Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (12 page)

The sound of rifle fire carried from beyond the burning refinery, so it was obvious not all of the Syrian infantry were running. He knew it wouldn't be long before whoever was in command sent out troops to help beat off the rebel attack. There was only one thing to do.

"We need to give those new guys a hand before the Syrians bring in more troops. Let's go."

 
He started running to where they'd come from. They skirted the wrecked building, keeping out of sight of the ZSU, to join in the fight. The smoke hanging over the area like thick fog helped them, and they managed to reach the concrete perimeter wall. He turned to Guy and Drew.

"Boost me up. I need to take a look."

They ran forward and took hold of his legs, swinging him up so he could see over. More men who’d run from the plant had joined the Syrian regulars. They were gaining the advantage. The rebels were lightly armed, and although many were using assault rifles, most were firing single shots, a clear indication they were short of ammunition. A few meters away, cannon fire had torn a hole in the wall.

"Let me down. We have to get over there and help out. Vince, Jesse, there's a gatehouse fifty meters away. Get on the roof and waste some of those troops. The rest of you, follow me, and come out shooting."

Talley hit the ground and started running. He burst through and found he was right behind the Syrian regulars. A soldier turned and shouted a warning, but two rapid shots dropped him. The rest of Echo Six raced through the gap in the fence and started pouring fire into the enemy. Only half a minute had elapsed since Vince and Jesse raced to the roof of the gatehouse, but already accurate, single spaced shots began to take down the hostiles.

Caught between the concentrated fire of the rebels, the snipers and Talley's men, the soldiers began to hesitate. An officer recognized the newcomers as only a small group, and he barked commands. His men regrouped and charged Talley’s men. Suddenly, they were in the midst of a free-for-all, unable to use anything more than pistols and knives. He slung the MP7 and snatched out his pistol, just as two men rushed at him, their rifles apparently empty and turned to batter him with the butts. He stood to one side and fired four, close spaced shots. The two men went down, and he looked for more targets.

Then the ZSU appeared, rumbling around the corner on heavy tracks. The ominous quad barrels turned toward them, as the gunner looked for a target he could shoot at without killing his own men. He never got the chance. The rebels were armed with RPG rockets, and two missiles slammed into the armored flak gun. It exploded in a ball of fire and burning fuel, but the fight was anything but over. The Syrian soldiers fought back even harder, as if the loss of their artillery was a crime to be avenged.

The officer leading the Syrians was nearby, and he snapped off a shot toward him, but another soldier got in the way and took the hit. Then the officer disappeared in the melee, and Talley emptied the rest of his clip into the enemy. He reached for a replacement and realized he was out. They'd lost too much equipment when the C-130 was hit. He snatched out his combat knife and headed for the Syrian commander.

If I can take him down, it's likely the rest of his men will run.

A soldier loomed in front of him, his AKM raised ready to fire. He never made it. The snipers were watching the action, and a half-dozen rounds put him down. A clear space opened up, and there stood Talley's target. He fought his way toward the man, kicking and punching as more soldiers blocked his way. They were panicking, lashing out as they tried to overcome the foreign enemy. Shoulder-to-shoulder, face-to-face, there was no time to aim or reload. The fight became a grisly, bloody orgy of blades, fists, and boots. His target disappeared again, and he went hand-to-hand with a burly sergeant who did his best to gouge out his eyes. He swerved away from a vicious knife strike and slashed his own blade across the tendons in the man’s wrist. The noncom shrieked as arterial blood spurted from the wound, and Talley left him to seek another adversary.

Another soldier appeared, and then two more crammed up against his knife arm, so he was wedged. He slammed his knee into the first opponent's groin, but one of the other men brought up a huge fist and threw a haymaker that he narrowly blocked with his forearm. With his other arm, he bunched his fist and connected with a prominent Syrian nose. Blood spurted from the wound, and the man screamed and fell, clutching his ruined face. Now he had room and could see his prey. He started forward again, reached the man, and held his knife under the man's throat, ready to slash. And stopped.

A storm of machine gun fire split the air less than a meter over the heads of the struggling men. The fighting died away, as they all looked for the new threat. Fifty meters away, the rebels had brought up a heavy machine gun mounted on a truck, a Degtyaryov-Shpagin, the infamous DShK. The belt-fed weapon fired 12.7mm rounds, and every man had the sense to respect its formidable firepower. The rebels had fabricated a thick steel shield, behind which the gunner crouched. Next to him, a man stood on the bed of the truck. He was obviously their leader, a tall man wearing baggy camos and a turban on his bearded head. He carried a Kalashnikov AKM. At first glance, he could almost have been mistaken for Osama bin Laden, or maybe a close relative.

"You will all cease fire! You men are now my prisoners, and if any of you try to resist, I will order my gunner to open fire. The next time, he will not aim high."

They froze. Talley was the first to recover, and he walked slowly toward the truck-mounted machine gun. The rebel leader eyed him suspiciously and aimed his assault rifle at him. He ignored the threat.

"We are your allies! I am the leader of a NATO unit. We came into the country to carry out an operation against the Syrian Army, to help the rebel cause."

He stopped two meters in front of the truck and waited. The man seemed to be considering for a few moments, then he jumped to the ground and walked up to face Talley.

"You are not my allies, American.” His voice was brittle, harsh, and the voice of a fanatic. “Anyone who comes here without the permission of the Free Syrian Army is an enemy. That includes infidels who dare to set foot on the sacred soil of Syria. Order your men to throw down their weapons!"

"Listen, pal, I'm telling you…"

The sound of the Kalashnikov bolt cocking was loud in the stillness.

"Rejoin your men, infidel, and give the order." He raised his voice and shouted, "I don't care who you are, Syrian Army or NATO. My name is Yusaf Otaki, and I am the commander of the Free Syrian Army in Aleppo. Disarm and you will not be harmed." He turned to his fighters, still shouting, "I want ten men to guard the prisoners. The rest of you continue to the facility. You know what to do. Make sure you do not fail."

He nodded to the DsHK gunner, who shifted the barrel of the weapon in case any of the prisoners were in any doubt about who was in charge. Taut with anger and frustration, Talley rejoined his men. Guy was with Rebecca, helping the unit who instinctively moved to shield the girl from the rebels. They were not known for their favorable treatment of women. He looked at Talley.

"I thought we were supposed to be on the same side."

He grimaced. "I have a suspicion we're part of a three-way struggle to get control of the CX9."

"And it looks like the rebels have won. So the nerve gas is passing from one group of crazies to another."

"It must not happen!" Rebecca Dayan snapped out. "You know what it would mean to my country, and the rest of the world. Mass slaughter on an industrial scale.”

He glanced back at her. "I know what it means, but look around you. Right now, there's nothing we can do about it."

Her stare was hostile. "So you’re giving up?"

"The flak gun mounted on the truck means they hold all the cards, at the moment. But we came here to do a job, so I’m not going to let this bunch of psychos get possession of these weapons-grade toxins. Give it time. We’ll think of something."

She relaxed slightly, but she wasn’t satisfied, and he resolved to watch her. The Syrian regulars were the known enemy, and now the Free Syrian Army had to be taken into account. But Rebecca Dayan was an additional factor to consider. He'd seen her kill and had no doubt she'd become a deadly enemy, if she thought he was betraying the cause of her beloved Israel.

The rebel fighters pushed and kicked them into a long column, four men abreast, and started marching them west toward Aleppo. The truck-mounted machine gun followed slowly, right behind them. He wondered what would happen when they reached their destination. Whatever it was, it wouldn't be good, that was a certainty. There were two questions in the mind of each man. How bad could it get? And how could they get away?

They marched for an hour, and with each step kicked up more dust and sand. Talley's men, placed at the rear, were embroiled in a minor dust storm. The sand invaded their mouths and noses, their eyes and ears, and their clothing, so they were in a constant torment of gritty irritation. The Syrian Army prisoners complained loudly and often, but their protests fell on deaf ears. The men of Echo Six made no complaint, no sound, except Rovere, for whom the discomfort was yet another opportunity for a quotation.

"I recall the Bard said, 'Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows'." He regarded the Syrian soldiers, their ill-fitting uniforms dirty and stained, their faces unshaven, and their discipline almost non-existent. "I cannot conceive of any stranger bedfellows than this unhappy band."

Guy grinned. "That’s the Syrians for you. Their army treats them like shit, Domenico. I doubt the rebels will handle them with kid gloves when they get to where they're going. It's possible they'll face a bullet in the back of the head, so they haven't got much to look forward to."

The Italian nodded. "I agree; it doesn't look good. In their position, I think I'd make a run for it. I trust they're planning on treating NATO prisoners with more respect."

The former SAS man smiled. "Are you serious? Why do you think they captured us? These people are Muslims, Islamic fanatics. They'll use NATO and anyone else to supply them with weapons and equipment, but it doesn't alter the way they see us. We're the infidel enemy, nothing more, and they'll treat us as such."

"Quiet!" Talley cut them off. "Something’s happening."

As they were entering the outskirts of Aleppo, a messenger caught up with them. Otaki called a halt, and he had a hurried conversation with the new arrival. After a few minutes, he walked over to stare at the Syrian prisoners.

"I need a man who is prepared to help us. We need information about the defenses of that facility you were guarding at Sheikh Najjar. Who will assist his Islamic brothers?"

They remained silent. Talley wasn't surprised. The Syrian government was mainly Alawite Muslims. The rebels were a loose group comprised of Sunnis and Shiites, as well as a few minor dissenting voices, but they weren’t friendly to the Alawites, to put it mildly. It was almost a certainty the soldiers were loyal to the Alawites, and they’d have few illusions about the outcome of their capture. Nor would they be inclined to help out a group who was committed to a savage resolution of Syrian religious differences. Syria was a microcosm of the Islamic world, a melting pot of different sectarian beliefs, most of them happy to massacre people of different sects. Otaki was apparently unsurprised by the silence.

"Very well, I will choose a man to help us." He surveyed the cringing soldiers with a vicious glare and walked along the line. Then he dragged a young man, shouting and protesting, out of the group of prisoners. He looked no older than fourteen, and had probably been used by the soldiers to carry messages, perhaps a personal servant to an officer or maybe his boyfriend. The boy squealed, but Otaki flung him into the dirt by the anti-aircraft truck.

And then they tortured him. It was a piteous sight. The rebels stripped him naked, and four of them lit cigarettes. They used the glowing tips to burn his skin. They boy screamed; a constant wail of agony, yet they only stopped when his entire body was a mass of small round burns. A man took out a rusty tool, a pincer, and started on the toenails. Talley felt his rage overflowing at the agony they were inflicting on the child.

Another child, why is it always the children these Islamic lunatics target? Hostages, suicide bombers, insurgents, torture victims. Why?