Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  "Isra, no…"

  I didn't reach the prone figure. Turner was right behind me and smashed me over the head with the butt of his gun, and I dropped to the ground. I wasn't fully conscious, nor unconscious. It was just a hazy, halfway state between the two. A dark mist floated in front of my eyes, and all I could think of was whether it was my head or the fog rolling in off the sea.

  I wanted to go to the aid of Isra, but I couldn't move, and I assumed he was dead.

  "It's time we finished this," I heard a voice snarl. I thought it came from a long way away, as if someone was speaking through a concrete pipe, but when I turned my head slowly to look up, he was standing over me. Jeffs. And then I had a ray of hope. Isra moved slightly, so maybe the last surviving Afghan cross-dresser wouldn't become just another casualty statistic. But when I was dead, they would almost certainly finish him. Isra moved again, and as Jeffs raised his pistol, he glanced at him and turned back to me and took aim.

  "This is the end, Schaeffer. Anything to say before you die?"

  I stared him in the eyes to make sure he got the message. "Fuck you, Jeffs."

  He giggled, and it was then I realized he was slightly crazy. No, that didn't cut it. More like he was completely psycho.

  "Your insults don't impress me, shithead. You'd better say goodbye, and when I've finished you, the whore gets it."

  I continued to stare at him, maybe it was stupid pride, but I wasn't prepared to look away or close my eyes. My career had taken me to places where death could take me at any time. I decided long ago that when the moment came, I'd reach out and take it by the hand. I waited.

  The shot rang out, and no matter what my intentions, my body instinctively reacted, cringing from the bullet about to smash into my body, to finish my life for all time. I felt a terrible, searing pain, and waves of black rolled around my head. My eyes were closed, but I tried to open them, and I could see. I started to feel for where the bullet had impacted. It was strange. I couldn't feel a thing.

  And then I saw Jeffs lying on the ground in a pool of blood. Isra was kneeling next to him, and he was holding the Colt Junior he'd been carrying in his purse. Jeffs groaned and started to move, but he put the barrel next to his head and squeezed the trigger twice. His body jerked and then lay still.

  My sudden reprieve stunned me but it was only temporary. Turner was still standing close by, his mouth open in astonishment. It was the only thing that saved us. If he'd fired then, we'd have been dead. But he could hardly believe his partner and mentor was dead. The night was silent, the thick fog had rolled in even more, and the damp blanket deadened the normal sounds of the seashore. For long moments, nothing moved. There was no noise. It was just a question of who would snap out of their inertia first.

  It's strange, but when you think you're dead, something locks in your brain and movement becomes impossible. I wanted to make a grab for Jeffs' gun, which was lying a few feet from where his body lay. I wanted to shout at Isra to bring his pistol to bear on Turner and shoot the bastard. As I watched, he dropped the gun, too overcome to go on. Like me, he'd been close to death and was in that strange stasis which is a midpoint between conscious and unconscious thought. Between life and death.

  Turner recovered first. It was unlikely the death of his partner would affect him for too long. He was probably already counting up the extra money he would make as the sole proprietor of their various illicit activities. He swung round the assault rifle to cover me, and any thoughts I had of grabbing the pistol evaporated. First, he snapped a quick shot that hit Isra in the stomach and knocked him back to the ground. He lay there, and I could hear the peculiar mewing of pain as he waited to die, blood pouring out of the wound. Then he turned back to me.

  "He was a good friend of mine, Jeffs," he told me, "I think I'll shoot you in the guts first, and let you die a little at a time. Your friend the whore won’t last long. I’ll enjoy watching the little creep begging for mercy. I hear being shot in the guts is agonizing.”

  "Not as agonizing as growing up a total shit like you, Turner."

  He chuckled, and I guessed he probably enjoyed being a total shit. It was just as well. It was the last action of his life. Twin bursts of gunfire cut into him from inside the cover of the fog. I could see the bullets ripping into his body, pieces of cloth tearing away from his clothing, and specks of blood appearing. Yet he remained standing for the first few moments. He took a step back, then another, and watched as black-clad men streamed out of the fog. One of them fired another burst, and Turner crashed down, dead.

  Another man came out of the fog and looked down at the carnage. Smith. I climbed to my feet and went over to Isra. He was bad, real bad. His eyes stared up at me.

  “Help me, Schaeffer. It hurts. I don’t want to die here.”

  “Help is on the way, Isra. Just don’t die on me.”

  I saw the lips crinkle into a smile, and I had to put my head down to listen to his words.

  “Not in this dress, really, it’s not...”

  “I know. Hang in there.”

  I nodded and went over to Winter. She was coming around. I helped her up and we turned to face Smith.

  “You cut that pretty close, but thanks.”

  “Yeah, well, we didn’t know they’d get here so quickly. It was Turner, had his own aircraft at the local airport. Took us by surprise.”

  “You knew they’d come?”

  “We guessed.”

  I could hardly believe they’d thrown us to the wolves, but still, it was the Agency. They weren’t exactly Boy Scouts. He was examining Jeffs’ body, and then he stood up. I looked at him.

  “I’m sorry. He was a bastard, but I know you and him were close.”

  His gaze was cold. “Another time, in another place. I don’t make friends with traitors, Schaeffer. Period.”

  “Right. Isra needs medical attention. The wound is still bleeding.”

  We could hear his faint moans of pain, and I’d seen enough wounds to know he could easily die without urgent attention.

  He nodded. “Help is on the way. A couple of minutes and they’ll be over the beach. They can’t land in this fog, but they’ll drop down a gurney and winch him up.”

  “Her.”

  He grimaced. “Whatever.”

  * * *

  I went into the hospital room and found Winter already there, leaning over the bed. She moved aside, and I looked at the battered form lying under the sheets.

  "How are you feeling?"

  The kid looked like hell, bruised, deep shadows under the eyes, and a mountain of dressings over the chest area.

  It had been a week since that fateful, mist-shrouded night at my shack. They choppered Isra to a local ER room in Rockport, and for two days he hovered between life and death, but he began to pull through on the third day and was making a strong recovery.

  * * *

  Langley, Virginia

  After that night, Smith wanted us out of the area, and his men escorted Winter and me to the local airport and bundled us into an unmarked private jet. We arrived in a small medical facility close to Langley, Virginia, where they checked us over. They kept Winter overnight because of the concussion, but they pronounced me fit right away. That was when the pain really started. Several days of intensive debriefing with them trying to understand how they'd fucked up, who to blame, and how to cover it all up. Whatever they did, they were successful. Not a word leaked out, neither from the Egypt fiasco, the blast at the Hay Adams, or the shoot-up in Rockport. The moment they released us, we headed north, to visit Isra.

  * * *

  Rockport, Maine

  He managed a weak smile. "Better, but I need fresh air. The atmosphere inside this hospital is terrible for my skin. I'll need a ton of cosmetics to repair the damage." He fixed me with an intense stare, "Schaeffer, is it over? I mean, really over?"

  I looked at Winter and she nodded confirmation. She'd know; she was the Agency insider.

  "It's over, yes. They're all dead; a
ll the people who wanted to kill us. And they’ve confirmed your immigration status, so you're cleared to stay in the States."

  He smiled. "That's good news. They came in yesterday and talked about the visa, but until you said it, I didn't really believe it was true. What about you, what are you doing next? Both of you, you must have some plans."

  I turned to look through the glass window. Smith was waiting outside in the passage. He'd allowed this visit, provided I kept it short. I recalled our last conversation.

  ‘Schaeffer, you're not off the hook yet, not by a long way. Remember that murder charge?’

  I lied. "No plans, my friend. Winter and I are staying in Rockport for a few days to tidy up the shack. We'll be coming to visit you, every day."

  "I'll look forward to it."

  "Good. What are your plans?"

  A pause. "The staff here can't make up their mind about me, you know, the gender thing."

  I chuckled. "It must be a bit confusing for them, if they don't know you, that is."

  "I suppose, but it's a lot of fun, keeping them guessing. Especially now they can't send me back to Afghanistan."

  "No, they can't."

  I could see Smith tapping his watch. "I have to go." I looked at Winter, "You coming?"

  She nodded at Isra. "We'll see you tomorrow."

  * * *

  "You have a week."

  We were sitting in the Chevy Suburban, on the way back to my beachside residence, AKA the shack, or at least the remains of it. I looked at Smith. "A week? That's not much time to clear the wreckage and fix the damage."

  "Too bad. I can always arrange for you to return to Fort Drum, if you'd prefer."

  I fought down the urge to tell him to go fuck himself. The threat of a life sentence can do that to you. It's a powerful incentive.

  "And then?"

  "I'll tell you when you report in." He looked at Winter, "You too. I'll need you to go along and keep him out of trouble. I'm impressed with what you achieved in Egypt. We've had a great deal of feedback from the Egyptian Government, although they don't know the whole story. Just that we helped them get rid of a nasty little parasite who was trying to throw the country into chaos. They don't need to know more."

  "I thought the country was already in chaos," I murmured.

  He gave me a sour look. "Perhaps it was. They still have problems, you remember that General Sadat?" I nodded, "He's still trying to form a new alliance to take power, and he's backed by some powerful people. It'll be touch and go for some time."

  I didn't reply, and we continued to the shack in silence. When we arrived, he repeated his instruction to report in within seven days.

  "For what?" I asked him, "What's the deal? What am I letting myself in for?"

  He gave me a flat, hard look. "Redemption."

  * * *

  Redemption. Maybe I'd made a start already. Winter and I managed to forge a new relationship. After everything, I guess both of us had changed. I was learning to trust her, just a little bit more with each hour and each day that past. I liked to think she'd left behind the title of 'Miss Superbitch' and was taking steps to rejoin the human race.

  Time would tell. For now, we took it one day at a time, and one night at a time. One thing was definite; she'd lost nothing of her edge in the sack. The night before we were due to meet Smith in a motel not too far from Langley, she started putting the moves on me. We were sitting on the couch in the living room, and my mind had wandered to other things that evening. The idea of going back into the field was enough to put anyone into a bad mood. It wasn't just that. Sabrina was never far from my mind. No matter how hard I tried to forget her, she always came back. I tried an apology.

  "Winter! I don't feel like it, not tonight."

  I turned on the TV to catch up with the late news on CNN.

  She ignored it and kept massaging me in all the right places. "What's wrong with tonight? Is it because we're seeing Smith tomorrow?"

  "Yeah, something like that," I agreed.

  "It could be our last chance, Schaeffer," she grinned, "Eat, drink, and fuck each other's brains out. I think that's the way the saying goes."

  "I don't recall it was quite like that. Do you know what Smith wants?"

  The pause was too long, too calculated. "Not exactly, no."

  That meant yes. At least now I could work out when she was lying, which was an improvement. I didn't press her. She was moving my brain in another direction entirely. In the end, I surrendered to the inevitable, but at the back of my mind wondered why she wouldn't tell me where we were going. One thing I knew for sure, it wouldn't be anywhere good. Wherever Smith intended to send us, for me to continue working out my 'redemption', it would be a contender for 'Top Ten World Shitholes'.

  It wasn't all bad. I'd leeched the worse of the past out of my system. Jeffs was dead, Mukhtar was dead, and I had my booze habit on the run. Not a terrible score. But what was up next?

  After the sex, we lay in each other's arms and watched TV.

  "And now to Egypt, where a new faction has emerged in the race to form a new government. General Sadat is..."

  She didn't say anything, but I felt her flinch.

  "Is that where we're going? Egypt again?"

  She shook her head. "Honestly, I don't know. Wait until we see Smith."

  I got up and walked down to the beach. The waves were curling in like before, like they always did. The night sky was clear, with stars shining bright on the tiny patch of real estate I called home. I looked for the ranks of bodies rolling inshore, the legions of the dead I'd left behind, but they were no longer there.

  Was it Egypt, was that what he wanted, another mission for the Hunter Killers? But now I was the sum total of the Hunter Killers; a fireteam of one man.

  I was halfway back to the shack when I realized I'd unconsciously been working out how to recruit more men, three men, replacements for Brad, Manuel, and Niall. I'd have to talk to Smith about it. I mean; it's not the kind of thing you announce on Craigslist.

  I looked up at the stars. Were they looking down on me? Was she looking down on me, one of those stars, maybe? Sending me good wishes for the future, a future doing what I'd always done best? To hunt, and to kill.

  BLACK OPS - HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN: VENGEANCE

  By Eric Meyer

  First Smashwords Edition

  Copyright © 2015 Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  Chapter One

  Five Years Before

  Rafe Stoner, newly minted Lieutenant JG, U.S. Navy SEALs, signaled a stop. The men crouched in an area of scrub and broken stones. They were almost invisible to any watcher more than a few meters away. On attachment to ISAF, the NATO International Security Assistance Force, their job was to defeat the Taliban insurgency inside Afghanistan. To defeat them, they had to engage. To engage, they first had to locate the enemy.

  Their grimy Marpat camos blended in so they became one with the surrounding landscape, and one with the ubiquitous dust. They were in a land of broken stone, harsh rock and dust. There was always the dirt. It only changed in the deep winter when the ground froze, and along with it the pervasive stench of the urban areas. Most men preferred the deep winter. Even though winter inside Afghanistan was harsh and cruel. Almost as cruel as the armed warbands who roamed the country and killed at will.

  Stoner carried with him a determination to make a difference. He'd read the reports, seen the newsreels. There was too much violence, too much death inside the bloody nation of Afghanistan. The cruelty and murder was down to insurgent activity, armed bands paid for by drug money, brutalizing entire villages, often for little or no reason.

  Perhaps they were from the wrong tribe, or even had the temerity to open a school to teach young girls. The Taliban's war against women was particularly appalling. Women imprisoned in their homes and denied access to basic health care. Denied the food sent to feed starving people. The insurgents stole most of it. Why would they tolerate the educatio
n of these young women? They wanted willing, dumb slaves, not intelligent young adults who may argue with their medieval ideas.

  Villagers may have refused to grow the cash crop, the opium that ruined lives, and paid for the guns and bombs that ruined lives. Either way, there was only one answer, one sanction. Bloody death. Brutal death. Violent death.

  He'd led an eight-man fireteam in pursuit of a Taliban war band, tracking them to a flyspeck village. The unnamed collection of squalid huts lay about a kilometer in front of them, close to the town of Lashkar Gar, capital of Helmand Province. The insurgents had to have traveled past the village, so they must be close behind. Perhaps they hid in the miserable collection of stone hovels and stinking goat sheds. Waiting for the SEALs to cross.

  They’d come to a river. Wide and fast running, after the snow on the mountain peaks had melted. The usual brown trickle was a foaming torrent. He turned to his men.

  “They must have crossed somehow. Fan out and start looking for a boat, a raft, or even a shallow ford.”

  They dispersed to search along the riverbank. Almost immediately, the voice of one of his men came into his headset, “I found a raft, Lt. It's pulled up on the bank.”

  “Can we use it?”

  “Negative. It’s on the opposite bank.”

  “Copy that, keep looking. There has to be something we can use.”

  A few minutes later, he knew they’d drawn a blank. The only option was to detour along the bank until they found a bridge or some other crossing, like a shallow ford.

  Which could mean the hostiles vanishing by the time we reach the village.

  As he entertained that thought the first bullet smacked into the earth less than a meter from where he stood. His eyes probed the ground around the village. Sniper, had to be and likely just a ranging shot. His aim would be better when he fired the next round. A couple of the men were still exposed, searching for the shooter. Too exposed.