Echo Six: Black Ops 4 - Chechen Massacre (2 page)

Dear God, we’re all going crazy.

* * *

"Red light is on, five minutes."

Talley acknowledged the jumpmaster. Normal conversation was impossible, thanks to the roar of the four huge turbofans outside on the wings; the noise in no way diminished by the thin fuselage. The big military aircraft was designed to carry cargo. Passengers forced to travel on the big Boeing had to endure a wide range of discomforts, from extreme cold to deafening noise. They'd taken off from Bagram and followed a standard commercial flight path, due south, out over the Arabian Sea. Normal routine was to make a starboard turn and head for Allied territory over the Gulf of Oman, into Saudi Arabia or maybe Kuwait. Sandland. It was something of a dogleg, but the direct route would take NATO aircraft over the Islamic Republic of Iran. Not the healthiest country to overfly, not for the sworn enemies of the Islamic Republic, the nations of the Western Alliance. This time had been different. When they were over Pakistan, they'd turned back to the mountains of the Hindu Kush, and back into Afghanistan. The mission was classified 'NATO Top Secret', for if the enemy got word of what they were planning, it would spell disaster, no question. It all started several days ago.

A team carrying out a routine seismic survey of the area around Tora Bora had heard tapping sounds. They called in advanced listening equipment, and there was no doubt. The enemy was back, working to rebuild their cave stronghold, burrowing like moles to carve new tunnels into the rock. And then the intel guys in Bagram had a stroke of luck. They’d tasked a drone to keep station over the area, watching and listening. The equipment picked up a tiny fragment of a radio transmission, mere seconds in length. The decrypt had astonished them all. Nothing less than an Al Qaeda fighter boasting of their captured soldiers, bragging how they'd made them their slaves, and they would serve their Islamic masters until such time as they died a tortured, agonized death. Allah be praised.

He hadn't expected they'd call in Echo Six so soon. They were still under a cloud after fallout from the North Korean operation. A defector they'd brought back to the South had gone rogue and slaughtered a bunch of American military personnel on their base just outside Seoul. They weren’t just any personnel. Army nurses, young females, coming off shift after a long, hard night tending to sick soldiers in the base hospital at Yongsan. The North Korean was attending the hospital for psych-eval tests. Everyone assumed he was a genuine defector until he’d seized the assault rifle of the trooper escorting him. He shot the soldier and rushed out into the parking area to find a vehicle and make his escape. The unfortunate nurses were in his way, and Talley recalled seeing the CCTV footage. The North Korean stood for a moment making a calm assessment, and then shot them, dead. All of them, firing a series of short, accurate bursts. Eight young women, serving their country, serving the sick, shot dead in a matter of moments. Echo Six had been stood down while the investigation was underway. At times, Talley felt like resigning his commission, throwing it all in. Before the Inquiry was halfway finished, the report had come in about suspected NATO prisoners in Afghanistan. Within hours, the order came down, and Echo Six flew out to Bagram. It wasn't a reprieve, just that the military needed them. When they returned, they’d have to face up to what had gone wrong, and he’d take the blame. He was the guy in charge. The buck stopped with him, even if it kicked him like an angry mule with a three-day hangover. But even when he accepted their conclusions, the nightmare would still haunt him. Every night, the vision of eight young women in their crisp, white uniforms, drenched in their own blood.

They were military personnel, sure, paid to take risks. But they were also unarmed nurses, and that sick bastard ignored every single shred of human decency and morality when he chopped them down like targets in a shooting range.

He'd made a promise to himself, to settle accounts with the killer one day, if he ever had the chance. In the meantime, he'd triple underlined the ROEs, the Rules of Engagement, to his unit. War was for soldiers, not innocent civilians, nor for young nurses, little more than girls.

"Let's be clear, no one, and I mean no one," he'd given the German, Buchmann, a meaningful look. "No one shoots if there's the slightest chance of hitting a non-combatant. I find you doing it, and I'll kill you myself."

Afterward, he hated himself for threatening them. It was just a measure of his grief for the young women gunned down by the North Korean, the man he himself had brought back. In his head, he knew it was no good giving the men a hard time. He was responsible. It happened on his watch, even if his boss tried to let him down lightly. The black, fireplug of a man who personally supervised and guided the teams of Special Forces operatives, Vice Admiral Carl Brooks, the man who headed up NATO's elite NATFOR outfit, of which Echo Six was its most experienced team.

"I don't blame you, Talley, and you shouldn’t blame yourself. Those NKs are all lunatics, and there's no way of knowing which way they'll jump. The Inquiry won't find you guilty either. They're just going through the procedures."

"I appreciate that, Admiral. The problem is, I brought that bastard back, and I blame myself. It's on me."

"I can see why you feel that way, but let it lie, just for now. Maybe you'll get a chance to put things right later."

"Sure, but it won't bring those young nurses back, will it?"

Brooks hadn't replied. Within twenty-four hours, Echo Six was flown in from Seoul and landed at Bagram Airfield. Their task, to locate the entrance to the cave system, release the prisoners, and destroy the newly built Taliban fortress, including any fighters who had the bad luck to be inside at the time.

"Two minutes. Lowering ramp."

Talley acknowledged. They'd already completed the final checks, but a last visual inspection was always worthwhile. His number two, Guy Welland, glanced over Talley's equipment, and he did the same for him. They'd been together since the formation of Echo Six. Formerly of 22 SAS Regiment, the elite UK outfit, Welland was in his late twenties. He was medium build, with wide shoulders like granite shelves jutting out either side of his head; made even larger by his armored vest. Everything else about him was compact and neat. The determined jaw, jet-black hair hidden beneath his half-helmet, and deep, dark eyes behind the lenses of his jump goggles, seemingly relaxed and uncaring. When he concentrated on a task, then they focused like twin lasers. Guy was both competent and very, very hard, the essence of a British SAS trooper, a hard fighter and a skilled killer. An expert. Despite opposition, Talley had made him his number two, over the heads of members of his unit who were more senior. So far, Guy had done nothing to suggest it was a bad decision.

A bitter cold gale howled inside the fuselage, and in spite of their thick clothing, it was freezing cold in the unheated fuselage of the C-17 Globemaster. The roar of the wind was louder, hitting them like hundreds of tiny knives, searching out their thick clothing for a way to penetrate the skin beneath. They clustered around the edge of the ramp, and even though jumping into the unknown, no man showed any sign of tension. They'd done hundred of night jumps, and this was as familiar as the daily commuter run on the Washington Beltway for those people who kept the heart of the Capital beating; although maybe not quite so dangerous as that crowded and notorious stretch of highway. He made a last second adjustment to the fit of his oxygen mask.

"Green light. Go."

Almost as one man, they stepped off into the night sky and felt the exhilaration of high-level free flight. The jump was HAHO, high altitude, high opening. A method often employed when dropping on an enemy who was not equipped with radar or sensitive monitoring equipment. Talley toggled the cord and felt the jerk as his chute deployed, and he began making adjustments for the long glide into the target. He kept referring to his wrist-mounted GPS, to make sure he was on course.

Loose rocks, shale, and clefts deep enough for a man to vanish inside surrounded the LZ; the planners had pinpointed the only piece of ground that was flat and level, with just a few obstructions. But if anyone missed it, all bets were off. He squinted around him, seeing the ghostly loom of the Hindu Kush in the near distance, the mountain range separating Pakistan from Afghanistan. The countryside was remote, and yet as he glided lower, he began to see the lights of remote villages. There was also the occasional vehicle picking its way slowly along the tracks that crisscrossed the primitive, undeveloped country.

He dropped lower and checked his altimeter. He was almost there. A final check, a last second adjustment, and he hit the ground, keeping upright, pulling in his chute and clearing the LZ in a smooth, automatic motion. With twenty men dropping into the same small space, the risk of collision and injury could not be ignored. Guy Welland almost startled him, dropping close by and bundling his chute using neat, economical motions, like a housewife folding her bed sheets. The rest of the men landed around them, and he allowed himself to relax slightly.

All down, no casualties.

He checked his wristwatch, 2330 hours. They had six and a half hours to complete the mission before the first rays of dawn's early light exposed them to the Taliban watchers, who were known to keep a close eye on the area. He nodded to Guy.

"Time to head out. Put Virgil on point. I want Domenico to take the rear. I'd prefer the snipers to cover our flanks, but I doubt the going will allow us that luxury. We have to follow the narrow pathway we saw on the overheads, and as far as I can tell, the only living things that could cover our flanks would be a pair of mountain goats."

"Copy that," Guy acknowledged. "I'll do the best I can with the snipers. If the ground opens out further along, maybe there'll be room for them to spread out."

He heard Guy give the order over the commo and saw Virgil race forward. Everything was ready. It was time to hit the target.

"Move out."

The terrain was harsh and unforgiving. The wind beat at them, sharp gusts that made the going even harder as it battered them with its unremitting power, sapping their energy with its chill, elemental ferocity. Every man was thankful they only had two klicks to travel. Any more and they’d be exhausted before they even closed with the enemy. They all wore NV goggles, the peculiar three lens devices that made each of them look like alien monsters. But the vision was superb, and they were able to trek along what was little more than a broken moonscape at a normal pace, avoiding the worst of the potholes and crevices. Virgil's voice came over the commo, just a whisper.

"Sentry. I'd guess eighty meters. I got this."

Every man froze. Talley stared ahead, but in spite of the superb optics, he couldn't see the hostile.

Do the enemy have NV gear? I guess we'll soon find out.

He saw a movement. It was Virgil inching forward, moving from rock to rock, and closing the distance between him and the target. Still no sign of the sentry. Virgil disappeared, becoming one with the rocky terrain. Then he saw the hostile. At first, it was the weapon standing out in the darkness that identified him; the iconic banana-shaped magazine of the Kalashnikov assault rifle, an AK-47 or one of its derivatives. The assault rifle that was 'de rigeur' for terrorists the world over, as well as its infinitely more lethal companion, the RPG7 shoulder mounted missile launcher. The sentry moved in a watchful position, half hidden by an outcrop, so maybe he'd been taking a rest, or a piss. Abruptly, the man’s body came into view, dark turban, scruffy robes, and when he turned his head, a big, bushy beard. The 'beard of the Prophet', so they said. Talley winced as the sentry almost tripped over the spot where Virgil had gone to ground, and then a dark shape rose up like a dark demon, an avenging angel of death. The movement was slight, and the dark blade of the combat knife pushed into the enemy's throat with a neat precision that would have done credit to a surgeon. Virgil Kane favored a Yarborough fighting knife, with blackened blade.

Named after General William P. Yarborough, and often referred to as the 'Father of the Green Berets', the knife was popular with many Special Forces. It had one purpose only, to kill, and it was very good at killing.

Virgil twisted his arm slightly and wrenched the steel out of the flesh. It was possible to make out the gush of blood from the man's throat, dark green in the artificial light of the NV goggles. His earpiece clicked.

"Sentry is down. We’re clear to proceed."

"Copy that. Move out. Good work."

He thought of their point man. Off duty, Virgil Kane wasn't much to look at, short and sinewy, and with a mop of untidy black hair that somehow refused to obey a comb. He was medium height and build, a good-looking guy with a farm-boy innocence, until people noticed his eyes. They were searching eyes, for he was blessed with exceptional vision. When he went into battle, he displayed the hands of a killer. With a pistol or an assault rifle, a combat knife, or his bare hands, Virgil was the perfect hunter. Fast, silent, and lethal.