Black Operations- the Spec-Ops Action Pack

by Eric Meyer

  The explosion was like they'd been hit by a tsunami. The massive blast shook the ground, and even the heavy BTR-80 bounced into the air and fell back down with a huge, jarring crash. A searing tongue of flame lanced past them a meter over their heads, scorching the white paintwork of the APC. Flames licked around the armored hull, and everything flammable, paint, rubber, oil, and gasoline ignited and burned.

  When the blast wave eased, he peeked around to the front. A huge plume of smoke spiraled upward, and the dead bodies had become a blazing funeral pyre. The stink was terrible. Burning flesh, clothes, shoes, weapons, everything was alight.

  More important, the attack had ended. A couple of hostiles peeked around the gateway, and Stoner picked up the M60 to point it in their direction. They disappeared, but they were still too close. He could hear them outside the walls, and someone was starting another harangue.

  He glanced around at Crawford. "They'll try again soon."

  "I reckon they will. You got another of those bombs?"

  "I have, but we don't have five minutes. They're coming now."

  The shouts rang around the compound. "Allahu akhbar! Allahu akhbar!"

  Someone had worked out the ammo situation and knew they were almost out. It wouldn't have taken a genius to figure out why they'd switched from auto to single shots. He punched the timer buttons to start the countdown. It was all they had, but they didn’t have five minutes. He doubted they had two. They were out of time.

  Then Black Bob Crawford went down in a mess of broken and bleeding flesh. One of the attackers tossed a grenade, and he failed to notice it land next to him. At the last moment he looked down and made a grab for it, but it detonated before it left his hand.

  And still they came. The UN guards had vanished, either dead or run away. He glanced at Seb Koch, lying down and taking careful aim, making each shot count. Koch felt his gaze on him and looked up. His eyebrows raised, the message clear.

  'This is what we signed up for. What else did you expect?'

  He searched for and found Lena Stori. Her trigger finger was working continuously, clicking on an empty breech. Greg felt Stoner’s gaze on him and put up four fingers. Four rounds left.

  Stoner pointed to the girl and held up one finger. The Russian nodded. He'd do it. It was a relief to know they wouldn’t leave her to the Islamic butchers. They couldn’t last much longer. They had little more to fight with than the C4 bomb. He glanced down at the timer. Three minutes twenty-five seconds, too long. It may as well have been a year.

  They came in a rush, and it was almost over. A grenade sailed through the air and exploded short, showering them with debris. He looked for Greg through the smoke and dust.

  "The girl, don't forget."

  "I won't forget."

  The chill voices rose to a crescendo. Shouting, screaming men, determined to carry out the awful will of their God. To kill, to demand a blood price from the unbelievers. Stoner fired off his last shots, and his eyes found the M60. He picked it up and prepared to use it as a club.

  Come on, you bastards! Come and fight. Man to man.

  He heard Greg cursing them, "Yob tvoyu mat! I'll kill you shitheads, all of you."

  Blum was down to his last four rounds, and the one he kept for Lena meant he'd kill three of them at best before they overwhelmed him and slaughtered him. He smiled.

  It’s not a bad way to go, the way of the warrior, the way of honor.

  They came as a screaming, savage horde; a last, despairing push, vaulting over the bodies of their dead, praising and exhorting their God, promising him more blood, the fruits of the massacre. Stoner waited, clutching the bomb. One minute and fifty seconds.

  I’ll die, but the bomb will take plenty of them with me.

  He waited for them to come to him.

  Chapter Twelve

  The man came out of nowhere, a mad, crazed figure. Bitter anger surrounded him like an invisible force field. Max Olin, armed with an M-16 he'd taken from the guardroom armory, ran at the attacking Shias. His face was a red mask of fury as he bellowed rage at the invaders of sacred UN territory.

  "You can't come in here! We are the United Nations High Commission for Refugees. Get out of here, now, before I kill you all."

  They stopped. Everything stopped, the shooting, the noise, the shouts of men preparing to die for their cruel god, everything. The compound descended into silence.

  Olin waved at them with his free hand. "Get out, all of you!"

  They didn't move. He looked around at Stoner. "You, too, you shouldn't be here. What's that in your hand?"

  "A bomb." He looked down at the timer. Forty-five seconds.

  "A bomb, that's against the rules, Stoner. You should know that. Give it to me. I'll take it outside before it goes off."

  His eyes were mad, crazed. As if everything he’d done had caught up with him. And the problems of Afghanistan were for him to solve at a stroke. He snatched it away and walked toward the gate. Toward the bunch of Islamists staring at him as if he'd materialized out of the heavens. Olin reached them, and one pointed a big pistol at his belly. He said something, but the Norwegian waved his words aside and gestured for them to leave. The man pulled the trigger, and the report of a single bullet boomed around the open space. Olin looked astonished at first. As if it were impossible anyone could have the temerity to subvert the authority of UNHCR inside this place. Then his eyes glazed, and he dropped to the ground, blood spurting from the wound. He still clutched the bomb. And time was about to run out.

  The shooter smiled and laughed aloud, turning to his friends to boast of his prowess. Stoner shouted, "Fire in the hole. Get your heads down!"

  Greg didn't wait for Lena's inevitable question. He just shoved her down. At that moment the bomb exploded. The blast tore through the enemy as if they were made of paper. Men, rifles, body parts, everything torn apart, mulched, tossed into the air and mulched again, then slammed back to earth. Once more, the giant shockwave tried to crush them like a tidal wave, and once more they clung to the earth as it battered all around them.

  After a minute, the debris ceased to fall. Stoner groped for the M60, found it, and looked up. They'd gone, all of them. Disappeared. He staggered to his feet and walked to the gate, where a further line of men waited in the center of the street. They watched him in silence, the second wave of the attack, ready to smash their way into the compound. Yet they wavered, shocked by the enormous casualties. Their leader, Haji Kamran watched from the rear window of an SUV. He saw Stoner, recognized him, and his lips opened in a snarling grimace. His hand came through the open window, and his finger pointed.

  "That man, kill him first."

  A score of assault rifles came up, took aim, and pointed at his belly. If he dropped flat, they'd lower the barrels an inch, and his death would be the same. Better to face them on his feet, fighting to the last. He pointed the barrel of the M60 at Kamran and shouted, "Fuck you!" as his finger curled around the trigger. He knew he was dead when the rattle of AK-47s on full auto echoed around the entrance to the compound.

  He waited to die. And waited. He'd made a decision, and it would end here. Greg knew what to do, and Lena would not fall into their hands. Not alive. Anything but allow her to fall into the hands of beasts. Bullets whistled and whined around him, and he couldn’t help but flinch. He closed his eyes. It was automatic. A second later pride made him open them again to face the men who would kill him.

  Something was wrong. They were running. Behind them, a new bunch of Afghans fired burst after burst at the fleeing men. The new arrivals wore beards and robes, yet somehow they looked different.

  Taliban?

  They wore black turbans, not always the determining factor, but it was a good rule of thumb. Yet they weren't Taliban. As the shooting died away, a man pushed through the crowd to confront him.

  He felt his anger build. Khan. Mullah Mahmoud Khan. Black turban, gray streaked, 'beard of the prophet.' Fanatic, staring eyes, huge, hooked nose prominent in a face
with deep, rutted lines carved into the skin, a legacy of the Taliban years.

  This is the man who gave the order to plant an IED that changed everything, the IED that exploded when Madeleine drove past. A long time ago, sure, but since when has there been a statute of limitations on murder?

  The mouth opened, and the beard shook as he spoke, "Mr. Stoner."

  "It's Stoner."

  "Yes. You came to kill me."

  "I came to execute you for murder."

  The head bobbed. "It was war."

  "On a woman who was only here in the country to help your people?"

  "We do not need the help of these foreigners. We can manage without the aid of infidels. With the help and blessings of Allah, praise his holy name."

  Stoner gave a pointed glance at the devastation around them. "This is the kind of help you're talking about? Looks to me like Allah needs to take a reality check, pal."

  "We can rebuild," he argued.

  "Until the next time you destroy it."

  He shrugged. “Then we rebuild again."

  "Not you, Khan." He raised the heavy barrel of the machine gun.

  A single round in the breech, that's all I need.

  The beard-shrouded lips twitched, "Pull the trigger and my men will send you to hell."

  "I reckon they will. We'll be there together, Khan. I'll be sure to find you, and make you suffer for a thousand years for what you did."

  The Mullah was still. Stoner was still. His hand itched to squeeze the trigger. The quest for vengeance had kept him going during the bad years. Through the dark hours when all he had left was his vow to Madeleine.

  Justice. Vengeance. Who gives a shit? It amounts to the same.

  The silence went on, as he waited for the moment when the red tide of fury would wash over him. When it would grow to such strength he couldn't contain it anymore.

  Khan and me will be joined in death. Forever.

  He felt the metal of the trigger.

  A tiny squeeze, no more, and it will end.

  He kept his finger depressed. And stopped.

  "Stoner," Lena's voice.

  "I have to finish this."

  “Ivan will kill you.”

  “I don’t give a shit about Ivan.”

  "Maybe not, but Khan came here to save our lives. His men drove off the Shias, and now it's over. We’re alive.”

  "I know what they did. Go away."

  The tension grew, and he knew he had to do it now, to die now, or he'd never do it. And then a soft hand touched him on the face. She was behind him. He could smell her; the musky, pungent odor, overlaid by the heavy scent of fresh sweat and burned powder from the rounds she'd fired at the enemy.

  "Please, I need you."

  He froze.

  I don’t need anyone. And want no one to need me. It’s safer that way. Healthier.

  "No, you don’t.”

  "I won't leave you, Stoner. Never. You kill that man, and they'll shoot back and kill both of us."

  His body shook with frustration and rage. "Get away from me."

  "I told you. I won't leave you."

  "You don’t understand. I have to kill him."

  Khan watched, unafraid, as if he’d died a dozen times already. A cruel butcher, but how many of his loved ones had he lost to the unending butchery? In Afghanistan, it was likely to be in double figures.

  "Stoner, he's atoned. Don't you know what atonement means?"

  "I know."

  "He saved our lives. You lost Madeleine, and I know you vowed to get justice, but what about the lives of us? Me, Greg, Seb, we’re all that's left. Archer, too, they won't let him live if you kill Khan. You have to decide how much we mean to you. Has he atoned enough for you to say enough is enough? Or do we all die for your notion of justice?"

  The barrel of the M60 shook, and he gripped it harder. It was still warm after the hundreds of rounds Black Bob had fired through the barrel. His mind churned over what she'd said. There was only one decision he could make, unless he was prepared to allow the deaths of his friends. He stared at Khan.

  "It's over. You're a worthless piece of lying shit, and a murderer, but she's right. The account for Madeleine is even."

  The black turbaned head bobbed again. "In that case, our business is concluded. A pity about the Stori girl, her business would have been useful to us, but I can see we'd never take her alive." He spoke as if she was a sack of flour in the local store, to be bought, sold, or bartered.

  Stoner felt Lena tense, but he got there first. "You're alive, Khan. Be thankful for that."

  Their eyes locked for several seconds, then the Mullah spun around, shouted an order, and his men encircled him as they walked away.

  She kissed him on the lips, and it tasted good. "Thank you."

  "Yeah."

  He walked back inside the compound, and she linked her arm in his, as if to make sure he didn't try to get away from her. Greg had retrieved Archer from the Jeep, and Seb was with them. They stroked the anxious dog, and then he pulled away and raced toward Stoner. Lena stroked his fur, and he returned the favor by licking her face. The tension drained out of her, the love and enthusiasm of the dog was hard to beat.

  He looked around. Some of the guards had started to emerge from hiding, and they began to check the fallen for signs of life. There was no sign of Haji Kamran, the Shia commander, but he was almost certainly hidden beneath the mass of bodies. Either that or he was running for the hills.

  Greg noticed him looking at the dead. "I pointed out the bodies of Black Bob and Malik. I told them we'd pay for the burial."

  "I will pay," Koch snarled in his guttural, Germanic English.

  "Sure. What about Olin?"

  "I’ll cover his funeral," Lena said, "What he did was for good. Not personal gain."

  He grunted. The guy had almost ruined her, driven her to the depths of suicide. He stared around at the devastation for a few minutes more, realizing how close they'd all come to death. Wondering about Khan.

  Why his intervention? Someone tipped him off.

  "What now?" she asked, still gripping his arm.

  "We need to take this gold shipment on to Kabul. I’ll fly the Otter, and when we get there, you can make your peace with the Minister. No doubt he’ll hide the gold in his personal bank vault, but that's not our problem."

  She looked concerned, but he let it go. They boarded the Jeep and drove out of the city. The streets were deserted. Gunfire had that effect on people. He drove onto the airfield, and they ran into yet another bunch of armed men, Ivan the Terrible.

  It was no surprise Ivan Vasilyevich was waiting for them, along with a half-dozen men. Mean looking men, all heavily armed and looked like they knew how to use their well-worn weapons. Ivan nodded a greeting to Stoner.

  "He came through for you? Khan, I mean."

  "He did. How come you thought I wouldn't kill him? That's what it was all about."

  Ivan chuckled. "I know you, Stoner. When it came down to it, I knew you’d never kill a guy who’d just saved your ass.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Ivan will never know how wrong he is. Lena saved Khan. Without her, we’d both be dead. Ivan nearly made a big mistake. That’s interesting.

  He stared back at the ‘Russian.’

  “How did you know we’d get Mazari?”

  “Mazari? I kind of figured he’d overplay his hand, and you'd deal with him. You have that kind of reputation, Stoner. Always want to play the white knight, especially when he was trying to nail your pretty damsel in distress. You wouldn't have been able to resist popping the nasty bastard. And now he's dead, Mahmoud Khan owes me. He’s one happy mother. His main competition is dead, and he has a clear field."

  "He'd still have been better off with me dead, and his shooters could have blown us all away. What did you threaten him with, telling his followers he was passing information to CIA?"

  He smiled. "I heard about that trick of yours, saying he was with the Agency. It was just
lucky they got to talking on the way back and decided it was some devilish infidel plan to discredit their beloved Mullah."

  "But you could give them proof, Ivan. Documents, cellphone records, recordings of conversations, you'll have it all stored away in the office of the Kabul Head of Station. That’s the way you guys work.”

  The smile vanished. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do."

  A pause. "How much do you know?"

  "All of it."

  He sucked in breath through his teeth. Slowly, as if he was thinking about something, and then he grinned. "I doubt that."

  Stoner returned the smile. "I know that stuff about cutting off people’s heads and putting them on sticks is just so much bullshit; a cover story to hide what you really do, and who you really are. You're about as Russian as Ronald Reagan. Where were you born, DC, Massachusetts? Virginia, maybe?"

  He stopped shaking his head, and there was no reply.

  "I’ll take that as probably Virginia. What's your real name? Jeff, Malcolm, something like that?"

  The smile returned, just a fraction. "Actually, it’s Ivan, after my grandfather. He was Russian."

  "But it's not Vasilyevich."

  "No. But it frightens the people I work with, having the same name as the Russian Butcher."

  "I'll bet."

  They stared at each other in silence, two men who’d seen too much death, too much killing. Until Lena said, "How did you get that aircraft out of the field I put her down in? I would have thought it impossible. I only just made the landing."

  He indicated one of the men standing nearby. "That's Vladislav. He really is a Russian. Best damn bush pilot in Afghanistan. He could land a passenger jet on a baseball diamond. Take-off again, too, it's a handy skill in our kind of trade."

  "Spying?" Stoner suggested.

  "We call it counter insurgency. But you never heard that from me. I'm just your local, honest to goodness trafficker. You name it, I'll buy it and sell it."

  “Like Khan’s soul?”

  He shrugged.

  "It's a good cover," Stoner grunted.

  "It's a good business. I really do buy and sell the kind of goods the government in Kabul would sooner forget about. As for the other thing, well, that's my affair. I suggest you forget about it." His eyes narrowed, and he gave Stoner an icy gaze, "You were lucky I didn’t kill you for what you tried to do with Khan. Try it again, and I will."