SAS Para-Ops: MEGA SET - SAS Para-Ops Books #1, #2, #3, #4, #5 & #6

by Casey Christie

  “You don’t know about what happened today, Bull? This I can not believe.”

  “Of course I know, but even before today, as when it was that I last saw John he was under a lot of pressure, more strain and just like you he was being short tempered and rude to those under his command – something very unlike either of you” said Bull.

  Colonel Brow studied the Iraqi General and thought how he would hate to play Texas Holdem against the man probably as much as he would hate to get into the ring with him.

  “A drink?” offered Brow while glancing towards a three quarters full bottle of scotch sitting on his desk, knowing full well that Khan preferred, for whatever reason – be it religious, spiritual or personal – not to drink.

  “I’d love one, thank you” said Bull.

  So the man’s not bullet proof after all Brow thought to himself. And to his own anger Colonel Brow couldn’t help but show his surprise and he’d even worried Bull had heard his thought.

  “I am not gifted like Mark, Colonel, but body language is a lot easier to read. And yes these are worrying times. We have a lot to discuss, primarily how to get our friends safely back. Now how about that drink?”

  Bull raised the glass filled with a generous double shot of whiskey and downed the contents in one gulp.

  “Another?” offered Colonel Brow.

  “No, thank you. Three is more than enough” replied Bull.

  Colonel Brow held his glass between thumb and forefinger and swilled the contents from side to side. Then after a moment’s pause also downed the contents but unlike Bull three was not enough and he poured himself another.

  “Do you have a plan, Colonel?” asked Bull.

  Colonel Brow reached into his pocket and produced a pack of cigarettes, Marlboros, and inexpertly opened the new packet with his teeth. Then tipped one of the cigarettes into his mouth and lit it with an old zippo lighter decorated with the American flag. He inhaled deeply, held the smoke in his lungs before exhaling loudly, quickly filling his small office with smoke. The mixture of smoke and light created an eerie barrier between the two commanders and the alcohol both men had just consumed seemed to kick in with even more unnatural timing. The smoke seemed to almost freeze in the air and an unnatural silence seized the room.

  Both men sat up a little and Bull opened his mouth to speak but before he could Colonel Walter Brow was on his feet stubbing out the cigarette in a makeshift ashtray/coke can and moved across the room and opened a small window and turned on a fan.

  “One of my staff suggested it. Said it helps him calm his nerves” said Brow.

  “Cigarettes, yes I too have smoked before but one thing I have most definitely learned, the hard way, is that they most definitely don’t help with nerves – in fact they probably make them worse!” said Bull.

  “I suppose, but that all of sudden seemed just a little too dramatic for my liking!”

  “Ha, and that’s coming from an American!” laughed Bull.

  Brow slumped back into his chair and the two men shared a lighter moment together, the first in much longer than either men would have liked.

  “Seriously though, what’s next?” said Bull.

  “I want to launch a rescue mission of course but first we need to pinpoint their location.”

  Bull looked at his counterpart, confusion creasing his face, then tilted his head to one side: “You want to launch a mission or you will launch a mission once you know their location?”

  Brow took some more whiskey then looked out of the small window.

  “Strictly speaking, Captain Taylor’s unit does not exist” said Brow.

  “You mean they are expendable – all Special Operations units are, this is nothing new.”

  “No. Expendable implies that something that exists can then no longer exist and no one would care – that the unit is dispensable, replaceable, unessential or even disposable. No the SAS Para-Ops unit, the creation of Captain John Taylor, simply does not exist as far as the British Army is concerned. Therefore what would we be rescuing or should I say what would I be given the clearance to rescue?”

  “The British never leave men behind and neither do your lot!?”

  “No we don’t, not men that officially exist anyway. Do you know that I phoned my command for the resources and green light and was told they would give it if the British gave the go ahead first. So I got hold of British command, explained the situation and was told in no uncertain terms that the ‘unit’ I spoke of did not actually exist, that I must be mistaken and therefore they could give clearance to no such rescue mission” said Brow.

  Bull got to his feet which drew Colonel Brow’s gaze. Colonel Brow forgot for a moment that Bull was actually a man and not a thermometer as he could see the man’s blood pressure rising as if he were one. His head looked as though the man had just swallowed a live grenade and was using all of his will power to contain the blast.

  Once again General Yusuf Khan of the Iraqi National Army was poised to say something, something more than likely explosive, when Colonel Brow also stood.

  “Sit. Down. General. And do not forget that you are in MY office.”

  The Iraqi General had the look of a man with immense command, physical power and natural authority, being in a situation he was not at all used to.

  “And have another drink goddam it! And stop pretending that you are not under as much fucking pressure as we all are. I know you have the ‘powers that be’ breathing down your neck as well, asking all kinds of questions on what the hell you are doing here. Did you know that twice now I have personally had to write to Iraqi high fucking command to explain to them how important you are to American activities in the country. No you don’t. So stop giving me the whole holier than thou fucking routine and join the party. We, meaning, you, me, John and every other war commander in this shithole of a country are knee deep in snake shit and rat piss. It’s high time we started working together fully aware of the precarious situation we are all in, together!”

  Bull let out a deep breath and fell back into his chair as did Colonel Brow only a moment later before refilling both men’s glasses with Scotch.

  The moment had been an ice breaker. It had changed their relationship forever and neither man knew quite how much that moment would mean to the rest of their lives.

  Another shot of whisky later and the alcohol provided enough of a tension break for the conversation to continue. Bull spoke first.

  “If you’re really looking for another activity to help calm your nerves I would suggest taking Shisha – You know what Shisha is, Colonel Brow?”

  “No, what is Shisha, General Khan?” countered Brow.

  “It is what you Americans call Hubbly Bubbly, Walter?”

  Walter Brow nodded in understanding and said: “Ah, yes, smoking through water pipes, is that what Shisha is, Bull?”

  Bull smiled a warm smile and nodded: “I will arrange some for us the next time we are with John and his men. It will be a good day.”

  The two men, now officially on a first name basis finished their drinks and put them on the desk and both pushed them towards the centre clearly indicating that the drinking was done.

  “What assets do you have, Walter?” said Bull.

  “In terms of operators, real bona fide operators. None. Except for the man known as, black hands, every other specialist and specialist unit has been pulled from the country and is under another’s command. I have been, very pointedly I feel, left with only a commission of marines, like the two men you saw in my office earlier on. All other staff left hours ago as should have Taylor and his men. In fact I should no longer be here but because two Kurdish officers were either also taken or killed in the attack I have been given a further 36 hours to make sure that our ‘diplomatic relations’ with the Kurds are not hurt by this incident.”

  “Fuck” said Bull.

  “Fuck, indeed. Though there is the Russian option, maybe, well if we have absolutely no other recourse.”

  “I know
of the Russians you speak of, Walter. They are highly effective operators and perhaps do not officially exist as much as Taylor’s team, at least in Turkey anyway, which could work very much in our favour. They’re absolutely brutal though, deadly and blood thirsty. Will probably kill more than needed and may draw attention. I’ve seen some footage of their handiwork against those IS monsters and can you believe I actually felt sorry for them! The IS thugs, that is.”

  “Yes they remind me of an ancient, very badly spoken of, Immortals unit of times past.”

  Both men laughed knowing about the grunts and sounds the Russian Spetz Naz units were well known for in Special Forces circles.

  “I take it you have enough greenback to persuade the men to fight our cause?” said Bull.

  “I have enough hard currency on this base to finance a small war or to retire for three lifetimes!” said Colonel Walter Brow, the alcohol probably allowing more information to escape his lips than usually would.

  “Then let’s do it!” said Bull over enthusiastically.

  “What? Start a small war and then retire?”

  “Exactly! We know who the real good guys are and who the real bad guys are anyway, we really know who to kill!” joked Bull.

  Walter smiled, leaned down and reached into his desk and produced two small plastic bottles of water, throwing one across his desk to Bull.

  Both men drank thirstily enjoying the hydrating effect of the semi-cold water in the dry heat.

  “There may be another option, Walter” said Bull before taking another swig of water. The look on his face intrigued the Colonel immensely.

  “Iraqi special forces? Oh god, please do not say that you are going to suggest that?”

  A mouthful of water splashed across Colonel Brows desk as General Khan exploded into laughter. The two men laughed almost uncontrollably for some time before Bull finally found his composure and then with some effort and then immense seriousness he said:

  “Contractors. Mercs.”

  “Mercenaries? I hadn’t thought of that. But there aren’t any in the country are there?”

  Then like the proverbial light bulb illuminating Colonel Brow remembered back on the Intelligence report that landed on his desk two days earlier.

  “You must be a bloody madman. They’re more dangerous than the bloody Russians!”

  “Yes, Walter, let’s bring in the South Africans!”

  Chapter Six – When the Devil Drives

  Mark Andrews woke with a start. He had screamed and clawed at his coffin for so long that a number of his fingernails had become separated from his fingertips. The pain was unlike anything else he had experienced but at least the pain reminded him that he was still alive. He had no sense of time, day or night and the only noise he heard was made by him – breathing, screaming, crying, sobbing.. praying.

  He opened his eyes once more to the darkness and as usual all at once one million thoughts and images seemed to flood his mind – panic induced mind mayhem. He felt his heart begin to race and he knew he was about to burst once more into a blood curdling cry of naked fear

  “Kill me, just kill me now!” he wailed. Again and again. It was his new personal mantra.

  “Kill me, just kill me now!”

  “Kill me, just kill me now!”

  And then he stopped. He had had an epiphany.

  “Why can I still breathe? How is there still oxygen in here? Why would they want to keep me alive?” he whispered to himself.

  “Why indeed, Mark?”

  “What, who is that, John, is that really you? Are you here?”

  “Focus on asking the right questions to receive the right answers. You are all you have, I am merely a manifestation of yourself.”

  That certainly was not the answer Mark was looking for but for some reason it resonated with him as being the perfect answer. This calmed him immensely and for the next few minutes he let that sensation, that self realisation wash over him like a cooling liquid in the desert sun allowing his heart rate to slow and his breathing to return to normal.

  What could have been seconds, minutes or even hours later – it no longer held any relevance to him – Mark began the game of question and answer with himself.

  “Then why am I talking out loud?”

  “I do not know, obviously, are you?”

  “Obviously what?”

  “Are you talking out loud?”

  Mark paused. He was not sure. He was so not sure that he carefully and with some difficulty manoeuvred his hand to his mouth by bending his elbow.

  “Am I talking to myself?” he said while holding his lips between his thumb and forefinger.

  His lips did not move.

  “I am thinking then!”

  “But actually what is the difference, Mark?”

  But before Andrews could answer that question he heard what sounded like a crowbar being stabbed into the side of something wooden and heavy and then accompanied by a loud crack a painful stroke of bright white light burst through into his world and struck him in his eyes, he shut them as tightly and quickly as he could but the light had already found its way into his visual cortex and it felt like a chisel hammering stone.

  He cried out in pain. And moments later heard that same menacing Arabic voice he had heard at the Tea Garden.

  “You begged for the light earlier and now that we are so kind and glorious to give it to you, you hide away from it, you ungrateful infidel dog! Better to not open those sinful eyes or you may find Allah, mercy be upon him, turns you blind!” said the man and then spat a mouthful of his glorious puke coloured phlegm into Mark’s face.

  “Increase the dose and adjust the oxygen, if he moves crush his filthy white face!” barked the man in Arabic to another shorter broader terrorist also in a balaclava and black combats.

  With all his will Mark forced his eyes open into slits just in time to see above him the figures of two men from the waist up. The first, who had given the orders, was turning his back now and was about to walk away. The other reached over Mark’s midriff and adjusted something hanging over the far right side of the coffin. Mark looked in its direction as quickly as he could with as little movement and found a tube funnelling liquids. He followed its destination and was alarmed to realise it was leading to the side of his head, his ear in fact.

  His immediate reaction was to reach for it and try to understand what it was but he knew that would be showing his cards far too soon. He followed the tube back up the side of the coffin and immediately answered his question from earlier – there just to the right of and below that tube he saw an oxygen mask slowly feeding oxygen into the small space.

  “The bloody bastards are drugging me and keeping me alive”

  The Islamic State thug above Andrews stopped what he was doing and looked straight down at him and spat something in his own language at Andrews showering him in spittle. The last thing he saw was an AK47 assault rifle being brought up and then the butt struck down into his face.

  Only darkness.

  Chapter Seven – Black Hands

  Somewhere in Syria near the Turkish Border.

  The exhaust of a battered old white van sputtered and backfired as it reversed into a neglected, disused warehouse merely two blocks away, yet worlds apart, from a vibrant and bustling Syrian main street.

  The man dressed in traditional Arab clothing closed the large and somewhat oversized gate as the van came to a stop inside the poorly lit structure.

  “Clear?” said the driver.

  “Clear” answered the gate man.

  “Good, he’s in the back with your friend, Joey is it?”

  “That’s affirmative sir.”

  “Sir, ha-ha, don’t call me sir for god’s sake man, I might get used to it!” said the driver with a manic grin on his face as he slid from the front seat and hopped out with an excited delightfulness in his skip that made Gate Man feel very uncomfortable as he knew what was to happen next. “Beside my friend we are of the same rank are we not?”
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  “Well I’m a…”

  “Yes, yes, you’re a warrior of Rome… or wait is that America – the good ol’ United States of America – modern day world conquerors, bringer of roads and civilisation. Only difference is you wear a uniform.” the driver paused dramatically to take in the traditional Thawb Colonel Brow’s man was now wearing to fit into local surroundings. “Hmm, I’m impressed. Your commander lets you take off your uniform every now and then I see. Now let’s get our guest and your buddy out the back.”

  The two men moved to behind the vehicle. The driver inserted a key into a padlock that was keeping the doors locked from the outside and then inserted another key into the more traditional key hole found in most vans.

  The driver smiled at Gate Man “Should we count it down?! I do so love this moment!” It’s like crickity crack Christmas! Or better yet, New Year’s…”

  But before the happy driver could finish his sentence the door swung violently open and Soldier Joey came crashing out of them knocking his friend the Gate Man off his feet. On all fours on the ground he began to puke violently onto the hard, dusty floor.

  Gate Man got to his feet quickly and rushed over to help his friend.

  “Joey, are you okay, bro? What’s up man, what’s wrong?”

  Without a word Joey pointed behind him in the direction of the back of the van.

  Gate Man turned and before he could see anything a vile smell of shit and piss assailed his nostrils. He immediately spun on his feet and covered his nose with his sleeve.

  The Driver started to laugh maniacally and inhaled deeply through his snout.

  “Hey, nothing like the smell of pre-interrogation in the late afternoon hey my little bros!”

  “What the hell did you give to him?” demanded Joey.

  The Driver turned to face Joey, his smile and laugh instantly no more. “Just a little something I like to call …. ‘The Loosener’” and began to laugh loudly again only to abruptly stop and then add: “Get it?! His mouth, for the truth and his bowels for the…..” the driver then seemed to get confused and look into the air around him as if following a fly. “Well, actually I don’t know why it makes them shit and piss themselves I just thought it was funny..”