Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria (13 page)

And then he recalled the massacre in the desert, at the LZ. Yet more children, their tiny bodies not spared the indignity of the mass slaughter. His anger overflowed, and he stepped forward to intervene, but Guy held him back with an iron grip on his arm.

"No, Boss. It won't do any good, and it could even make things worse."

He glared at him. "So what do we do, Guy? Stand here and let it happen?"

His number two nodded, his face sad. "That's all we can do, and make damn sure we pay the bastards back when we get the chance. We have to get away from this column before they take us to wherever we're going, you know that?"

"I haven't been thinking about any else," he murmured. "We have to make our move soon and inside the city where there’ll be places we can hide. Out here in the open desert, there’s no chance, but when we do make our move, I'd like to take that kid with us."

"Are you mad? We’ll have enough trouble getting away on our own, without any passengers."

"And if he was your son?"

Guy muttered under his breath, something about 'but he isn't my son'. But he stopped. The boy had gone quiet, probably he'd collapsed unconscious, but abruptly, he shrieked again, loud and long, as his torturer started on his fingers with the pincer. They tore out the first fingernail, and then the child went quiet as he lost consciousness once more. Otaki looked enraged.

"We can't waste time here. His comrades can carry him to our destination, and we will continue when we arrive." He regarded the Syrian Army soldiers, who returned his stare with looks of abject terror. "Pick him up, and carry him."

He turned away and strode to the head of the column, shouting an order for them to start moving again. The Syrian prisoners began to bicker amongst themselves, and although the NATO men didn't understand what they were saying, Rebecca translated.

"They're refusing to pick him up. They don't want anything to do with a torture victim, in case the rebels notice and choose them as their next victim."

Talley looked around. "Drew, Julio, pick up the kid and carry him. Get a couple more men to help out. We're not leaving him behind."

"I'll help," Rebecca blurted. She looked embarrassed. "I mean; the poor boy needs help, a woman’s touch. Let me assist."

They picked up the boy and carried him. As the march continued, the girl walked alongside, talking softly to him in his own language and doing her best to ease his pain. Several Echo Six troopers pulled tubes of cream from their emergency first-aid packs and passed them to her. She worked to apply the salve to his wounds, but it wasn’t enough. After only a short distance the boy didn't even bother to look around.

They were entering the city, and Talley was worried they may leave it too late to make a break for it. He searched for anything, any opportunity to escape. When it came, he almost missed it. An old bus, parked at the curb, perhaps two hundred meters ahead. It was painted a strange, gaudy orange, although even at a distance, the patches of rust were more obvious. He remembered seeing the vehicle before in the midst of Mahmoud Khalil’s yard, alongside the skeletons of partially dismantled vehicles. He nudged Guy.

"You see it?"

He nodded. "Yeah. It's that auto mechanic, Mahmoud. Is it possible he's positioned the bus there to help us out?"

"Has to be. Pass the word. I reckon something is about to go down. I don't know what it’ll be, but when it happens, we need to be ready."

They drew nearer and nearer to the bus, until he could see Mahmoud in the driver's seat, his head turned to watch them. When he could see he had their attention, he pointed upward with his finger, and Talley turned his head to look. In the apartment block across the street, maybe three floors up, poking out of an open window was the unmistakable shape of the nose of an RPG rocket. It was aimed directly at the truck with the heavy machine gun. In a split second, he understood what Mahmoud planned.

"Guy, up there.” He signaled with his eyes. “Mahmoud has a man with a rocket. Tell the men to make a run for the bus the moment the rocket hits. I guess it's our transport out of here."

"Roger that. When they see us escaping, you know they'll open fire with everything they have."

"They’ll try. Hopefully, in the smoke and confusion, we'll be able to put some distance between us before they know what's happening."

His eyebrow rose. "Hopefully?"

"That's all we can do. Tell them to be ready. When we make our move, bring the boy. Don't leave him behind for those savages."

Rovere was hovering close by with Rebecca, and they were both listening. As usual, the Italian was ready with yet another of his interminable quotations.

"Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly."

Talley glared at him. "Shut up, just concentrate on getting out of here.”

Domenico winced. “Roger that.”

Rebecca looked at Talley. "If we're to have a chance of getting away, we need weapons. If you let me have three of your men, I'll get close to the rebels guarding us at the rear. When the rocket detonates, we'll relieve them of their arms."

How would she manage to seize weapons from the rebels? After all she was unarmed like the rest of them. But he also understood this girl would never be unarmed. She'd been trained to kill with her bare hands in any of a score of different ways. They needed the weapons, and he had little doubt she’d get them.

"Do it. Roy, Jesse, Vince, go with Rebecca."

She spoke to them quietly. The four slowed their pace so that they fell back toward the guards at the rear. There were six rebels, which meant six assault rifles, if they succeeded in killing them. He had no more time to speculate, for at that moment they were almost alongside the battered bus, and he saw the flare of the rocket ignition as the missile flew from the apartment window toward the truck.

The rebel band was completely stunned by the sudden attack, and Otaki was blown off his feet and thrown sprawling in the dirt several meters away.

"Run for the bus!" he shouted.

They pushed through the startled prisoners, heading for the orange vehicle that waited nearby. As he ran, Talley glanced around and saw the moment when Rebecca's group hit the guards. Her opponents stood no chance; she attacked with a vicious savagery that was awesome to watch. The other three troopers joined her and found their own targets. It was over in seconds, and six rebels lay unmoving in the dust as the girl raced back to the bus, leading the three men. She was clutching an AKM assault rifle, and the others carried an assortment of weapons, two AKMs, a PK machine gun, and four pistols. Mahmoud had already started moving, and Jesse and Vince had to leap for the door of the vehicle. He accelerated past the burning wreckage of the heavy machine gun, just as Otaki climbed to his feet. He looked around angrily, trying to assess the situation. They all heard him scream, "The bus, they're getting away. Shoot at the bus, stop them!"

Guy had already snatched up the PK, and he ran to the rear window, kicked out the glass with his boot, and poked the barrel through the hole. As the first shots spat through the interior of the bus, he opened fire, directing a stream of bullets at those rebels who had responded quickest. Two men went down with his first burst, and he shifted his aim to knock down another leveling his weapon to fire. Otaki was racing for the shelter of the burned-out truck. Guy moved his aim again and sent a half-dozen heavy rounds slashing at the rebel leader, but he skipped into cover. Then they were clear, as Mahmoud swerved around a corner and drove away at speed. He threaded through the city streets, which were mostly deserted. Aleppo was a frontline in the Civil War that had decimated Syria, and it was clear the citizens preferred to stay off the streets. Talley had been covering the rear window, but when he could see they were clear, he went forward to join Khalil.

"We're damn grateful, Mahmoud. It's a miracle you managed to pull it off."

The driver looked up, his face grim. "Despite what your Israeli friend thinks of me, there are those of us who believe in more than money. What we’re fighting for is more valuable than life itself. Freedom! These Syrians are scum, every single one of them. Government, rebels, they're all the same."

He thought of the boy who’d been tortured, his own boys, the suicide bomber, the shooter in the Embassy, and the bodies at the LZ.

 
"I can't argue with that. Tell me, where are we going? They'll hunt us down when they know we've escaped. That means we'll have the Syrian Army and the Free Syrian Army all out looking for us. We're between a rock and a hard place."

"That’s true. Fortunately, there is one place we can hide, out in the desert."

"Out in the desert! You’re not serious? We’ll be sitting ducks. They'll find us in minutes."

Mahmoud smiled. "Not where we're going. Believe me, we will be safe. For now."

For now, how long does that mean? Minutes? Hours? Days?

But he didn't press the man any further. Mahmoud was concentrating on threading the bus through an alleyway so narrow the passenger side mirror smashed on a downpipe. They emerged the other side, and he picked up speed to leave the buildings of Aleppo behind them, and they moved into the empty expanse of the desert.

After nearly an hour of slogging along a soft, sandy track, he estimated they’d traveled almost twenty kilometers, winding their way between steep dunes. The morning sun glared bright in the sky, and the thin skin of the ancient bus rapidly heated up. The interior was like an oven.

The torture victim wasn’t good. They pooled their water for the injured boy, and Rebecca did her best to keep him sponged down with the brackish liquid in the hope of easing some of his agony. He was fully conscious again, and his cries of pain knifed through every person on that bus; like a cry against the very inhumanity of men everywhere, not just the brutal Islamic armies fighting for possession of Aleppo. The vehicle suspension made his pain worse. It was almost non-existent and iron hard. They frequently hit deep ruts in the track, which caused the boy to scream even louder.

Talley saw a small settlement in the distance. They drew nearer, and he could see it was just a few wooden and tin shacks arranged around a clump of palm trees. Mahmoud drove right into the center of the settlement and stopped under the shade of the palms, which were ranged around a small stone well. He looked across and smiled.

"We're here, my friend. This is Salmeh. It was once my home, a long, long time ago."

"Who controls this area? The Syrian Army or the rebels?"

He shrugged. "The people who live here control it. The Army and the rebels have no interest in it. Neither will you find this place marked on any map. It ceased to exist several hundred years ago. Salmeh is a town of ghosts."

Salmeh - near Aleppo – The Fourth Day

Sunday 11
^th
May

"Come, let us make the boy comfortable and attend to the worst of his wounds."

He looked around. "In this place? He needs a doctor and medical facilities."

Mahmoud strode across to a hut close to the palm trees and beckoned them to bring the wounded boy. Rebecca had stripped off her camo jacket and used it to cover his naked body. She walked alongside as Drew Jackson and Julio Garcia carried him inside. Talley followed them and gasped with surprise at the interior. Instead of the typical squalid clapboard shack with chipped and broken furniture, the walls were covered with rugs, as was the floor. Expensive rugs. And the furniture was anything but chipped and broken. The pieces were all well worn but had obviously been expensive and of good quality. There were two doors leading off the room, which meant even more space, so the structure had been cunningly constructed to disguise its size.

A man was standing next to the table, and he gestured for them to lay the boy down. He wore black, all black, like an Orthodox Jew.

But that's impossible. These people are all Muslims.

The man in black looked at Khalil.

"Shalom, Mahmoud. How did his injuries occur?"

Shalom? Surely not, I must have been mistaken.

 
"Free Syrian Army, they tortured him for information. Cigarette burns, toenails and fingernails ripped out, you know the kind of thing."

The man winced. "Sadly, I do. I will do my best for him, but now you must leave and allow me to work. Would you ask Nava to come here to assist?"

"Immediately, Rabbi."

Rabbi?

 
"Sir, I would like to stay with him," Rebecca said, pushing forward. "I’ve looked after him since we left Aleppo, and I’d like to continue."

He nodded. "That's no problem. You can help Nava."

"Nava?” She glanced at him curiously. “Did you know Nava is a Jewish name?"

He had bent down to inspect the injuries to the boy's fingernails, but he looked back up. "Of course, and why wouldn't it be? She is a Jew. Now give me some space. The boy needs urgent treatment."

Talley left the hut and waited by the well for Mahmoud to join him. He looked over at the bus. The men had started to camouflage the rust-streaked orange bodywork with palm fronds and odd pieces of debris they'd scrounged up. Mahmoud emerged, followed by Drew and Julio, and he waited for them to join him. Mahmoud smiled at him.

"I imagine you have some questions for me, Commander. You must be puzzled."

"Yeah, that’s right. This place, tell me about it."

"After the Assad family took power, things became very bad. Although the new rulers professed to be tolerant of all sects and religions, the Alawites made life intolerable for us, and so we came to this place, where we could live in peace. The Assads seized power in 1971, and we arrived two years later. It is virtually unknown to the outside world, and if anyone does come past, they see nothing to persuade them it is anything more than a normal Bedouin encampment."

"You called that doctor 'Rabbi', or did I mishear you?"

"You didn't mishear me. Rabbi Gold is a Jew, as we all are. Long ago, they forced us to convert to Islam at gunpoint. Either that or we would have been massacred." His eyes sparkled with amusement. "So we told them what they wanted to hear, and when they went back to Damascus, we settled here and continued with our lives. They believe we are Muslim.”

"So, you're telling me this is a Jewish settlement?"

He nodded. "Exactly."

"Why didn't you tell Mossad the truth? It may have made your life easier."

"I doubt it. There are too many intelligence leaks, and I didn't want to take the risk of a chance remark coming from a captured Mossad operative. It would mean the end of us all."

It was astonishing, a tiny outpost of Israel right in the heart of Syria.

"You have nothing to fear from us,” Talley assured him. “None of my men would reveal your secret, even under torture, but there may be a problem with that boy. When he’s recovered, he'll want to go home, and he could talk."

Khalil shook his head. "I doubt it. Where is his home? The Syrian Army will have posted him missing, a presumed deserter. They’re likely to shoot him on sight. And the Free Syrian Army has already tried to destroy him with their foul torture. No, I think he'll go a long way from this place when he is well, somewhere outside Syria.” He looked across at a newcomer. “Ah, here is my niece, Nava Khalil. I will introduce you."

He turned to greet a girl coming toward them. She spoke to him in Arabic, but Mahmoud answered her in English.

"Nava, please use English. This Commander Talley. He is from NATO."

She gave him a brief smile and then lowered her eyes. " Welcome to our village, Commander Talley."

He managed to stammer out a few words of greeting while Mahmoud looked on in amusement. She was as different from her uncle as could possibly be. His face was etched with lines and his skin stained with the dirt of years of repairing broken down vehicles.

She was a princess. She looked to be about twenty years old, and he afterwards found out she was in fact twenty-three. She was five feet five inches tall, slim and dark, with a classically beautiful oval face, and smooth, olive skin. But her skin was marred by a blemish, a thin scar that stretched down her face from just under her right ear to the corner of her mouth. On most girls, it would have been ugly. On her, it only served to further her enchanting and mysterious beauty. She could have been Arab or Israeli, Muslim or Jew, apart from the inner strength she radiated, a poise that was a part of her inner being; a girl the equal of any man and who would refuse to settle for anything less. She could be no Muslim female, kicked down and cowed, beaten into submission by a misogynist religious cult.
 

She raised her head again and settled her huge dark eyes on him. "You must excuse me. The Rabbi needs my help."

She slipped away into the hut, and he turned to Jackson and Garcia.

"Even though this place is remote, take one of those captured assault rifles each and put a guard on either side of the settlement. It's getting hotter, so I'll send someone to relieve you in an hour."

They nodded and raced away. He looked at the man he now knew was a Syrian Jew.

"We lost most of our equipment when our aircraft got hit by a Syrian missile, and the rebels took away the rest of our stuff. We need to arrange for replacements. Can you establish contact with the outside world from here? I mean; I doubt there are any cell towers in the vicinity, but maybe you have a radio or a satphone?"

He smiled. "Even here we prefer to keep in contact with the world. I have a satellite dish hidden away, and it enables us to connect to the world. Come, I will show you."

They walked across the settlement and entered the last hut, right next to the edge of the burning desert sands. Once again, the interior was a surprise, well used but expensive furniture and wall hangings that made the place look more like part of a medieval palace. He noticed Talley's surprise and explained their reasoning.

"We never know when we may receive a visit from the authorities. If they see our dwellings like this, they will take more interest in this place. So we use the wall hangings, and in an emergency we take them down and hide them away. It means anyone who comes in here would only see what they expect to see; poor, ramshackle huts scratching a living on the edge of the desert."

"How do you make a living? I mean; this place is not exactly bustling with industry."

He grimaced. "Like me, many of us have small businesses in the towns and villages that surround Aleppo. Some of the women find it more difficult. When the Muslims see a woman doing well, their instinct is to destroy what she has created."

He lifted the rug in the center of the floor and moved aside a sheet of plywood that lay underneath. It exposed a small, hidden recess, and he withdrew a tiny, collapsible satellite dish, together with a laptop computer. They went outside. Mahmoud erected the dish and trailed a cable back to connect to the laptop.

"What about electricity? Surely you’re not connected to the grid, and I haven't heard a generator."

"We get by with solar power. We have panels around the settlement, not so many as to look prosperous. It is enough."

He booted the laptop and began pressing keys. The dish was designed to automatically seek for the satellite signal, and when he looked out again, it was rotating slowly until it locked on. He went back into the hut. Mahmoud pressed more keys and loaded the communications program. Talley was astonished to see a familiar icon on the screen. Skype. Khalil turned to him.

"You recognize it?"

He smiled. "I guess just about everyone has seen Skype. Is it ready to use?"

The man moved aside and gestured to the laptop. "All you need do is call the number you require. It is set up for a video call, too, if you wish. I will leave you, so you may have some privacy."

Talley keyed in Brooks' Skype number from memory, adding the request for a video connection. He recalled the Admiral always had the software loaded on his laptop at work. He waited a minute, nothing.
 
Maybe his boss was away from his desk, but just then the ringing tone stopped, and the call answered. He watched the familiar dark-brown features of Vice-Admiral Carl Brooks appear. The
short, graying hair and hard, intense face was unmistakable, and he stared in astonishment.

"Talley! Jesus Christ, what gives? We wondered when you’d call in. The last we knew, you and some of your men jumped from the C-130 after it got hit, and then nothing. You know you're calling on an open line?"

"I know. It's a satellite Internet connection, so they won't be able to pinpoint the location. We just need to keep the conversation clear of anything the enemy could use if they do happen on us. What about survivors?"

He looked saddened. "As soon as we had word, we sent in SAR helos. We found a few who got out alive, but some didn’t make it. What's your situation?"

Talley told him how they'd reached the LZ with half the men and continued on to the target.

“We weren’t able to destroy it, I’m afraid. We had more than a few problems. Like knowing who the enemy is."

He sounded puzzled. "What do you mean? The Syrian government is the enemy. They're the bastards stirring up trouble in that part of the world, maiming and killing their own people. Without giving your operation away, your mission is designed to stop those people carrying out a massacre, so nothing's changed.”

“Except we’ve been hit hard down here, and we don’t have the means to go on, Sir.”

 
He looked concerned. “We're up against the clock here, Talley. It's a certainty the Syrians plan to repay their friends the Palestinians by mounting an attack on Israel mighty soon. You have to take out that target, preferably tonight. Time is damn short."

"Tonight! That's impossible."

"Impossible or not, our planners say by tomorrow the crazies could have everything they need, and they’ll deploy the stuff in the field. I'm told the formulas Rothstein had in his head would make Sarin look like talcum powder. If they succeed, the loss of life would be colossal; tens of thousands, even millions. Israel could cease to exist.”

"Admiral, believe me, I know how important this is. But I lost half of the men and pretty much all our weapons and equipment. You want us to fight; we need something to fight with. I need men and equipment."