Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "Copy that."

  Two seconds later, the Barratt fired, and kept firing. The devastation was awesome. Bodies fell out of windows, and where the heavy rounds struck walls or the woodwork, they penetrated and tore into the terrified Mexicans. Dragan kept up a steady rate of fire, and the enemy onslaught dwindled. Raider made a snap judgment. They were as clear as they could be. He double-checked the file was still tucked into his jacket and gave a quiet order.

  "Keep low. We're leaving."

  They raced toward the gatehouse. The incoming fire from the garage had almost stopped. The Mexicans were searching for the source of the murderous heavy caliber gunfire. Joe's Wrangler entered the gates when they were only fifty meters away, and a hail of machine gun fire made him swerve away as a line of bullets smashed through the rear of the bodywork. Waite quickly discovered the location of the machine gun.

  "It's coming from the house, the fuckers. Vann screwed us."

  They were hiding in the shelter of an ornamental stone well. It protected them from the bullets, but it couldn't last. Sooner or later, their attackers would flank them, and they'd be exposed to raking fire from all sides. Even worse, Dragan had stopped shooting. He called him on the cellphone.

  "What's up?"

  He sighed with exasperation. "It's this damn gun. I have a round jammed in the breech."

  "Can you clear it? We're in serious trouble down here."

  "I don't know. I'm doing my best."

  "Roger that."

  He ended the call and explained the problem. Joe had stopped the jeep close to the pool house and had jumped out to take cover behind a solid concrete wall. He waved to let them to let them know he was unhurt, but he didn't need to explain the jeep was a no go. The moment he climbed into the driving seat, they'd blast him with every gun they could bring to bear. It was another stalemate.

  Waite and Al were watching him, waiting for the next move. A move he didn't have. He was about to speak when a voice boomed out from the house.

  "Raider!"

  "What do you want, Vann?"

  "I guess things didn't work out the way you planned."

  "We had an agreement, you treacherous piece of shit."

  He laughed. "Sure, sure. You're too weak to survive this kind of deal, John. But I'm still prepared to let you go."

  Like hell!

  "What do you want?"

  As if I don't know.

  "You know what I want. Come out from behind that well and hand me the file. As soon as I have it, you and your men can leave. I'll order my men to stop shooting."

  There was no doubt that as soon as he gave up the file, he was dead. They were all dead. Vann had never intended to part with it, only to play for time. They were trapped, hostiles on all sides and no way out. Then he thought of Dragan and called him again.

  "We need help down here, and we need it now, Dragan."

  "It's stuck fast. I'm sorry. It's not going to clear. Not without an armorer to take a look."

  "What other weapons do you have?"

  "I brought my M4-A1, that's all. Not a chance at this range."

  Raider called up the specs for the M4-A1 from memory.

  The effective range for accurate shooting is supposed to be five hundred meters. The hotel’s about eight hundred from the compound, a half-mile.

  "I want you to kill Paul Vann. He's at the window."

  It was the only solution. With Torres dead, Vann was the only man able to hold the enemy together. He was the moneyman. Without him there'd be no rewards, no cash, no luxury cars and fine living. They'd melt away into the darkness.

  He snorted. "I can see him through the scope, yes, but I've checked the distance with the rangefinder. It's eight hundred and twenty meters. It's impossible. Wait, he just disappeared inside the house. It's not going to happen, Raider."

  "I'll get him outside for you."

  "It's still too far."

  "I thought you were a sniper, Dragan."

  "I am a sniper. Not a damned miracle worker."

  "Tonight you are a miracle worker. You're our only chance. You have to do it."

  A deep sigh of exasperation came from the other end. "No promises. I'll do my best."

  "You'll do better than your best. Nail the bastard. We're all relying on you."

  He muttered something inaudible and ended the call.

  He explained what was about to happen.

  "What if he misses?" Al said, asking the obvious question.

  "I've thought about that. As soon as Dragan starts shooting, we'll have a few seconds while they try to identify where the shots are coming from. We'll sprint for the jeep and drive out of here. That's our only hope."

  "Right."

  They didn't look hopeful, which was unsurprising. He didn't have much faith in the plan either. Either it would work, or it wouldn't.

  "What's it gonna be?" Vann shouted again.

  "Give us a couple of minutes," he shouted back.

  "One minute, and then we start shooting."

  He called Joe quickly explained the plan.

  "As soon as Dragan fires, go like hell for the jeep."

  "I'll be ready."

  He didn't sound optimistic, Raider thought to himself. Then again, neither do I.

  They waited.

  "Time's up," Vann shouted, "Give me the file or you die."

  The man was sheltering inside the part-open front door of the house. He had to get him out into the open. Had to give Dragan a chance, any chance, no matter how small.

  "You can have the file, Vann. I'll meet you half way, between here and the house."

  "No tricks, and no weapons."

  "Agreed. I'm coming out."

  He stepped out into the open, and Vann came out to meet him.

  Dragan, do your stuff. Shoot the bastard, now!

  Vann was wary, and he walked slowly into the open. Raider did the same, and they came close to one another. When there was five meters between them, he stopped. Any closer, and he'd be in Dragan's line of fire. Vann was immediately suspicious.

  "What's going on? Come and give me the file. A snap of my fingers and you die, John."

  He didn't reply. It was all on Dragan. The two men stared at each other, and for long seconds there was no movement. Finally, Vann shook his head in exasperation.

  "I've had enough of this shit. I'm going back inside. I'll take the file off your dead body."

  As he started to turn, Dragan fired. A single bullet whistled past his body. He tensed, and then a second round grazed him in the arm. He froze for a moment, shocked, and then started running back to the house, pursued by Dragan's short bursts. At least two more bullets hit him, but none were fatal, and he made it back inside the house. Raider was already running.

  "Now, get out of here. Joe, get that jeep moving."

  He was already starting the engine. The vehicle skidded as the wheels churned up loose gravel and sand, and then he was alongside the concrete well. Al leapt in first and then Waite, firing from the hip at the retreating Paul Vann. The vehicle shot away, and as it passed him, Raider catapulted inside. Joe stamped on the gas, and they rocketed toward the gate, pursued by streams of gunfire from a dozen automatic weapons. They almost made it, but as they were driving through the posts of the heavy gates, several rounds smacked into the gas tank, and the jeep burst into flames.

  * * *

  From a location more than a thousand miles away, a group of men watched the screen dispassionately. The controller turned to them.

  "Target locked. Request permission to fire."

  The man standing right behind him, who appeared to be in charge, looked at the men grouped around him.

  "Are we sure about this? They're all inside the blast zone?"

  Before the man could answer, the door was flung open violently, and a messenger raced into the room. "Stop! You have to hold it."

  He stared at him with contempt. He was a senior officer. He didn't take orders from menials. He fixed the man with a hard gaze.
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  "You'd better have a good reason for interrupting a live operation."

  He nodded, bending his body slightly to catch his breath. "We took a call. If those men don't make it out, they'll go public. The entire operation, names, dates, bank accounts, you name it."

  "One of the Jews?"

  "Yes. We're to let them leave before we..."

  "Leave? I make the fucking decisions around here. Besides, it was agreed at Presidential level. Two fucking Presidents, as I recall." He sighed, "Okay, what else did they say?"

  "The exact message was this. Why bring one President down when you can have two?"

  The man in charge blinked. "You're sure? What about the file?" His voice had lost some of its bluster.

  "There's a good chance Raider managed to take it off him."

  He sighed as he looked at one of the men in suits. "Two Presidents, that's what's at stake. Jesus Christ, it was all arranged. The moment we find out of its existence, the fucking Russkies steal it from under our noses. Now we have an operation to destroy it, and along comes fucking Raider threatening to ruin everything. Shit!"

  "But surely, Sir, as long as he gets it away from Vann..."

  "You idiot! We have to have it in our possession. Either that, or we must destroy it."

  "Why? It's only the Russian President. Who gives a shit?"

  "Didn't you hear that message? Two Presidents, that's what's at stake. Names, bank account codes, dates, addresses, everything."

  "You mean, our..."

  "Yes. Now you know why we have a Special Forces recon team keeping an eye on that compound. We have to know. Either we get it back, or we destroy it. And everyone involved in this sorry business."

  "Yes, Sir."

  The man in snorted in frustration. "Fucking Jews, I don't know why we use them."

  "You said yourself, they were the best we..."

  "Shut the fuck up." He turned to the controller.

  "Wait for my order."

  "Yes, Sir."

  They watched the vague, green outline of the Jeep Wrangler dodge bullets, as it raced around the compound. Dark shadows that were men jumped aboard. It began to accelerate toward the gate, and then it was almost through.

  "Clear, Sir."

  "Very well." He looked back at the controller, "Weapons free." He continued to mumble objections, "It was all sorted. Everyone wanted the fuckers dead. Now this. Shit, if we give in to these kikes..."

  "Sir, their vehicle..."

  "I know about their fucking vehicle. Tell our team to recover the file if they have the chance. You are clear to fire. Do it."

  The controller hesitated a fraction of a second, and then stabbed a button. The men watched the tongue of flame as the Hellfire missile dropped away from the rack. The engine ignited as it began its swift descent to earth. The controller looked at the men behind him.

  "Do you want me to tell them to retrieve it?"

  "Yes. Let's at least come out of this with something to show 1600."

  * * *

  As the rear wheels cleared the compound, the world exploded in a blaze of fire and smoke. The earth lifted, and the vehicle was flung into the air. He blacked out, knowing he was dead and sure it was all over.

  Abigail’s safe.

  He awoke in the center of roiling, stinking smoke. He was lying on the ground, and a few meters away, the Wrangler was still burning. He could see Joe lying next to him. Waite and Al were stretched out further away. A man knelt down over him and reached inside his jacket. He looked familiar, camos, combat webbing, half helmet, and armored vest. Even the weapons were familiar.

  I could swear the guy’s Special Forces, but whose? American, Russian, he could be from anywhere.

  Then the dark overwhelmed him, and he saw no more. He didn't see the man's hand come out holding the Putin file. The soldier looked at the contents, nodded once, and gave a signal to his men. They were there one moment, the next they'd faded into the bushes at the side of the track, and there was only silence. Later, he awoke and looked up into the sky. Stars shone in the pre-dawn darkness, but he faded into unconsciousness. He awoke when two ambulances arrived from the local hospital. As they loaded him onto a gurney, he lapsed back into unconsciousness again, waking again in the ER room of a hospital where staff went to work on his wounds.

  He stared up at a pretty Mexican nurse. She was cleaning the dirt from cuts to his face.

  "Where am I?"

  Her accent was thick and musical, but understandable. "This is Cancun Hospital of All the Saints, Senor."

  "What happened to me? Anything serious?"

  She smiled and shook her head. "Only cuts and bruises, and you're suffering from shock after the explosion. After a couple of days rest, you'll feel better."

  "The other men who came in with me, how about them?"

  "They're okay. You were on the edge of the explosion and missed the worst of the blast."

  "What about the men inside the villa?"

  A shadow crossed her face, and she crossed herself. "Madre de Dios, it was terrible. They brought the bodies in here, many bodies. All dead, it was a huge explosion. They say the man who owned the villa was storing explosives, and they detonated accidentally."

  He nodded.

  It was not stored explosives. I’ve been on enough operations to recognize the footprint of an air-to-ground missile strike, but whose missile?

  She gave him an injection, a sedative, and he fell into a long, deep sleep. When he awoke, Angelina Blass was at his bedside.

  "Hi."

  He tried to smile. "How did you know I was here?"

  She looked puzzled. "How? You sent me a text on your phone."

  "A text? I don't remember. My phone, where is it?"

  She looked into his bedside cabinet. "It's not there. It must have been destroyed in the explosion."

  Inside my camo jacket? That's strange. Then again, a blast can do strange things.

  She stayed another hour and returned to her hotel in Cancun to prepare for a fashion show the following afternoon. "There's a lot of work to do. It was only arranged at the last minute. You know how these things go."

  He didn't, but he nodded. She left, and he began thinking about the unanswered questions. Thankfully, the other three men were only lightly wounded, and they all came in to see him. He talked to them at length, but none had any answers that satisfied him. Slowly, he regained his health until he was ready to leave the hospital. To go where, that was the big question. There were also many other questions.

  Who was behind the missile strike? Whoever it was, they now have the Putin file. America? It’s possible. Russia? More probable, Putin’s the one with the most to lose, isn't he? He’s ruthless enough to kill everyone to get what he wants.

  Either way, he knew he'd never learn the truth.

  Dragan called in to see him just before his discharge and was all apologies.

  "I shouldn't have missed that shot at Vann, but the range was too long for accurate shooting. Next time, maybe."

  Raider shuddered.

  "You did okay. It distracted them and gave us a chance to get out."

  "That's good." He sounded relieved.

  They looked at each other in silence. Dragan seemed as if he had a question to ask him, and he waited for him to spit it out.

  "I wondered what happened back there. You know, the..."

  "It's gone. The file we were all chasing."

  Dragan didn't seem that surprised. Raider explained what he thought he'd seen, the unidentified Special Forces who'd taken the file.

  "So you didn't get a good look at him? It could have been anyone."

  "I guess so. Does it matter?"

  "No, no, of course not."

  "I saw a missile trail just before the explosion."

  "Really? I saw nothing. From an aircraft, do you think?"

  "Who knows?"

  "You've no idea who was behind it?"

  He grimaced. "God knows. It could have been America, Russia, Ukraine, Pamya
t, Svoboda, take your choice. They all wanted it. Even you, Dragan."

  He started. "Me? I had nothing to do with it."

  Who’s telling the truth, and who’s lying? Or are they all lying?

  "Yeah, right."

  He left the hospital later that day, and a cab took him to Angelina's hotel. She undressed him gently, and as he lay on the bed, she stripped naked. He watched her glorious body as she stood over him, wearing a beaming smile on her face.

  "I guess you've been missing me for a long, long time. I'm going to make up for it, right now."

  "You'll have to be gentle."

  "Don't worry, I will."

  She was as good as her word, and the sex was long, totally arousing and sensational. As he lay on the bed with her lying next to him, stroking his body and plastering him with kisses, she said something strange.

  "I wonder what Alexander will do now?"

  Alexander? His mind ranged across the Alexanders he knew, but there was only one.

  How does she know his name is Alexander?

  "How come you know Dragan?"

  She stopped, and he felt her tense. "Know him? Well, I guess we must have met sometime."

  "Right. But, how would you know he was in Mexico?"

  "In Mexico? I think you must have told me, darling. Why is it important?"

  He shook his head, annoyed at himself for harboring such an absurd suspicion. He told her it wasn't important, and he meant it.

  What am I thinking, suspecting her. It's all so strange.

  He found the remote and turned on the TV.

  "Now to Russia. The President, Vladimir Putin, in talks with the US President and Israel, has agreed to negotiate a withdrawal from Ukraine. In a statement from St. Petersburg, he stated that the nations concerned have reached an agreement that will herald in a new era of peaceful cooperation."

  His mind was working overtime.

  Russia. Ukraine. St. Petersburg. Vladimir Putin. Alexander Dragan. CIA, the tenuous link between all of them. Lastly, Angelina Blass. No, it’s impossible.

  He felt faint, his head throbbed, and waves of nausea swept over him. Angelina was still smiling.

  "Isn't that nice, Israel and the US helping to create peace between Russia and Ukraine?"

  "Yes. Angelina, do you by chance have any Jewish ancestors?"