Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  The Norwegian increased speed but then slackened again. He didn't want to reach UNHCR headquarters, not for anything. Stoner knew why. In the end, he grabbed the wheel, punched the Norwegian in the head to keep him quiet, and took over. At the same time, he shoved the man over to the passenger seat. It was just in time, they'd been about to drive past the building with the blue and white UN flag flying outside the gate. He swung in, and as they hurtled past the two gate guards, shouted, "Hostiles coming in. Close the gates, and get some men out here with guns. They're gonna need them."

  The sentries moved fast. This was Afghanistan, a country where gun violence was an everyday part of life. Where people stepped over corpses in the streets without turning their heads, a nation that courted the cult of death, voluntary or involuntary. The gate slammed shut, and one of the sentries ran to the phone to call for more men. The other unslung his M-16 and ran up the steps to the sandbagged emplacement guarding the entrance. Stoner drove to the main door of the administration building, braked to a stop, and ran around to drag Olin from the passenger seat. Already, blue-helmeted UN guards were racing to fortify the gate, and he satisfied himself they'd hold. At least for now.

  He shook Olin so his teeth made a clacking noise as they rattled together. "Where is it?"

  “I don't know what you mean. Let me go!"

  Lena stared at him as if he'd gone crazy. "Stoner, what're you doing? Max is a friend of mine, and don't forget, he just saved us."

  "Did he?" He looked at Crawford, standing a couple of meters away. "Whose idea was it, Bob?"

  The big man shrugged. "I may have suggested it to him. Come to think of it, he wasn't too keen. Said they'd kill us all if we tried a rescue. I kind of changed his mind."

  Stoner grinned. "I'll bet you did." He turned back to the wriggling Norwegian, still trying to escape his grip. "Where is it?"

  "I don't..."

  He hit him, a hard slap to the side of the head; enough to make him see stars, but not to do any damage.

  "Wrong answer. You know what they trained me to do in the SEALs? Kill a man with a single strike. You want a demonstration?"

  Olin suddenly sagged. He was like a balloon after someone had released the gas.

  "Don't hit me again, please."

  "Where is it?"

  A long pause, a sigh, and his face seemed to age five years in as many seconds. "I didn't mean to steal from anyone. You have to believe me. You haven't seen what I've seen."

  Lena gently removed Stoner's grip. "You're not making any sense, Max. What didn't you mean to steal?"

  "I just wanted to help them, so I used our entire budget for the coming year. There were so many people who needed food, shelter, and most important, protection from the insurgents. You know what it costs to hire armed guards? I kept handing out the money until it was all gone, all of the project funding for the coming year. I had to make it up somehow, and I figured the government in Kabul should pay."

  Her eyes narrowed. She was starting to understand. "Go on."

  "I took the gold. I just wanted to help them."

  "By ruining me? By destroying everything I've built up in this city, putting hundreds of people out of work, and forcing their families to starve? Max, you're worse than the Islamists! You're despicable."

  "Where is it?" Stoner interrupted.

  Olin couldn't meet his eyes and kept his head hung low as he answered, "You were right. It's in the high security strongroom."

  "All of it?"

  "Yes. I planned to sell it, or part of it, before the annual audit revealed the losses. It's all there."

  She hit him them, a hard, stunning slap that was like a bullet from a rifle.

  "You piece of shit. Take us to it."

  Olin's eyes misted over. "You don't understand, Lena. The things I saw, it's worth anything to help these people. Whole villages robbed of their food, sometimes wiped out, destroyed, every man, woman, and child murdered. I've seen it. I witnessed a Taliban slaughter. When the American SEALs arrived, it was too late. They were all dead. If they'd had some money, they could have protected themselves. Built a wall around the village, even hired a couple of guards. As it was, the insurgents walked straight in and started killing, until..."

  "Wait!" Stoner felt his brain reeling with the memories of that day outside Lashkar Gar, "Where was this village? When did it happen?"

  "About five years ago, a place outside Lashkar Gar."

  He had to reach out to a nearby wall to support him. It flooded back, the nightmare that had haunted his dreams ever since. "I saw it."

  "You were there?

  "I led the SEAL Team that crossed the river."

  Olin nodded. "In that case I watched you come over in the RIB they dropped from the chopper. I was hiding in a forage bin, too terrified to come out and help them. I’ve felt guilty ever since. It keeps me awake most nights. That's why I did it. I wanted to change things. Change the world."

  "Yeah, me, too. But not by robbing your best friend. You're a little shit, Olin. A nasty, slimy little shit. If you want to help defend these people, pick up a gun, and go out and do it yourself. The way a man would do it, not a sneak thief."

  Olin didn't reply. The worst had happened; he'd been caught.

  Stoner studied the main gate. So far, everything was quiet, but it wouldn't last. He looked at Crawford and met his eyes. "Bob, I’m sorry I got you into this, but we need to give these guys a hand. I doubt they know what they're in for. They're just security guards. Armed, but not very dangerous."

  He nodded. "Yeah, that’s okay. We'll stick around. We ain't going anywhere until this dies down. Go ahead and bring us a gold bar apiece."

  "It's the property of the Afghan government," Lena told him, her tone prim.

  He shrugged. "So who gives a shit who steals it, us or the government in Kabul? It's all the same. It won't reach the poor bastards it's intended for."

  "It's still stolen," she persisted.

  "Yes, Ma'am, it is.” His face cracked into a smile, “Just kidding. You go, Stoner, help her get it back. We'll be here. One thing we do need if this goes down the way it's looking is ammo. See what you can come up with."

  As he spoke, the chatter of a light machine gun announced the attack had started. He stared at Stoner. "You’d better get moving. I doubt we have long. And don’t forget that ammo."

  "Okay, thanks Bob. We'll make it quick."

  Olin led the way into the building, and they followed close behind. A uniformed security man stepped out to stop them, noticed the guns, and stepped back inside his cubicle. They followed a long passageway to the rear of the building, and Olin punched a code into a heavy steel door.

  "This is the most secure place in the building. Fireproof, soundproof, even bombproof. It's so safe they even use it to store the C4 explosive and detonators."

  Stoner stared. "Why the hell does UNHCR need C4?"

  "Clearing rocks from avalanches, that kind of thing. Occasionally, we need it to chew through rock when we're digging a well. Of course, we have to be careful."

  "I'll bet."

  "Yes, well, it's very secure. No one comes here unless they need something in an emergency," he said. As if that excused anything. He swung open the door and switched on the light. Inside, there were five rows of steel racks, each a half-meter wide and five meters long, laden with boxes of equipment. Olin went through to the rear of the room and stood in front of a locked steel cabinet. He punched codes into another electronic lock and swung open the double doors.

  Stoner couldn't help it. "Jesus Christ, I don't believe it."

  Next to him, Greg breathed, "Yob tvoyu mat."

  Lena pushed them both aside, stepped forward, and picked up one of the dull yellow bars. "The gold, is it all here?"

  "Yes. Lena, I'm so sorry."

  She rounded on Olin. "You’re sorry! How many people died because of this, Max? If I'd had the gold shipment, I could have called in Kabul for help. It's only thanks to these two men I'm still alive. I tri
ed to save you when they wanted to kill you. This is how you repay me."

  "I'm sorry," he mumbled again. She ignored him. Stoner found a four-wheeled trolley with rubber tires, and he and Greg and started loading the bars.

  “What happens next?”

  He looked at her. “Soon as the fighting's over, we'll transfer it to the Otter. I suggest we fly to Kabul and hand it over, get you off the hook."

  "What about me?" Olin whined, "What will you do, Lena?”

  “I don’t know.” She looked at Stoner. "What do you think?"

  "I reckon we should put him somewhere safe."

  She looked surprised. "Like where?"

  "Safest place in the building. Get inside."

  He put a hand behind the Norwegian and gave him a hard shove into the empty interior of the cabinet. Greg chuckled as he slammed the doors closed, locked them, and they started to wheel the laden truck out of the strong room. Stoner covered the cargo with a tarp he found on a shelf, and they left, locking the outer door behind them.

  "He could die in there," she admonished them.

  "We could all die. There's a battle about to start. Don’t worry about that garbage we left back there."

  "What do you...?"

  She stopped and looked as they reached the outside door. An explosion had just ripped the front gate apart. As the smoke cleared, a horde of Afghans charged through the gap, their assault rifles firing from the hip. The bodies of UN guards lay littered on the ground, killed in the blast. A hail of bullets from the attackers began to lash the air all around them, and he pushed her to the ground. Crawford's men were putting up a hard fight. They'd somehow anticipated the blast and moved to shelter behind a white painted APC with UNHCR stenciled on the side. An unarmed BTR-80, it could only be a relic from the Soviet war. The hull armor was thick enough to withstand the assault rifle fire slashing across the compound, but not enough to survive a hit from an RPG.

  They ducked low and pushed the trolley to the SUV. Ingot by ingot, they worked to load the shipment into the trunk. It was a slow process, too slow. Stoner glanced across to check on Crawford. He and Malik were firing burst after burst at the charging Islamists, but they were getting closer. Koch climbed onto the hull and disappeared inside the hatch of the APC. An electric starter began to whine. It was obvious he planned to drive out in the armored vehicle. Except the engine failed to start, and within seconds, the whir of the starter died as the battery gave up the last of its power. Crawford stared across at them and shook his head.

  "We'll have pack into the SUV to get out of here. Hurry up and load that stuff. We’ll try to hold them, but there’re too many of them. You find any ammo in there? We're pretty low."

  He didn’t recall seeing any ammunition when they went inside the security store. If they kept it anywhere, it had to have been there.

  "Negative, we'll have to manage with what we have." He shouted at Greg, "Stay with Lena. I'll go give Crawford and his men a hand."

  Without waiting for reply, he ducked across the open ground to the APC where Bob was busy slamming a new clip into his rifle.

  "What's the plan, how do we get out of here?"

  The big man stared straight back at him. "We need to kill about forty hostiles trying to stop us escaping, that's how."

  "So you're saying we're fucked."

  Bob's lips creased in a smile. "I ain't saying we're not fucked. Any suggestions?"

  Stoner looked toward the gate. The attackers were kneeling on the ground, firing off long bursts and then making short rushes under the cover of more bursts from the men behind. Meter by meter, they were gaining ground, and there was little they could do to slow them. Not without heavy weapons, or artillery.

  Artillery...

  "Bob, hold them for another five minutes. I think there may be a way to beat them."

  "Five minutes? I doubt we have two minutes."

  "There’s no other way. Can you do it?"

  Bob ducked as a hail of bullets pinged off the steel hull. He peered out and unleashed a stream of lead at a robed fighter who'd tried to flank them. "Five minutes, no more."

  Stoner raced back to Greg. "Finish the loading, then drive the SUV out of sight behind the building."

  Blum nodded, and he raced back inside the building. This time the guard held up his hand to stop him, unnerved by the battle raging outside. "I need to see your ID, Sir."

  Stoner swung up the Skorpion. "Will this do?"

  His head moved up and down like it was on a spring. "That'll be fine. Thank you, Sir."

  He sprinted down the passageway to the security store at the back of the building. Then he remembered he'd locked the door.

  Shit!

  He tried shouting to Olin, but the room was soundproof. He raced back to the security guard at the front. "The strongroom, I need to get it open."

  The man shook his head. "Not without authorization." Stoner showed him the Skorpion again, "So it's the same authorization as before."

  "It is."

  "The number is 24768712."

  He raced back to the strongroom, punched in the code, and swung the door open. Inside the locked closet, Olin was shouting, pleading, banging on the door to be released. Stoner picked up a canvas backpack, stuffed ten bricks of C4 and a handful of detonators inside, and hefted it onto his shoulder. He gave a couple of seconds thought to the Norwegian and decided the punishment was too hard. When the Islamists took over the place, they’d skin him alive.

  "Olin, tell me the code for the lock."

  He shouted out a series of numbers, and he unlocked the door. The Norwegian tumbled out, red-faced and sweating with the heat and terror of close confinement, and sank to his knees in relief.

  "Thank you, thank you, I thought I was going to die in there."

  "You'll probably die out here. I suggest you find a weapon and start shooting back at the guys trying to take over this place."

  "A weapon? This is UNHCR. I came here to help people, not shoot at them."

  "You didn't come here to rob them, but you managed it. Suit yourself, pal, fight or die, those're the options."

  He left him to his fate. He really couldn't give a damn anymore. He raced back outside and to the BTR. Crawford was firing the M60, and the compound was littered with bodies. But still they came. Bob gave him a quick glance.

  "They've brought in more fighters."

  "How many?"

  "Another fifty. We need to kill more of them."

  He swung around as another screaming horde hurtled toward them. The M60 chattered again, and five men went down like bundles of bloody rags. The survivors dived for cover behind the fallen bodies of the dead. They were nearer, much nearer. Stoner shrugged off the pack and began preparing a charge. Two bricks of C4, taped together with a detonator inserted. Bob looked on, then looked to the enemy to measure angles and distances.

  "The trick'll be delivering those things. You a good pitcher?"

  "Fair."

  The big man snorted. "I tried out once for the Dodgers. You want me to toss it?"

  He handed over the bundle. "It's a commercial timer. The minimum setting is five minutes to allow the engineer time to get clear."

  Crawford nodded. "Start the clock, what're you waiting for?"

  He punched numbers into the digital timer and hit the start button. The seconds began to count down, and he handed it to Bob. The mercenary put down the M60, and Stoner went to pick it up, but Bob shook his head. "You're wasting your time. I counted my shots. There's a single round left in the chamber. That's all of it."

  He nodded. “So it’s all down to this little baby.” He looked at the timer, "Four minutes, thirty five seconds."

  Crawford grimaced. "Too long. Enough time for them to come at us, and next time we may not be able to hold them."

  Stoner checked the clip of his borrowed AKM. He had eleven rounds, and none in reserve. He also had the remainder of the C4, and he took a few moments to tape together another bomb. Then a chorus of shouts announced
they were coming again.

  Men rose up from behind the corpses of their dead comrades, screaming rage and defiance. They wanted death, and the small party of defenders gave it to them. The UN guards decided their only chance was to join them, and they ran forward to strengthen the line. Stoner pushed Lena to the ground, and he and Greg joined her, hugging the dirt. They fired single shots to save ammo. Even the guards had only a limited supply of bullets. The last thing they’d expected when they came on duty that morning was an attack from a horde of vengeful Shias.

  Malik died first. He went the way he lived, without a word. A single bullet to the chest that must have stopped his heart; he sighed, dropped his weapon, and slumped. Seb Koch snatched up the rifle and used it to pump short bursts at the enemy, who were only ten meters from their position. The carnage swelled, as fanatic after fanatic went down. Bodies stacked up, and the living merely vaulted over them, their faces contorted in hate filled fury. More of them died, yet not enough.

  "Pull back!" Crawford shouted, holding the improvised bomb, "Get behind the APC. We have less than thirty seconds."

  The sheer volume of lead that sheeted across the compound was like a living, physical thing. They snaked backward, always with their eyes on the enemy, shooting down any who came near. Greg took a bullet in the fleshy part of his leg, and blood spurted on the ground, but when Lena went to apply a bandage, Stoner snarled at her to keep shooting.

  "Keep hitting the enemy. Just a few more seconds, and edge back behind the APC."

  "Why?"

  He realized she didn't know what he and Bob had organized. "A bomb's about to go off."

  "Twenty seconds!" Crawford shouted.

  "Move it, Lena. Greg, forget the damn leg. Get behind cover with Lena.”

  "Ten seconds."

  “What bomb?” she spluttered as they lay in the dirt.

  He checked his wristwatch. "Four seconds. Three, two, fire in the hole!"

  "Are you listening to me?"

  He slammed her face into the ground and held her down.