by Matt Lynn
“I suggest you do exactly what I say,” he barked towards the cockpit. “Or this man dies right here, right now.”
Alex spun around.
He’d been concentrating on lifting the chopper into the sky. As it flew away, the attack force down on the ground had assumed Bilado was fleeing the scene, and turned their fire up towards the machine. Bullets were peppering its skin. The underside of the chopper was armoured, so Alex wasn’t too worried about the incoming fire: only a bullet delivered straight into the axel of the blades would do any serious damage. But if they had any heat-seeking missiles, they’d be dead in seconds.
“Bloody well let him go, man,” snapped Alex.
“Just fly the damned chopper,” growled Richmond. “It’s about time you learned to take orders.”
Alex checked the controls, then stood up. The Sikorski would be fine for about a minute with no one flying it. After that, it could drop out if the sky at any second.
Which means I’ve got sixty seconds to deal with his guy. Maybe less.
He lunged across the three yards that separated him from Richmond, knocking the man to the floor. As he fell, the knife nicked Bilado’s throat, drawing some blood but not injuring him fatally. The Columbian wriggled away, leaving Richmond alone.
Alex threw himself on top of the Australian. He head-butted the man hard on the right wrist, knocking the knife clean from his hand. Richmond squealed in pain as the vein was squashed, but he quickly recovered. Pushing back with his knees, he kicked hard into Alex’s chest, rocking him backwards. Alex lunged back, swinging a fist towards the man’s jaw, but Richmond had already ducked out of the way, and Alex was left punching thin air. He was balancing on one leg, while the chopper started to wobble. Thirty seconds were already up, he realised. Only thirty left. Bullet were still pinging into skin, and one managed to slice through the side window, sending shards of glass sprinkling across the cockpit. Bilado had staggered to his feet, and threw himself towards Richmond, but the Australian swatted him away with his massive right fist, sending him crashing against the far wall. With a kick from his right leg, he slammed his boot toward Alex’s balls. Alex managed to swerve sideways, but the blow still caught his kneecap. At the same moment, the Sikorski started to spin around, and for a moment Alex felt dizzy and dis-orientated. Richmond’s boot caught him on the small of his back, and the blow was all the worse for being unexpected. Alex flew across the small, cramped space, and collided hard with the chopper’s hard metal wall.
“Shit,” he muttered out loud, as a piece of jagged metal on the side of the chopper snagged on his left cheek, drawing a slither of blood.
I’m losing this fight.
Richmond had ripped a strip of steel from the wall, and was advancing towards Alex.
Three yards away, Jack had staggered to his feet.
His handgun was still wedged in his shoulder holster.
He drew the weapon, and delivered a single shot straight into Richmond’s back.
“Looks like you’re expendable, mate,” said Alex with a sudden smile.
The man absorbed the first bullet into the soft flesh around his shoulder blades. He grimaced, then grunted, but took another pace towards Alex. Jack fired again, then again, putting both rounds into the back of the man’s head. The bullet’s drilled into his skull, killing him instantly.
With a thump, he fell to the ground.
The Sikorski was starting to plunge towards the ground. “I suggest someone tries to fly this chopper,” shouted Jack.
Racing forward, Alex took control of the machine, steadying it, and pulling it higher into the sky. He glanced towards the fuel gauge. There was enough gas in the tank to get them clear out of Columbia, he noted with relief. And thank Christ for that.
Jack had already hauled Bilado from the back of the chopper. Aside from a few cuts and bruises, the man was unhurt.
Alex took a quick circle around the mine. Down below, Bykov had re-grouped the twenty of his men that were still alive, and in a clever circling movement led by the two former Ghurkhas had outflanked their opponents, and inflicted heavy casualties on them. “You know what,” said Alex, as they flew out towards the coast. “I think you’re boys are going to be alright.”
Chapter Fourteen
The sunset over the Caribbean looked even better than it had done three days ago decided Alex as he sat back and enjoyed his first beer of the evening. A few clouds had drifted across the horizon, but otherwise it was a clear and fine evening. Down below, he could hear a music system kick into life as a party got started on the beach, and he could smell the barbecue drifting up towards to the terrace. Maybe it’s because no one is about to start shooting at me, thought Alex. Perhaps that is why it seems so peaceful.
“Everything signed?” asked Alex as Greenway came to sit next to him. “The global economy saved? Or at least our portion of it?
She nodded. “For now anyway.”
They’d landed in Tobago last night. The chopper had enough fuel in it to make it straight across the Caribbean, and the journey had been uneventful. When they’d touched down, they’d gone straight into a de-brief. It turned out that Richmond had tricked everyone. Unit Five was fooled and so were Lowell’s. Under only light pressure Bilado signed over control of the mine to the conglomerate, and effectively to the British and American governments, so long as he was given a small share of the profits. The man was a drugs trafficker by trade, noted Alex. Anyone in that deadly trade knew when to cut a deal.
She took a sip on a vodka cocktail and glanced across at Alex. “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus, that sounded like it hurt. I don’t think you’ve ever apologised for anything in your life before.”
Greenway laughed. “Maybe not.”
“Try it again. You need practise.”
“I’m…”
She stopped herself.
“Well, I’m not that sorry. But Richmond conned us and that shouldn’t have happened. He was working for Lowell’s, that part was honest enough, but the Russians had bribed him to get us to eliminate Bilado for them, and we fell for it.”
“You had no way of knowing.”
Greenway shook her head. “There’s always a way,” she replied. “In this job, failure is not acceptable.”
Alex took a hit of the beer, and lent forward. There were both sitting at a small table, the villa behind them. No one else was in sight. “How sorry are you exactly?”
Greenway looked away. “What exactly do you have in mind, Mr Marden?”
“Jesus, not that,” said Alex, suddenly realising that she thought he was flirting with her. “I meant, I’ve been in Unit Five for six months now. I must have made the British government a fortune by securing that mine. Maybe I deserve an early release?”
A flicker of disappointment crossed her face as Alex batted away her remark. “You’ll have to put that in writing.”
“I can’t put it in damned writing can I,” said Alex angrily. “That’s never going to work. But after the Tripoli job, and now this one, I reckon I could use a break….”
“A week’s rest,” said Greenway. “Then I need you back into action.”
“What the hell for?” asked Alex.
“The Olympics. We’re going to need every man we have to keep London safe for two weeks.”
“Christ, I would have thought you had enough men already.”
“Not for this.”
She stood up and started to walk away. Then she glanced back at Alex and smiled the half-smile he was starting to enjoy. “I think’ll about your request…after the Olympics job.”
Alex grinned and drained his beer.
“What are you so happy about man?” said Jack, sitting down next to him.
“I might be getting some time off for good behaviour.”
“Jesus, can I get that as well.”
“You? Good behaviour?” Jack laughed. “It doesn’t’ sound very likely does it.”
Jack laid three gold nuggets down on the table.
“I found these down in the mine. About $10,000 worth. I reckon we can have some fun on this island with this money. Maybe even more fun than we had back in the villa.”
Alex stood up and nodded towards the beach. “Then what the hell are are we waiting for?”
Black Ops: Olympics
Matt Lynn
Author’s Note
Black Ops: Olympics is the third in a new series of short thrillers designed as a cross between journalism and fiction. Each Black Ops story will be ripped straight from the headlines and written and published as events unfold. This story is inspired by the security preparations for the London Olympics. No resemblance is intended to any real person. Readers who enjoy this story might like to try my longer e-books, ‘Death Force’, ‘Fire Force’, ‘Shadow Force’ and ‘Ice Force’.
-Matt Lynn, May, 2012
Chapter One
The target was twenty yards away. A single story bungalow measuring fifteen yards by thirty, it was one of dozens within the Olympic Village built to house the athletes who had flown into London from around the world. Except this one contained not runners or gymnasts, but a pair of deadly terrorists intent on unleashing a chemical gas attack that would murder a generation of sportsman in the space of a few seconds. And the fate of the Games would depend on whether they could be taken down in the next three minutes.
“Two Chechens,” said Major Tim Harford, looking around the group of ten men from Unit Five. “They’ve smuggled themselves into the Russian team, and they are planning to flood the Village with a deadly nerve gas. We need to get into that building, and eliminate them before they can press the button. Understood?”
“Why don’t we just blow the fuckers up?” said Jack Rogan.
Alex Marden looked across at his partner and grinned. The former Navy Seal was a rough, brutal soldier, a man who shot first and asked questions later. His unthinking aggression had already landed Alex in plenty of trouble on the two missions they’d fought together in Libya and Columbia. But this time he might be right. With the whole Village at stake, there was no point in trying anything clever. Throw in enough explosives and it would bring down the bungalow and the men inside it.
“They’ve taken the Russian women’s gymnastics team as hostages,” said Harford. “We need to take the terrorists out without killing them.”
“With respect, sir, with the threat of a chemical gas attack on the Village, the lives of a few gymnasts don’t count for that much. It’s going to be virtually impossible to eliminate the terrorists before they can release the gas.”
“One of the gymnasts is the daughter of the Russian President,” said Harford. “And that means we can’t risk their lives either.”
“But...”
“An order is a bloody order.”
Alex Marden and Jack Rogan both nodded. Unit Five, the top secret Black Ops division of Nato that selected special forces soldiers from all the nations inside the alliance, and threw them into life and death missions, had been preparing for the Olympics for weeks. A small team had been assembled as back-up for the regular security forces. For the last month, they had run through every conceivable threat, and learned the geography of the stadium and the Village by heart.
But this was the task they’d most feared. An attack on the Village itself. And one that might prove impossible to prevent.
“What kit are we using?” asked Alex.
Harford put down a set of flash’n’bang stun grenades, and ten SA-80 assault rifles, equipped with shoot-through-wall technology. “Here’s the drill,” he said tersely. “Get right up close to the building, then split yourself into two groups. One on each side. I want two men to put the grenades through the window while two men ready themselves with the rifles.
Each man picked up two grenades and one rifle. They were all familiar with the technology. The stun grenades blasted out a lethal burst of white noise that would confuse the terrorists. Shoot-through-wall technology used heat-detecting screens to locate the target, and hardened, dual-layered bullets that could drill through concrete walls up to eight inches thick to bring down an opponent.
“Will these work?” asked Alex, holding up the magazine on the side of the SA-80. He’d used shoot-through-wall rounds before, and whether they were effective or not depended on the kind of bricks they had to blast their way through.
“All the walls in the Village were constructed so they could be penetrated by these bullets,” said Harford.
“But has anyone actually tested them?”
“Just move out,” snapped Harford. “And good luck.”
Alex took that as no. Nothing ever gets tested, he reflected bitterly. You only find out it doesn’t work half way through a fire fight. And by then it’s too late.
He slotted a pair of ear mufflers over his head - designed to protect him from the worst of the noise from the flash bangs - and bombed a mag into the SA-80. “Let’s go,” he muttered.
The ten men moved out as a single, silent, but lethally efficient team. Five men peeled north and five south to attack the bungalow from both ends. As well as Jack and Alex, their unit included Carl Lorimar, an Australian from their Special Air Service Regiment, Lothar Kriessen, from Germany’s Kommando Spezialkräfte, and Steve O’Connell, who like Jack had spent five years in the Seals before being pressed into Unit Five. Alex had got to know them all pretty well in the last few weeks, apart from O’Connell who’d been drafted in as a last minute replacement after another Seal got injured. They were good men: well-trained, disciplined, and dedicated. He’d prefer his life wasn’t in any danger, same as anyone. But if it had to be, he’d rather depend on them than anyone else.
They moved towards the bungalow, kneeling down within inches of the building. Jack and Carl had been chosen to put the flash-bangs in, whilst Alex and Lothar would use their SA-80s to bring down the terrorists. Steve’s job was to back-up the four-man unit, filling in any gaps: if they needed more grenades or more firepower, Steve’s job was to supply it.
Alex lifted the rifle to his shoulder. The screen measured four inches by five. It displayed a small image of what was on the other side of the wall: the screen detected body heat, and turned that into a picture. There were two terrorists inside, and six women gymnasts. The screen couldn’t tell which was which, but the men would be far larger than the women – all gymnasts are tiny – and based on that, Alex already felt confident he had detected both targets. Once the flash bangs went off, they would start moving to protect themselves and that would be the moment to shoot.
“Ready?” said Carl.
Alex nodded.
The man looked at Jack, nodded, then moved towards the window. He stripped the pin from the grenade, smashed the glass with the butt of his rifle, and lobbed it inside. A flash of brilliant white light suddenly erupted from inside the bungalow, like a streak of lighting arising out of the ground, followed by a screeching, vicious swirl of pure noise that broke through your eardrums and left you quivering with a murderous fear.
Alex steeled himself. Even through the ear mufflers the racket was terrible. Just block it out, he told himself. Concentrate on the target.
He could see the shapes on his screen. Two men starting to move.
“Throw your fucking grenade, man,” shouted Carl towards Jack.
But Jack wasn’t moving.
He was squatting on the ground, shaking uncontrollably.
“Fucking stop it,” he yelled. “I can’t take this shit anymore.”
He ran first toward Alex, then Lothar, hurling himself into both men, knocking the German to the ground.
“Christ, man, what’s got into you?” yelled Alex.
He looked up at the bungalow.
The attack had failed.
The two Chechens had already shot the hostages, and released the chemical into the atmosphere.
And the nerve gas was about to flood the Village.
“Shit,” he muttered. “We’ve really fucked up this time.”
Chapter Two
“Whether that’s the biggest fucking catastrophe in the history of the British security services, or only number two or three, might make an interesting debating point one day,” said Commander Helen Greenway, looking around the men in the room. “But right now no one gives a damn. It was an embarrassment to everyone involved.”
She paused, and looked straight at Jack. “But most of all, to you Mr Rogan.”
Her tone was cold and her expression dark. The woman in charge of Unit Five, she was, Alex had realised in the six months he had been working for her, a tough and uncompromising boss. Someone who would happily throw her men into harm’s way if that was what it took to get the job done, and who cared little for whether they ever returned from a job alive. Even when a mission was a success, there was little praise. When it was failure, as it had been today...well, her reaction didn’t bear thinking about.
“So what have you got to say for yourself?”
Jack remained silent. He simply stared at the floor, his face pale, and his hands shaking.
“I said what is the bloody matter with you?”
Silence.
“Speak man.”
“I...I...”
The voice was stuttering, afraid. Alex had heard it before. During his time in the Regiment, several men had come down with what the blokes in the Army called ‘the dreams’, and the doctors called post-traumatic stress disorder. A terrible, debilitating condition, it reduced men with hearts of oak and nerves of hardened steel to nervous, frightened children, unable to perform even the simplest tasks. Alex had visited them in hospital, and although it was terrible to lose an arm or a leg in battle, in many ways it was better than post-traumatic stress disorder. A veteran on a metal leg could hold himself with pride anywhere he went. A broken wreck of a man locked up in an asylum was stripped of any dignity. And without that, most soldiers would rather a bullet had left them dead on the battlefield.
