The soldiers’ location was precarious as on either side of their position were two levels of raised living quarters and they had only cleared the ground floor. As the commanders planned, the rest of the operators scanned the high ground for enemy movement and signs of aggression.
Sergeant Nightingale addressed his men: “All right lads, as you can see our mission has failed. Someone has set us up. And our contact with command has been severed. In short this must be one of the most ill-fated black ops missions ever carried out. I suppose we’re more expendable than we ever had imagined. But forget about that, it’s time to go home. We’re going to get out of here one way or..”
“Expendable, indeed” said a coarse voice from above.
Nightingale looked up as did the rest of the Para-Ops men, their weapons raised, ready and aimed at the speaker.
It was Eltanin. And from both sides of each of the raised levels Brotherhood fighters appeared brandishing AK47s, RPGs and GPMGs.
Only the two Gunfighters kept their weapons holstered.
“You are doomed, you were doomed since the moment you set foot on Syrian soil. Do you not think I know of all the comings and goings of all armed men within this region? My spies have watched your every move. Even in the tunnels I had eyes watching your every move.”
The Para-Ops men were tactically out gunned, out manoeuvred and most importantly they held the low ground – they were doomed. And every single one of them knew it.
Brian needed to play for time, he needed to think.
“What do you want, Eltanin?”
“What do I want? It is you who have sought me out, you fool, not the other way around.”
“Then why are we talking?”
Eltanin’s left eyebrow raised as if in comical thought about his would be assassins’ latest inquiry. Then a smile met his face as though a comical decision had just played out in his mind’s eye.
“Good point” said Eltanin while slightly nodding at a shooter stood across the balcony to the rear of Sgt Nightingale.
The sniper squeezed his trigger and a bullet pierced the back of the SAS trooper’s head. His skull shattered from the Explosive Tipped Round and a long trail of blood hung in the air as the trooper’s corpse fell to the ground.
Scotty immediately returned fire to the place of origin of the sniper’s round and his deadly hot lead hit home, strong and true. The sniper face stopped four bullets brilliantly, he died obligingly
The courtyard and the levels above erupted in gunfire. All hell broke loose.
Alon and Aaron died quickly. An RPG incinerated their bodies, their ending was quick and without pain.
As the remaining SAS troopers found cover and fought back bravely and with skill and accuracy, Danny saw the two Gunfighters run away, one in either direction underneath the overhanging levels and to an unknown safety.
“You fucking cowardly bastards! May you live forever, you bastards!” shouted Shaun who also witnessed the Samurai bolt.
“Changing Mags!!” called Vincent as he reloaded and his brothers provided cover.
On the opposite end of the drinking well Jonathan, Avi and Daniel downed enemy after enemy sending bodies crashing to the ground. Trying to communicate was useless though as all the men had been left deaf from the exploding rocket propelled grenade that had killed their brothers moments earlier.
The advanced skill and deadly nature of the Spec Ops men was turning the tide, only momentarily, for as Daniel felt faint hope tug in his heart of hearts an enemy round punctured his lung and he fell to the floor, dead or dying.
A third force had moved in and flanked the Para-Ops team and they were taking aim at the men like shooting balloons in a bag.
A round pierced the shoulder of Avi and his weapon fell from his grip. He immediately used his left hand, jettisoned his primary weapon, and went to his secondary and continued the good fight – his pistol breathed fire.
They were doomed.
From the corner of his peripheral vision SAS trooper Danny saw a flash of a black figure appear behind the enemy flanking force. And one by one he saw his enemy fall.
Kenzo had not fled, he ran towards the enemy, towards the staircase and encircled the enemy from above and behind. His work was quick and deadly. He came in close and used the high number of adversary combatants against them. He entered their fold forcing them to create a circle and he stood at the centre as he downed them one round to the head at a time. At first the extremists were reluctant to shoot for fear of hitting each other but as they saw their comrades die fear gripped them and they opened up, firing wildly, hitting their brothers in brotherhood.
But not a single terrorist could track the movements of the super quick Gunfighter as his body flowed, repeating the movements of the Katsu Ballet of Death.
Directly behind Eltanin’s position emerged Keita and he was lethal -- but the opposing force was surely too great for even the greatest gunfighter to tackle and succeed..
Once more there was the faintest flicker of hope for the elite troopers. Maybe, just maybe.
The main gates to the Fortress opened and a column of Syrian Army troopers and trucks stormed in.
Eltanin’s laugh echoed throughout the halls of the great fortress. He was untouchable, all his enemies failed and died and he revelled in it.
Satan’s Chariot – The Flying Tank
The arrival of the large Syrian Army Force at the main gates and the selfless actions of Kenzo and Keita provided the two remaining Israelis, Jonathan and the wounded Avi, and the four remaining SAS troopers, Shaun, Scotty, Danny and Vincent enough time to withdraw and regroup behind the cover of a massive secondary defensive castle wall.
“What now?” asked Scotty while reloading his rifle.
Shrapnel exploded either side of the fighting men.
“We die with honour” said Jonathan.
Enemy rounds whizzed over their heads.
“Don’t know about honour but I’m certainly going to drag a few of those bastards with me to hell” said Danny.
“Now that I can agree to” said Avi “To hell my friends, with or without any bloody honour!”
The six warriors turned the corner as one and charged their enemy, with deadly precision.
Time slowed as adrenalin took over and all the men saw with total clarity as they fired their weapons that massive explosions started to consume and destroy their enemy. Terrorist bodies were flung into the air - Their arms, legs and heads variously severed from their bodies.
They stopped the charge forward and witnessed the beginning of the obliteration of the enemy force.
Flying low, a MI-24 Superhind gunship and attack helicopter swooped in, spitting its venom of rapid fire heavy machine gun and AT-6 Spiral anti-tank missiles. Enemy rounds had no effect on the heavily armoured “flying tank” as it eviscerated the enemy.
The Para-Ops team watched as within minutes the super attack helicopter destroyed their enemy. At the controls were CIA Tony and Captain John Taylor. Satan’s Chariot was collecting souls to be delivered to the depths of hell.
The radio crackled into life in the ears of the dispensable warriors.
“This is John, get to the cover of wall two and we’ll pick you up. Enemy reinforcements are on the way.”
The team made for the wall and en route were joined by Kenzo. He had made it out. The men fired every last round of every last ammunition clip as they killed and fought back the increasing number of Syrian Army soldiers now storming the ancient fortress. Moments later and they rounded the corner and were under the protection of the formidable wall. The superhind hovered inches from the ground waiting for its cargo.
As the team entered the chopper Captain Taylor spoke.
“Did you get Eltanin? Can you confirm he is dead?”
The SAS men shook their head as did Jonathan and the now barely conscious Avi.
“He is dead” said Kenzo. “Keita got him, before he was killed he fulfilled our mission. I saw it with my own eyes.”
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Still taking fire and under increasing attack from an ever growing, more aggressive force the helicopter lifted off the ground with its manifest of seven men and took to the skies.
The SAS Para-Ops unit and its core of seven deadly men was born. Born from blood, death, failure and success. A brotherhood melded by spirit, fortitude, strength and courage. The expendable Para-Ops unit forged by fire.
THE END
SAS Para-Ops #4: Sniper Fight!
BY
Casey Christie
Chapter One – Ash’abah
A Free Syrian Army fighter opens his eyes, awake. Another day of hard fighting ahead of him. Not against Bashar al-Assad and his regime but against the cursed ISIS. He stretches his arms, yawns, and swings his legs off the low cot he is told to call a bed and on to the cold, dirty floor of his makeshift “barracks”. He did not come from Europe to fight the evil of ISIS – he came here to fight and free his parent’s country from the tyranny of the evil Assad, Mohammed thinks to himself.
He’ll leave today, he’ll leave Syria and return to his new, civilised, peaceful home in comfortable Britain. He’ll go back on benefits and live a comfortable, lazy life.
“I’ll go back with the Americans after training today” he subconsciously mumbles out-loud to himself.
“What did you say, Mo?” asked another foreign FSA fighter in the cot next to him.
“Ha, ah, nothing. I’m going to take a piss, mate” he said.
He stands, pulls on his pants and puts on his shirt. He walks out the door and into the blistering morning heat; his feet burn on the hot sand.
‘When will I remember to put my boots on first thing, bloody fucking country! No worries, I’ll be on my way home soon, out of this cesspit and safe back in England – free money, free housing, free hospitals, stupid fucking Englishmen.’
Now with a smirk on his face Mohammed walks to the ditch they have been told to call a toilet and pulls out his manhood. He begins to relieve himself and thinks about impregnating his girlfriend to get more benefits – the last thing to go through his head besides the .50 caliber round of ammunition fired by a Chinese made M99, direct gas, rotating bolt, sniper rifle. Mohammed’s brain explodes like a watermelon, brain matter scatters across the dirty sand floor amid sprinkles of teeth, blood and gums. His scalp slides across the floor before coming to a stop against a tree stump. His body limp as rag doll, dead in the dust.
Ash'abah’s first kill of the day.
Chapter Two – Snuff Videos
A prisoner in an orange jumpsuit kneels on the ground, his hands bound behind his back. His head held straight by a lunatic dressed in all black clothing, his cowardly face covered. The hostage taker slash spokesperson speaks with a thick English accent – the new English thug-twang dripping with hate and self-righteousness. This young and former London gangster and gangster rapper holds his victim, an American journalist, by the collar of his jumpsuit with one hand and wields a knife in his other.
The brainwashed thug threatens the American President, Barack Obama, and then proceeds to move behind the doomed journalist and moves the blade from side to side across his victim’s neck. The camera fades to black and a new shot shows the decapitated body of the journalist – his detached head placed on his back.
This is Syria, this is ISIS’s first professionally filmed and edited snuff video, or execution, and this is the Islamic State’s newest propaganda piece.
Captain John Taylor and his SAS Paranormal Activity Tactical Operations Group watch a recording of the live stream execution via their briefing room at the Joint Sniper Training Establishment (JSTE) or 'Sniper School' based alongside the School of Infantry's Tactics Wing at Sennybridge in Wales.
“Okay, hold it there” said Taylor. “Thoughts, gentlemen?”
“He wasn’t killed on camera” said Vincent White. “When you cut a man’s neck like that, blood is drawn from the very first cut. Even squirts on occasion.”
“So you think he’s still alive, Sergeant?” said Taylor
“Negative, Boss. I believe he’s dead, I just don’t believe our English extremist was the killer – certainly not on tape anyway.”
“I agree” said Sergeant Henry Lee.
The rest of the group nodded their agreement.
“So we all agree, that little piece of vermin, that I like to call “London” is not the executioner, just the mouthpiece. Nevertheless he’s a top priority. I want London’s body in a bag by the end of this operation. We’re not going to watch the other two videos as they are pretty much identical. Jones, play the fourth and final video, this is the reason we’re here.”
Lance Corporal Daniel Jones hits the play button on the PC and starts the scene.
A prisoner in an orange jumpsuit kneels on the ground, a look of complete hopelessness in his eyes. He very obviously reads from a script citing passages from the Koran and condemns the West to damnation for their sins. The black masked man moves behind him and places the blade across his throat – once again before any blood is drawn the video fades to black and then resumes to show the decapitated body of an aid worker.
“Hold it there, will you, Jones.”
“Yes, Boss”
“Exactly the same MO as the other videos, may the poor bastard rest in peace. Now, what you are going to see next is the reason we are here, pay careful attention gentlemen.”
The video continues…
Three kneeling prisoners in the same orange jumpsuits are paraded in front of the camera.
London speaks: “These men will be next, Cameron and Obama” he spits. “Unless you stop the bombing and unless you stop interfering with business that has nothing to do with you we will kill one of these men every 36 hours if you do not stop waging an unjust war against the Islamic State.”
The camera pans from prisoner to prisoner and then fades to black.
“We’ve got the green light to go in and save him, off the record of course. A completely deniable operation” said Taylor.
“Excuse me, Captain. But how will it be deniable when the world’s media will see that we have saved him?” said Mark Andrews “And if I might ask, why are we going to save him – I mean of all the journalists to save, why him – he’s a disgrace: fired from his newspaper, a terrible reflection on him, and fired from Cable News. And I’ll bet he got himself into that situation.”
“Indeed, he did. That moron went into Syria against his CPO’s advice. Seeking redemption and glory no doubt. Jones, play the video one more time, I hope everyone else has already seen the reason we’re going in.”
The video plays and Mark studies the faces of the prisoners in detail.
The first man he recognises instantly: his pale and pudgy features, his self-important air, Richard King.
The second man Mark knows, from the file in front of him, is an oil worker, kidnapped from the oil fields in Iraq. He looks mentally shattered, broken and ready for death.
But the mission briefing has no detail about the third man, a “John Smith”. Mark studies his features carefully as the camera slowly passes over his face. And then he sees it, his eyes! They are the same eyes as the men he now sits with in this very room.
Jones switches the video off with a click of the mouse button.
“He’s one of ours!” said Mark.
“Did you work that out all by yourself psychic man or did you just have a vision?” mocks Geordie.
“Shut your mouth little fellow or I’ll shut it for you” retorts Andrews.
In a flash Geordie moves out of his chair and crosses the room hurling himself toward the former bank manager. “You fucking bastard, how dare you, a civi, speak to me like that.”
Even quicker the former fat banker reacts and stands and towers above Geordie. His powerful 6 foot 2 frame looking down at the short and broad SAS Corporal, typical of SAS operators, as being short and thick shouldered lends itself to trekking the mountains and landscape with large and heavy burdens and passing the gruelling and equally
famous selection process in which 90% of men simply fail.
“ENOUGH” commands Captain Taylor. “Geordie get out! And I’ll remind you that Andrews passed selection with flying colours– physically at least, while he may not actually be a serving soldier in Her Majesty’s Army he passed Selection with the last group of 23 regiment recruits, something that is virtually unheard of for a man of his size.”
“Protecting your little pet experiment are you, Boss?”
“I don’t need anyone to protect me. And here I’ll show you why”
With speed that defies Mark Andrews’s size and strength he moves around and behind the aggressive soldier and twists, then pins his hand up and behind his aggressor’s back, forcing Geordie on to the tips of his toes. He guides him out the door cursing and blinding, throws him out the room and then calmly closes the door.
The fat, alcoholic, insecure banker with a gift, or curse, of having the ability to see certain episodes of the future is no more. Long gone, like the mist atop the Brecon Beacons vanished from this earth. Instead, in his place exists a new Mark Andrews: confident and strong from one year of solid training with the men of one of the finest fighting units on earth. One year since waking up in the home of Katsu the gun-fighting Master. He’s not an SAS trooper; he’s not even a serving soldier. Instead he’s been assigned as a special consultant to Captain John Taylor’s troop of 15 men, part of a larger Sabre Squadron of 22 SAS. A troop that officially does not exist.
SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6 Page 16