Echo Six: Black Ops 3

By Eric Meyer

North Korea has achieved a breakthrough with nuclear warheads, and is about to arm their strategic missiles. Weapons which could set the world ablaze. The Echo Six unit commander, Abe Talley, is ordered to take his men across the 38th Parallel. Their mission is to locate and destroy the nukes. As well as their creators. They must enter the heart of the most secretive, repressive and brutal nation on earth. And somehow find a way back.

The men of Echo Six, the elite NATO Special Forces unit, are no strangers to the shadowy world of behind-the-lines missions. But this one is different. Some say it is even a suicide mission. The action is bloody and explosive, and the unit is constantly savaged by an enemy that is both vicious and overwhelming. Yet the bloody expedition is not the only challenge they have to face. Treachery and betrayal dog their footsteps at every turn.

This is a truly thrilling story of vicious and cruel fighting, mixed with the politics of deceit and betrayal. A story that is full of explosive twists and turns. Echo Six: Black Ops 3 is a worthy, action packed sequel to the best selling Echo Six – Black Ops novels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Mar 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909149205

Eric Meyer

An internationally recognized expert on the subjects of HTML, CSS, and Web standards, Eric has been working on the web since late 1993. He is the founder of Complex Spiral Consulting, a co-founder of the microformats movement, and co-founder (with Jeffrey Zeldman) of An Event Apart, the design conference series for people who make web sites. Beginning in early 1994, Eric was the campus Web coordinator for Case Western Reserve University, where he authored a widely acclaimed series of three HTML tutorials and was project lead for the online version of the Encyclopedia of Cleveland History combined with the Dictionary of Cleveland Biography, the first example of an encyclopedia of urban history being fully and freely published on the Web.

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ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 3

By Eric Meyer

First Edition

Copyright © 2013 Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Chapter One

Salaam Alaikum.

Ibrahim Niazi responded automatically to the traditional greeting.

God is indeed great, he reflected, surveying his domain. Allah is bountiful, blessings be on his name.

The training camp, ‘his’ training camp, Markaz-e-Taiba, in the town of Muridke, had grown steadily over the past few months. Ever since the fighters had successfully repelled the Pakistani Army assault designed to destroy them, there’d been a steady flow of recruits. The attack had been a mistake, of course. They knew the Pakistani Army had no wish to destroy the camp, an important part of Lashkar-e-Taiba, the ‘Army of the Righteous’. Yet the cowardly Americans did not have the stomach to come in and do the job themselves. It meant the Army had no choice but to make a pretense of carrying out the attack. The outcome was a halfhearted assault by fellow Muslims. They did enough to satisfy the infidel Americans, and then the Army withdrew and left them alone, alone to carry out the wishes of God, of Allah. Their work continued with a vengeance, and each month they launched cross-border operations to strike at the Crusaders who’d invaded Afghanistan. Then they’d pull back across the Khyber Pass, leaving the enemy weeping and bloodied, hiding in their supposedly ‘fortified’ bases. More and more volunteers kept arriving, so there was no shortage of the faithful willing to embrace martyrdom for the glory of Allah.

Everything is going well, so very well. Yes, God is indeed great.

He looked up at the starlit sky, seeing the beauty of God’s creation. It was late evening, and the compound was illuminated by electric lights mounted on cables strung between wooden poles. Their glow seemed faint tonight, and he made a note to speak to Abdul, the camp electrician, about the state of the generator. Lately, it had become more and more unreliable, and often they were forced to spend long periods with no electricity at all. He looked around as a young messenger came toward him, interrupting his thoughts.

Ibrahim, Sir, the new suicide bombers are ready to leave. It is time for you to speak to them. They are waiting in the dining hall.

He threw the man who'd greeted him, Faisal, a sour glance.

They are martyrs, my young comrade. Martyrs! You will not use the term ‘suicide bombers’. It is the slanderous way the infidels describe our glorious fighters.

Faisal stared back at his commander.

Why is Ibrahim always so angry, so dissatisfied with everything I say or do? Perhaps he’s been fighting this war for too long.

Ibrahim Niazi was a veteran of the war in Afghanistan. Born in Pakistan, he'd rushed across the border to join the Taliban when they briefly took control of the country. When the Americans invaded, he joined a Mujahedeen unit for a short time, until he abruptly decided to return to his native Pakistan to continue the Jihad. People frequently asked him why he’d deserted the Afghan fighters, but his replies were always vague and couched in confusing religious slogans. Besides, he hadn’t deserted; he’d merely made the decision to fight elsewhere. He was a tall man, thin to the point of emaciation. His face, pockmarked with untreated acne from his youth, always looked a little lopsided. Just before he left Afghanistan, an American 5.56mm round had ripped off one of his ears. He’d left the scarred remains untreated as a proud symbol of his struggle. He was almost bald, with just a few clumps of hair on either side of his head. But his beard was full and bushy, the ‘beard of the Prophet’, displayed as a mark of his devout faith. Perhaps that was why he always looked so unhappy, the faithful rarely seemed to smile. Or was it that the beards they grew hid their mouths? Ibrahim’s small, dark brown eyes never seemed to relax either, so perhaps he was one of those people who were born angry. There was no shortage of them in Pakistan.

Faisal had learned to be wary of him, although he sometimes enjoyed taking issue with the slogans Ibrahim uttered. He always cautioned himself to be careful. If Ibrahim ever thought he was taunting him deliberately, he'd order him to strap on a suicide vest and embark on the long, lonely walk to the Green Zone in Kabul. He smiled to himself.

I'm not to call it a suicide vest. Naturally, it's a martyr’s vest, that's what Ibrahim said. But when you're blown to pieces, what is the difference?

With an effort, he kept his face solemn.

My apologies, I just thought that because they were blowing themselves up, in the name of Allah of course, they were suicide bombers. He hurried on as Ibrahim looked ready to explode with anger. "But I was wrong, Ibrahim, they are martyrs, as you say.

He muttered under his breath, Even if they are about to commit suicide.

Perhaps you would like to join them one day, Ibrahim intoned, in a voice dripping with threat and danger.

I would gladly follow you, Ibrahim Niazi, should you decide to take that glorious path to paradise.

Niazi scowled and stared at the young recruit for a few moments. Faisal had a way of needling him, and he had to fight down his anger.

I am in charge here at Markaz-e-Taiba! Faisal would do well to remember it.

He stared at the young man for a few moments more, and then strode away to find the group of martyrs who were about to embark on their final journey. As he walked through the camp, surrounded by a high stonewall shielding their activities from the outside, he glanced around, proud at everything he'd built there. A group of young children was sitting on the ground outside the Madrassa, and an Imam was giving them instruction in the faith, and how they should carry the fight to the dirty infidels. Nearby, a group of women, covered from head to toe in grimy burqas, were sweeping the paths. It would be their last task before they went inside to begin preparing the children for bed and clearing away the pans from the evening meal. Out on the training ground, a score of fighters were crossing the assault course, crawling underneath barbed wire obstacles and climbing over high fences while an instructor barked orders. Even though the hour was late, there was always so much to do, and he often kept everyone working until midnight. He reached the wooden building where the martyrs waited and walked inside. There were six men, attended by Mullah Suri. He was addressing them in ringing tones, exhorting them to complete their tasks for the glory of Allah. The room stank of sweat and fear. The martyrs were all solemn, their faces frozen in contemplation of what they were about to do. He shrugged inwardly, thinking perhaps it was always like this. As he'd stepped through the door, he recalled the need to give them encouragement them to embark on their glorious path, to see their mission through. For not all martyrs were as enthusiastic as he would like. This group would be a mixture, some more religious and others more secular. They would have to be reminded of the rewards, both for their families in this life, and them in the next. And of dire consequences should they fail.

My brave comrades, he began.

* * *

This is Echo One, how are we looking?

As he waited for a reply, Lieutenant Commander Abe Talley looked along the smooth surface of the river, searching for any sign of hostile activity. They'd dropped into Pakistan from a high-flying Boeing C 17, a Globemaster that had taken off from Bagram Airfield outside Kabul on an outwardly routine flight. But the flight was anything but routine, neither were the twenty men of the NATO unit, Echo Six.

Like most Special Forces, Talley was Mr. Average. He was tall, narrow, and long limbed, with curling dark brown hair over a smooth face that was beginning to show the effects of wind and weather. And like most Special Forces, the average appearance was a facade hiding a man as strong as sprung steel. The leader of Echo Six, Abe Talley, was formerly a Navy Seal, the elite US Navy force. The Seals were a tight knit family, and rightfully proud of their place at the very peak of the military hierarchy. Yet Echo Six was something else, something beyond even the Navy Seals.

They’d HALO jumped from a height of eight thousand meters into the icy chill of the night sky, to land unseen in a part of Pakistan the Taliban regarded as their own territory. Echo Six was part of the elite NATO outfit NATFOR, and all the men were volunteers from Special Forces units across six different nations. Men from the US, Britain, France, Germany, Italy, and Poland came together under the NATFOR banner, the NATO Special Operations Directorate which was tasked to carry out ‘behind the lines’ operations that were beyond either the ability or the will of single nations to perform. Operations like this one, which required Talley's considerable strength and skills with the military thoroughbreds who each considered themselves the best.

The plan was to reach the training camp of Lashkar-e-Taiba, a Taliban affiliate, eliminate the senior commanders, destroy as much of their infrastructure as possible, and then carry out a safe exfiltration. Lashkar-e-Taiba had increasingly become a thorn in the side of Allied operations in Afghanistan. Even worse, it was a direct threat to the future security of that troubled country. When NATO pulled out, they intended to leave behind a nation that was secure and at peace. Lashkar-e-Taiba had other plans and was bent on setting the country ablaze in their insane passion to create a lunatic Islamic Caliphate, a religious dictatorship that would one day be sufficiently powerful to threaten the security of the civilized world. Insane they might be, but they were too heavily armed to ignore, a deadly menace to Western security. The NATO Supreme Commander, together with the Heads of State of those nations whose troops were fighting in Afghanistan, had decided it was time to call a halt. Talley smiled, recalling the final words of his boss, Carl Brooks, the black Vice Admiral in command of NATFOR. He was not tall but a fireplug of a man, with short, graying hair and a hard, intense face. But despite his stature, or maybe because of it, he burned with energy, carrying the responsibility for NATFOR on his hard shoulders. His dark eyes had the intensity of a laser as he’d stared at him.

I'll put it like this, Commander. I'm sending you in there to deliver a message, written in bright red ink. You’ve had your fun, now the game's over. Permanently.

Echo One, you there?

Go ahead, he told DiMosta. Vince was one of the unit snipers scouting forward to ensure they were clear. DiMosta was Delta Force before he’d signed up for Echo Six as a unit sniper. He was a short olive skinned Italian American, with dark hair, dark eyes, and Mediterranean looks which made him resemble a Sicilian hit man. In view of his lethal skill with a sniper rifle, the comparison was not altogether inaccurate. DiMosta was one of the mainstays of Echo Six. When the shit hit the fan, Talley could always rely on him to be there to bail them out.

I'm at the halfway point between the river and the compound. I climbed up to the roof of an apartment block. Don't worry; it's all quiet. I guess they're asleep. I can see into the compound. A few of them are moving around, but it's just routine stuff, some guys on the assault course, a few women cleaning up, and the odd raghead moving around. No sign they're expecting us.

Copy that. Maintain that position when we go in. It sounds as if it could be useful.

That thought occurred to me too. It'll be fine until they know we're here, but then these folks are going to wake up, and some of them will be on the roof to watch the fun.

Talley thought about that for a few moments. Vince was right, the roof could quickly fill with people when they woke up to the noise and came up to take a look. The last thing he wanted was for the sniper to be surrounded by an angry crowd of Pakis. But he'd seen the overhead photos of the area and knew it was virtually impossible to find anywhere else with such a perfect overview of the compound. He clicked his mic.

I hear you, but that position is too valuable to abandon. I'll send a trooper up to guard the roof access, and he can cover your back. Hold your position until we go in. I'm pretty sure we'll have plenty of targets for you when the shooting starts.

Copy that.

He looked around his command. They were all semi submerged in the dark waters of the river, with just their heads poking out. Discovery at this stage of the mission would mean disaster, or much worse, for all of them. They were all aware it would only need a passing cop to see them and call in, for the whole thing to go down the toilet.

Domenico, it looks clear. We'll move out onto the riverbank and get ready to cross over to the target. Send a man to join Vince on that roof.

Two clicks in his earpiece acknowledged his order. They were all tense. Lieutenant Domenico Rovere, the Italian former Alpini parachutist, had a way of joking when they were in the field that was an antidote to the tension that gripped them all. Tall, dark-eyed, dark haired, and olive skinned, he was the unit's practical joker. Off-duty, the handsome Lieutenant had a reputation for considerable prowess with the ladies. But now, his natural good humor had deserted him. It was hardly surprising. The mission was fraught with problems, not least the difficulties they faced trying to separate hostiles from noncombatants. A high civilian casualty count would hand Lashkar-e-Taiba a considerable propaganda victory, and a technical defeat for the NATO Special Forces unit.

Buchmann, get up there with Vince and watch his six. Make sure the door is kept shut and no one else gets on that roof.

Vince DiMosta's voice broke in on them. There's no door. I guess someone used it for firewood.

A couple of men laughed. Quiet!

Rovere's definitely spooked, Talley thought to himself.

Just hold the roof, Buchmann.

And if a bunch of angry residents force their way up there?

They all heard Rovere sigh, Do what you have to do.

Heinrich Buchmann, a German, was a huge, muscled man, who was quick to use his skills to lethal effect. Often he was too quick to use those skills. If the popular viewpoint of a German soldier was of a tough, violent, overbearing, and arrogant bully, Buchmann did nothing to dispel that viewpoint. Talley tolerated him because in a unit whose brief was to seek out and destroy the enemy, a tough, violent, overbearing, and arrogant bully often came in useful. Except that sometimes Buchmann went too far and had to be reined in. Talley cautioned himself to watch his Teutonic loose cannon.

It looks clear, move out, he ordered quietly.

They began to emerge from the river, water dripping off their Multicam uniforms and bulky Kevlar vests. The men of Echo Six assembled on the side of the river, just below the crest of the bank and out of sight of the road. They took their weapons from the waterproof bags and began to make the final checks. For this mission, Talley had chosen to use his MP7, the carbine length submachine gun developed by Heckler and Koch. The weapon fired custom-made 4.6mm rounds, specially designed to penetrate thin armor. Reliable and accurate, the lightweight submachine gun was a preferred weapon of Special Forces across the Western world. Like all of their assault rifles, the MP7 was fitted with a suppressor. When the attack started, their intention was to devastate the enemy with shattering, overwhelming fire that would drive them into confusion, panic, and despair. For confused, panicked, and despairing soldiers made easy targets. He also carried a Sig Sauer P226 in a leg holster, another weapon in widespread use with Special Forces. He watched Heinrich Buchmann run to join Vince on the roof. He'd joined them from KSK, the elite German outfit who were admired for their ruthless precision and efficiency. Buchmann had proved he was as ruthless and efficient as his old outfit, and his ferocity in battle was awe-inspiring. Talley reminded himself again to keep it in check, then forgot about Buchmann and turned to Guy Welland, the former British SAS sergeant. Within Echo Six, there was no seniority of rank. He'd made Welland his number two, because of his incredible calm, skill, and speed when they were under fire.

Guy, when we reach the target, establish a defensive position with a clear view of the compound and cover our six. I'll detail one of the Minimis to join you. My guess is there’ll be more than a few sympathizers hanging around the town, and they’re likely to come a running when the shooting starts. Take Virgil Kane.

The Brit murmured an acknowledgement. Talley took a last look around.

Move in.

They crossed the rough ground between the river and the compound in almost total silence. The sky was cloudless, and there was enough starlight to avoid the worst of the potholes and garbage littering their way, but not enough to make them too much of a target. The night was moonless, which was no surprise. They’d planned it that way. They weren't using night vision equipment, although they carried the gear with them. When they reached the compound, the few seconds it took to adjust when they removed them would be an unnecessary risk. It only took an unexpected encounter with one of the fighters, perhaps a man roaming around outside for a meeting with his girlfriend, and all hell would break loose. If that happened, he wanted them to be ready, not in a couple of seconds, but right there and then, inside a split second. But they found no Mohammeds or Abduls blocking their way, and they reached the wall of the compound without incident. Already, they were engulfed by the noises and smells of a Pakistani town. There was no alert; the sounds were people going about their normal business. Wives shouting at their husbands, fathers berating their kids, and once, he heard the howl of a guard dog. Fortunately, Pakistanis, or at least Pakistani Muslims, which meant pretty much the whole country, were not big on dogs. According to Shia belief, dogs were polluted and would pollute their surroundings. A house with a dog is deprived of Allah's blessings. It was fine with him, one less problem for his force to be concerned with. He briefly wondered what it would be like living in a society where females and dogs were held to be so inferior.

Weird, and not good! It sure explains a lot.

He nodded to Roy Reynolds, the former Delta Force Sergeant, tall, broad and black, he was built like a house. Roy carried the second Minimi, the squad automatic weapon, or SAW, designated the M249 within the US military. Firing a 5.56mm bullet and fed by a box magazine with a capacity of two hundred rounds, the weapon was extremely portable, yet could dominate small unit actions and decimate an attacking force.

Follow me! Guy, be ready to sweep the compound. When the action starts, they’ll come pouring out like a bunch of rabid rats. Exterminate them.

I copy that, Boss, the Brit grinned. Lead poisoning on the way.

Domenico gave him a leg up, and he lay on top of the wall, checking out the compound spread out before him. The Italian helped push Roy up after him, and Talley pulled the trooper up with his additional burden of machine gun and box magazines. He keyed his mic.

This is Echo One. Guy, how do things look from up there?

Still quiet. A few people moving around, but they don't know we're here. Buchmann has the roof door covered.

Understood. The second the shooting starts, you know what to do. Anyone carrying a weapon is toast, man or woman. No exceptions. If you don't get them, they'll sure get us.

Copy that.

And Heinrich. He knew the German was listening.

Ja?

You know the ROEs. If they're armed, they go down. Otherwise, leave them alone.

He shuddered as he recalled the German’s predilection for wanton violence, which was often counter-productive. Talley had no doubt that had he been born seventy years before, he would have been a member of Hitler's feared Waffen SS. The fanatical Nazis who rampaged across Poland and Russia with the armored divisions of Hitler’s army, earning a reputation for extreme brutality that was well deserved. He heard Vince’s voice again.

Boss.

Yeah, what is it, Vince?

You got a sentry headed your way; he's about fifty meters from your position but going straight for you. He's not hurrying, so I don't think he's seen anything wrong. But when he gets nearer, he can't miss you.

Copy that.

He strained his eyes to make out the shadowy shape walking slowly toward them. The man was carrying a Kalashnikov. The familiar silhouette of the banana shaped magazine was unmistakable.

I'll take him. Give me a few seconds, Talley breathed quietly in the mic.

He slipped off the wall and into the compound, and all of a sudden he could smell the rank stench of a large number of people living in such a confined space, with limited or even non-existent sanitation. He ignored it, gripped his MP7, and dropped to his belly. Then he started crawling forward, heading for a small hump in the ground, which stood between him and the man heading toward him. Then he waited in the shadows, hearing footsteps as the sentry came nearer. He could smell the man now, over the miasmic odor of the compound, there was a combination of stale sweat and tobacco, mingled with spices he breathed from the evening meal. He looked over the edge of the hump and saw the man was only five meters away. And then he stopped, and peered forward into the darkness, like a wild animal sending its prey. Talley drew a bead on his chest and fired twice, the classic double tap, and just before the guy started to spin to the ground, hit him with a third shot to the head. The man fell, soundlessly, but his AK-47 crashed onto a heap of stones with a loud clatter.

Shit! Be ready, they must've heard that, he exclaimed. He heard a shout in the distance, and someone responded. He knew they'd be onto them in seconds. He keyed his mic.

This is Echo One. Open fire.

Vince didn't acknowledge, but his shooting was sufficient reply. Talley's ears could just make out the faint pops of the silenced sniper rifle, an Accuracy International Arctic Warfare built to fire .338 Lapua Magnum rounds and fitted with a purpose made Schmidt & Bender telescopic night sight with laser filter. The bipod-mounted rifle was fitted with an effective suppressor, making it capable of delivering the heavy Magnum rounds at long range with devastating accuracy. They heard a couple of choked off screams as the bullets knocked down target after target. The screams were not from the wounded, for Vince DiMosta shot to kill. The screams were of fear, as those fighters close to the victims began to panic. They cold see their comrades falling and were terrified in the sudden realization of death that came silently from the night, and may reach out its dark, chill hand to make them its next target. Things were starting to heat up.

Guy, you’d better get down here, and move in from the flank. It looks like we'll have to speed things up. Remember, we need to take out the leaders. Hit them, and the rest of the gomers will run like rabbits.

Copy that, Boss. Were on the way.

He hated having to abandon his rear, but he had no choice. There were twenty of them and maybe five hundred Lashkar-e-Taiba people milling around, most of them armed. If they didn't hit them with overwhelming force in the first few minutes, the commanders would have a chance to either rally their forces or make their escape. He couldn't let either of those things happen. He looked around and saw his unit had scrambled over the wall and were starting to race across the open ground toward the enemy. He charged after them, feeling the familiar exhilaration of battle. There was nothing else like it in the world, unless you were hit. That could be damn painful, as he knew to his cost. He saw a group of fighters running out of a wooden hut, but a half dozen of his men bounced them and tore them to pieces with short, well-aimed bursts. They went down in a ragged and bloody jumble, and he began looking for the targets he’d come here to eliminate. Roy Reynolds opened fire with the Minimi from his position on top of the wall, and a long burst tore through another