Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  “Sounds interesting. How far do these qanats stretch?”

  “History tells us that the Caliph Mutawakkil constructed a qanat system, using Persian engineers that brought water to his residence, which was three hundred miles from the source.”

  “Christ, that’s really something. So is there a qanat that runs from Niavaran all the way into the city of Tehran?”

  “Without doubt, yes, there’ll be several. Why do you ask?”

  “Just interested, that’s all.”

  The food arrived and they began to eat.

  “Now it’s your turn. Tell me something about yourself, Abe,” she smiled.

  “There’s not much I can say. Most of my work is classified.”

  “They told me you’re due for promotion, to Lieutenant Commander, is that right? But you’re still a Lieutenant?”

  “Yeah, something like that.”

  “You don’t sound very enthusiastic.”

  He shrugged. “It’s complicated.”

  So how accessible are the qanats? Are they a back door into Tehran? If so, it could make the task of Echo Six that much easier. I'd best be patient and get it out of her another time. I don’t want her knowing everything.

  He thought he’d missed something when he heard her ask him, “Where shall we go?”

  “Excuse me, you mean which airport? I thought you were flying out to Iran tomorrow.”

  “Yes, I am,” she smiled, “but I meant tonight. I thought maybe we could go somewhere, a nightclub, something like that. How about it? The city is alive right now. It seems a shame to just turn into bed.”

  It all depends who you turn into bed with, he thought, but he kept his face neutral.

  “I’d like that, yeah, a club would be fine.”

  “Somewhere with a floor show,” she said happily. “I’ll ask at the desk. They’re bound to know.”

  They trawled the Brussels nightspots, and he spent half a month’s pay having the night of his life with this beautiful, effervescent girl. He even told her, to peals of laughter, how he’d envisioned a dusty academic, creeping off to find some back street brothel to satisfy his frustrated lusts. Eventually, they made it back to the Marriott and stood awkwardly by the elevator as the attendant waited for them to make a decision.

  “Which floor are you, Anika?”

  “I’m on the sixth. You?”

  “I’m on four. I just…”

  She made the decision for him. “Take us both to the fourth floor, please.” She turned to him, “Okay with you?”

  He didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, he just nodded.

  Chapter Three

  He awoke early the next morning. She was gone, and only her lingering fragrance remained on the pillow. Anika had explained she would be taking the early flight to Tehran. He smiled to himself, thinking of the night before, and the lust they’d shared.

  Maybe the prospect of going to Iran made it so good; you never know whether you’ll get out of that flea-infested sandpit, so you take what you can when it's on offer. Whatever the reason, it's an experience I'll be a long time forgetting.

  He checked his wristwatch, it was 0600 hours, time for a shower and then grab something from the buffet as he went past. The car was due at 0630 hours to carry him back to the airport, in time to board an Air Force C130 headed for Ramstein. They drove through the gray, misty streets of the Belgian capital. The people of the night had already left. He saw a pair of teenage prostitutes making their tired way home, walking unevenly after yet another busy night. Even from inside the car, he could feel their despair at the relentless treadmill they walked every night, a slow descent into a pit of drug fueled decline and early death. The only other people on the sidewalks that early were the street cleaners, busy preparing Brussels for another day. By day, it was the center of both NATO and the European Union. The city was a busy hub for both military and government. By night, it was time for the bureaucrats and armchair soldiers to come out to play in the many lurid clubs, bars, and brothels. And so the cycle went on, it was a depressing sight.

  He brightened as they reached the airport and drove straight out to the cargo area where the C130 was on the tarmac, loading the last of its cargo for Ramstein. He breathed in the stink of kerosene, jet fuel, as he looked around the bleak tarmac. It was familiar, comforting, almost home.

  It makes me think of the kids, James and Joshua, and THAT letter. When this is over, I'll get back to the States and talk it through. I have to make Kay understand they're my kids too. Still, there's nothing I can do now, not here.

  He found the crew chief, showed his papers, and went aboard. Twenty minutes later, the aircraft lifted off, and he relaxed, as much as possible on the canvas jump seat; looking forward to linking up with his unit. They bumped down onto the tarmac in Germany, and Talley walked down the rear ramp. His second-in-command, Guy Welland, was waiting for him beside a Humvee with no unit insignia. The SAS Sergeant greeted him with a handshake.

  “How was Brussels, Boss?”

  “Great, really good,” he replied, realizing he’d spoken with too much enthusiasm. The image of Anika had flashed through his mind when he heard the word Brussels, almost enough to give him an erection.

  “That good? It must have changed since I was last there. I found it a depressing place. Too many bureaucrats,” he paused, “and they speak French.”

  “Yeah, that’s about it. Is everyone here?”

  “Yep, but they’re pretty upset at having their leave cut short. What’s so important? You look like you have something on your mind.”

  For starters, the bastards want to replace me as leader of Echo Six and dump me behind a desk. There’s a crazy mission someone thought up, which could end with us having to whack Ahmadinejad. And a vicious ex-wife back home who’s trying to take my kids. Apart from that, everything's fine.

  He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

  They drove past lines of aircraft lined up on the ramp, and he forced himself to calm down and explain the operation to Guy. Fighters, F/A 18s, cargo aircraft, C130s and the bigger C17 Globemasters, four engine turbojets, were lined up; ready to fly out wherever they were needed. Parked next to the helipad, he caught sight of a flight of Little Birds on the tarmac. Armed with twin electric Gatlings, .50 caliber GAU19s, they were a formidable machine, often used to carry Special Forces into battle, and to support them with lethal curtains of heavy gunfire during the action. He recalled the times he’d gone into battle, clinging to the side of one of the tiny helos.

  Soon, it may be all I have left, my recollections.

  As Guy drove them to their quarters, he told him about the link from the last mission that had led all the way to Iran, and the nukes. The Brit’s face went pale.

  “I thought it looked pretty bad at the time. Iran! Jesus, if that bunch of crazies gets a shortcut to a nuclear weapon, it’ll be a disaster.”

  “It’s even worse, Guy. It’s not the regular military who’re doing this. It’s the Revolutionary Guard.”

  He raised his eyes. “God save us all. The asylum goes to war.”

  They reached the building assigned to Echo Six, and Talley greeted the squad, twenty troopers, and all skilled specialists. There was no time for celebratory drinks, no let-up, no time off. They went straight to work and spent the remaining part of the Saturday and all of Sunday checking out equipment and running through scenarios in the Kill House. The rambling basement underneath Ramstein Air Base had once been a nuclear bunker. Now it was used for more everyday purposes, and was known as the Kill House. Simply put, it was where the men practiced the craft of killing. He sat on a chair in a dark basement room and watched the team burst in and start shooting at dummies ranged around him. Some were in the guise of terrorists. Some were civilians, some of them children. And there was him. He closed his eyes as the flash grenade sent white light searing around him, and listened to the sound of suppressed weapons as the men swept through, shooting down the targets and sparing the hostages. Except th
at Sergeant Reynolds, the black ex-Delta trooper miscalculated and shot an unarmed civilian. It was a deliberate misdirection. A guy in Arab dress similar to the terrorists, but he carried no weapon, hence he rated as a civilian. The debrief was not pleasant.

  “I’m real sorry, Boss,” Reynolds apologized to him. The rest of the men knew what was coming next. The expressions of anger on their faces were eloquent.

  “You know the way it works, Roy. One mistake and we do it all again. Except that the second time, we fill the room with smoke and do the exercise wearing respirators, which should make it more interesting.”

  “Aw, shit, Boss,” Roy groaned. “We’ve been working flat out. We need a break before we go in.”

  “That’s a pity. You won’t get one tonight either. The Germans have sent us an archaeology expert to help us understand some of what’s going on at that dig. It could be useful to us, so I want you all present. At 0600 hours tomorrow we’re back here, and we’ll run through that exercise again and again until we get it right.”

  There was utter silence. They knew it had to be done. In five days time they’d be going into an alien country; one where every hand would be turned against them. Where the penalty for failure was unspeakable cruelty and a very hard, agonizing death.

  “Any questions?”

  There was complete silence. Finally, Talley nodded.

  “Good. Let’s get some chow.”

  When should I tell them the rest of it, that I'm being replaced? No one likes change, especially in a tight knit unit like this one. Is there a way around it? That's something I need to think about, how far can I push my bosses before I piss them off so bad I wind up guarding an airfield in Nowheresville, deepest darkest Africa.

  The archaeology expert was as boring as any of them expected. Quite why anyone would want to know about the way a baked clay brick was laid next to another baked clay brick was beyond any of them. The only light relief was the part about the qanats.

  “Are you telling us that you could cross large parts of Iran underground, through these qanats?” Rovere asked him.

  The academic, Herr Doktor Walther Messerschmitt nodded enthusiastically, pleased that Domenico had asked a question. “In the dry season, yes. During the rains, of course, they are flooded, but for much of the year they carry a trickle of water. Yes, theoretically, it should be possible. But why would anyone wish to travel that way? Only a fool would do that. It would not be wise.”

  “The fool doth think he is wise, but the wise man knows himself to be a fool,” the Italian said gravely. The German stared at him in confusion.

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “Shakespeare,” Rovere explained. “A man who knew himself to be a fool, and was wise enough to know the difference.”

  He stared at the Italian, his face creased in puzzlement. Clearly, humor was not a part of his repertoire. Finally, he cleared his throat.

  “What is most interesting is the cumulative effect of changes during the Achaemenid period, 550-330 BC, sometimes known as the First Persian Empire. Founded in the 6th century BC by Cyrus the Great, who of course overthrew the Median confederation. This was a time when…”

  Talley went to sleep. Someone kicked him when the lecture has ended, and he flexed his legs and got to his feet. Domenico Rovere stood in front of him, grinning.

  “Is it over?”

  “He went away a few minutes ago. Shame on you, Abe. You should have set an example.”

  Talley shook his head. “I’d sooner have root canal treatment than listen to any more of that. I’m off to bed. We’ve an early start in the morning.”

  He lay awake for hours, thinking about the dark mysteries of those qanats.

  Movement inside Iran will be difficult at best. It's just possible that the irrigation tunnels will come in more than useful.

  He had a strange dream. He was trapped in a dark passage, and he could hardly breathe the stale, suffocating air. There was water at his feet, a few inches, and he was heading toward someone calling to him for help. He recognized the panic-stricken voice, Anika Frost.

  “Where are you? I’m coming to find you. Tell me where you are!”

  “The water level, Abe. It’s rising. Help me!”

  “Water level? Fuck the water level, where are you?”

  “At the end of the passage. But the water, it’s too late. You won’t make it. Save yourself.”

  “No, I’m coming, I’ll get you out. I’m nearly…”

  He looked behind him. The wall of water was hurtling toward him, thousands of gallons of cold, clear water, so desperately needed in the parched deserts of Persia to sustain life. But this water brought only death, a relentless torrent that hammered toward him. He reached her. She was lying injured on the floor of the tunnel. Her clothes were torn, her face bruised and bloody, but still her beauty shone through like a star in the night sky. He had to save her, had to.

  “Anika, can you walk?”

  “No, I’m sorry. My leg, it’s broken.”

  He bent down and pulled up her pants leg to inspect the broken bone. “I’ll help you out. If you stay down here, you’ll die.”

  “But Abe…”

  Something in her voice made him look up. Her face was serene, but the color had disappeared. The skin was alabaster in color, as if she’d been underwater for some time.

  “What is it, what’s happened?”

  “The children, they were trapped. I came to save them.”

  “The kids? Joshua and James, where are they? Show me where they are, for Christ’s sake. I’ll go find them.”

  “It’s too late, they’ve gone. You shouldn’t be here. You’re not a soldier, Abe. You work in an office.”

  “But, the kids!” he shouted. “You have to take me to them.”

  “You’re too late. They’re already dead. We’re all dead.”

  Her eyes became deep, black pits, and her flesh began to decay in front of him and peel away in long strips of gray skin. Then the wall of water hit. That sound, what was it? Was this the afterlife, a peal of bells, music?

  And then he opened his eyes, someone was banging on the door, and both his cellphone and the bedside phone were ringing. He shook his head to clear it. Somebody wanted him in a hurry. He left the phones ringing and went to the door.

  “Boss, are you okay?”

  He checked his wristwatch. 0420. “I would be if I could get some sleep, Domenico.”

  “You were shouting. I thought you were with someone at first.”

  “Just dreaming. What’s happened?”

  “We’re needed. The Germans have a hostage situation, and they want us to handle it.”

  “Tell ‘em to call Grenzschutzgruppe 9. It’s their gig, hostage rescue. There’s no call for NATO to become involved in a domestic situation.”

  “It was GSG9 who called us, Boss. They can’t handle this one.”

  Talley looked at his wristwatch again, and at his bed, still warm and inviting. With a sigh, he pulled on his pants and shirt, laced on his boots and followed Domenico out of the room and along to the temporary briefing room they’d been given while they were at Ramstein. Half a dozen of the men were already there, and others were trickling in. A hard faced German cop; immaculately uniformed and clutching a briefcase, stood in the center of the room, staring with contempt at Talley’s bleary-eyed disarray.

  Well, fuck him, Talley thought. He was probably on night duty, not dragged from his bed at some ungodly hour.

  “Lieutenant Talley?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”

  The man nodded. “I am Hauptmann Werner Baumann, GSG9. I apologize for asking you to help us out, but we have a serious problem.”

  The German’s face was pale, almost square, rock hard, with small, watery blue eyes under thick, pale blonde eyelashes. His buzz cut hair was also pale blonde, so he was almost a caricature of the German model of Aryan perfection from the days of the Third Reich. Broad shouldered, and his uniform perfectly cut over an athleti
c body, this was clearly a guy who looked after himself. As he should, the reputation of GSG9 was legendary. Talley shook his hand.

  “How can I help you, Captain?”

  The German paused for a few moments, almost as if he was embarrassed.

  “We have a serious problem. One that may be more than we can handle, Lieutenant.”

  For God’s sake, spit it out! What did you drag me out of a warm bed for?

  Someone passed Talley a mug of strong coffee, and he sipped it as he looked at the German. He started to feel better as the caffeine entered his bloodstream.

  “I thought GSG9 was capable of anything. That’s your reputation, anyway. Has something changed?”

  Baumann reddened.

  Yeah, he sure is pretty embarrassed about something. It has to be serious. He waited for him to continue.

  “It’s in Saarbrucken. It’s er, a…”

  Some politician caught with his dick out in a brothel?

  They were all staring at the German, willing him to explain himself.

  “It’s a synagogue,” he began at last. “A group of Palestinian terrorists took it over. They went in late last night. A group of worshippers were about to leave. They took them hostage, and have threatened to kill them if we don’t release the leader of their terror cell, a man we arrested last month.”

  “I still don’t get it, Captain. It’s a standard hostage rescue mission; exactly what your outfit was set up for back in 1972. That Black September business at the Munich Olympics, wasn’t it?”

  “That is correct, yes. A unit of our Bundespolizei attempted to rescue the Israeli hostages and failed. They all died.”

  “Yeah, that was tough, but you’re better trained and equipped for that kind of thing now. What’s the problem?”

  “They’re Jews.”

  “Who?”

  “The hostages, in the synagogue. They’re all Jews.”

  Talley had to work hard not to smile.

  For Christ’s sake! Who would you expect to find in a synagogue, Buddhists?

  “Well, yeah, of course they’re Jews.”