Direct Action - 03

by Jack Murphy

  “Deckard,” Bill said, trying to interrupt the frantic conversation. They continued talking back and forth in Arabic.

  “Deckard!”

  “Yeah?”

  “What the fuck is going on?”

  “We have a problem.”

  “No shit.”

  “They want us to hit a Republican Guard outpost on the way to Homs with them.”

  “Tell them that's not what we're here for Deckard.”

  “I did. The soldiers working out of that outpost are making their lives miserable but the real reason they want to take it out is to capture the four T-72 tanks there. They say that they need those tanks if we plan to go to Damascus. There are just too many military checkpoints on the road between there and Homs. We need heavy firepower to clear the way for us.”

  “The rebels are taking out dozens and dozens of enemy armor every day,” Ramon complained. “What the fuck is this about?”

  “Our intel supports what they are saying about the road to Damascus though,” Nadi said. “We are going to have a hell of a time getting there.”

  “No.”

  The Operator's single word cut through the night.

  “They are testing us. They want to see firsthand if we have what it takes before they commit their fighters to a virtual suicide mission in Damascus.”

  “Fuck me,” Rick said.

  Bill grunted.

  “So be it. We'll show them we have what it takes and then some,” Bill said. “Deckard, tell them that we just need them to show us where the target is.”

  When Deckard translated several more shouts of Allah akbar went up.

  After loading up the mustard gas bombs on the back of one of the flatbeds, Liquid Sky piled on along with the Nusra fighters. The drivers didn't dare turn on their headlights, not with MIG fighter jets somewhere overhead, so they just drove slowly in the dark.

  The fight to get to the fight, Deckard thought. What could go wrong?

  He wondered if Pat and his Samruk International mercenaries were doing any better.

  The rocky hillside almost looked translucent under the moonlight. The jihadists may have been fundamentalist nutcases, but they knew war. This wasn't their first rodeo. They had seen combat from Libya to Iraq to Afghanistan, just like the Special Operations units that hunted them. Nusra was now the most effective fighting force in Syria. They wisely decided upon an offset infiltration. Parking their trucks, they left them under guard while the assault forces stalked up to the Syrian military outpost.

  The chemical weapons were safe for the time being. They could not be detonated without the eight digit number combination and even if the Nusra guards tried to disappear with the bombs the GPS built into them would guarantee that it would only be a matter of time before an American or Israeli airstrike rained death down upon them.

  The fighters snaked their way up the hill, the Chechen leading the way. Deckard found out that he was called Tiger by the other Nusra fighters, a war name he had been given by them for his bravery under fire. It was clear by now that Tiger was familiar with the terrain and that he had reconned the area previously. The Operator had been correct, this was a test. Nusra could have raided the outpost anytime they wanted.

  Nearing the top of the hill, Deckard climbed hand over hand as he and the Chechen slowly crept their way to the crest. As he looked down on the military outpost he nearly choked. They were right on top of the hard site. The Chechen had got them within ten meters of the nearest T-72 tank. There were three other tanks arrayed within a perimeter protected by a circular dirt berm. Several OD green canvas tents housed the soldiers, and there was even a small cooking fire.

  “Ghosts,” the Chechen told him in Arabic. His curly black beard bounced as he spoke each word. “They often sneak into Homs under the cover of dark to do their dirty work. Tonight we use the cover of dark to strike back against these devils.”

  Deckard had heard of the Ghosts before. Scattered reports had hit the Western media, but the real horror story was unknown to those living back in the States. Assad was an Alawite, a Muslim minority group seen as heretical by both Sunni and Shia. In Syria, the Alawites made up a large portion of the political elite. It was one more reason why they fought the civil war with such vigor. There could be no negotiated peace as their religious group would be wiped out if they lost the war.

  When the protests in Syria had really turned into an armed rebellion, some of these political elites organized Alawite death squads. Their job was to literally terrify the Syrian people into compliance. They would go into villages and execute entire families with shots to the back of the head. Saw the heads off little girls. Rape wives and daughters. Send a message.

  The death squads were called Shabeeha. Apparitions. Ghosts.

  Deckard was warming to this idea of attacking the outpost. This might be some good target practice after all, provided it didn't get them all killed. One by one, the Nusra fighters and Liquid Sky mercenaries edged up to the assault line. A few soldiers below seemed to be milling around, having a smoke or taking a piss. He didn't hear any motors so the tanks were clearly not running, probably in order to save fuel. Syria's logistics lines were stretched pretty thin this late in the game.

  “All we need to do is ambush from here,” Tiger whispered.

  The Liquid Sky members caught one word even in Arabic. Amboush.

  “I have already assigned teams to secure the tanks. We have the high ground and will fight down to them before the infidels can get in their tanks.”

  “Then let's do this,” Deckard replied.

  Tiger shouldered his AK-47. The others queued off of the Nusra leader. Two of them had carried PKM machine guns up to the assault line. A few others had RPKs with 40 round magazines. Dropping the selector on his AK one click down, Tiger opened fire on auto. He raked the nearest tent with 7.62 rounds as the entire assault line suddenly lit up the camp with green tracer fire. The rocks around them blinked in and out with orange light as their muzzle flashes flickered like strobe lights.

  The machine guns fired down into the camp. Sparking off the tanks, blasting into the tents, kicking up dirt everywhere else. Mostly kicking up dirt. Deckard had too much target fixation to notice that as he focused in on the individual soldiers he could see below and pumped two shots into each. One by one they crumpled to the ground.

  A single Syrian soldier scrambled to his tank. He made it as far as the hatch before Rick put a bullet in his face. The would-be tank gunner rolled off the side of the tank and took a dirt nap. The PKM gunners both went empty at the same time, an amateur move that happened because they didn't stagger their fire. Slapping in fresh belts of ammunition, the riflemen cracked off a few shots here and there as signs of life were spotted below but the camp was pretty quiet.

  “What the fuck Deckard?” Bill asked. “Get these hodjis moving.”

  Deckard turned to the Chechen but he was already jumping to his feet.

  “Allah akbar!” he yelled and charged down into the camp. Without missing a beat, the Nusra fighters followed their leader, descending down the rocks to the outpost.

  When they got to the bottom the jihadists scattered, breaking off into their pre-assigned teams and taking control of the four tanks. Others went into the tents searching for survivors. Bodies were scattered around the camp. Most of them had been attempting to flee.

  “The ghosts are not here,” Tiger said to Deckard. “They must be out. This isn't good.”

  “We can catch up with them later. At least we got the tanks. Now we can complete our mission,” Deckard reassured him.

  “If God wills it.”

  Suddenly, voices began shouting in the night. Turning, Deckard saw Rick pushing a Nusra fighter away from one of the corpses. He had been attempting to rifle through his belongings for some war booty. As he shoved him, the Arab tripped and landed on his back.

  “These are our kills,” Rick yelled. “Fuck off.”

  The Jihadist cursed as he got to his feet. He looked li
ke he was ready to fight the American until Rick reached for his belt and yanked out a hatchet. Even though they were all carrying guns, the sight of an edged weapons elicited a special kind of fear from the arab. Deckard held his breath. If Rick swung that hatchet on the Nusra fighter they would have a catastrophic loss of rapport, to put it mildly.

  Rick did swing the hatchet. Right down on the head of the dead Syrian soldier. He chopped and cut until he reached down and grabbed a fist full of hair. Planting his boot on the corpse's back, he yanked the scalp right off the skull.

  “Allah akbar!” the Chechen shouted.

  “Allah akbar!” the jihadists echoed.

  Nadi found another Syrian soldier who was still breathing. She fired a couple shots into his groin causing him to jump. Then she put her AK on full auto and blasted off the top of his skull.

  “You guys are dragging ass tonight,” Bill said as he came up behind Deckard and walked towards Nadi and Rick. He had a scalp in each hand. Looking over his shoulder, Deckard could see that Paul was also busy chopping away with a hatchet. It was a senseless orgy of violence.

  “Forgive me, my brother,” the Chechen said as he leaned towards Deckard. “I had no idea that Americans could be such fierce fighters.”

  That was about the worst thing that he possibly could have said to Deckard at that moment. Just witnessing the war crimes was enough to make his skin crawl, being complimented on them was too much.

  One by one the T-72 tanks roared the life as the Nusra fighters got them started. They even had ground guides who helped them exit the razor wire switchbacks at the entrance to the outpost. The tanks took off down the road as the Chechen turned on his walkie talkie and informed their base in Homs that four friendly tanks were coming their way.

  Deckard reached into his pocket and palmed the satellite enabled cellphone that he had picked up in Mauritius. He knew he was taking a risk every time he turned it on that some eyes or ears in the sky might pick him up. Now was the time to take that risk. He thumbed the power button while keeping the phone in his pocket.

  “Now we head back to Homs,” the Chechen told him. “You Americans have proven to be very tough fighters. I am sorry my friend, I never should have doubted you. But God willed it and now we have these tanks to help clear our way to Damascus!”

  “No need to apologize,” Deckard said. “I would have done the same.”

  It was true, the outpost had been a confidence target.

  “Once we get to our staging area in Homs we will prepare the vehicles and your weapons. Let's hurry. We should get back into the city and under overhead cover before dawn. We own the night, but not the skies.”

  The sounds of a Syrian fighter jet somewhere off in the distance seemed to confirm that fact, almost as if on queue. Tracer fire crisscrossed the sky as someone tried to shoot it down.

  “Let me tell my team and we can head back to the trucks.”

  “Tomorrow is a big day, the night even more so,” the Chechen said, hardly able to contain his glee.

  Deckard walked to the edge of the camp and pretended to take a piss. Pulling out the cellphone he quickly typed out a message and texted Pat:

  In country, heading to Homs w/ package.

  A few seconds later he got a reply.

  About an hour out from your loc.

  Deckard sent one final message before signing off.

  Stand by for grid to tgt. Short timeline. Tmmrw night.

  Turning off the phone, he strode off to find Bill and the other Liquid Sky members.

  They were on a short time line, even shorter than Liquid Sky realized.

  35

  The staging area was a bombed-out crater, the ruins of what had once been a series of family housing units on the outskirts of Homs. Now, it was Al-Nusra's command center for their Homs offensive. The city looked even more bombed out then Beirut had been back in the 80s. Buildings were now hollowed out skeletons, walls partially collapsed, floors pancaked on top of each other. Bullet holes were blasted everywhere. Larger holes signified tank or anti-tank fire. Homs had pretty much seen it all at this point.

  The odd crack of gunfire could be heard as Nusra and the Syrian Army took pot shots at each other, but for the most part it was quiet in the early morning hours. The two forces were at a stalemate. They each held their lines throughout the city and only occasionally pushed forward, making small offensives here and there where they thought they saw an opening in the enemy's defenses and could gain some ground.

  As for the civilians still living in the city, they were shit out of luck. If they didn't get killed in the crossfire, the ghosts from the Alawite death squad would probably ensure that they met a fate that was much worse.

  Deckard watched as the Nusra fighters prepared for battle. Nearly one hundred of the terrorists were operating out of the base. They ran around like excited little bumble bees, some as giddy as a school girl at the prospect of being able to use chemical weapons on civilians in Damascus. The tanks were being fueled up and the flatbed trucks, which would carry the weapons, were being armored with metal plating welded onto the sides. They would be taking the Mad Max convoy south during the next period of darkness.

  The sun was still coming up, but Nusra could not wait. They were also preparing weapons and ammunition. Several SA-7 anti-aircraft launchers were made ready. They had the control units and multiple missiles for each. Since the battery life on the SA-7 was only about thirty seconds once it was screwed into place, they had improvised wire leads that went from the control unit to a car battery to keep them powered for the duration. The Syrian Air Force could not count on air superiority as they crashed their way into the capital city.

  Deckard took a seat between the two mustard gas bombs, which had been set down under the remains of the second story of a building, now serving as more of an awning. For now, he had been placed on guard duty while the rest of the Liquid Sky team got a few hours of sleep in shifts. Paul would relieve him in an hour. Powering his satellite phone back up, Deckard used an app to get a grid location to the Nusra staging area and texted it to Pat. He also gave a brief estimate of the enemy's size, strength, and disposition.

  With the phone concealed behind the bomb, he continued to type with his thumbs.

  14.5 AA gun, NW corner bld.

  Package centrally located

  LiqSky element N bld bombed out

  SA-7's in compound

  He kept typing until he saw a couple jihadists approaching. They were lugging a SPG-9 recoilless rifle towards one of the trucks. Deckard pressed send and slipped the phone in his pocket. He would try to feed Pat as much real-time intelligence as possible. The tricky part was going to be slipping away himself in the chaos and confusion that would occur once Samruk International attacked. He had to make sure he didn't get killed by Nusra, Liquid Sky, or his own people who wouldn't recognize him in the local garb he wore at a distance.

  The phone vibrated in his pocket. He waited until the jihadists had busied themselves loading the recoilless rifle on the back of the truck before looking to see what Pat had texted.

  Holy fuck.

  Deckard texted back:

  Hold off 1 more hr. Going to soften them up for you.

  Deckard waited until Paul came to relieve him on guard duty. He was still rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Don't forget to wake up the family of birds that have been nesting in your beard,” Deckard joked.

  Paul grunted something in response. Walking through the Nusra compound, Deckard surveyed the enemy positions one more time. Guards were lazily standing up on the second and third stories of the bombed-out buildings surrounding the central area. It was really just a crater that Nusra had cleaned out to create a small courtyard. The guards were mostly looking inwards, watching their comrades prepare for their holy war, rather than facing out and looking for intruders. That would play well in Samruk's favor.

  Deckard pretended to walk towards the building where the Liquid Sky team was getting some res
t, but then ducked behind the flatbed trucks and tanks in the Nusra motorpool. Turning sideways, he side stepped his way between two of the tanks and then rolled under one of the Mazda flatbed trucks. He wanted to disable them first so the chemical weapons could not be driven away when the attack kicked off.

  Laying on his back, he wormed his way forward until he was under the engine compartment. Finding the firewall, he was able to trace his way up and find the wires, that ran from the transmission to the computer. He carried a Grayman Duo folder knife on his kit that would do the job. Opening the knife silently with his thumb and forefinger, he locked the blade open and began slashing the wires which would prevent the engine from starting.

  He froze as a pair of boots kicked up dust alongside the truck. One of the Nusra fighters stopped next to the flatbed and was loading something on the back. While he was busy, Deckard rolled over onto his stomach and crawled hand over hand until he was under the second flatbed. He repeated the same procedure once he was under the engine, and then slashed the serpentine belt just to make sure.

  Making sure the coast was clear, he crawled out from under the truck and walked over to the closest T-72 tank. At one point in time, it had been the fiercest main battle tank in the Soviet arsenal. Today, variants and surplus T-72's were sold all over the world, including countries like Syria and Iraq. Crawling up the front of the tank, he lowered himself into the driver's seat and went to work on the wiring behind the panels. None of his impromptu sabotage would take long for a mechanic to fix, but that was fine. He just had to disable the vehicles for the duration of Samruk's attack on the compound.

  Another Nusra fighter came walking by with a crate of AK-47 ammunition slung on his shoulder. Deckard ducked down inside the tank until he had passed. Climbing off the now-disabled T-72, he moved on to the next tank and repeated the procedure. He was about to sabotage the third tank when four Nusra fighters heaved two crates over to the motor pool. The crates were filled with tank shells, which they began loading on the vehicles.