Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  Khan frowned. “I have already lost too many men, and I don’t care about any complications. If you’re not prepared to play your part, perhaps I should look elsewhere. Find someone who is prepared to make the effort. You’re not the only Shiite in the town. There are plenty of others who would give anything for the chance.”

  Mazari knew he was beaten, for now. The man facing him was known for being ruthless in a country where moderate cruelty was often mistaken for kindness. He nodded.

  “I will send them to the compound. They should reach it shortly after dawn.”

  “Tell them to report to my local commander, Habib Khan. If they take the road north out of the city, I’ll tell him to flag down their convoy. Make sure you impress upon them the need to obey his orders.”

  “Perhaps the Hezbe Wahdat commander should run the operation. After all, your men have not met with any success so far,” Mazari suggested.

  “You wish to take responsibility for the success or failure of this enterprise?” Khan’s meaning was clear. A defeat would be on Mazari’s shoulders. He gave in.

  “No, no. Keep the chain of command in place. I will instruct my men accordingly.”

  He walked away to use his cellphone, out of earshot of the Sunni Mullah. The new men would not be impressed to take their orders from a Sunni. It was possible they’d refuse point-blank. Which meant he’d have to offer them an even larger share of the spoils. The agreement with Kabul was to share the road transport business on a fifty-fifty basis. They weren’t aware the agreement didn’t include the aircraft, and Mazari hadn’t told them. He had big plans to expand the aircraft fleet. Drugs were big business.

  Drugs equaled power, and once a shipment was in the air, it was all but impossible for the authorities to prevent them reaching their destination. They could take all of the road transport, and he’d be left with three worn out old aircraft, more than enough to build an empire. First, he needed to persuade them to play ball. To take orders from the Sunnis, and not start killing them the moment they met.

  Shias and Sunnis had been slaughtering each other for one and a half thousand years, and old habits die hard. It would be tough getting them to agree. He resolved to meet them at the compound, and smooth the ground between them and the Sunnis. Until they’d won, and then they could turn their guns on the old enemy. Mullah Khan and his Sunnis.

  * * *

  They ducked into the house, keeping low. Bob had switched on everything outside to make it difficult for the hostiles to mount an attack on the house unseen. When the Islamists first attacked, they’d almost taken Bob’s men by surprise. Rumi Baba on sentry duty sounded the alarm, and they fell back inside the house. Bob had shouted at Lena to switch off the interior lights. It meant the attackers were brightly illuminated when they tried to storm the building.

  The initial onslaught did no damage, until Rumi rushed back outside. He said he’d left his pack. A long burst of assault rifle fire almost sliced him half, and his body had dropped behind a clump of bushes next to an ornamental statue.

  “He was a good man, Rumi,” Bob said, “Handy with the rifle, too. He was a Taliban sniper before he came to me.”

  “We’ll make sure they pay in full,” Stoner replied.

  Bob looked gloomy. “Problem is, they’ve ringed the place with fighters and got us penned in here. It’s like we’re fighting a rerun of Little Bighorn. You know how that one ended.”

  “I could get us out.”

  They swung around fast, and it was only Lena’s shout that stopped them from pulling the trigger. Joseph Chow had appeared from a back room. After the initial emergency ended, he’d landed the Otter on the airfield and returned to the house.

  “Next time, call out before you come into the room,” Crawford snarled, “How can you get us out?”

  “By air. You’re correct; they do have men all around the compound, but not at the airfield. As you know, the strip is adjacent to the grounds. We could go across, board the aircraft, and fly out.”

  Crawford shook his head. “The moment you started the engine, they’d know what we were doing, and they’d drill the aircraft full of holes. Sorry pal, it wouldn’t work.”

  “Unless someone started shooting from inside the house,” Stoner pointed out, “They’d assume it was just the pilot escaping with the plane. Chances are they wouldn’t bother too much, as long as they thought they had their primary targets pinned down in here.”

  Crawford gave him a curious look. “What’s the rest of it?”

  “I’ll go out with Greg. We could land outside of town. Chow could put down on the highway if necessary. While these guys are concentrating their efforts on the house, we go into Panjab, find Khan and kill him. He’s the key to this whole thing. When he’s dead, they’ll pack up their tents and ride away on their camels.”

  “We don’t have camels in Afghanistan,” Lena objected. Then she got it, “Oh, I see. camel jockeys.”

  “Yeah. We could end it all in a single stroke.”

  “What about Ali Mazari?” Lena asked them.

  Crawford looked thoughtful. “You should forget Mazari for now and concentrate on Khan. It’s his men who have us pinned down here. Lena already identified them as Sunnis. You can take her with you.”

  She gave him a scowl. “I’m going nowhere. This is my house. Besides, I can shoot. I have my own pistol in my desk.”

  She hurried away and returned with a small, nickel silver automatic. A model 1908 vest pocket .25 semi-automatic single action. It looked brand-new, like it had never been fired.

  “My father gave it to me,” she said proudly, “It’s small enough to carry around in my purse.”

  Without a word, Bob handed her a spare assault rifle, an American M-16. “Forget the pistol, and use this if you plan to stay. You want to shoot that toy gun, wait until you can push it into a man’s belly, and then pull the trigger. Even then, you’ll have a problem killing him. Use the M-16, and if you don’t know how, ask me or one of the boys.”

  She had the rifle in one hand and the tiny pistol in the other. “This is ridiculous, I don’t need two guns.”

  Greg took the tiny pistol from her and tucked it into his pocket. “I’ll look after it for you. It’ll confuse you, having them both.”

  She stared back at him in mute fury, but she didn’t argue. Stoner pulled her to one side. “You should listen to them. They know what they’re doing. Are you sure you won’t come with us? I’d sooner see you out of here.”

  “I’m staying.”

  He could see the terror in her eyes, but there was also determination. He was about to turn away when she reached up and kissed him. Not on the cheek, a friendly peck, but a full frontal kiss on the lips. At first he pulled away, but her arm was around his back, and he allowed her to hold him to her for several seconds. She pulled away.

  “What was that for?”

  “It was on account.” Her lips parted in a smile, “Something tells me you’re not the cold-blooded SOB you pretend to be.”

  She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped his face. “I’m sorry, I smeared some of my lipstick on you. Keep this in case there’s any I’ve missed.”

  She gave him the delicate square of cotton. “Go now, I’ll be fine.”

  He watched her snatch up the M-16, and she began to check it out. Once more she was all business. He was still stunned by the amorous kiss.

  “Uh, right. Greg, it’s time to go, you got the Barratt?”

  “Locked and loaded.”

  “Chow, you ready?”

  “Yes. We need to leave by the back door. There’s an area of shadow that will hide us while we cross to the airfield.”

  “I will come with you.”

  He glanced at Akram, Ivan the Terrible’s man, and shook his head. “No, I have a different job for you. This woman,” he glanced at Lena, “is the key to everything we’re trying to do here. If they kill or capture her, they scoop the lottery.”

  “Scoop the lottery?” he looke
d baffled.

  “They win everything. If you want to do what Ivan wants, stay and protect her. At all costs. It all comes down to Lena Stori.” He stared into the Afghan’s eyes, “Everything, Akram. Will you do it? Guard her with your life?”

  His head dipped in agreement. “As you wish.”

  Lena grimaced at the idea of her safety being in the hands of one of Ivan’s men, but Stoner had no choice. He didn’t have the luxury of unlimited troops, and Bob’s remaining men were overstretched.

  “Bob, give us fifteen minutes before you start shooting. Chow, Lead the way.”

  He followed the pilot, and Greg came last, the dog trotting at his heels. They hugged the shadows, and Chow was as good as his word. They reached the perimeter of the airfield without encountering the enemy. The Otter stood in front of them about three hundred meters away. In the full glare of a huge security light that could have illuminated Times Square.

  At the edge of the light spill, they could see men racing along a track. They dropped flat to set up a defensive position to prevent anyone leaving the house. He realized if they’d left it a couple of minutes more, they wouldn’t have got out. He wondered if Chow had double-crossed them but dismissed the idea.

  If the Islamists spook us and open fire, he’ll die just as quickly.

  He turned to Greg and pointed at the light. “Can you switch it off with that thing?”

  Blum grinned, “Can a Russian defeat the world at chess? But they’ll hear the shot.”

  “Set it up, and wait for Crawford to start shooting. Then take the shot and we go for the aircraft.”

  They waited, crouched down in the shadows, and then the shooting started. First a couple of short bursts from inside the house, and then the deafening rattle of automatic fire from Khan’s men. Greg fired, and a split second later the floodlight disintegrated, plunging the airfield into darkness. Stoner was already on his feet.

  “Go!”

  They raced over the field, up the airstair, and through the door of the de Havilland. The high wing tail-dragger had a door either side, and they took one side apiece, while Joseph Chow leapt into the pilot’s seat and began to prepare for start-up and take-off. The engine was still warm, and after a couple of minutes, he pressed the self-starter and the Pratt & Whitney 9-cylinder radial engine roared into life. Chow didn’t wait for any checks. He pushed the throttle forward and began taxiing to the opposite end of the runway, ready to turn and take-off into wind.

  Stoner was leaning out the door, watching the perimeter, and he saw two men run toward them. Their mouths were open, and they were screaming something inaudible over the deafening roar of the engine. Khan’s men, turbans, assault rifles, attitude. He took careful aim, moved the selector of his M4 A1 to full auto, squeezed the trigger...and missed. One man stumbled on a stone and went down, and the spray of bullets whistled over his head. He tumbled next to the body of his comrade, whose chewed up body had slammed into the tarmac and lay still. He looked up, saw the killer of his friend in the doorway of the Otter, and opened fire.

  A storm of bullets smashed into the Otter, as the shooter emptied a full clip into the fuselage. Every round missed a vital component of the aircraft. They also missed the occupants. Stoner took aim for a second time, pulled the trigger, and two rounds spat out of the barrel of his M4 A1. One hit the target, but only in his shoulder. Stoner’s firing pin clicked on empty. The hostile stood up and started to slam in a new clip. Stoner did the same, and it was a race against time. To the winner, life and a dead enemy. To the loser, pain and death.

  He was losing the race. The other man had only to snatch a mag out of his webbing, whereas Stoner had his own spares stuffed in his pockets. He muttered a curse, tossed the empty assault rifle to the floor of the aircraft, and drew his Desert Eagles. It was a long shot, a very long shot for automatic pistols. Except the .50 caliber rounds had long legs, as well as phenomenal hitting power. He pulled the trigger of each gun alternately, pressing his shoulder against the doorway to stabilize his aim from the jolting of the taxiing aircraft.

  The magazines were full, and each contained seven rounds. The first twelve went wide. The only benefit was the target realized he was being shot at with heavy caliber rounds, and he paused. The thirteenth bullet grazed skin from his upper arm, and he almost dropped the rifle. He recovered fast. The guy was tough, but not tough enough to withstand a hit from a .50 caliber Action Express bullet, weighing in excess of twenty grams; almost an ounce of lead, and with the astonishing kinetic energy from the muzzle velocity of four hundred and seventy meters per second.

  The bullet smashed into his chest. It was difficult to make out exactly where the impact occurred, but the devastation was enormous. Blood and broken tissue sprayed into the air as the man crumpled to the ground. Stoner breathed a sigh of relief and scanned the area for further threats. When he found none, he pulled the fuselage door shut. Greg had already closed the starboard door, and both men went forward to watch the take-off.

  “Any problems?” Joseph Chow asked, his voice calm.

  “No problems. Chow, you need to land as close to the city as possible. They won’t be able to hold out too long in the house. We have to take care of Khan and persuade his men to back away.”

  He pulled on the control column as he reached V2, take-off speed, and the single-engine de Havilland slowly climbed into the sky. He turned his head.

  “I have a place in mind. It’ll be close enough, don’t worry.”

  “I’ll stop worrying when I’ve put a bullet through his skull. How long do we have?”

  “I’ll circle around the city and land almost immediately. Five minutes at most.”

  He was as good as his word. The Otter flew at three hundred meters, looped around, and began to descend for a landing outside Panjab. The Chinese pilot’s skill was confirmed when he put the aircraft down as gently as a 747 landing at JFK in New York. They were on some kind of a well-lit, grass landing strip, not a highway. He turned to Chow as the pilot chopped the throttle all the way back and started to brake.

  “What kind of place is this? I thought the only airfield in Panjab was at Lena’s place.”

  The Chinese gave him a reassuring smile. “This was an emergency field built during the early days of the ISAF war with the Taliban. A friend of mine keeps it in operation as a private strip. I gave him a call just before we took off, asked him to switch on the landing lights.”

  “Private strip, as in aircraft they don’t want the cops to know about?”

  He didn’t mention smuggled opium or heroin. He didn’t have to, in Afghanistan, it was a given.

  “Something like that.”

  Chow released the brakes again and gunned the engine to taxi toward a building at the side of the field. When he was only a few meters away, he stopped the aircraft and switched off the engine.

  “I asked him to meet us here. He has transport to take us into town.”

  He got up from his seat, stepped out through the door, and jumped the short distance to the ground. Stoner and Blum glanced at each other, thinking the same thing. It was too pat, too easy. And yet, they had no reason to doubt the guy. Lena had said he was the most loyal and trustworthy of all her employees. Greg went first, shouldering his Barratt 50 and joining Chow on the ground. Stoner followed, after he’d slammed a new clip into his M4 A1. He couldn’t still the voice in his head that said something was wrong.

  How come Lena didn’t know of this strip? I only hope to Christ Joseph Chow is everything she says he is.

  The pilot walked toward the building and opened a side door. “The vehicle is inside. I’ll get it started while you open up the main doors.”

  Without making any outward sign, Stoner selected full auto on the assault rifle and followed them inside the building. The landing lights from the field failed to penetrate the interior, and it was pitch dark.

  He called to Chow, “Joseph, we could do with some light in here. Jesus, what’s that stench?”

  At the sa
me moment as the last word came out of his mouth, the lights came on. Full on. The interior changed from darkness to light in a split second, and in that split second, he saw the Toyota Hilux parked in the center of the open space. He also saw the extent of Chow’s treachery.

  “Drop the weapon.”

  He froze and turned his head in the direction of the man who spoke. An Afghan, he didn’t hold a weapon in his hands. He didn’t need to, the dozen or so men scattered around the building had more than enough guns to go around. Most were the ubiquitous AKs. Men with black turbans, Sunnis, scruffy, dirty robes, their torsos hung with bandoliers and leather pouches for spare magazines. When one of them smiled, the legacy of a lifetime spent far from civilization became obvious in the blackened and missing teeth.

  He'd identified the stench now. Body odor. Filth, for these men, personal hygiene took a backseat to the very serious business of killing. He put down the M4 A1.

  “Drop the gunbelt. Slowly.”

  He obeyed, and the tiny cotton handkerchief fell out of his pocket to the floor. Archer was next to his legs, waiting for an order. The Shepherd knew something bad was wrong, very bad. He was waiting. The moment he received an order, he would leap into action regardless of the risk. He was a Marine dog. Stoner slowly, very slowly reached down and scratched the dog’s head. “It’s okay, boy. Here, take this.”

  Still keeping every movement slow, he picked up the cotton square and gave it to him. Archer sniffed it and then took it in his mouth.

  “He gets nervous,” Stoner explained, “I don’t want him to react to the guns and do something to make you shoot him.”

  “Very wise. We’ll probably shoot him, anyway,” the harsh Pashto accented voice rasped out.

  “No need for that. He won’t do anything stupid.”

  He kept patting the dog, making sure he understood to keep hold of the cloth. He moved his mouth close to its ear. “Archer, seek. Seek, boy.” The dog’s ears came up, his eyes alert with intelligence, “Seek.”