Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre (15 page)

It started to go wrong when Josef realized he was a Chechen. Before he could give an order, he howled a savage shout of anger, leapt to his feet, and loosed off a burst from his battered AK-47. The bullets stitched up the snow close to where the man was standing. He froze for a split second, and then jumped back into the cab. It was then that all hell let loose.

Two of the wagon doors closest to them were already open, and a dozen gun barrels poked out and let loose a stream of gunfire. Someone smashed a window in the door of the locomotive cab, and an assault rifle fired from inside. Then a uniformed arm clutching a Makarov pistol appeared and fired some shots. There was no time to worry about the trickle of fire from the locomotive. The defenders in the wagons had begun to deploy machine guns, Russian PKs, the Kalashnikov derivatives. They joined the heavy fire from the light weapons, and the buzz of 7.62mm rounds became a continuous stream of heavy fire. Talley's unit returned fire, keeping out of the merciless hail of bullets churning up the frozen ground around them, but it was a bad start.

Josef, damn him! He’s made it a total fuck up. All because of his overwhelming lust for revenge. But isn’t that what drives me along?

He shouted, "Toussaint, the Strela! Stop that locomotive from leaving."

The former legionnaire nodded and aimed. Talley saw his finger tighten on the trigger as he got target lock on the huge steel wheels beneath the cab, and nothing.

"What is it? What happened?"

"Fucking useless thing," he shouted. "It's a misfire. I have to load another rocket."

Toussaint worked on the launcher, forgetting the machine guns. He walked straight into a long burst from one of them. The heavy 7.62 mm shells, firing at a rate of six hundred and fifty rounds per minute, smashed into him; within seconds turned a living, breathing human being into bloodied scraps of torn flesh. The burst had tracked diagonally upward, first chewing into his left leg, up his armored vest and as he fell, his head came into the path of the bullets. He was dead even before he hit the ground. Talley saw the burst smash into the Strela, rendering it useless. He shouted at Buchmann, leading the fireteam on the right.

"Hit them with grenades. Target the wagon with the machine guns. Give it everything you have. Kill the bastards. Anyone with a launcher ready, use it. We have to smash those defenders before they kill us. With any luck, we’ll damage the undercarriage of one of those wagons, enough to prevent the train from dragging it away."

Two men had launchers fitted to their HK410s, and within seconds, the grenades were arcing through the air to join Buchmann's third shot. His first grenade exploded, and the next two added to the carnage and wreckage of the splintered wagon body. Then the rifle launched grenades arrived. The defenders were hit hard, too hard. Some were already jumping down to the snow and running under the train to escape the murderous barrage of steel splinters filling the air around them. Then everything changed. The German fired again, and one of his grenades landed directly against the wheel of the wagon. When the smoke cleared, the iron wheel was cracked, a huge split in the cast iron from the axle to the hub.

"Take that, Schweinhund," Buchmann snarled above the raging hurricane of the battle, loud enough for several of the men to cheer. The locomotive couldn’t move off, not dragging a broken wheel. Rovere felt bound to rise to the occasion.

"The fire-eyed maid of smoky war, all hot and bleeding will we offer them," he declared in loud, ringing tones. Then he was forced to duck. He'd put his head up, and the NKs, unimpressed with his Shakespeare, saw him. Several streams of bullets hammered past where his head had been a moment before.

Guy’s fireteam was close by, and the SAS man turned to him, smiling. "I keep telling you about that crap. People don't like it. Shakespeare will likely get you killed.”

"Don't shoot the messenger," the Italian grumbled.

Someone groaned, "Fucking Shakespeare."

It was the only light moment, for the battle was already turning against them again. As Talley had feared, he didn’t have enough troops, not without Yuri’s Mafiyosi. His men were Special Forces, and their operations intended to be conducted under cover of night, using stealth and surprise. This action had all the elements of a full-scale battle, and there could be only one outcome when they were heavily outnumbered and outgunned by heavy weapons.

"They're coming up from the rear of the train," Welland shouted.

Talley turned to look just as a heavy machine gun began firing, and a burst of heavy shells smashed into their position. The two snipers swung around to deal with the new threat. In a matter of seconds, four of the hostiles went down to their precision fire. But the machine gun crew was unhurt, the gun undamaged. The North Koreans had deployed a heavy machine gun from one of the rear wagons, a DShK. The heavy machine gun was mounted on a two-wheeled carriage, protected by a single sheet of armor plate. Two of Talley’s troopers went down to the heavy fire when they exposed their heads, trying to knock out the gun. The massive rounds, fired in long, slow bursts, almost decapitated them. He looked around for a solution.

If we don't put that gun out of action mighty fast, the enemy could pin us down with heavy fire while the rest of their forces flank us.

Buchmann was waiting for the order, and he clearly knew what was needed. On this day, he thanked all the Gods of war for his Heinrich’s Germanic ferocity.

"You loaded?"

"Ja, I'm ready."

He held up his HK grenade pistol, as if Talley would need further proof.

"Hug the ground until you're close to that gun. I can’t afford to lose another man. Then kill it."

He looked for his snipers, Vince DiMosta and Jerry Ostrowski. They were still attempting to find a chink in the armor of the machine gun, without success. He told them to keep it up, to hold the gunner's attention while Heinrich went forward. He turned back to the German.

"Good luck. Go."

Buchmann nodded and crawled away. He only made ten meters before he was forced to shelter in a shallow depression in the frozen ground. The Koreans were fast. They'd sent a squad forward, and the advancing hostiles were hitting Echo Six. Even more serious, the ground Buchmann had to cover to get near to the machine gun was exposed to their gunfire.

"Get back here," Talley called to him. "You won’t make it, and they’ll mount their main attack any moment."

The German saw the impossibility of his task and began to crawl back. The incoming fire slackened slightly as the enemy changed position and came closer. He realized there was only a short time before his small force was overrun. Guy slithered up to him, ducking from a renewed hail of gunfire.

"We can't stay here, Boss."

"No, we'll have to break off the engagement.”

Again! Another total fuck up.

“At least we know they won't follow," he continued angrily. "Why should they? They have the nukes, and we don't."

He was forced to duck his head as the machine gun fired a burst that punched into the snow-covered bank they were sheltering behind. Their armored vests would be useless against the heavy rounds. Any man who took a hit from that fearsome heavy machine gun would be shredded.

"Guy, get them together. We're pulling out.”

"At least they can't move the train," Rovere pointed out, by way of consolation. "Not until they fix that broken wheel, and that won’t be today. It could take them days to bring up a new wheel. It’ll give us time to have another go at them, and this time, we’ll be able to do it in darkness.”

Talley nodded. “Maybe.”

He had a feeling it wouldn’t work like that. The wily Colonel Ho was proving himself to be a clever opponent, more than just a sick, psychotic murderer. A man who planned everything several moves ahead, as he had in Korea. Talley had a strong suspicion the train would continue its journey sooner rather than later, and no way would Ho surrender the advantage of the night to Echo Six. He took a last look around. The enemy was creeping nearer.

"Let's go. As soon as we're out of range, we'll work out our next move. One way or the other, that bastard's not going to get away with it, if I have to kill him with my bare hands.”

He realized he was shaking with emotion. Even worse, he’d admitted it was personal as he focused on killing Ho.

I have to clear my mind to lead my men out of this battle alive.

But Rovere wasn't finished.

"Get away with what?" the Italian asked him softly. "The warheads or killing those nurses? You should be careful, my friend. Remember the saying, 'I'll never pause again, till fortune given me measure of revenge. Or death hath closed these eyes of mine’."

He felt his irritation rise and squashed it.

"Let's get moving."

He could be right. I've allowed my need for revenge to get in the way of clear, tactical thinking. I have to turn this screw-up around, and I’ll only do that if I forget the revenge and concentrate on the operation.

He led them back, and they reached a narrow ditch, maybe eight hundred meters from the train, where he called a halt. Soldiers were swarming around the damaged train, working on the area where Buchmann had hit the iron wheel with his grenade.

Are they trying to fix it? But how? It’ll need heavy-duty cranes and lifting equipment.

He ignored them. He needed to take the fight back to the enemy, to defeat them this time, and stop the warheads reaching Pyongyang.

Third time lucky? No, there’s no luck, just hard, cold military realities. Uncluttered by personal feelings of emotion, especially revenge. How do I do that when we're sheltering in a frozen ditch in the middle of Siberia?

Talley worked hard to fight off the feelings of despair. He had to face the hard fact that Colonel Ho had beaten him once again. Then put it behind him and go after the warheads.

Kay Talley was scared. Her new boyfriend had drunk more than a few beers during the afternoon, and now he was sleeping it off on the couch. She looked at the clock. It was only eight o'clock in the evening. The boys were casting anxious glances at her, and she didn't know how to handle it. Alvi Ramos was undeniably good looking, which had attracted her to him in the first place. He was of medium height, with dark olive skin under crew cut hair that he hadn't had time to grow out since leaving prison. He was slim, and his usual five o’clock shadow gave him a faintly mysterious air. Like the bad guy in a TV series. His clothes were always carefully chosen, and in the latest fashions. He was a man who took care of his appearance, especially after spending eighteen months wearing a shapeless boiler suit in the California State correctional system. She assumed it was because of his time inside that he was always ready to strike out at the nearest person.

It’s only natural, isn't it?

He’d told her they convicted him for a drug offence when he was completely innocent. It was enough to make any man angry and frustrated, apt to lash out. But then he’d slapped her around a few times; the latest was this morning in front of the kids. How could she protect her children from him? She was so worried, so frightened. Abe Talley, her first husband, had never beaten her, quite the opposite. If he saw any man strike a woman, he'd put a stop to it. She wondered once again if she should tell him to get out, to leave the house, but as always, she decided against it. It was quite likely he’d get violent, and she knew he was capable of anything. The phone rang, and she answered it.

"Hi, this is Kay Talley."

"Put Alvi on right now, bitch."

The accent was strange, foreign, the voice rude and abrupt. She felt a flare of irritation but swallowed it. If she did anything to upset one of his friends, he’d be angry with her. She shook his shoulder.

"Alvi, it's for you."

He started to come to. One bleary, bloodshot eye flicked open. "I told you not to disturb me. Tell him to fuck off and call back later."

She knew the kids were in the dining room. They suddenly appeared. They’d been listening, of course, and they looked startled at hearing the curse in their home.

"He said right now. I'm sorry, Alvi."

He belched, and the smell of the beer he'd drunk earlier wafted over her.

"Stupid cunt, you need to learn to do what you’re told. Maybe you need another lesson."

She trembled. "I'm sorry. I really am. I thought I was doing the right thing."

He sighed. "Gimme the phone."

He wrenched it out of her hand.

"Yeah?"

She was surprised to hear him talking in a foreign language, one she hadn't heard before. It certainly wasn't Spanish. She knew Alvi's mother was Mexican, and she assumed he spoke Spanish, but it wasn’t anything she recognized.

Maybe I’ll ask him about it after, and try to engage more with his affairs, get some conversation going.

He talked at length, and then ended the call.

"Gimme another beer."

"Yes, dear."

She ran to the fridge and brought him the can. He opened it and swallowed it in one gulp.

"Damn, that was good." He gave her a hefty slap on the ass. "You know, you're not so bad, Kay. Tell you what, I'm gonna take the kids to school in the morning. Save you the trouble."

"That's okay. I was going…"

"I said I'll take them to school in the morning." His voice was menacing, leaving no room for argument.

"Yes, dear. Of course, that would be nice."

"Damn right. Now how about some supper? I'm feeling hungry."

"We had dinner earlier, but you were asleep."

He turned to stare at her. "So what? I'm awake now, so get moving."

"I'll get something fixed for you."

She hurried into the kitchen and looked in the fridge for something he would enjoy.

Why is he taking the kids to school in the morning? He's never done that before. I hope it’ll be okay.

* * *

He sensed movement at his side. Roy Reynolds slid next to him.

"I've been watching those bastards working on that wagon, Boss. I don't think they’re trying to do anything with the wheel. They're disconnecting the coupling. They're going to leave it behind. We need to head them off."

The NKs were clustered around the train like ants, and sure enough, they were focused on the coupling between the wagon and the locomotive.

“You could be right. If they take the wagon off the tracks and couple the train back to the rest of it, it’ll be hard to stop them."

Reynolds grunted, “Maybe, maybe not.”

“What do have in mind?”

The man didn’t reply at first and continued to study the area around the train. As he waited for a reply, he studied the tough black Sergeant. A veteran of Delta Force, he was tall, muscular and built like a house. Like Guy Welland and Domenico Rovere, Talley could rely on him to make split-second decisions when the going got tough, and keep going forward to kill the enemy. Reynolds' skills were unique. Whereas Welland was an all-rounder, tough, fast and lethal, and Rovere was a superb tactical thinker, Reynolds was a bulldozer. The bravest man he'd ever fought with, Roy would go into action and press forward, no matter what. He was unstoppable. Talley had seen him take multiple hits from enemy fire, duck away from shells and missiles, and still go forward.

"I've been checking out the ground with Virgil. It looks like a narrow furrow that leads all the way to the tracks, right where the snow has banked up to give us cover. Four of us could crawl back there while you keep their heads down. We’d get near enough to hammer them, and once we start shooting, they'll scatter. It’ll slow ‘em down, at least.”

"And the heavy machine gun will start spewing rounds in your direction, and you'll be chewed apart."

"That's the good part,” he smiled. “To shoot at us with that gun, they'll need to turn it in our direction. It'll expose the gunners to the snipers. If Vince and Jerry are half as good as I know they are, they’ll be able to take out the gunners and probably do some damage to the gun as well. I reckon a couple of accurate hits on the firing mechanism should put paid to it."

It’s a good plan, a damn good plan. The question still remains how we’ll defeat the rest of the North Koreans and snatch the warheads. But at least if Roy’s mission succeeds, we’ll gain that most precious of commodities on the battlefield. Time.

"Go ahead. Work it out with the snipers and get moving. I'll shift our positions so we'll be able to pour it on as soon as you move out."

"Roger that."

He crawled away along the ditch, and Talley saw him talking to the snipers. Virgil Kane had rounded up two men to go with them, Charlie Weathers, another Brit and a former Royal Marine Commando, and Julio Garcia, who'd come to them from USMC Force Recon. If anyone could do the job, it was them. He watched the snipers move into position, Jerry Ostrowski, the Pole and Vince DiMosta, who like Roy Reynolds, had joined them straight from Delta Force. Everything depended on the crew repositioning the gun to face the new threat. If that didn't happen, the snipers would have no target to take down, and the heavy 12.7mm rounds would shred Roy’s team. He tried not to think about that. They were already outnumbered, vastly outnumbered.

Where’s Yuri? Right now, we need his men more than ever.

He looked aside at Alessandra, huddled in the ditch where he'd ordered her to stay out of the line of fire, along with Josef. When she argued, he pointed out how she was the only one among them who spoke Russian, and Josef the only one who owned an airplane. They were irreplaceable.

"We're ready."

He looked at Roy. "Give 'em hell."

He watched them snake away and gave a last look at the enemy, who were oblivious to what they were doing, and then gave the order.

"Fire! Give them everything you have!"
      

His men emptied a clip after clip at the mass of North Korean soldiers clustered around the train. They’d got sloppy, and maybe a dozen of them fell, astonished by the impact of the sudden onslaught. They dived for cover, some sheltering behind snow-covered humps in the ground. Others worked their way under the train, and several climbed into the shattered wagon where they could shelter behind the broken timbers. He looked as Roy's fireteam opened up on the defenders, and they suddenly realized they were under fire from two different directions. They crawled further into cover, all except the machine gunners. He could see them looking at someone, an officer who was shouting to them from the narrow gap between two of the wagons. They started to turn the machine gun to point at the Roy’s pitifully small squad attacking them from close by. A man suddenly appeared, shouting at the soldiers, obviously urging them to get up and fight. He recognized him instantly. Colonel Ho.

Talley looked around quickly for the snipers. Jerry and Vince were targeting the machine gun crew. Guy was alternately firing at the enemy and directing his men, making certain they were shooting up the important targets. The machine gun crew was almost in view. Within seconds, the snipers would open fire. Ho would see the danger instantly and duck out of sight. It was a huge opportunity. He could order the snipers to switch targets and take down Ho. Killing the North Koreans’ leader might even send them into panic and disarray, and then he saw Rovere staring at him.

Do I honestly believe it’s more important to kill Colonel Ho than to destroy the machine gun? No. Get a grip
.

He heard the Italian speak in a low voice: "How all occasions do inform against me, and spur my dull revenge."

Their eyes met, and Talley saw in Domenico not condemnation but a sad understanding. He gave him a quick nod and left his snipers to do their bloody work. Ho would wait. He was just part of the mission, a minor part, no more than that. He resolved to focus on the real threat, the warheads.

The DShK only got off two or three rounds before the gunners were struck by precision fire from the snipers. Jerry and Vince shot round after round in a smooth, mechanical cycle. Load, aim, fire, and bullet after bullet sped toward the target. Inside of five seconds, both gunners were dead and their weapon smashed, never to see battle again. Colonel Ho had stepped behind cover, and the snipers shifted their aim and began to take a further toll of the NK security troops, before they burrowed deeper into cover.

He saw an NCO darting from man-to-man, squad-to-squad, pointing at the Echo Six positions.

"It looks like we're about to come under heavy fire," he warned his men. "If we keep our heads down, we'll be okay, and we can pop up again when they get bored."

He watched and waited. There was more activity around the coupling between the locomotive and the wagon with the smashed wheel.

What the hell are they up to? Whatever it is, it isn't anything good.

He heard more shouts in the distance and saw the North Koreans massing.

"Boss," Guy called across to him. "I think we've really pissed them off. They're about to mount a full-scale frontal attack. We can hit them while they're on open ground, and we should be able to whittle them down some, but we'll need to stop them all before they get here. There's just too many of them if they reach our position."

Guy was right. The enemy troops were positioned ready to launch themselves directly at them. He made a quick estimate; there were more than a hundred of them. And as he watched, several other men were scurrying around the other side of the train, well away from the guns of Echo Six.

"What the hell are they doing?” he called out to no one in particular.

His answer came direct from the North Koreans. They all heard the 'crump' as the mortar fired, and a shell arced overhead to land fifty meters behind them. Another mortar open fire, and then another. It meant they’d have to shelter from the incoming mortar hells, from the hot shrapnel that would scythe around them as each shell exploded.

"Boss," Guy exclaimed, "you want us to stay down, or take a chance with the shrapnel and shoot at the bastards? Or do we pull back?"

They were all watching him, and he knew he only had seconds to decide. If they stayed, they'd be cut to pieces. If they pulled back out into the countryside, they'd be too far from the train to have any chance of stopping it from proceeding to Pyongyang. But at least they'd be alive. He opened his mouth to give the order, and that was when they all heard the roaring of engines and more gunfire coming from several hundred meters behind the train. He could see a line of vehicles hurtling along the track that led to the line, open trucks all laden with men, and all of them firing furiously at the North Koreans. They were led by a Brit Range Rover, the choice of aristocrats and wealthy gangsters the world over, and Mafiyosi.