Black Ops Omnibus

by Matt Lynn

  A roadblock had been flagging them down, a mile from The Compound. Alex had swerved the VW up on to the pavement, driving straight past it, but a rebel on a motorbike had given chase, drawing up alongside them, and releasing angry busts of fire from a machine pistol. The windscreen on the car had been shattered by the gunfire, sending glass everywhere. But Alex simply powered forward. It was too dangerous to stop. While he gripped the wheel, Zena aimed a single bullet at the man, putting a round straight through his cheek, and sending both him and his Honda bike sprawling all over the pavement.

  “He should have been wearing a helmet,” said Alex with a grin.

  “Health and safety,” said Zena. “I don’t think its reached Libya yet.”

  Alex brushed the glass off the dashboard, and swerved around a corner onto a street that would take them straight into The Colonel’s headquarters. He could see the lights up ahead of him. Most of the city had been plunged into darkness as the power stations got caught up in the fighting, but The Compound had its own generator. An arc of light swept out over the streets below, and there was an occasional burst of sporadic fire as the mercenaries up on the watch towers spotted some rebel fighters approaching the walls and turned their guns onto them.

  “I’m going straight in,” said Alex. “Keep you head down.”

  He slowed the VW as he approached the main gate. There were six heavily armed Zimbabweans manning a roadblock fifty yards from the entrance and another six men on the gate. Alex pulled over, and glanced left, straight into the barrel of an AK-47 that had been thrust into face. “We’re on a mission for Major Maruma,” he said.

  The guard nodded, and waved them through.

  Alex tapped on the accelerator, and steered the car into The Compound. The main gate was holding, but the rest of place was in chaos. The rebels had breached one wall, punching a six foot hole in its defences, and fighters were storming the building, held back by a unit of four men manning a machine gun unit. At a least three more points, the walls were coming under heavy fire from mortars and RPGs. The ground shook as the shells crashed constantly into the thick walls, and Alex reckoned it might only be a few minutes before the walls were breached. So far, there was just one gap in the wall, and the mercenaries could hold that. Once there were three or four, it would be impossible. The rebels would come streaming inside.

  We got here just in time, he decided grimly.

  If we’re lucky.

  “Where’s Maruma?” he barked towards a Zimbabwean mercenary running to supply a machine gun unit with a fresh box of ammo.

  The man pointed towards the villa. “With The Colonel.”

  As Alex looked around, he heard a sudden cry. From the right, a group of men were emerging from underground. None of them were armed with rifles, but most of them has twisted what looked like metal bars into makeshift clubs. They were fifty of them at least, reckoned Alex, formed into a tightly organised square, something like a Roman legionary unit, and they were advancing straight towards the centre of the parade ground.

  “The prisoners,” said Zena. “They’ve broken out.”

  “Jack,” yelled Alex.

  He looked into the crowd. They were wild, desperate men, and they were clothed in nothing more than torn jeans and ripped tee-shirts. He wasn’t sure he ever seen a more ragged looking army. But they were driven by a suicidal fury, and that made them a force to be reckoned with.

  “Here,” shouted Jack.

  He broke away from the crowd of prisoners, and started to run towards Alex and Zena. “You got the document?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Then let’s grab The Colonel and get the hell out of here,” said Jack. “The prisoners are about to link up with the rebels. This place isn’t going to hold for more than a few more minutes.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Harford flashed up a series of images on the screen. They showed the positions of the rebel forces around The Compound. Six separate units were blasting the walls with RPGs, and, on one of the streets to the east, a pair of tanks captured from the official Libyan army were lumbering slowly towards The Colonel’s headquarters, and once they were in place their massive cannons would blast through the walls with ease. Fires were burning on the streets outside, as buildings were set alight, and as he enlarged the images sent back by the drone aircraft flying overhead, the bodies of mercenaries defending the area were clearly visible, the men lying dead or wounded where they fell.

  “The rebels will have broken through within minutes,” said Harford.

  He pointed towards the clock on the wall. Twenty-one-forty, local time.

  The cruise missile strike was scheduled for twenty-two hundred hours.

  “They won’t hold The Compound for another twenty minutes,” he said. “If we don’t blow the place now, they’ll capture The Colonel, and they’ll get the document as well.”

  Greenway shrugged. “Marden and Rogan are dead men anyway,” she said, her voice low. “We can’t allow anyone who has seen that document to survive.”

  She glanced at Harford. “Send in the missile strike,” she said, her voice relaxing as the decision was made. “We’ll finally send The Colonel and every deal we ever signed with him straight to hell.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Colonel Zayed was sitting on an elaborate, gilt-covered sofa. His personal apartment was decorated with trophies from his forty years in power. There were photos of him standing next to a series of African and Middle Eastern leaders. Photos of mass rallies he’d addressed in Libya over the years. And a series of honorary degrees from universities Alex had never heard of, and which, he suspected, would be erasing any record of their association with the dictator by tomorrow morning.

  The man’s time was done, reflected Alex. No one would ever want to acknowledge his existence again, and no one would own up to ever having been a supporter or an ally. That was the way it was with dictators: once they fell, the world turned against them completely. But, from his face, he clearly didn’t have any idea what fate had in store for him. He looked calm, peaceful even. As if he was planning no more than a weekend in the country.

  “We’ve got the document,” said Alex, looking straight across at The Colonel. “It’s time to go.”

  “I’m ready,” said The Colonel, standing up.

  “I’ll come with you,” said Maruma. “It’s not safe out there.”

  Jack looked across at the Major angrily. Only a few hours ago, Maruma had thrown him into the cells. If he’d still been there, he’d have been executed, along with the rest of the captured rebels. He was about to help the guy now. “Looking to save your skin, are you Major?” he said, his tone rough.

  “I’ll be protecting The Colonel,” answered Maruma angrily.

  “He’s got us to protect him,” said Jack. “Your job is to lead your men in a last defence of this compound.” He looked across at Zayed. It was death sentence, and both of them knew it. Maruma’s men were about to be overrun by the rebel forces, and they’d all be slaughtered. “Isn’t that right, sir?”

  The Colonel nodded, his expression solemn. “Defend the compound to the last man,” he told Maruma. “You’re honour is at stake.”

  The room was shaken by the racket of a sudden explosion. Alex reckoned a tank had been bought into position and its cannons were knocking the walls into rubble. “Let’s go,” he snapped.

  The Colonel walked quickly but didn’t break into a run. He was flanked by Jack on one side and Alex on the other, with Zena leading the way. His own armoured car – a black Lexus RX, with blackened out bullet-proof windows – was waiting outside. The Compound had descended into chaos. The rebels had breached the walls in at least three different places, and were pouring through the walls. The mercenaries were repelling them where they could with brutal efficiency, turning their big, heavy machine guns onto the advancing enemy, cutting them to shreds. But the released prisoners were attacking from inside The Compound, and Maruma’s men were under assault from all sides. As the m
ercenaries fell, the prisoners were capturing their rifles, and turning them on the soldiers still alive. Their casualties were mounting by the minute. Bodies were lying everywhere, and men were screaming as their wounds remained untreated. The final defeat on the regime was at hand, reckoned Alex.

  “Move, move,” yelled Jack as they bundled The Colonel towards the car.

  Alex took the wheel, with Jack alongside him, while The Colonel and Zena sat in the back. He kicked down hard on the accelerator. The Lexus had plenty of power on it and was a pleasure to drive compared to VW. It accelerated sharply, as he steered it out towards through the gates and onto the main road.

  “Back to the coast,” said Zena. Her tone was still calm, even amidst the chaos all around them, but even she was starting to sound tense noted Alex. “The fishing boat will be waiting for us.”

  Alex could see a rebel roadblock up ahead.

  Six men, each one armed with an AK-47. A car had been turned upside down, and set alight, creating a fiercely burning obstacle across the road. There was no time to stop reckoned Alex, and no time to try and find a different route out of here. “Hold on,” he said, glancing back at Zena and The Colonel. “This is going to be rough.”

  He put his foot hard on the accelerator. There was no way of knowing what the specification for the car was, but a typical armoured vehicle used by a senior political leader would have metal plating capable of withstanding an RPG round, bullet-proof glass, fire resistant exterior lining, and run-flat tyres so that you could make an escape even when your wheels had been shredded. With that lot, they should be able to smash through the blockade. We’ll just have to hope The Colonel didn’t cut any corners. If this was an ordinary Lexus, the kind designed for school runs in the suburbs, it would get ripped to shreds. Along with everyone inside.

  He taped the accelerator again. The vehicle was doing over ninety. Up ahead, a soldier was flagging them down, but once he could see the Lexus wasn’t going to stop, he opened up with a burst of fire from his AK-47. The bullets lashed into the moving vehicle, but it was designed to withstand a far more lethal assault than a single man with an automatic rifle, and the round bounced harmlessly off its toughened steel skin. They were closing fast on the roadblock, and as they got closer, two more men opened fire, but Alex’s confidence in the machine was growing all the time, and he steered the Lexus straight towards them. Smoke was billowing out from the burning vehicle, and visibility was down to just a few yards, but Alex could see enough to steer straight into one of the soldiers, crushing him with a sickening thud, whilst the other jumped out of the way. The Lexus slowed as it thumped into the roadblock. Fire was raging all around them, and chunk of burning metal were sticking to the skin of the Lexus, but it punched its way through, pushing the upturned vehicle aside. One tyre burst, with a sudden cracking noise, but the machine kept running, and in the next second Alex was through to the other side. The road opened up ahead of them.

  A hundred yards of open, black-topped highway.

  Leading down to the coast.

  He breathed out, and started to relax.

  “We’ve made it,” he said quietly.

  Behind them, there was a sudden explosion. The ground shook, and the remaining electricity switched itself off. A fireball rose up into the sky, followed by a huge cloud of black smoke. Fire was spitting everywhere, and even though they were now several hundred yards from the compound, and accelerating fast away from it, they could feel the shockwave roll menacingly through the street.

  “What was that?” demanded Zena.

  “A missile,” said Jack. “Straight into the compound.”

  He glanced across at Alex. “It looks like someone wants to wipe that place off the face of the earth before the rebels get inside.”

  Alex nodded, his expression grim. “And I think we know why.”

  Chapter Twenty

  First rule of any military operation, reflected Alex bitterly. If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong.

  They looked around the small port. It was close to midnight, and the place was empty. When they’d arrived last night, the village had been occupied by rebel forces but the place was of no military or strategic significance, and they’d all gone. Moved up for the assault on the capital, reckoned Alex. Some of the fishing boats were already out at sea for the night’s work. Tripoli was desperately short of food, so they’d probably be getting two or three times the usual money for their catch. But there was no sign of the man who’d bought then in and was meant to take them out again. Nor was there any sign of his boat.

  “How the hell are we getting out of here?” said Jack.

  “We’ll take another boat,” said Zena.

  She spent a couple of minutes examining the dozen vessels in the harbour whilst Jack and Alex stood guard with their guns. If anyone objected to them stealing their boat, the handguns should persuade them: if not, Alex still had a couple of gold coins hidden into the sole of his boot. Zena chose a twenty foot long open boat with an outboard motor. “It’s a calm night and its only two miles to the RV point. This will do fine.”

  Alex steered Zayed on board. The Colonel was impassive, as if he hadn’t really grasped what was happening to him yet. He was looking around, as if he was walking through a foreign country. Not a place he’d ruled despotically through four decades.

  Jack spent a couple of minutes fiddling with the Honda outboard engine. There was no key, but it could still be hot-wired to life. It had five litres of petrol in its tank, and another five stored in a jerry can in a small locker inside the boat, alongside a couple of life jackets, some flares, and a compass. As the engine kicked into life, Jack steered the boat out of the harbour, and into the open sea.

  “North, north-west,” said Zena. “I have the co-ordinates of the RV point. We’re about an hour away.”

  As the small boat cruised out into the Mediterranean, Alex sat back to enjoy the view. The storm of last night had blown right through, and in its wake, as it often was after a storm, the night was warm and seas were calm. Off in the distance, he could see he hazy glow of Tripoli. Usually, it would the lights of the city you see from this distance. Tonight, it was the soft glow of fires burning.

  We’re well out of that hell hole, thought Alex to himself.

  Only two things remained to be done.

  Assassinate The Colonel. And get back alive to the HMS Stanley.

  The hour drifted by. Everyone was too tied to speak. The temperature dropped as they got further out from the coast, and Alex was sitting at the back of the boat, swaying as they bounced through the waves, trying to keep warm. Off in the distance, the lights from Tripoli were fading. A cruise missile, thought Alex to himself. That’s what crashed into The Compound just as we were fleeing. Nothing else could have caused that amount of damage.

  “Another ten degrees north,” said Zena at one in the morning. “We’re getting close to the RV point.”

  Alex scanned the horizon ahead of them, but he could see nothing apart from the empty expanse of the Mediterranean. Only NATO could have put in a cruise missile, he pondered to himself. Because they wanted The Colonel destroyed. And they didn’t mind if they killed us as well.

  Unless…

  A thought suddenly struck him.

  He reached inside his sweatshirt, and made sure the Browning was still there and that its clip was full.

  “Here,” shouted Zena. She looked towards Jack. “Kill the engine.”

  The sound of a boat was closing in on them. Its lights were switched off. But it s big black hull soon loomed into view. A small patrol boat, it had no insignia on it. “Change of plan,” said Zena, standing up. “The Mossad are picking us up and taking us home instead of the Royal Navy.”

  Christ, thought Alex.

  I was right.

  “The Mossad!” snapped The Colonel. He jumped to his feet. “I’m not going anywhere with those Israeli scum.”

  Zena had drawn her Browning handgun and was pointing it straight towards him. �
��You are in our custody now, and you’ll do precisely what you are told.”

  Two men were standing on the approaching vessel as it drew alongside them. Alex glanced at them anxiously. Both were wearing black clothes, not uniforms. Both were carrying Uzi sub-machine guns, the lethally effective Israeli weapon designed for troops clearing their way through the dangerous basements of Beirut. And neither of them looked like they were about to brew up a cup of tea for everyone and take them all straight back to the HMS Stanley.

  “I’ve been betrayed,” growled The Colonel.

  He was standing up, shaking. The wind had picked up now they were on the open ocean, and the waves were gathering force, rocking the small boat from side to side.

  Zena kept the gun trained straight on him. “Who wants to execute the man?” asked Zena, glancing across at Jack and Alex.

  Jack had already stood up. He was walking straight towards The Colonel. The idiot doesn’t have any idea what’s going on, thought Alex.

  “We could toss a coin for it.”

  “No, I’ll do it,” said Zena.

  “I never argue with a lady,” said Jack.

  Inside his shirt, Alex drew his own gun, so that it was ready to fire, but concealed from view. “We should toss that coin,” he said.

  “I said, I’ll do it,” said Zena angrily.

  “Let the lady have her way, pal,” said Jack, glancing across at Alex. “I thought the British still had manners.”

  A shot rang out, then another. The Colonel staggered backwards as the first bullet collided with his head, and the second with his chest. He crashed to the floor of the boat, a trickle if blood seeping from the two wounds the rounds had punched through him.