Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  “We’re carrying one Raven, and that’s for battlefield emergencies, Roscoe. You get into a firefight, and you may be glad we kept a rain check on that baby.”

  “Shit, Chief, didn’t you hear? They’ve got a round-the-clock air cover with those damned Reapers. Jeez, they send in those babies and they’ll do the work for us. If we…”

  “Quiet!” Nolan hissed.

  Roscoe mumbled quietly beneath his breath, but he went still, and they both dropped to the ground.

  “What the fuck is it?” Bremmer whispered. “What’s going…”

  Nolan signaled for silence. Then he crawled forward to check what had alerted him, a sound, a tiny, almost inaudible sound in the center of the jungle’s confusion of animal noises, insects, birds, and foliage that moved and shifted; and a single, metallic ‘clink’. But there was nothing metallic in the jungle, unless it belonged to man. And if there was someone up ahead, it meant nothing good.

  “Stay here and keep your head down. I’ll go see what’s up there,” he whispered to Roscoe.

  “I’ll come with you, Chief, I can…”

  “Stay here.”

  He didn’t wait to hear any argument. Nolan crawled forward, and only ten yards further along the track and just around a sharp bend, there was a FARC blocking position. Using night vision, he could see two men dug into a foxhole, just off the track. They were good. If he hadn’t heard the noise, which he could see had been made by one of the sentries removing his clip and checking the load, they could have walked into trouble. The ‘clink’ sounded again, and this time he saw the man push the clip back into his assault rifle. The other man was sat behind a light machine gun. It was a Soviet RPD mounted on a bipod, with the iconic drum magazine making it instantly recognizable. Simple to operate, and firing seven hundred rounds per minute of 7.62-millimeter military grade ammunition, made it a formidable weapon. Both men were hunkered down behind thick tree trunks that they’d used as a natural barricade. They were going to be difficult to kill. He crawled back to Roscoe and explained the hostile position.

  “They’re well positioned, and we need to get them out of that foxhole to finish them.”

  “What about a grenade? I’ve got the launcher. I can pop one in there, no sweat.”

  “And if the main force is near enough to hear the explosion?”

  “Yeah, I see what you mean.”

  “Right, I’d take them with the sniper rifle but getting into a good stand to take the shot is going to be slow and difficult, and we just don’t have the time. I want you to sucker them out of there.”

  “Me? What the fuck do you want me to do?”

  “I speak Spanish, so they won’t realize we’re not FARC until we get close. You’ll pretend to be wounded, so you can lean on me. I’ll talk to them and call for help. Make sure you stagger as we get there.”

  “What about my rifle?”

  “Sling it behind you. They won’t see it. Keep your Sig in your hand, but make sure it’s out of sight. That’s it, make it convincing.”

  “You sure this is going to work, Chief?”

  “Sure, why shouldn’t it?”

  Roscoe shook his head. “I don’t know. It sounds like some fool white man’s shit to me.”

  “Can the racial comments, Roscoe. Let’s get the job done. You’re wounded and in agony, so moan or something.”

  “Fuck this.”

  Nolan slung his SWS behind him and grabbed Roscoe under his arms to support him. Then he started walking forward.

  “Shout, you’re in agony, remember,” he hissed at the PO3.

  Roscoe gave out an unconvincing moan, but it was enough to alert the sentries.

  “Quién va?” Who is it?

  “Ayúdame! Rápidamente, es uno de nuestros hombres! Él está mal herido!” Help! One of our men is badly hurt.

  He heard them talking urgently amongst themselves. They hesitated, and as he watched, the barrel of the machine gun swiveled towards them.

  “Rápidamente, Él está mal herido. Se está muriendo.”

  They muttered quickly between themselves, and it sounded like an argument. Then they started to climb out of the foxhole. Nolan breathed a sigh of relief and whispered to Roscoe, who he was almost dragging along, his head hanging down. He had to hand it to him; it was a good performance.

  “You took the safety off your Sig?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay, wait for me to shoot first. Nearly there.”

  They were almost abreast of the two men who were now running toward them, concern written on their faces, until they saw the unfamiliar uniforms.

  “Qué es esto? Dios mío!”

  “Yeah, bad call,” Nolan muttered as he swung up the Sig Sauer and fired twice, then twice again. Both men were hit, and Roscoe was firing his suppressed Sig to make sure. Both men fell to the ground, dead.

  “Let’s get ‘em off the track and into the jungle. If any of their people come back, we don’t want to advertise our presence,” the Chief said quickly to Roscoe. “One at a time, these guys weren’t on starvation rations.”

  It was true. They were both a good few pounds overweight, as if they’d spent too much time in camp, eating too many rations. Clearly, jungle warfare was not as arduous as it used to be. When the bodies were hidden, Nolan stripped the ammunition out of the guns and scattered it into the jungle, then smashed the barrels.

  “If we come back this way,” he explained to Roscoe, “we don’t want them using these things against us.”

  Before they pushed on, he called it in. “Bravo One, this is Two.”

  “Go ahead, Two.”

  “Two hostiles taken out. Just a rearguard, no complications.”

  He gave them his position.

  “Copy that.”

  He signed off and turned to Roscoe. “Let’s go, we’re running out of time. We’re nearly four miles short of our objective, and we need to get there in no more than an hour.”

  “What happens in an hour?”

  “The FARC begin their attack. All hell will let loose in Medellin, and if anyone sees a pair of Gringos in camouflage kit, they’re gonna shoot first and ask questions afterwards.”

  Roscoe’s eyes widened. “The fuck they are, what are we waiting for?”

  Nolan suppressed a smile as he led the way forward. There was no time left for caution. They had to be in position before the attack started, to hold a secure base for the Platoon from which to prepare their own attack. They crested a rise on the path and looked down on the town of Medellin, or rather the city.

  “Motherfucker, that place is huge,” Roscoe breathed.

  “Yeah, it’s a city of over two million people, and all of them ruled by three families, the Barreras, the Olveras, and the Salazars. Most of them probably earn their living from one of the families, so they’re not going to like any kind of action that destroys their livelihood.”

  “There’s only sixteen of us, what can we do?”

  “Seventeen with Admiral Jacks, and remember, we’re not invading Medellin. This action is to destroy the Salazars. We watch the FARC move in and hammer the Olveras and the Barreras. Then we hit the main target. We kill the personnel and destroy their infrastructure.”

  Roscoe nodded. “Yeah, that sounds easy enough.”

  “It won’t be if the FARC get’s an idea of what we’re up to, so keep it tight. Let’s move in.”

  They reached the highway and almost ran through the suburbs of Medellin, only stopping to drop out of sight when vehicles appeared on the move. Nolan checked his watch, and they were still a half-mile short of the FOB when a flare shot up into the sky, followed by the sound of automatic fire. The FARC had attacked.

  “Make it snappy,” he called behind him to Roscoe. “They’ll be looking out of their windows now for anyone carrying a gun. We don’t want them to get a fix on us.”

  Roscoe nodded. They hurried on past a sign that read ‘Parque Arvi’, and at last Nolan saw what he was looking for, the old engineeri
ng works that bordered the main fence of the park. He veered into a narrow lane running along the side of the building and started to relax. They were out of sight of the street. He put a hand out to slow Roscoe down; it was the last stage.

  “Let’s check this place out before we call it in, you …”

  A flashlight pierced the darkness. “Manos arriba!” Hands up.

  Neither of them moved their hands. Nolan sensed rather than saw Roscoe’s hand slip down to his side, to his holstered Sig. He had to take a chance before anyone did anything stupid.

  “We’re Americans.”

  The light didn’t waver. “I said put up your hands.”

  Nolan stared at the dim figure behind the flashlight, and at the gun barrel that was illuminated in the beam.

  “I said we’re Americans. Flame of Freedom. You’re Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas?”

  The beam snapped off, and the man walked forward. “We had to be careful. Come inside, and you can meet the men. Are there only two of you?”

  “The others are coming up behind. We came in first to check the place over.”

  “Very wise.”

  They went through a small side door. The man pushed aside a canvas curtain, and they walked into a dimly lit workshop. The man turned and held up his hand.

  “My name is Raoul Castro. Captain Raoul Castro, of the Agrupación de Fuerzas Especiales Antiterroristas Urbanas. These are my men.”

  They looked with interest at the impressive looking force of men gathered in the space that had once contained rows of machinery. Now it was empty of any machines, except for the machines of war, four SUVs fitted with machine guns mounted on the truck beds, and the men. They were all in civilian clothes and looked more like a street gang than an elite para-military unit. Raoul Castro was an exotic looking man, short and powerfully built. He wore a sweat-soaked brown shirt with cut off sleeves that showed every muscle. His khaki pants were grease stained and worn over work boots coated with grime. His hair was thick and shaggy. It hung to his shoulders and was held in place by a thonged leather headband. He had fine, almost delicate features that he'd tried to camouflage by growing a mustache and beard. The mustache was black and luxuriant, and it dropped over his lips, glistening like fur. He looked like almost like a kid playing a role in a play about gangsters; except for the assault rifle he held casually, a Heckler & Koch G36 5.56 millimeter with spare clips in their black leather cases festooned over his canvas webbing. He grinned at Nolan.

  “It’s deliberate. Our war is against the soldiers of the drug gangs, and this is the way they dress. By the time they realize we are not part of them, it is too late.”

  “I guess it would be,” Nolan agreed. “But I reckon this time the war has already started.”

  The town was alive with the sound of gunfire, single shots, and automatic weapons firing in short and long bursts. In the distance, the odd scream of pain as someone was hit, and the sound of racing engines as people ran to reinforce their hard-pressed comrades, or to escape.

  Castro shrugged. “It will cover our operation, which is as our masters planned it, no?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.” He keyed his mic. “Bravo One, this is Bravo Two. Have contacted friendlies. You’re clear to bring the Platoon to the rendezvous point. I’d make it fast. There’s a war breaking out here.”

  “Copy that, Bravo Two. We’ll be with you in ten.”

  “Mr. Nolan, your equipment is over there, explosives, body armor, and some replacement ammunition,” Castro said.

  “Yeah, thanks. We’ll need all the help we can get taking on the Salazars.”

  “What? What is this about the Salazars?”

  The man who’d spoken was a tall, heavily muscled member of Castro’s team. Nolan eyed him carefully. There was something about him that screamed ‘danger’. His face was heavily pockmarked, the result of untreated childhood illness, no doubt. Columbia was a poor country. But he wore two knife scars, slashes that ran down on the left side of his face; slashes that proclaimed a checkered past. Castro hastened to introduce him.

  “This is my sergeant, Sancho Vidal.”

  Nolan nodded. “Does it make a difference? We’re here to hit the main organizations, all of them. What does it matter who we hit first?”

  “I know nothing of this,” the Sergeant replied sulkily.

  Nolan shrugged. He ignored the man and continued speaking with Castro. “Did they brief you on our mission?”

  “Sure, you’re here to carry out a strike on some of the Medellin drug gangs and interdict shipments to the US.”

  “They didn’t mention the Salazars?”

  “The Salazars? No, of course not.”

  Nolan was aghast. It was the fundamental and most important part of the operation. They could attack the drug gangs as much as they liked, but until they’d destroyed the Salazar operation, the whole thing was a bust. Castro looked confused.

  “They said nothing of the Salazars,” he said again. “You’re talking of the Salazar gang here in Medellin? That is outside of our brief. I was specifically told to target the Olveras and the Barreras, and not to worry about the Salazars this time. I understood they’d be taken care of at a later date.”

  “Yeah, Jesus Christ, we hoped you’d help us fight our way into their operation. Are you totally sure those were your orders?”

  Castro looked worried. “Of course I am sure. Our orders were to meet your men here and offer you such assistance as would be required against those two gangs, the Olveras and Barreras. We are also ordered to make certain that no Colombian laws are broken. Your American operations have a certain, shall I say, reputation? We are happy to see the power of the drug barons squashed, but it must not be by way of breaking the law or killing innocent civilians. As for the Salazars, they are the most powerful group in the city, and they will not be easy to destroy. We must leave them for today.”

  “That’s not gonna happen, Captain. And as for them being difficult to destroy, I guess they wouldn’t have sent us if they were so easy to kill. As soon as the rest of the Platoon arrives, we’ll head on out to their compound. And by the way, how you gonna stop the FARC from breaking the law, amigo?”

  Castro flushed. “We will fight them as necessary. So you will not fight the Olveras and Barreras?”

  “We’re going to the Salazars first. We’ll worry about the others afterwards. Do you have any intelligence on their strength, the layout of their place?”

  “No, I have had nothing concerning them.”

  “Then we’ll go to their main warehouse. If there’s a war breaking out on the streets, I guess they’ll head in to protect their product.”

  “In that case we will offer our support,” Castro replied. “Believe me, you will need it.”

  “Because of the FARC?”

  The Colombian smiled. “The FARC? No, Senor, the FARC are a problem. But the Salazars, they are a nightmare. They will fight like maniacs to protect what is theirs.”

  “You should listen to the Captain, what he says is true. Leave the Salazars and concentrate on the Olveras and the Barreras.”

  Nolan glanced at Sergeant Vidal. “It’s not happening, pal. We have our orders, and we’ll carry them out.”

  * * *

  Talley arrived with the Platoon inside of the ten minutes he’d promised, and the men started donning the body armor and helping themselves to ammunition and ordnance. Rear Admiral Drew Jacks looked around at the ragtag collection of Colombian Special Forces, and then shook hands with Castro, who’d been talking in rapid Spanish on a radio inside the cab of one of the SUVs.

  “Pleased to meet you, Captain. It sounds like all hell is breaking loose out there. Have you fixed up a plan with Chief Nolan to get this show on the road?”

  Castro was astonished to see a real live US Navy Admiral with the Platoon.

  “Admiral Jacks, your Mr. Nolan wants us to do direct to the Salazars’ warehouse. Is that what you wish?”

  “I’m al
ong for the ride, Son. You need to speak to Lieutenant Talley here. He’s the man in charge.”

  Talley frowned. “If the Chief says that’s the objective, then that’s the way it is. Are you telling me there’s some kind of a problem?”

  “I have been talking to some of my people. I have observers at key points inside the city. The man I was just speaking to informs me that the Salazars have put up roadblocks all around their warehouse to protect it. It will be impossible to get through. We should choose a different target.”

  Talley nodded. “Is that so? Give me a few minutes, and let’s see what we can do about that. Any FARC activity in the area?”

  Castro shook his head. “Not so far, no.”

  “Okay, let’s check this out.”

  He used the satcom to contact the forward controller who patched him through to Creech Air Force Base.

  “Creech, this is Bravo. How’s our surveillance looking?”

  “We’re circling the city right now, Bravo. What can we do for you?”

  “I want you to send live images of the following coordinates to my tablet. It looks as if we may have some business for you.”

  “Always happy to help, Bravo. If you want us to deliver some cookies, it’d be a pleasure. We hate to go home with the larder full.”

  Talley took out his tactical tablet and powered up. Seconds later, the image began to appear on his screen. It was like a scene from hell. Or maybe Beirut, in the bad old days of the faction fights when Muslim groups like Hezbollah tore the city apart to impose their own iron discipline on the terrified residents. Central to the image was a warehouse in the center of a compound. The compound was surrounded by a high wall, and clearly visible on the crystal clear color video image. The UAV had locked the camera on the center of the coordinates and was maintaining a low, lazy spiral over the city, unnoticed by the residents below. Outside, in the streets that approached the Salazar compound, four roadblocks could be seen. In each case, they consisted of a pair of trucks parked across the street, with as many as thirty or forty armed men sheltering behind them. Talley nodded, satisfied.