Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  In high school, he’d been a promising baseball pitcher, and all the lessons he learned then he put into the throw. Keeping his eye fixed on the target, he launched the cumbersome lump of iron. The man saw it coming and started to jerk aside. He was almost successful. Instead of smashing into his chest, which would do some damage, the spanner slammed into his shoulder but was enough to cut off his warning shout. Stoner didn’t hesitate. He’d gained a couple of precious seconds and launched himself forward in a diving tackle to finish it.

  His opponent twisted away, and Stoner grunted in pain as his shoulder smacked into the wall of the truck. He reached out with one hand and managed to grip the man’s ankle. It was a good grip, and he jerked hard. The man went off balance and fell to the floor. Stoner threw himself on top of him, his hands around his throat. Killing him.

  It was still a risky maneuver. He knew his victim would start drumming his boots against the floor in his death throes, enough to alert the men in the cab. There was only one way to stop the noise. He lessened the pressure a fraction, and when the Afghan moved, he wrapped his legs around him to keep them still. Then he squeezed.

  The man fought back in desperation, and Stoner had no choice but to grit his teeth and bear the hammer blows beating against his head. The man was tough, and his fist felt like iron, smashing into Stoner’s head, but he kept squeezing. The man freed another arm and hit him with more punches. He knew he’d pass out before he could finish off the Afghan, so he drew his head back, and butted it into the other man’s head.

  It was enough. The combination of lack of oxygen and the stunning blow to the head made him lose consciousness, and his punches weakened and then stopped altogether. Stoner still held on as his victim’s legs jerked in a last despairing gesture. Still he held on, until at last he heard a sigh as the last breath came out of the man’s mouth. The two men in the cab were still concentrating on the vehicles ahead.

  So far, so good, but I still have a mountain to climb.

  He now shared the rear of the enemy truck with two dead bodies. There was only one way to prevent the men in front noticing the loss of their machine gun crew. He draped the gunner over the breech of the gun, managing to jam his right arm around the barrel with his left hand pushed into the slide. It was convincing enough for a casual glance, as if he was checking the gun, or had fallen asleep. He laid the body of the loader as far away from the cab as possible, partly hidden by the gun mount. It was just possible they’d think he too was resting. There was nothing more he could do.

  The truck convoy left the city limits behind, and they entered a narrow track that threaded through a narrow valley. Ahead of them, the road disappeared to the right. It meant he’d be out of sight of the two lead vehicles for a few seconds. He waited behind the gun, his head only inches away from the dead gunner. The man's eyes were open, and Stoner got the impression he was staring at him in reproof, as if accusing him of his murder.

  Tough shit, buddy. You guys don't like the heat, so get out of the kitchen. You want to draw first blood, don't complain about what happens next.

  He concentrated his mind on how to handle the next stage. If he stayed where he was, when they eventually stopped, they'd surround him and kill him. The bend in the track was his only chance. The heavy wrench still lay on the floor where it had fallen, and he grabbed it, holding it like a weapon. The wrench would be silent for what he had in mind.

  He tensed as the truck in front started to take the bend, and a second later it was out of sight. He was waiting for the moment, balanced on the balls of his feet, like a sprinter on his starting blocks. He leapt onto the roof of the cab and gripping the edge, swung his legs down boots first into the passenger’s head.

  The man looked up, his mouth open with astonishment. He was fast, rattlesnake fast, and he managed to jerk his head away to avoid the worst of the blow. At the same time, he brought up the assault rifle in his hands, a short barrel AK-47; ready to take a shot. It was a mistake. Lining up and shooting a rifle, taking aim, pulling the trigger, it all takes time.

  Stoner threw the rest of his body into the cab, brought his arm around, and smacked the wrench into the man's head. His thick turban absorbed the worst of the blow, and he swung at Stoner using his carbine as a club. The American ducked, feeling the steel of the barrel brush across his hair. It was a narrow escape, and in desperation he hit out again with wrench. This time it smashed into the man's face, and he screamed in pain.

  The driver knew his salvation lay in catching up with the two vehicles in front, and he jammed his foot on the gas. The moment they rounded the corner, it would all be over. A single warning shot, or a hand pounding on the horn, and they'd know something was up. He struck out with the barrel of an AK-47, and the heavy steel slammed into the side of Stoner’s ear. He felt it take a chunk of his skin, but he hit back and slammed an elbow into driver’s ribs. The man screamed and pushed the American away. He swung full circle in the narrow confines of the cab and lashed out with his boot.

  The blow caught the Afghan on the nose, and he screamed again. This time it was too much for him. He closed his eyes and lost control of the vehicle. They were driving between meter-high rocks at the side of the track, and the Toyota swung swerved, collided with one side, bounced off a rock the other side, and skidded around, burying the hood into yet another massive rock. The driver's head slumped unconscious into the windshield, blood pouring from a huge gash on his forehead.

  Stoner started to draw breath, but the passenger wasn’t finished. He came back to his senses, determined to kill the infidel. He'd abandoned any hope of firing a shot and decided to slug it out. He started by slamming a fist into Stoner's face, and the American twisted around to hit him with the hard edge of his hand in a knife strike under the chin. It should have been enough to finish them, but the man was already dodging away. He dropped the AK, and it fell against the door. Which opened.

  The Afghan rolled out onto the track, and Stoner was on him like a plummeting bird of prey diving on a rabbit. His opponent was too agile for him to get his hands on his neck, and he had to settle for a slugging match. He still possessed an edge.

  The wrench, gripped in his right hand, but he couldn’t bring his arm around to use it. He delivered another hard left hook that knocked out two of the Afghan's few remaining teeth, but he received a hard blow low in the stomach in return. Then a punch to the side of his head made him see stars. He was fighting at a disadvantage and had to make the choice to drop the wrench and use both fists, or wait for the killer blow. He waited.

  The Afghan got to his feet and danced around him, flicking up punches. All he could do to avoid the worst of them was roll with those that hit, but now he had the space to use the wrench. And then the man made a mistake. He put all his effort into a crushing blow with his huge left fist that would almost have taken Stoner's head off. All it did was force the man off balance, and it was the opportunity to use the wrench. It was time for the killer blow.

  The Afghan put up one hand to stop him falling, and Stoner swung the heavy chunk of iron. It was a mighty swing; using every ounce of strength he possessed to finish the fight while he still could. The hard steel smashed onto the man's head, just above his left ear. Stoner felt the crunch as the bones in the skull cracked and broke, and the Afghan shouted a single cry of pain and terror as he started to go down.

  He hit the dirt track and lay still. Underneath his head, a puddle of blood had started to form. His eyes flicked open, and he said something that Stoner didn't understand. He still wasn't dead and delivered another smashing blow with the iron wrench. He lay still. But it still wasn’t over.

  Stoner raced back to the truck and dragged out the other man, who was starting to come round. It sickened him, but he used the wrench again and hit him with a massive blow that killed him instantly.

  If I'd left him alive, he could have regained consciousness and called for help, which would mean a death sentence for Lena.

  His head rang from the blows
he’d taken during the fight, but he ignored the pain, restarted the truck, and backed away from the rock. Then he hit the gas and started to pursue the other two trucks. At first he thought he'd lost them, but then he saw the plume of white smoke, and he kept following at a distance. They drove for another kilometer, and he watched them enter a small village. There were no more than ten stone dwellings, most little more than ruins, although the people sitting outside testified they were still in use.

  He was about to stop and hide the truck when he spotted the turban of the first Afghan he'd killed on the floor of the cab. He picked it up and put it on his head, hoping it may be enough to fool them from a distance. A pair of sunglasses had fallen between the seats, and he put them on as well. As for the rest, it was too bad. Afghans wore every variety of surplus clothing. There was nothing he could do to hide it. He smiled to himself.

  A turban and sunglasses, Stoner, you've joined the other side. You look like a raghead. Let's hope they think so, too.

  It would have to be enough. He drove forward, and no one took any notice of him. Just another Shia fighter driving a 'technical' was nothing new. Technical, as in the name they called trucks modified to carry a heavy machine gun.

  Before he reached the shabby cluster of stone huts, he stopped. In front of him he could see a mosque, although not a mosque like the imposing edifices they built in the cities. This was little better than the surrounding ruins, and all that set it apart was a makeshift attempt at a minaret on the roof. Whoever built it was no master craftsman, for the structure had a pronounced lean, like the leaning tower at Pisa in Italy. The two trucks he'd followed were outside. There was no sign of Lena or her captors, except for a solitary guard, a bored-looking older man sitting against the front wheel of the truck nearest to the mosque, smoking a pipe. Probably opium.

  He was searching for a way to get close when a couple of goat herders came wandering down the track. Both men walked in the direction of the mosque. No doubt they’d travel straight past to some distant hillside, unless the animals had converted to Islam. Whatever, it was a perfect opportunity. As they passed where he was hiding in a fetid alleyway, he stepped out and started to follow. When he came close to the man guarding the trucks, it was simple to slip away.

  The guard never knew what hit him. Once again, Stoner used the heavy iron wrench to put some sense into the guy’s skull. He lay the body down behind the truck, picked up the dropped AK-47 and spare magazine, and entered the mosque. Stoner found a niche in the shadows where he could observe. The prayer room was dark and gloomy, as if they'd prepared it for some kind of service. There was only one service for which they'd need armed men, a forced marriage. The Afghans were sitting cross-legged and barefoot on the threadbare carpet, talking quietly amongst themselves. Each had his assault rifle either in his hands or at his side, maybe another of the edicts of the Prophet.

  Imam Ali Mazari appeared, engaged in conversation with another cleric, a robed Imam like himself. Mazari had his arm locked around a veiled woman.

  Lena, no question!

  It was not the loving gesture for a soon-to-be bride, more the gesture of a hangman about to lead his victim to the scaffold. She was shrouded in a black robe, veiled, and with only a narrow slit for her to see out. There was no sign she had the use of her arms, and she made no sound, so he assumed they'd bound and gagged her.

  Under Islamic law, the woman had no rights, especially in this place. It would be enough for her to be present, and for her future husband to assert she'd agreed to the union. Then she’d be lost forever. They’d take her property, the assets would come under the ownership of Imam Ali Mazari, and then they’d kill her.

  Stoner was surprised to realize how deep his emotions were. He didn't want her to marry this asshole, even in such a sham ceremony as this one. It was a shock to know he cared for the girl, more than he would admit. He made an effort to stay calm.

  I'll stop this or die in the attempt. If things go bad, the last thing I do will be to make her a widow.

  He was tempted to empty his assault rifle into the men sitting on the carpet. Then slam in a new magazine and follow it up with a second long burst. He also had his Desert Eagles to take down any survivors, but it couldn’t happen. Lena was in the room. If he opened fire, Mazari would use her as a shield and drag her away. Another option was to hide until after the ceremony and wait until Lena was out of the line of fire.

  That had little appeal. He'd no idea what they would do after the wedding, and it could be even tougher to take them on than it was now. He watched the unidentified Imam leave Lena and Mazari to go into an inner room, and he closed the door. Maybe he was going to change into a ceremonial robe. Stoner had no idea and cared even less. But it had given him an idea.

  The cleric's dressing room, or whatever they called it, had to have an outer door. He raced out of the mosque and ran around the side of the building. Sure enough, there was a small portal to give access to the Imams. He tried the handle, and it was unlocked, so he pushed it open and went inside.

  The Imam had just finished putting on a long white robe. He adjusted his turban, glanced up, and said something in Pashto before he understood the man who'd entered was not an Afghan; also the man carried an assault rifle and two huge pistols hanging from his belt.

  "You're an American," he spoke in English.

  "You got it in one, pal. What's going on here?"

  The cleric looked angry. "It's no business of yours, infidel. This is a solemn marriage ceremony, and it will take place before Allah."

  "The kind of solemn ceremony where the bride is kidnapped, gagged, and tied? Where I come from, they don't call kidnap any kind of ceremony, and it sure ain’t anything to do with Allah. What’s Mazari paying you to do this?"

  The man scowled and flushed, as much as his dark, Afghan complexion allowed. It was answer enough. Stoner felt the white-hot fury rise up inside him, and the massacre all those years ago came back to him. It was scum like this who'd fired up the men to pull the trigger, to torture, to hack and slash at the living and dead alike.

  The Imam started to stutter an argument, but Stoner still had the wrench, and he brought it down on top of the guy's head. The turban softened the strike a little, but not enough. The angry blow knocked the man senseless, and he tumbled to the floor.

  Stoner had an idea to get the drop on them. He dragged off cleric’s robe and turban, ditching the borrowed sunglasses and turban he'd taken from the truck. Wearing the turban and robe of an Imam, he poked his head out the inner door. Mazari saw him, or at least, through the gloom he saw a dim shape that looked like the cleric he expected. He shouted something in Pashto. Stoner held up his hand and beckoned him to come into the room. Another torrent of angry Pashto grated around the prayer room. A couple of the fighters laughed, but Mazari acquiesced and dragged Lena toward the doorway.

  He was only a couple of meters away when he smelled a rat. He stopped short, and his mouth opened to shout a warning. It was now or never. Stoner darted out and smacked the wrench down hard on his head. It wasn't enough to kill him, and there was no time to finish him. He grabbed Lena and retreated, slammed the door, and pulled her out of the line of fire. A fusillade of bullets punched holes in the woodwork, ricocheting around the room before they buried themselves into the cracked plasterwork. Someone shouted, and the shooting stopped. He swept her up in his arms, carried her outside, and raced to the truck. As he reached it, the first fighter burst out of the main door, raised his rifle, and emptied a barrage of shots that cracked past them.

  He pulled her into cover behind the front wheels and shouted, "Can you drive, or did they hurt you?"

  She shook her black veiled head, and all he heard was, "Ugh, ugh."

  Shit, the gag.

  He snatched off the hijab covering her head and unfastened the crude gag. She gulped a sigh of relief.

  "I thought I'd never get that thing off. My hands, they're tied as well."

  He used his knife to slice through
the ropes. The other fighters were surging out of the building, and incoming fire chewed holes in the truck.

  She massaged her arms to restore the circulation and looked at him, her eyes wide with fear. "Why would you want me to drive? They’ll kill us the moment we start to move away."

  He pointed up to the steel mounting of the heavy machine gun. "I can hold them off with that thing. Unless you'd prefer to do the shooting."

  She flexed her arms and winced as pain replaced the numbness in her muscles. "I can drive."

  He gave her a grim smile. "Good. As soon as I pull the trigger, get this jalopy moving as fast as you can, back toward Panjab. Don’t spare the horses.”

  "I'll be ready."

  She hitched up the voluminous black robe still shrouding her body and tucked the skirt into her underwear. He noticed she had good legs, really good legs, slim and shapely. He pushed it out of his mind.

  Maybe there’ll be time for that later. If we make it!

  “Let’s go!”

  As she raced for the cab, he catapulted to his feet and vaulted onto the bed of the truck, gripping the butt of the machine gun. He swung the barrel around and sighted toward the enemy. The firing slackened for a few seconds as they struggled to overcome their surprise. Then they understood the danger, and the storm of fire became a hurricane.

  He shouted to Lena, “Start the fucking engine, go!”

  The cry came back, and he knew they were finished, “It won’t start. The engine won’t even turn over. I think there’s a loose wire behind the ignition key.”

  Jesus Christ, why don’t they maintain anything in this shithole they call a country?

  “Keep trying!”