Echo Six: Black Ops 5

By Eric Meyer

The war in Syria has become a massive, life or death struggle between two Islamic foes, the Syrian Army and the rebels. Each tries to outdo the other, with bigger and better weapons. Until they cross the line and start production of the deadly CX9 nerve gas. The time for the West to watch is over. Now it’s time for direct action.

The Echo Six commander, Abe Talley, is ordered to lead his men into Syria, to locate and destroy the CX9, and eliminate its creators. The men of Echo Six, the elite NATO Special Forces unit, are no strangers to behind-enemy-lines operations. But this mission may be their toughest yet. They face the prospect of engaging two opposing forces in the region’s most brutal civil war, and both sides are determined to kill the infidel invaders. Talley’s men will have to fight an enemy that seems to anticipate their every move, and fights with untold savagery.

This is a superb thriller, a story that vividly portrays the explosive action of SpecOps missions, the men, the weapons, and the equipment. A story full of twists and turns. Echo Six: Black Ops 5 is a worthy, action packed sequel to the previous four best selling Echo Six – Black Ops novels

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Nov 11, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909149281

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 5

By Eric Meyer

First Smashwords 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.

Chapter One

Cairo – The First Day

Thursday 8th May

The dusty street was perfect for their needs. A few people milled around the bazaars, inspecting food for dinner. Looking for the odd bargain, perhaps. The familiar stench of the souk wafted into his nostrils. Spices, pungent scents, all of it overlaid with the familiar tang of sweat and sewage. He smiled to himself; it was a comforting odor, the odor of home. Lights were going on inside the buildings, for it was already late evening. Not so late that the sidewalks had emptied, or the traffic thinned out, yet dark enough to cloak their activities from a casual watcher; Like a watcher from the SSI, the Egyptian State Security Investigations Service, part of the Ministry of the Interior. With more than a hundred thousand agents, they were everywhere. Watching the faithful. Waiting to pounce on the unwary. Guilty or innocent, it made no difference to the torturers of the Ministry of the Interior. It was best to keep below their radar, especially now.

Yet he saw no sign of any surveillance. Neither was there any indication the people in the modern, but slightly decrepit building opposite had noticed them; the building that housed the enemy, the Jews. He was familiar with this part of the city; it was by no means his first visit. He'd passed the place many times, taken photographs, and made diagrams of both the building and the surrounding streets. His devoted followers would expect nothing less of him. They all knew an attack of such importance as this required first class preparation. Detailed reconnaissance was no less vital than the ferocity with which they would conduct the assault. He smiled to himself as he recalled the lessons drummed into him, over and over again.

‘Surprise and overwhelming force’, his teacher had explained to him, as they fought in the dirty, garbage-strewn streets of Ramallah. He smiled. Without a doubt, he had been fortunate to hone his skills at the hands of a master; Yasser Arafat, short, squat, and deadly, yet for all his diminutive size, the revered father of the Palestinian nation. In his early days, Arafat was a renowned fighter and warlord, a hero and an inspiration to his people, and deadly to his enemies, the Jews. A hundred times Arafat had instilled into his young pupil, Ibrahim Abbas, the necessity of leaving nothing to chance when planning an attack. And Ibrahim had listened to the words of wisdom. Even now, after all these years, he’d never forgotten.

The Hebrews are very clever, my young friend, clever and cunning. The only way we can beat them is by outthinking them, and that means first class planning and intelligence. They always come first. Then you hit them where they are weakest, and spill their blood until it runs in torrents. But first, planning and intelligence.

His mentor had been right. It was shameful his people had turned on him and stabbed him in the back, administering poison to end his long reign. Still, it was the Islamic way, to assassinate your leader to take his job, but not just the Muslims. Wasn’t it the Roman, Julius Caesar, who met the same fate two thousand years ago? Slaughtered by those men closest to him. He cautioned himself to remember the lessons of history, and not trust his near associates. Jews, some Palestinians, so many enemies, so many people to kill. And he would kill them, sooner or later, all of them. It was his destiny, and his men expected no less.

Since he'd fought his way up through the ranks of the movement, Ibrahim Abbas was counted amongst the more successful of the Palestinian commanders. With good reason, for unlike others he'd come up through the ranks with, he’d managed to stay alive. Abbas had avoided the deadly traps the Jews set for their enemies, as well as those from so-called ‘friends’. But he’d done more than merely survive. The number of bloody bodies he’d left in his wake was the measure of his success, and there were plenty of them, killings that had earned him the respect of his men. Now, they feared him.

It wasn't just Arafat's tactics he’d learned. His facial features resembled those of his famous mentor, and he’d worked hard to adopt the same kind of charisma. He’d developed and enhanced the resemblance with a short, scraggy beard, just like his hero, and he’d adopted the same Palestinian headgear, the Keffiyeh. His lips were thick, and he'd spent time practicing the trademark Arafat thick-lipped sneer. Abbas even took to wearing military uniform, similar, though not identical to Arafat’s, but not today, not in the center of Cairo. To blend in, he wore a simple peasant’s galabeya, stained and filthy, like so many on the street. But he kept his Keffiyeh.

He was still puzzled about the reasoning behind this operation. His Syrian brothers had asked for his help, and he’d agreed at once; after all, the Israeli Embassy was an iconic target. Killing Jews would be a big morale booster for his people. Except for one man, who he’d been told to keep alive at all costs. A man they said could change the course of their struggle. They claimed this person possessed the knowledge inside his head to make the dream of Arab hegemony in the Middle East a reality. He’d agreed to capture the man, and deliver him to his Syrian brothers, if that was their wish. Although he doubted a single man could make that much of a difference. His mind turned to the rewards he would earn this for this day’s work. Money and weapons for the movement, as they were always in short supply; and for him personally, a little bonus. That was the leader’s right, a beach side villa in the Lebanon, where he could retire in comfort and luxury.

Who can deny me such a trifle, haven't I earned it?

He regarded each of his men in turn and nodded to himself, satisfied. They were all eager, trained, and well armed for what was to come. Then he glanced across the street to the drab building, it looked like an ordinary office or apartment block. Except for the small brass plaque screwed to the wall outside the fortified front door, the first indication of its importance; the Embassy of the State of Israel, the Jews who had returned in tens of thousands to steal the homeland of the Palestinians.

In seven days, it would be the anniversary of 'Al Naqba'. The Catastrophe. The date was the 15th of May 1948, the day when the United Nations, under the influence of their treacherous Jew masters, condemned the Palestinians to exile and created the State of Israel.

On Palestinian lands, no less!

Since that terrible day, his brother Arabs had made many attempts to take back what was rightfully theirs, and they were still fighting. Everyday, the glorious martyrs of Ramallah and Gaza fought to stem the tide of the Zionist oppressors. True, their efforts so far had met with little success. In fact, all they’d earned was defeat after defeat, for Israel today occupied even more land than had been given them in 1948.

Today would mark the turning of the tide. The first day of their successful campaign to rid their homeland of the Jews. His fighters would storm the Embassy, which would signal the start. And tomorrow, their allies, the Syrians, would possess the weapon that would give them everything they lacked to complete their glorious quest. All they needed was the knowledge locked inside the head of one man, the man they had to protect. He looked again at his men, all bearded, except one. He could sense their impatience, for the time was near. He turned to the youngest of them, the man without a beard. He was no man, but a mere boy. His face was smooth, with clear, olive skin, his hair cut in the latest young fashion, and his dark brown eyes shining with youthful enthusiasm. He also looked younger than his fifteen years, which made him vital to their mission.

Mohammed, you are about to strike a historic blow for the Palestinian cause. Our people will regain their lands and be forever in your debt. Your name will go down in history as a hero of the struggle.

The young man nodded gratefully. He’d endured endless taunts from his older comrades for the lack of a ‘Beard of the Prophet’. Unlike the other men, his clothes were clean. The task he was about to undertake was too sacred for anything less than the purity of clean garments. All of them were white, the color of death.

I think of nothing else, Ibrahim. I long for the day when our people can return to our sacred soil. He hesitated and looked puzzled. Some men say the land that is Palestine belonged to Jordan before it was taken by the Jews as their ancestral homeland. They say it never belonged to us Palestinians. Is it true?

Ibrahim Abbas glared at the boy, irritated by his impertinence. It is our land, Mohammed. You ask too many questions. Make sure you are ready for your sacred task. Nothing else matters.

The boy was stiff and tense, sweating profusely. It was a hot day, and just the voluminous, long white cotton jacket he wore over his robe would have been enough for him to overheat. But what made it worse was what he wore underneath the jacket, a carefully sewn, white canvas waistcoat. The garment was fashioned with numerous pockets, each one an exact fit for a block of C4 explosive. The blocks were connected to each other with wires, and a final wire fed through the sleeve of his oversized jacket to the detonator he held in his hand. Mohammed's task today was to use his youth and innocence to allow him to approach the main door of the Embassy. He would then detonate his charges, destroy the door, and slaughter the Israeli guards. His parents and family back in Gaza were already proud, anticipating their son's rich rewards after his martyrdom. He would spend eternity surrounded by virgins and every manner of comfort. The family would also garner rich rewards, but they would be in this life. The pension paid to a martyr's family was more than handsome, especially in a country so impoverished as Gaza.

I know what to do. We’ve been over it many times.

Ibrahim noted the quiver in the young man's voice. He'd been well prepared, and given a mild hallucinogenic to encourage him to think of his glorious afterlife. Even so, he cautioned himself to watch the boy’s every step. Despite his devout intentions, he may change his mind at the last moment. It would do him no good. Ibrahim had a backup radio detonator in his pocket. Provided Mohammed was close enough to take out the guards on the door, he would detonate if the boy faltered. The bomb vest would explode by remote command. One way or the other, Mohammed would today find himself in Paradise.

That's good. Very good. He checked his wristwatch. It is time to begin. May Allah cast his blessings on us all. Abdul, stand ready with the RPG.

His lieutenant, Abdul Bashar, another young man nodded, and like Mohammed, Abdul had been chosen because of his youthful appearance. Although sixteen years old, many people thought he looked ten or eleven. It had proven useful in the past, allowing him to access areas where an adult would be viewed with great suspicion. Today, his job was to fire the missile out of the window and take out the main door, should it survive Mohammed’s bomb. Then he'd join the main attack, using the Makarov pistol he had hidden inside his robes. Ibrahim knew the building would be well defended, even after the first devastating attack. But they were prepared, and most of them were armed with Russian made AK-47s. The weapon the glorious Sheikh Osama bin Laden had carried when he ignited the Islamic world to rise up and attack the West. It was time to show the infidels the true face of Islam. He made a last check through the window, but it looked clear.

It is time. Mohammed, go now, with my blessing.

A man slid the bolt aside and opened the door enough for Mohammed to slip outside. The prospective martyr didn't look back, a good sign. Each man cocked his rifle, and the metallic clatter of the slides echoed around the room. Abdul took up station at the window and aimed his missile to point at the building opposite. Ibrahim took a final look around. They were ready. It was up to Mohammed to make the first move. He went to the window and stood next to Abdul, peering out. The young martyr was walking straight toward the Embassy, but he was slow, much too slow. His thick clothes made him stand out from people in the street, who all wore light, cool clothing. Except for the women, of course, but they were irrelevant.

He got closer to the main door, step-by-step, meter-by-meter.

Is he slowing, faltering? Yes, he is. Damn!

Ibrahim took out the remote detonator. Abdul glanced across at it and then looked away without comment. They all knew it was necessary. Ibrahim looked again, was he near enough? No, another five meters at least, otherwise the bomb would be wasted on ignorant, useless Egyptian civilians. The boy stopped, then started again; another faltering step forward. There were two guards in view, and now one of them spotted the threat and went to draw his weapon. He had to detonate the bomb now! Otherwise, the Israeli gunfire may damage the trigger mechanism. Ibrahim hit the remote button.

The explosion was massive. They ducked as the blast wave tore through the room, smashing the boarded up windows inward as if they were made of paper. Before the dust settled, Ibrahim looked out again across the street. The Israeli guards were dead and scores of people lay in the street, dead or badly wounded, many screaming in agony. But the Embassy door still held. Praise Allah for his backup plan.

Abdul, the rocket.

I'm on it.

His number two aimed and fired the rocket in a single, practiced motion. The motor flamed, and the missile soared across the street, leaving behind a trail of smoke. This time there was no mistake. The reinforced door disintegrated. He felt the bloodlust of combat rise inside, and he leapt forward.

Kill them all. Kill the Jews.

They raced out onto the street, which resembled a slaughterhouse. The massacre of the innocents was unavoidable if they were to succeed, and he ignored the bloody, broken bodies. He allowed Abdul to race past him and enter first, as he crossed the street at a more dignified pace. Wearing the instantly recognizable keffiyeh, he could already hear the murmurs.

I thought he was dead!

Arafat! Allah be praised!

Arafat! Arafat!

He smiled to himself, as he allowed another half-dozen of his men to cross the street before he followed them and slipped inside the building. If they were to take casualties, it was essential it was his fighters, and not him. Not the leader, it was imperative he survived to carry on their God-given task.

He carried an AK-47S, the folding-stock version of the assault rifle favored by Russian paratroopers for its compactness, and favored by Islamic fighters for the same reason. The weapon could be hidden inside a coat or a loose shirt and snatched out to open fire in an instant. His weapon was cocked and ready to fire as he neared the splintered portal. His men were busy killing the staff and visitors who’d been in the lobby, and he switched his attention to a group of five women running down the staircase, screaming in terror. Trying to escape. He smiled as he pulled the trigger and held the bucking weapon steady. A hail of 7.62mm bullets tore into the panicked females. Their shrieks stopped.

But who else is up there?

He pointed to four of his men to precede him, and they advanced up the staircase, their gun barrels spitting out bullets. He followed at a slower pace, careful to avoid the return fire from the defenders. His men performed well. Three of them died in the exchange, but the Israeli defenders were all dead or wounded, and the surviving fighter emptied a clip into the jerking Jew bodies. The man went to continue up the staircase, but Abbas halted him with a shout.

"Remember, I don’t want you to kill them all. We must capture the Ambassador to trade with the Israelis. And it is vital the other man is kept alive at all costs.

For if we lose him, I lose everything, including my beachside villa.

He fixed the man with a piercing stare. You are sure you will recognize him, Kareem?

I have studied his photograph and committed it to memory.

Be sure not to make any mistakes. You know the penalty.

He was certain Kareem shivered slightly. I know, Commander.

He heard more shooting from down on the first floor, as his men continued to engage the Israelis. He had no time to worry about it, as his target was further up the stairs. He allowed Kareem to go ahead, racing up two more flights of stairs, and then they stopped. The carpet was thicker here, the paneling on the walls more sumptuous. This was it, and the passage was empty, with no sign of Jew defenders. They advanced until they reached an oak door at the far end. He tried the handle, and it was locked He nodded to Kareem, who emptied a clip from his AK-47 into the lock. Without stopping to reload, the man put his shoulder to the door and smashed his way inside. The Ambassador, an older man, was sitting behind his desk. Waiting. Another man, an unarmed civilian, was sitting opposite. The Ambassador raised a pistol.

Kareem! Wait!

The fighter was screaming abuse at the hated Israelis. He knew he couldn’t shoot them, but when he saw the gun, he pulled the trigger instinctively. The mechanism clicked on an empty chamber. The Ambassador raised the pistol, a huge Desert Eagle, and his hand jerked as he pulled the trigger. The ear-splitting explosion of the fifty-caliber round sounded the death knell for Kareem as the slug smashed into his chest, to tear through his body and exit from his back. Ibrahim ignored his comrade's plight as the body crashed to the floor, aiming his assault rifle at the Israelis.

Drop the gun! Unless you want to die right here.

The Ambassador thought for a few moments and then lowered the pistol to the desk. Ibrahim rushed over and snatched it up.

Lay flat on the floor, both of you, or I will kill you.

Both men complied. Ibrahim noted the carpet was very soft and thick, very expensive, and probably made by his Islamic brothers using cheap labor. The man’s suit; it was so fine. How he would like to wear such a garment! Perhaps one day he would. He jerked the Ambassador’s head around and stared at him.

I know who you are, but who is this man? Tell me his name.

The older man stared at him with loathing. He is a civilian, nothing to do with the Embassy. He is in Cairo to look at antiquities, nothing more. His name is Benjamin Rothstein, an innocent civilian.

Ibrahim twisted his lips into his trademark smile. How fortunate that the two important targets were together in this room, both unharmed. There are no innocent civilians in this war, Jew. Everyone is a combatant, men, women, and children.

He turned as two of his fighters ran into the office. Well?

The building is ours, Ibrahim. We're holding a few prisoners downstairs, but the guards are all dead.

The Ambassador looked up, his face creased in anger. You must be mad to think you can get away with this. The Egyptians will launch an operation to retake the Embassy, and within twenty-four hours, my own people will arrive and kill you.

Ibrahim sneered at him. Do you take me for a fool? The Egyptians won’t risk a rescue, not until the Israeli commandos arrive. Which means we have a full day in which to prepare for them. Believe me, by the time your people get here, they will be begging us for a peaceful resolution. He nodded to the two fighters. Take this man away. You know what to do.

They grabbed the civilian and dragged him to his feet. The Ambassador made a last, desperate effort to save him.

I told you! That man is a civilian, nothing to do with the government of Israel. He has no value as a hostage, none at all. If you want someone, take me.

Abbas fixed him with a glare. I will take who I wish. My advice to you is to keep your mouth shut, Jew. If you're lucky, you may survive this day. If not… he shrugged.

They dragged Rothstein away. He tried to struggle, but he was slightly built, and no match for the hardened Arab fighters. Ibrahim looked at the Ambassador.

You will be detained, as will the rest of your Embassy staff. When we are ready, we will use your communications center to contact the outside world and give them our demands.

He waved the barrel of his assault rifle and forced the older man to sit on the floor. Then he called in one of his fighters to watch the prisoner while he surveyed their bloody handiwork. As he went down the stairs, he had to step over the bodies of fallen Embassy staff, most of them unarmed. Many were women, and all were riddled with bullets, unable to escape the furious assault. In places, pools of blood had formed on the hardwood floor. He found one of the men who’d escorted the civilian Jew from upstairs.

Did you get him out of here?

Yes, Sir. Two fighters went with him to guard him, and he was handcuffed, so he’ll be safe.

He grunted an acknowledgement and took a last look around. There was no sign of any further resistance, and his men were watchful, holding the hostages under the barrels of their guns. He was satisfied the place was secure, so he went back up the stairs and re-entered the Ambassador’s office. First, he dismissed his fighter, to check out the other rooms on this floor, and then he looked at the Jew. The man was praying, probably the prayer for the dead. He strode over to him and hit him with the butt of his weapon.

There’ll be plenty of time for praying later, we’ll be here for at least a day. It will take your people that long to respond. Maybe more if the negotiations are protracted. So save your prayers.

He was wrong about the projected timescale. Totally wrong.

* * *

Saudi Arabia – The First Day

His earpiece buzzed.

Flash traffic coming in, Commander. The Skipper asks you come through to the cockpit to use the secure commo.

Roger that.

The officer climbed to his feet and was tall enough to need to duck his way beneath the equipment racks festooning the cabin of the Osprey. He was long-limbed, but his movements were economical, smooth, and flowing. Inside the aircraft, he'd removed his helmet, and his dark brown hair curled over his hard, angular face. He was young for his rank, although the wrinkled skin around his eyes, the effect of wind and weather, suggested he’d seen plenty of action. The piercing stare from the deep blue eyes missed nothing. It was a stare common to Special Forces, those men whose work required them to be constantly alert if they were to live through to the mission debrief. There was something else about the eyes, a haunted quality that suggested he’d seen terrible things, and done terrible things. Things that still haunted the nightmares of Lieutenant-Commander Abraham Talley.

Although in his late twenties, he was already the veteran of numerous operations, most of them fighting the scourge of the Islamic fanatics. He’d seen much bloodshed and death, more than most people would care to see in a lifetime, and beyond. There was a price. Lately,