boot slipped on a patch of loose stones, and he went sprawling. The man grinned, bared his teeth, and tilted the barrel of his rifle to take the shot. He’d just made a big mistake. It wasn’t the man sprawling in the dust he needed to watch. It was the other man who’d come across first. Greg Blum reversed his assault rifle, the AK-47 with the wooden stock, swung it by the barrel, and smacked the weapon down on the Afghan’s head.

  The noise was loud, like splintering wood, and the victim dropped to the concrete. Stoner climbed to his feet and checked the victim’s neck for a pulse, without success. He looked at Greg.

  “You killed him. That was clean.”

  “That’s the way we do it in Russia.”

  “Is that right?” Stoner nodded, “I guess if you’re too broke to afford a decent suppressor, it’s the only way.”

  “Yob tvoyu mat.”

  “Yeah. Let's get inside before these assholes wake up.”

  They edged inside the building. When they reached the foot of the roof stairway, they were in a long, low study room, overlooking the prayer room. They could hear voices down below and so crept toward the low wall of a balcony. He felt a surge of relief.

  She’s still alive!

  Lena was sitting in the center of the huge carpeted floor of the main room, her hands and ankles tied. A man was standing over her, talking in Pashto, so they couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  She shook her head, and he stepped forward and kicked her in the ribs. He spoke again, another shake of the head, and he delivered a hard kick, accompanied by a shower of curses.

  The man spoke for a third time, and they heard him spit out the name, ‘Mazari.’

  “He’s trying to force her to go through with it,” Greg murmured.

  “If he doesn’t kick her to death first. Cover me, I’m going down.”

  “Stoner, we need a prisoner.”

  “I won’t kill him. Not yet.”

  He crept down the stone staircase and froze. Voices. A bunch of Afghans were coming into the room. He hid at the foot of the stairs and watched four more me
n enter the prayer room and cross the huge carpet. They spoke to Lena’s captor, who nodded his head. Then they lifted her between them and started to carry her out of the building. Stoner looked up to the balcony where Greg was still watching and gave him a hand signal. In his SEAL days, it meant follow and keep me in sight. He could only hope the Russian understood.

  He edged out through the main door and watched them bundle the girl into an SUV, a Toyota Land Cruiser. The engine started, and the vehicle drove away. Two Hiluxes started their engines and prepared to follow. The first carried fighters in the back, he counted ten men. The rearmost Hilux had a mounted heavy machine gun, with a crew of two, and the driver and another man in the cab.

  He needed a way to follow, and there was only one solution. He had to go with them. There was no way to approach the rearmost truck unseen, when providence offered up a solution. The driver of the lead Hilux began to gun his engine hard. Like most machinery in Afghanistan, the motor was badly worn. White clouds of oily smoke spewed from the exhaust like a destroyer smokescreen. It was a chance, and he took it.

  He raced out, gripped the tailboard, and vaulted over. The gunner was looking ahead, maybe searching for targets. The other loader stared at him in astonishment. Perhaps he thought Stoner was some kind of evil, dark spirit, come to drag him down to hell. He was half-right.

  As the truck bumped and bounced away, the American slammed a fist into the man’s stomach, and he doubled over in agony. Keeping one eye on the gunner in case he turned around, he punched the man again, a roundhouse to the head. The Afghan slammed back against the steel mount of the machine gun and groaned. It was a low sound, difficult to hear over the roar of the engine, but enough for the gunner to notice. He turned his head, and his mouth opened to shout a warning.

  Stoner was too far away to reach him before he shouted, and there was no way he could shoot. A single shot would alert the entire convoy, and they’d round they’d stop, tumble out of their vehicles, and surround him. The end would be a volley of shots at best. At worst, they take him alive, in which case his death would not be pretty. In desperation, he grabbed a huge spanner lying on the floor of the truck bed, probably used to tighten the machine gun mounting bolts. He picked it up, surprised it was so heavy, and threw it.