Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  “It seems your men failed, Mullah Khan. You sent out twenty-eight fighters, and you lost ten of them. I only sent out two men, and they both came back.”

  “They ran!” Khan retorted, his voice savage. He knew he’d have to placate his angry followers. The truth was he should have taken more care to ensure his men weren’t walking into a trap. Instead, he’d sent them away with no orders other than to pillage and destroy the Stori premises. He’d made a mistake, and he’d have to compensate the families of those men who’d fallen.

  “My men retreated,” Mazari oozed, “When they came up against superior firepower, they fell back to regroup.”

  “They fell back two kilometers to your mosque,” he retorted, “That’s not what I call a regroup.” He was getting nowhere, and he backpedalled. It was vital to keep this treacherous Shia calm, “Even so, we must wreak vengeance for what these men have done. Imam Mazari, you must send your own men next time. It is time to beat this woman to her knees, like all women.”

  “I don’t have many men, not trained fighters.”

  “There is always Hezbe Wahdat.”

  He smiled inwardly as Mazari flinched at the mention of the organization. Khan knew he was deep in their debt. He could call on them for help, but the price would be steep, very steep.

  He shook his head looking miserable. “I don’t know. It’s always difficult dealing with those people. There are other problems.”

  Khan chortled inside. He was more than aware of the problems Mazari referred to. Money. He kept his expression neutral. “Problems, my friend?”

  Mazari waved his hand in a throwaway gesture. “It’s not important. Very well, I will contact Kabul. If they agree, they can be here within hours.”

  “Good. I suggest you make the arrangements. Until we can kill those two men with Lena Stori, it will be impossible to persuade her to agree to the marriage. We must not fail again, Imam Mazari.”

  Ali Mazari gave him a wolfish smile. “How can we fail, Mullah Khan? We are doing God’s work.”

  He stalked out of the door, and his bodyguards fell in behind him. Khan watched him go, satisfied if there were any more casualties, they’d be blaspheming Shiites, not Sunnis.

  He reflected on the age of old Sunni and Shiite divide, the Sunni–Shia split that occurred on the death of Muhammad in 632. The dispute was over the succession to Muhammad, who was to be the new caliph of the Islamic community across the world. The split led to the Battle of Siffin and peaked after the Battle of Karbala. During this battle, Muhammed’s grandson, Hussein ibn Al, died, together with his family.

  The outcry for revenge split the Islamic community apart, and over the centuries, both sides took up arms against each other. Muslims considered the Koran divine, although both Sunni and Shia had different opinions on the interpretations and the oral histories that came afterward. The war had waxed and waned for almost fifteen centuries. Unlike the differences between Catholic and Protestant, Baptist and Presbyterian, it was a war that still raged, leaving corpses littered in its wake. These were Muslims. Doing God’s work.

  Khan was content. There’d be plenty more corpses. Shiite corpses. Any survivors would die soon enough, when they finally settled the question of who ruled the region. Who would own the lucrative drug trade, and who would lose everything, including their lives.

  * * *

  Greg was still keeping watch when Stoner drove out to the airstrip to meet Black Bob Crawford and his men. The automatic landing lights came on, and Joseph Chow put the Otter on the tiny strip for a perfect landing. The airstair came down, and first out was Bob Crawford himself, the big, black beard unmistakable. He was carrying a canvas holdall. One by one, the rest of his men emerged from the cabin.

  Bob was huge, a bear of a man from the Deep South, Vicksburg, Mississippi. He still raged about the Civil War siege, and cursed the damn Yankees for forcing the surrender of General Pemberton. It happened the very day after General Lee suffered his calamitous defeat at Gettysburg. Crawford was a latter day adventurer, and after he left the elite Delta Force found it impossible to put down roots. He decided to return to the place that fed his adrenaline-fueled adventures, Afghanistan, a country where his martial talents were much in demand.

  Behind him walked Rumi Baba, an Afghan. Wounded during his time with the Mujahedeen lack of antibiotics cost him an eye, and he wore a patch. There was the mysterious Malik, who refused to answer to any other name, including his real one. A Pakistani, he was on the run after killing a minister who raped his sister.

  The last man down the stairs was Sebastian Koch, a German, a former infantryman with ISAF. He deserted after a Taliban ambush almost wiped out his unit. It shouldn’t have happened, and he never forgave the stupid officer in command, a man who hung back while his troops went into the field and died, when his orders proved to be both foolhardy and exposed the men to unnecessary danger. Koch became a mercenary. Shortly after the officer died, killed by a Taliban sniper bullet. Or so the official report stated.

  He went up to them with a smile and shook hands. “It’s good to see you guys, glad you could come. Let me help you with your gear.”

  He helped them unload a number of heavy aluminum flight cases from the aircraft. There was no need to inquire what lay inside them. They were the tools of their trade, weapons, ammunition, grenades, and explosives. Joe came down the stair and eyed the growing heap of cargo.

  “I guess you’ll need a hand with that stuff. I’ll fetch the minivan. You taking it all over to the house?”

  “That’s right. These men will be staying with Lena for a few days. They’re her guests.”

  “Guests.” He looked at Stoner, and the skepticism was written all over his face. Bob’s men all wore matching camos, similar but not quite the same as MARPAT camouflage. The mercenary leader always said he liked to know who not to shoot at.

  Stoner bundled them into the Wrangler and drove back to the house, while Joe followed with their gear. When they arrived, Greg stepped out of the shadows to greet Bob and his men. He looked at Stoner.

  “All quiet so far. We gave them a good licking. They’ll think twice before they come back.”

  “They’ll come. It’s just a question of when. I’ll take the boys inside to meet Lena and find somewhere to bunk down. In the morning, we have some traveling to do.”

  “Band-e Amir?”

  “Band-e Amir, sure.”

  Bob was listening with interest. “What’s at Band-e Amir?”

  “Ivan the Terrible. He stole something from Lena Stori, your employer, and we’re going to try to persuade him to give it back.”

  “Something valuable?”

  “Gold, property of the government in Kabul, and if it doesn’t arrive before too long, they’ll seize the assets of Stori Transport. Miss Stori will be washing dishes in the local hamburger joint for the rest of her life to pay back what she owes.”

  “Gold, eh?” He smiled and nodded, “Gold makes men mighty greedy. I doubt they’ll give it up without a fight.”

  “Probably not. You busy over the next week or two?”

  His smile widened. “It looks like we’re gonna be. You sure about going into the place, just the two of you?”

  “And the dog,” he gritted, “If anything happens, here’s what I want you to do.”

  They talked for a few minutes. Bob indicated his agreement, and they went inside. In the morning, he awoke early. He felt like hell, as if he’d been beaten by a score of men with baseball bats. Greg was already up, walking Archer after a meal, and he forced himself to dress and join him. Malik, one of Black Bob’s men waved from across the yard where he was keeping watch. Blum threw a stick, and the big German Shepherd bounded after it, his tail wagging. Blum nodded a greeting to Stoner.

  “What time do you plan to leave?”

  “As soon as we’re loaded. There’s one thing I haven’t figured. How do we locate this Ivan the Terrible?”

  Greg looked puzzled. “Drive to Band-e Amir and start l
ooking, I thought that was the plan.”

  “I checked the map. It’s a vast area, and Lena said they’ve sent troops in to search for him and drawn a blank. We need a plan.”

  They both turned as Lena Stori stepped out of the house. She gave them a smile; although Stoner could see the effort cost her a huge effort. In a matter of twenty-four hours, she’d seen the thriving business she owned threatened with bankruptcy and extinction. Even so, she put a brave face on it.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. You’re wondering how to find Ivan the Terrible.”

  Stoner looked back at her. “If you have any ideas, now would be a good time to let us know what they are.”

  She stood next to him, her head tilted up to make eye contact. “There’s only one way to locate Ivan. You let him find you. Nothing in that region happens that he doesn’t know about. As soon as his people see two men heading toward Band-e Amir, he’ll find you.”

  He looked back at her and couldn’t help but admire her strained but still pretty face. “That’s it? We just walk into the jaws of the lion?”

  “That’s it. There’s no other way.”

  * * *

  The track they were on climbed toward the distant hills of Band-e Amir. Archer was sitting in the center of the rear seat, staring out through the windshield. There was no other traffic on the road, just the Wrangler. They passed the occasional goat herder, and once, in the distance, they spotted a convoy of donkeys on the crest of a hill. They could only be ferrying opium from some remote field to a central collection point. Donkeys were often the preferred mode of transport. Go anywhere in any weathers, dried up riverbeds, narrow tracks that threaded through the mountains, or even an ordinary village street. Innocent, rural, just peasant farmers conveying their crops from the fields, unchecked and anonymous.

  The track wound like a writhing snake through a narrow valley, and either side the rock walls rose almost sheer to the top of the low mountain range that marked the start of Band-e Amir. Archer looked from side to side and barked. They glanced at each other. He had good reason. It was a perfect spot for an ambush. At any moment they could clear the next bend and run into a roadblock.

  Moreover, this was Ivan’s territory. According to legend, he lived on the proceeds of crime, robbery and smuggling drugs. He also had a reputation as a man inclined to rob a passing trafficker of his product just as it was about to ship out overseas. They said he was rich, a latter day King Midas. Stoner wondered about his place out here in the boonies.

  What’s the point of all that money when you live in a remote shithole? Maybe we could ask him when we meet the guy. Provided he isn’t the shoot first and ask questions afterward kind of gangster.

  “You got a plan?” Greg broke the silence abruptly, “I mean, he’s not just going to roll over when you talk to him about returning the gold to Lena.”

  “Probably not. I had a word with Black Bob last night. If that shipment doesn’t go back to her, Bob can make things difficult for Ivan, really difficult. Especially if he gives away his location to the Afghan Army.”

  “How would he know the location, if we don’t know it?”

  “Because I’ve got a tracker sewn into the waistband of my pants. He can follow it with a laptop connected to the internet. If we don’t check in, or use the satphone to call for help, he’ll know where we are.”

  “Clever. You think it’ll work.”

  “If it doesn’t, we’re fucked.” He steered the Wrangler through a tight, hairpin turn.

  “That’s good to know. Because there’s a truck parked across the track up ahead. I reckon Ivan just found us.”

  He stared ahead. Men were emerging from behind the rocks either side of the track, each armed with an assault rifle, a collection of different weapons, Kalashnikovs, M-16s, and French FALs. He also noticed a British Minimi machine gun, the European version of the M249, positioned on a ledge a few meters above the track. He braked to a stop close to a man who stood in front of the truck, obviously the guy in charge. He wore a checkered Afghan turban, an Afghan sheepskin jacket, and gray, Russian style camouflage pants.

  He was Caucasian, with the pale skin of the Russian steppes. Stoner climbed out of the Jeep and approached the man while Greg stayed inside with the dog. He stopped a meter from him and kept his hands away from the guns at his waist.

  “Am I talking to Ivan Vasilyevich?”

  The man stared back at him for a few moments. His gaze was amused rather than hostile.

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. What are you doing here? No one ever uses this track. Not unless they have business in Band-e Amir. You could be bounty hunters, looking to earn a reward from the government in Kabul. I think it would be in my interest to kill you, unless you can give me a good reason not to.”

  Stoner kept his gaze friendly. “I’m here to help out a lady. She’s in serious trouble, and I believe you can help, assuming you’re Ivan Vasilyevich. My name’s Stoner, by the way. This is...”

  “I know who you are, Rafe Stoner of Jalalabad, and Grigory Blum from Mehtar Lam. I see he has his dog in the vehicle. Arrow, I believe.”

  “Archer.”

  He shrugged. “Whatever. My name is Gorgy Bukharin. Ivan is not here, but he will be back later. Then he will decide your fate.”

  “Our fate?” Stoner’s hands dropped lower to his guns, but Bukharin sneered. “Go ahead, if you want to commit suicide.” He pointed to the Minimi up on the ledge, “If I raise a finger, he’ll tear you in half. Drop the guns, slowly, and tell you friend to come out here with the dog. You may accompany us.”

  “Where to?”

  He chuckled. “As I have many more guns than you, I’ll take you anywhere I wish. I would advise you to cooperate. That way, there is a chance you may live.”

  Stoner beckoned Greg to join him with Archer. Then he returned his gaze to the Russian.

  Another relic of the old Soviet war, perhaps, or perhaps not.

  There were plenty of out of work Russian soldiers. Mostly Special Forces, men who drifted into the country to look for well paid work, to seek out their fortune. He thought of the tracker concealed in his pants.

  Black Bob, I hope to Christ you’re monitoring our location. I thought we’d have a chance to slip into Ivan’s territory unnoticed. The tracker was just a fallback plan. Now it’s the only one we have.

  Bukharin shouted orders, and a half-dozen men clustered around them with their assault rifles readied. Two of his band fastened their wrists behind their backs, after searching them for weapons. When they were secure, the Russian strolled over and ran his hands over their clothes. He was expert, a man who missed nothing. He didn’t miss the tracker. With a smile, he tossed it to the ground and stamped on it.

  “A good try, but I’m afraid you’re off the air. Ivan doesn’t like people tracking his location.”

  Stoner said nothing, and the men herded them toward the truck that still blocked the road.

  “We’ll take care of the Jeep, Stoner. If we decide to kill you, we can sell it to one of our contacts. One more thing, I suggest you make certain your friend keeps his dog under control. Otherwise, I’ll put a bullet in him.”

  “He’ll be fine. When do we see Ivan?”

  “When he wants to see you.”

  They pushed them inside the truck, and a guard joined them. There were no windows, so they couldn’t see where they were going, only a translucent roof that meant they weren’t in darkness. The vehicle lurched away. Unable to use their hands to steady themselves the violent motion tossed them around the floor, so they bounced off the aluminum sides. The guard laughed, enjoying their misfortune until Archer bared his teeth in a snarl. He said something harsh in Pashto, but it stopped the laughter.

  When the truck eventually came to a stop, after a bruising hour of being thrown around in the back like corks on a rough sea, the rear door opened. Bukharin was standing there, his face cold. The vehicle was parked in a narrow valley between sheer ro
ckfaces. It would be invisible from the air and the ground, unless the person looking was almost on top of it. They had no idea where they were.

  “Get out of the vehicle. We have quarters prepared for you. Somewhere you can be comfortable until Ivan gets here.”

  “He’d better not be long,” Greg murmured. He gave the man a hard stare, “We came here to make a deal. This is no way to treat a fellow Russian.”

  “You’re not a Russian,” the bandit snapped, “You’re nothing but a mongrel, Grigory Blum. What are you really, part Russian, part Jew, part Afghan, and God knows who your mother screwed before she had you?”

  “Yob tvoyu mat,” Greg replied in Russian. ‘Fuck your mother.’ “What are you, Bukharin, part man, part goat?”

  The man gave him a thin smile and shouted something to his men in Pashto.

  “I trust you will find your room comfortable.”

  The bandits seized them, dragged them to an opening in the ground, and pushed both men over the edge. Stoner plummeted downward about four meters until he encountered the floor. Greg followed and almost landed on top of him. They were in a natural cave, a chamber in the rocks, with only the opening at the top to allow access. Or egress. There was no rope, no ladder, no other exits, nothing. Archer plummeted down a few seconds later, landing nimbly on all fours.

  As he looked up, Bukharin’s face appeared, framed by the opening. “I trust you will be comfortable in your new accommodation. Wen Ivan returns, he will decide whether you live, or you rot in there until you’re dead.

  “You’re making a mistake,” Stoner shouted, “We came here to negotiate, something that could bring your boss a lot of cash.”

  “He already has a lot of cash,” was the casual reply, “Maybe he’ll take what you have to offer and kill you anyway.”

  He went away. It was bitterly cold in the stone chamber, and Stoner did some exercises to restore his circulation. Then he prowled around, looking for a way out. There was nothing. No way to reach the surface, not without a ladder or climbing equipment. He measured angles and heights to see if he could stand on Greg’s shoulders and get out that way, but he’d be a meter short. He checked the walls of the cavern, but they were smooth. No handholds, cracks, niches, no way to pull himself up. Finally, he decided to sit on the floor and conserve his strength.