Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  “Vince, can you do anything? We need to waste that APC.”

  “Negative, Boss. The bastard has closed the hatches. It would take a rocket to prize him loose from there.”

  “We don’t have a rocket. Heinrich, can you do anything about that armor?”

  Talley ducked as more soldiers opened up on them. They were from the rearmost truck. His men were shooting back, firing furiously, and the area had come to resemble a major battle as hundreds of bullets ripped through the air. The situation was bad and getting worse by the second. He realized he could lose the entire unit.

  Damn that drone!

  He turned to Anika. “Keep the motor running. We may have to pull out of here if things get any worse.” He keyed his mike. “This is Echo One, prepare to fall back. If you can’t reach the truck, make…”

  “Boss, this is Rovere. I’m patching the drone controller through to you now.”

  His earpiece crackled.

  “Echo One, this is Creech Control. Do you copy, NATO?”

  Creech Airfield in Nevada. The drone!

  “Go ahead, Creech.”

  “I have orders to vector a drone to your location. How the hell did you swing it, Echo One? You know this baby is the latest stealth drone. It’s not even supposed to exist.”

  “Put it down to my personality. What are you packing, Creech?”

  “We’re carrying a full load of Hellfires, and with orders to fire on your command. What do you want to hit?”

  “We’re at the junction of Val Asr and the Parkway Bridge, Creech.”

  He ducked, rolling away as a stream of heavy slugs ripped up the tarmac close to him.

  The bastards are getting too accurate.

  “There’s an APC, a Russian-built BTR. We need to lose it, and fast.”

  “I copy that, Sir. We’re over Evin right now. Hold tight, I’ll just…Yeah, I see him. Can you light him up for me? I’d hate to get this wrong.”

  “Wait one.” He shifted to their local net. “Echo Five, do you have a Laser Target Designator?”

  “Sure do. You want me to light up that BTR?”

  “Sooner rather than later, Vince. It’s getting pretty hot around here.”

  “Hold on. Yep, it’s done. Tell ‘em to hit it.”

  "Creech, target is lit, I repeat, target is lit. Fire your missiles.”

  “It’ll only take a minute, NATO.”

  Talley saw Buchmann take a hit; a pair of bullets punched into the pack strapped to his armored vest. The German pitched forward, and every man who saw him winced, waiting for the explosives and detonators in his pack to ignite. But he crawled forward, uninjured, apart from a few bruises, and there was no blast of smoke and flame from his pack. Then the BTR exploded, as the Hellfire missile struck and detonated on target. The Revolutionary Guard armored vehicle was almost vaporized in the immense heat and blast of the exploding missile. A wall of flame leapt out from the APC and engulfed the infantry who’d been sheltering close by, as they exchanged shots with the NATO force. The soldiers from the lead truck stopped firing, shocked by the awesome power of the explosion that swallowed up their comrades. The massive blast, on top of their collision with the forward APC, and the astonishing appearance of NATO troops in their midst, threw them into a state of mental fugue. Talley knew they’d either go crazy, and renew their attack on Echo Six with even more savagery, or they’d run. But there was a third option, and he took it.

  “Heinrich, get that prison truck open. Vince, watch our six. The rest of you, charge!”

  He snapped in a new clip, leapt to his feet, and ran toward the enemy, firing short, three round bursts from his MP7. In front of him, the startled faces of the Iranians stared at him in terror. Behind him, he heard the shouts of his men as they followed him, and they began to pour a curtain of fire into the Iranian position. A single shot came back at them, and then another. The Guard was still in a good defensive position, and he knew if they decided to fight back, he stood to take casualties. The battle was finely balance on the cusp of victory or defeat. But in his soul, he knew they could take them, could shock and terrorize them with the face of imminent death, enough to turn a disciplined force into a frightened rabble. For several seconds, he kept running and firing, waiting for the hail of lead that would hammer toward them. He saw one Iranian, braver than his comrades level a machine gun toward him, but Virgil Kane tipped the balance. He’d set up the Minimi, the M249 light machine gun, and opened fire. As he kept going forward, Talley saw the Iranians stop shooting and look around for an escape route. A couple of them shouted at a man standing behind them, their officer. An argument developed, and the officer strode forward, pointing at Talley and his troopers who were almost on them. He shouted again, and then his head burst open as Virgil’s stream of 5.56mm rounds found their target. He was tossed to the ground in a heap of broken flesh and bloody wounds. That was the end. They stared for a brief moment in horror at the bloody corpse. They then ran, tossing their weapons to the ground in their haste to escape the horror that had engulfed this normally peaceful suburb of Tehran. Talley signaled for his men to stop, and Heinrich shouted for the second time, “Feuer in the hole.”

  There was a loud blast, and the door of the prison transport went spinning through the air to land with a ‘clang’ onto a concrete driveway almost a hundred meters away. Guy clambered out of the back of the truck, turning to help his troopers down. Talley ran up to them.

  “Guy, is anyone injured?”

  The Brit shook his head. “A few cuts and bruises. Jerry is the worst. They gave him a hard time. They may have broken something.”

  “I hear you. We’ll have it looked at as soon as we can. Get the men over to our truck. We’re leaving, right now.”

  “No problem.” He looked around the devastation of the ruined vehicles, smoke rising from the destruction and bodies strewn on the ground. “You sure stirred up the ragheads, Boss. They’re gonna be mad when they see this.”

  The last trooper struggled to climb down from the prison transport. “Jerry, take it easy now. Roy, Robert, help him. He may have a break to that leg.”

  “I’m okay,” Ostrowski shouted defiantly.

  “Yeah, sure,” Guy grinned. “Get into the truck, and fast. The cops will be here soon. It’s time we were outta here.” He grimaced when he saw Imam Fard seated between them in the back. He hadn’t moved a muscle during the firefight, just sat frozen with fear.

  “What’s he doing here?”

  “Lieutenant Talley likes to keep him where we can see him,” Rovere answered. “It is a matter of trust.”

  “Yeah, I can see that,” Guy nodded, “or lack of trust.”

  The Iranian scowled at him but averted his gaze as Guy stared back with loathing. They packed into the truck, and Anika drove away from the scene of devastation. In the distance, they could hear the sound of sirens. The emergency services were approaching the scene of the ambush.

  “Keep your speed down,” Talley told her. “Anything fleeing the scene is likely to be suspect.”

  “Will do.”

  “Anika, you’re the MI6 specialist on the Iranians, what do you think about us hiding out at the dig? Will they link this attack to what’s going on at Niavaran?”

  “I doubt it, but there’s always the possibility of a tip-off.”

  “You mean Wenstrom?”

  “Him, yes. Who knows?”

  “In which case, maybe Niavaran is the best place to be. We can keep an eye on the bastard.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “We don’t have any other options for now. Take us to the dig, and we’ll lay low while we work out our next move.”

  “What will that be?”

  “Nothing’s changed. We need to locate Arash. As soon as we get back, I’ll contact our man at the Embassy.”

  “Miles Preston?”

  “Yeah, you know him?”

  “I know Miles, yes.”

  “What’s he like?”

&
nbsp; She paused for a few moments and concentrated on negotiating a street market that spread across the roadway. Then she turned to him.

  “It would be best if you made up your own mind about Miles.”

  “You don’t like him,” he replied. It was in her tone, the sound of distaste. “Or is you don’t trust him?”

  “Let’s just say we’ve had our disagreements in the past.”

  “I hear you, but can we trust him?”

  Again, the pause as she phrased her reply carefully, “I’d trust him as far as it suited his own interests.”

  “By his interests, you mean the CIA?”

  “I mean Miles Preston.”

  So she doesn’t trust him. Just great.

  She drove a circuitous route back to Niavaran, preferring to negotiate the suburbs of Tehran where there would be plenty of traffic around, than to use the less traveled roads to the north of the city. They passed through a wide variety of streets. Closer to the city there were many scabby buildings, and sidewalks thronged with black-clad women busy with the day’s chores. There were vehicles abandoned at the roadside, many stripped of all their parts, and others burned out during some previous unrest. Groups of feral-looking youths sat idly in the squares, waiting for the spark that would ignite their anger and stir them into the next violent protest. The cause probably made no difference. It was violence that drove them, and anger was the detonator that would set them off.

  Maybe they should just get off their butts and find some useful work.

  In contrast, further from the city center, there were quieter tree-lined streets, with decent, middle class houses in good repair. Most of the women wore Western style clothes, except they had their heads covered with scarves. But it was a surprising side of the city, and one rarely seen in the Western newsreels.

  It won’t last. When the crazy Islamists take over the area, they'll begin their protests. Then the streets will be torn apart by fanatics, protesting, burning and looting, in the name of Islam.

  Anika drove out of the suburbs, and they entered the countryside where the built up areas became large swathes of sand. So far, there’d been no signs of any pursuit, and Talley began to relax a little. They reached the dig at Niavaran, and she backed the truck up to their tents, so they could slip inside undercover. She joined him inside the tent. Rovere was already there.

  “Domenico, I need you to contact Admiral Brooks. We need a meeting with Miles Preston, but I want him to come here. I think the streets will be a little too hot for us right now.”

  “You’re don't say,” he grinned. “Shakespeare said that, ‘pleasure and action make the hours seem short.’ You should be more grateful.”

  “Dom, can it.”

  “Okay, but we kicked their asses today, that’s for sure. They’re not going to forget that in a hurry.”

  “No, that’s what worries me. Roy, I want you and Virgil to change into civilian clothes. Take the truck away from here and get rid of it, somewhere it won’t be found. Drive it into a river, something like that. I don’t care, then get back here any way you can.”

  “Copy that.” He walked out as Guy entered the tent. “What are your orders, Boss?”

  “First, are the men changing into civilian gear?”

  He nodded.

  “Good. We’re back to being archaeologists for now. Make certain Jerry is okay, and find out if we need to get him to a doctor. The CIA guy is sure to be able to arrange it if it’s needed.”

  “I’ll get changed and check on Jerry.”

  He slipped out and crossed to the next tent. Talley began stripping off his armored vest and camo gear before realizing Anika was still there.

  “I’m sorry, I just…”

  She chuckled. “Hey, it’s not like I haven’t seen you naked before.”

  Rovere looked up quickly, and then bent back to the radio.

  “Domenico, take that radio and find another tent.”

  He picked up the equipment and walked out, whistling to himself. Talley felt his face redden.

  “Can I help you with anything?” she asked him.

  I can think of a few things, yes.

  “I’m okay, thanks.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Abe, you have a nasty bruise low down on your left side. I want to take a look at it.”

  “A stray bullet hit me, but I was wearing my armored vest, so it’s nothing.”

  “Let me look.”

  He was almost naked, wearing only his shorts. She touched his skin, and he flinched. As much to the feel of her cool fingers, and the memories they invoked, as for the soreness of his wound. He felt the warmth of her closeness, and to his horror realized he was becoming aroused. So did she.

  “Abe, you’re feeling randy,” she accused, her face split in a grin. “I can do something about that, you know.”

  “Anika, no, not here.”

  But she gently pushed him down to the cot and eased down his shorts. She put one cool hand on his throbbing penis while she used the other to pull off her own shirt and short pants. Underneath, she wore cream silk underwear, bra and panties, and she removed them almost as if by magic. Overcome, he touched her stomach and let his fingers drift down between her legs. He could smell the scent of her, a heady mix of healthy perspiration, female musk, and soap. The he felt her vagina and she shuddered. She was damp with her own arousal, and he slid his fingers into her easily. She began to writhe and buck.

  “Abe, oh, my word, this is unbelievable. Is it always like this after a fight?”

  “I don’t normally have a beautiful partner with me, so I wouldn’t know,” he replied drily. “But I’m more than happy to find out.”

  It was true, the relief of knowing you were still alive after a clash with death was a heady aphrodisiac. She climbed over him and lowered herself down over his hard organ, slipping him inside her. They made love, an urgent coupling of need between two lovers who’d experienced the reality of imminent death. It was fast, furious, and intense. Afterward, they lay together, holding each other. He didn’t care if someone came into the tent. He cared for nothing except this precious moment of life in the midst of death. He later found out that Domenico had warned them all to stay away from his tent.

  As they lay dozing, he heard a vehicle approach. He quickly put on his short pants and a T-shirt with ‘NYU’ emblazoned on the chest. Then he strolled outside, carrying his hiking boots, and a battered, wide brimmed Fedora to finish dressing as he watched the newcomer draw near. He hoped he looked like a postgraduate student rather than a warrior; apart, that is, from the 9mm Sig Sauer P223 tucked into his waistband. The vehicle, an SUV braked to a halt. It was a shiny new Toyota Land Cruiser that had once been gleaming red, but was now covered in a fine layer of sand from the journey out of the city. The driver’s door opened and a man climbed out. It could only be Miles Preston. No one but a CIA desk jockey would come so ill equipped for the desert. He was a tall man, over six feet, wearing an off-white linen suit that was sufficiently rumpled to look used, but not enough to hide its obviously expensive bespoke tailoring. He wore what looked like hand-tooled boots, similar to desert boots, but these were dark brown leather with the sheen of polish and money. His shirt was a paler cream than the suit, heavy silk, and he wore a bow tie. His head was bare, but he carried his hat, a cream Panama, in his hand. The man was like a caricature from an old black and white movie, or maybe an Indiana Jones flick. He came forward and offered his hand.

  “You must be Talley.”

  “Lieutenant Abe Talley.”

  Close up, the CIA man had the look of a heavy drinker. His handsome, patrician face bore the telltales of spidery, red veins, and his eyes were slightly bloodshot. Even so, he still was a good-looking guy, and Talley had no doubt he thought himself something of a ladies' man. But his bloodshot eyes told the real story of his life.

  So this is our contact. A pompous, arrogant asshole, if looks are anything to go by.

  He didn’t offer to shake his hand or introduce himself
. “I gather you’re holding Imam Fard here, is that correct?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You have to let him go, Lieutenant. He’s a friendly, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  “He stays with us, Preston. He’s a turncoat and a pedophile, or hadn’t you noticed?” Talley fired back, “And I don’t trust him.”

  “Even so, he has to make contact with his people. Otherwise they’ll grow suspicious. And if they’re suspicious, they won’t tell him what we need to know to find the location of their leader.”

  Talley thought about it for a few moments, and finally he nodded. “Okay, you can take him with you.”

  “Good. About this other business, the fuck-up close to Evin prison. You know that half the Iranian Army and the Revolutionary Guard are searching for you, as well as the cops? And the CIA asked me to find out how come our latest top-secret stealth drone was revealed to the enemy. I doubt you could have screwed up any worse if you’d tried. I’ve already asked my people to contact NATO and have your unit replaced. You’re finished!”

  Talley looked away while he got his thoughts together.

  It's no use telling this man about Guy and the other three troopers held prisoner, and likely to be executed; at the very least, they’d have been left to rot, maybe for decades, in some stinking Iranian jail. A waste of time, pointing out I've been trained in a military tradition that says you don’t leave your people behind, dead or alive. No, this man won’t want to know any of it. His priority is covering his ass, and he’s already done that by blaming Echo Six for everything that went wrong. That drone, it's supposed to be stealth. So?

  “What’s with the drone, Preston?”

  He stared at Talley. “I guess it’s no secret, what your fuck up revealed to the Iranians. It’s a Lockheed Avenger, and she’s the latest VTOL Unmanned System. The vertical takeoff and landing design allows it to operate from almost anywhere, anytime. It has no exposed rotors, and the stealth aerodynamics make it almost impossible to spot from the ground at night. It’s an incredible aircraft. Now that it’s gone operational during daylight, the secret’s out. What a total fuck-up! I’m making it part of my report. You just threw away a multi-billion dollar research and development program. You’re finished, Talley!” he said again.