Operation Zulu: Dos

by Gamboa, Allen

  Copyright 2015

  Allan Gamboa

  Phalanxpress.com

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental. All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author.

  DEAD ISLAND DOS

  PREQUEL

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  GOOD GUYS

  BAD GUYS

  SERBIAN HEAD JOB

  MALI, WEST AFRICA

  What brought Hale back to consciousness was the stabbing pain in his left leg and the freezing rain that splattered his face. The Air Force sergeant wiped the ice cold rain water from his face and tried to sit up. The smell of burning aircraft fuel and gunpowder hung heavy in the air. The Special Ops soldier painfully crawled several dozen feet through the thick mud to the cover of a small rock formation. Out of the line of fire, Hale leaned back against the biggest rock he could find and assessed his damaged left leg. Just as he thought, it was broken. Shit, he chuckled to himself; all those fancy dance lessons his wife had paid for were now worthless. If somehow he made it to his sister in law's wedding it would be on crutches. Hale groaned as he tried to move closer to the rock formation. There was a small explosion from the right and the Pararescueman glanced over at the burning Blackhawk that lay roughly 100 yards away. Hale cursed—the aircraft still burned even in the heavy rainfall. Thirteen Airmen were either still inside the helicopter or spread out throughout the rocky terrain; all of them dead.

  Sergeant Roland ‘Rollie’ Hale pulled off his cracked helmet and tossed it into the mud. A steady stream of blood ran from his right cheek where a piece of the helicopter had sliced him. He reached a gloved hand up to the wound and pulled back blood-soaked fingers.

  ‘Well fuck’, he thought, trying to not think about the contents of the burning Blackhawk, ‘ain’t gonna make the cover of GQ anytime soon’. Until he removed it, the broken helmet had applied just enough pressure to stop the wound from bleeding. He wiped the rain and blood from his eyes and glanced around at his surroundings. He could hear the Russian mercenaries moving in closer. Hale had lost his M4 and most of his gear when he’d been thrown from the helicopter but the sergeant still had his Beretta and three magazines with ten rounds each. If he lived long enough to expend all those rounds, he had the Ka-Bar knife his father, a Vietnam vet, had given him—although Hale wasn’t much of a knife fighter either.

  Hale’s team had been on a mission to capture a Serbian arms dealer who was reported to have a nuke for sale. The CIA had tracked him to a villa in a rural area outside of Belgrade. There wasn’t supposed to be any anti-aircraft defense systems in place. Well, that was a big goat fuck, Hale thought as he shook his head, flinging water and blood all about. As Rollie had been about to rappel out of the helicopter, two rockets struck the Blackhawk, killing the soldiers and pilots and tossing him to the deep muddy ground below. So much for good intel, he thought as he chambered a round in the Beretta. A bullet suddenly slammed into the rocks above Hale. The sergeant raised the pistol in the direction of the shot and snapped off two quick rounds. Another blast threw up some mud to his right. Hale pushed himself closer to the rocks and fired two more shots to the right. He heard a grunt then a wet thud, indicating that he’d gotten real lucky and hit one of his attackers. Someone yelled loudly in Russian and all hell broke loose. Bullets whizzed by him crashing into the rocks. Hale tried to get as low as he could in the wet ground as bullets flew overhead. A few of the mercenaries stopped shooting and reloaded, giving the American a few seconds to move. Jumping up on his good leg he dove from his position and rolled his injured body behind another group of big rocks. A few rounds hit behind him as he made his brief escape. Breathing hard and hurting like hell, the Air Force sergeant peered around one of the rocks in his hiding spot and saw one of the Russian mercenaries was crawling through the muck towards him. Hale squeezed off three rounds, catching the man in the side and pushing him down into the mud. The Russian was wearing body armor so the bullets knocked the wind out of the mercenary but didn't kill him. Hale moved closer against the rocks and emptied the rest of the magazine into the man’s head and neck. Rounds from the other mercenaries drove Hale to his stomach as they impacted on the rock walls and sent chips flying all about in the rain.

  Lying flat in the mud, Hale ejected the empty magazine and inserted another, leaving him twenty rounds left. The remaining mercenaries continued to fire on the sergeant’s position as they tried to keep him pinned down. Luck seemed to be favoring Hale as the late evening gloom and the heavy rain combined together to keep the Russian’s range of view to a minimum. The sergeant figured he’d taken out two bad guys by using a whole magazine and there were at least six more mercenaries lurking around out there wanting nothing more than to kill him. While he tried to gain more cover behind the rocks, he quickly calculated the math in his head. The equation was simple. Hale was fucked. More bullets flew toward his position. He fired off a couple of rounds where he thought some of the mercs had been shooting from. Hale knew he probably wouldn’t hit shit, but he needed to keep them at bay while he tried to figure out a plan of escape.

  Body aching, he crawled behind another group of rocks as bullets raked the area he’d just vacated. With a muddy hand, Hale fired off three more rounds and slid lower to the ground. A round hit too close to where he had just hunkered down. He fired two more shots then dragged his injured body farther away seconds before the mercenaries peppered it with AK rounds. Mud splashed everywhere as the bullets sunk into the wet earth. One of the Russians leapt over the rocks confidently, firing at where he thought Hale was hiding. The mercenary abruptly fell flat on his back as he lost his footing in the slippery muck. Hale, whom the Russian had just missed by mere inches, placed two rounds into the man’s head. More bullets whizzed by. Hale fired off three more rounds in the direction of the advancing Russians. With a steady hand, he ejected the empty magazine and quickly inserted his last ten rounds. Before Hale could fire his weapon, he was hit hard from behind with the butt of an AK 47. He tried to swing his pistol around but another strike from the assailant sent him face down into the mud. A third hit in the middle of his back caused him to gasp for air and drop the Beretta in the mud. Reeling in extreme pain and swallowing blood and water, Hale tried to roll away from the rifle wielding mercenary. Another butt strike smashed him in the left leg. Seeing red, Hale drew the Ka-Bar knife from his waist and swept the Russian with his right leg. The mercenary went down hard on his back and before he could do anything else, Hale jammed the knife into his neck. As the Russian gurgled in pain, Hale swiftly jerked the knife to the left and, amid great spurts of dark blood, decapitated the man.

  “Mother of God!” one of the mercenaries said in Russian as he stood frozen in horror at what he’d just witnessed. Before the Russian could react further, Hale, holding it by the hair, flung the head hard at the man. Still in shock, the Russian didn’t react until his comrade's head smacked him in the face. Screaming wildly and covered in the dead man's blood, the Russian finally tried to bring his weapon into play. By then, Hale had grabbed up the headless mercenary's rifle and fired three shots into the other man’s face. Bullets resumed whizzing all around Hale as the remaining Russians, intent on finishing off the desperate soldier, converged on his position.

  ”Well, fuck, Ivan!” Hale shouted at the advancing Russians as he struggled to stay upright. The adrenalin that had given him this big burst of energy was quickly starting to fade. Hale could feel every bit of pain his body w
as now offering up. “Looks like the only dancing I’ll be doing is with you assholes!” he growled, fully prepared to die but not without taking more of the mercenaries with him. Suddenly, the surrounding area exploded in gunfire. Rock chips and mud splattered all about. Without thinking, Hale dove down into the thick mud as the surrounding mercenaries were torn to pieces by thousands of machine gun rounds. The fire fight was brief and one-sided. Hale didn’t move until the guns had stopped and he heard the familiar voices of American soldiers.

  “What the fuck?” an Airman said.

  “What a mess.”

  “Is that a fucking head?” said one of the other soldiers in disbelief.

  “I’m American!” Hale shouted, not moving from his fresh hidey-hole in the mud. “I’m American Air Force!”

  “Ho-lee shit!” the first Airman said. “It’s Sergeant Hale! He’s alive!”

  “Yeah,” Hale groaned as he spat out some mud and pulled himself farther out of the sludge. “Damn right I’m fucking alive!”

  MALI, WEST AFRICA, BEFORE OUTBREAK

  THE DONKEY

  “Ho-lee crap!” Staff Sergeant Linwood Morgan chuckled to himself as he watched Corporal Redwood place a very angry man into zip-ties. A coalition of French and American security forces was in Mali hunting for the terrorist Al-Quds Akirah. Simply translated, the human trafficker and arms dealer's name meant “The Holy Day of Judgment”. A name Morgan knew that the terrorist commander had arrogantly bestowed on himself. The terrorist had been hiding out and averting allied capture when Morgan’s twenty soldier patrol—acting on a local tip— tracked him down to this small village.

  The “Holy Day of Judgment” struggled a little with the giant Redwood as the corporal easily pressed the warlord's face into the dirt covered street. Akirah continued to weakly resist with the big soldier's knee in his back. Morgan wiped some sweat from his forehead and looked over at Sergeant Veronica ‘Ronnie’ Cross and Corporal Duley ‘Dj’ Johnson.

  “Al-Quds Akirah,” Duley said, flashing the playing card that had the warlord's name and picture on it.

  “The Holy Day of Judgment… think that’s a family name?” Cross asked as she dropped her M4 to combat rest.

  “He looks like more like a junior to me, or maybe a Randy.” Morgan smiled. “Tell Randy there to calm down and we’ll get him some medical attention and one of them fancy halal MREs.”

  The attractive, redheaded Cross spoke French fluently and served as the patrol's interpreter. Mali had once been a French territory and most people still spoke it. Cross looked down at the warlord, who was underneath the two hundred and ninety pound Northern Californian. Corporal James Redwood, a six foot five Native American, was all tough on the outside but a big teddy bear deep down. Cross leaned forward and spoke to the terrorist in the most pleasant and seductive French he’d ever heard. Al-Quds relaxed and stopped struggling with the corporal.

  “Who knew high school French would come in handy?” She looked up at Redwood and smiled.

  “Not me. Folks told me German was the language of the future. Shit…” He spit out some chew next to Al-Quds’ flapping dress.

  “Flunked Spanish,” —Duley popped a stick of gum into his mouth—“But I can order off the Taco Bell menu just fine,” he said proudly.

  “That’s not Spanish,” Redwood stood up and wiped his hands on his pants, leaving the warlord lying passively on the ground. “Though I could really go for some cheesy fiesta potatoes ‘bout now.”

  The Staff Sergeant glanced around at the rest of his soldiers who were spread out around the five Humvee convoy. Private First Class (PFC) Molson was up on the .60 caliber machine gun on Lieutenant Osborne’s Humvee providing over-watch for the operation.

  A large crowd of onlookers were rapidly growing in the surrounding areas. More and more villagers were starting to emerge from the nearby buildings.

  “Can you feel it?” Duley asked as he rested a gloved hand on the barrel of his M4. “Just like that time in Nadir, Sarge.”

  Morgan nodded as he looked around. “Not good.” He spotted the Lieutenant who was talking on the radio, oblivious to the quickly deteriorating situation around them. “Wish the L-Tee would have waited until we could have got some armor up here.”

  “Yep.” Duley nodded. “Wish we were back at Firebase Hansen.” He threw a quick look at the warlord lying prone; his summer dress was moving in the light breeze, exposing his backside. “Damn, son. Don’t you fellas believe in wearing drawers?!”

  “That’s not underwear?” Cross frowned. “Looks like someone needs to wax their ass.”

  Morgan shook his head at the younger soldier then turned and yelled at the officer. “Hey, L.T.! I think we need to move!”

  Lieutenant Osborne, a short, wiry man about five years younger than the sergeant, was talking into a radio handset which was strapped to Specialist Pearson’s back. Osborne gave Morgan a curt nod and absently waved him off.

  “What the fuck does that mean?” Cross asked.

  Irritated, Morgan shook his head. The sergeant wasn’t a fan of the new officer. Osborne was some general’s favorite and was just looking for a free ride up the ranks. This catch in this tiny little village was pure dumb luck. Morgan and his soldiers had just helped Osborne cement his first step to the Pentagon.

  “Means he doesn’t give a shit,” Duley grumbled. “I have two weeks left on this tour and that son of a bitch is goin’ get me killed.”

  “Easy!” Morgan said evenly.

  “Sorry, Sergeant.” Duley frowned. “I just want to get home.”

  “Me too. Don’t worry. Your baby mama ain’t going nowhere.” He slapped the soldier on the back and glanced around. The crowd was growing restless and Morgan could see several of them start to pick up rocks, sticks, bricks, and whatever else they could lay their hands on. It wouldn't be long before the gunfire would start.

  “You don’t know Shontay, Sarge; she’s meaner than a bucket o’ snakes.”

  “Don’t worry about ole Shontay, Corporal, she’s not about to let a fine upstanding soldier like you get away. Right now I’d worry about becoming the donkey.”

  “Donkey?” Duley asked.

  “Yeah, you ever heard that joke about the miner who goes to this mining camp in bumfuck nowhere. He asks his buddy, What do we do for sex? The buddy says, See that donkey over there? We use that.” Duley frowned at Morgan. “The miner says, No way. I can wait. A month goes by and he’s horny as hell so he says fuck it and goes over to where this poor donkey is tied up. He looks around, doesn’t see anyone, so he proceeds to start giving it to this poor animal.”

  “Randy, any of this sound familiar?” Cross said in French to the warlord. Al-Quds just cursed under his breath. “I guess in your case it would be a goat.”

  “Anyway,” Morgan continued, “his buddy shows up and says ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ The miner, all red-faced, says ‘you said we use the donkey!’ ‘No dumbass’, his buddy says ‘we use the donkey to ride to the whorehouse in the next town!’” Morgan grinned and motioned around at the crowd then jerked a thumb back at the patrol. “We are the donkey.”

  “Damn, Sarge.” The corporal shook his head.

  “Duley, get back to your vehicle and get your gunner ready.”

  “On it!” The soldier turned and double timed it to the lead Humvee.

  “L.T.!” Morgan took a few steps in the officer's direction. “We need to go now.”

  “Sergeant!” Osborne held the handset against his chest plate. “Alpha One is sending a chopper in for him.”

  “Can’t land here; too dicey.” Morgan motioned to the large group of villagers. “We need to get mounted and go!”

  “All right! All right!” Osborne said, clearly annoyed, and started speaking into the handset.

  “Redwood,”— the sergeant headed back toward the convoy— “load the bad guy up in our vehicle.”

  “Come on, tough guy.” Redwood said as he easily lifted Al-Quds to his feet and shoved the warl
ord and human trafficker forward. “It’s your lucky day, Randy; you get a nice cushy drive before your flight.”

  “Shit!” A rock pinged off the hood of one of the vehicles. The crowd was beginning to chant loudly and move slowly in the convoy’s direction.

  “Dammit, L.T.! We need to go now!” Another rock crashed into the rear tire of Morgan’s Humvee.

  “Chopper will meet us five clicks southeast of the Niger.” Osborne tossed his handset to Pearson and started to jog ahead. “Let’s go!”

  “Mount up!” Morgan shouted as the crowd continued to advance on them.

  The rest of the soldiers quickly climbed aboard their vehicles. Osborne ducked into his Humvee as more rocks pelted the convoy. The crowd grew closer and more threatening. Osborne gave his gunner, Private Molson, an order to fire over the heads of the unruly villagers. Nodding, Molson opened up with his .60 caliber machine gun. The crowd suddenly dispersed, diving for cover and running away.

  “Go! Go! Go!” Osborne shouted at Johnson, his driver. The convoy swiftly sped out of the angry town and onto the hard pack highway. Osborne sat back and pulled off his helmet then wiped the sweat from his forehead and smiled. The lieutenant was feeling pretty pleased with himself. He’d caught one of the ten most wanted. This would be a good story to tell the little secretaries at the Pentagon.

  “Well, that was fun,” Redwood said sarcastically as he steered the speeding Humvee. Cross laughed and removed her helmet, exposing a burst of bright red hair. Al-Quds, who sat in the back with Morgan, just gawked at the soldier’s mane.

  “What’s the matter, Randy? Never seen a red-headed girl soldier?” Morgan asked. The warlord just glared darkly at the sergeant then continued staring open mouthed at Cross.

  “That was an easy OP.” She smirked.