SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Spear of ISIS

By Eric Meyer

Iraq, a country sliding into chaos and anarchy. A country under siege from an army of bloodthirsty insurgents. These warriors of Islam, fighting to create the Islamic Caliphate, have pledged to soak the desert sands with the blood of the infidels. They are ISIS.

When ISIS overruns a small town in Iraq, their fighters kidnap the local schoolchildren. They also take the teacher, a young volunteer who happens to be the daughter of the US Secretary of Defense. The consequences for American interests are unthinkable. Yet the perverted politics of the region rule out a full-scale military response. There has to be another solution.

SEAL Team Bravo, already on station at Incirlik Airbase in Turkey, gets the short straw and they parachute into the target area. Yet ISIS is no ordinary foe. Outgunned, outmanned and even outfought, the operation becomes unwinnable, at least, for normal men. Yet these men are not normal. They are SEALs.

Bravo is besieged on all sides, even from within. Fighting almost to the last bullet, to the last drop of blood, they press on to their objective. This is a thrilling and bloody story of US Navy SEALs, trained to go to any lengths to complete their mission. Seal Team Bravo Black Ops: Spear of ISIS is by the bestselling author of many other Spec Ops stories. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo titles, the Raider series, as well as other Echo Six titles and the Devil's Guard series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Nov 28, 2014
• ISBN: 9781909149724

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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SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS – SPEAR OF ISIS

By Eric Meyer

1st Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2014 by 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

She surveyed the smiling faces arrayed in front of her and felt a twinge of pride. Since she'd come to this place, to Musa Laka, they'd grown to trust her. They stared back at her, their young faces screwed up in concentration. Boys in ragged shorts and dirty T-shirts, girls with their bodies and heads fully covered; sweaty and rank, red-faced, and suffering in the stifling heat. When she arrived in the town, perspiring in the intense midday heat, she'd asked the parents why the disparity between the sexes, always to the detriment of the girls. That was a given.

Surely, the young girls can be permitted to wear something cooler in the middle of summer. They're so young. Look, they're all very hot and uncomfortable.

It is the Will of Allah, was the inevitable reply.

You think he would want young girls to suffer?

A shrug. They are girls.

The only relief for them was the faint wind that blew from the desert. It penetrated the holes in the decrepit stone structure, formerly a goat shed, like some kind of primitive air conditioning. Still, it was a school. Her school, the only one in the town, and she was suitably proud.

She noted their intense concentration, their heads tilted so as not to miss a single word. Each child was perched on a precarious wooden stool, most of them cracked and splintered like the ancient desks. Each day, at least one of them gave way to pitch the occupant to the floor, a time for merriment, a break from the routine of lessons while she attempted to repair the damage. At first, she'd asked the men to help, but they responded to her requests with derision.

If you want to come here and teach our children to read and write, you should repair the chairs yourself.

But surely you can spare an hour to help them. It won't take long to make them all safe.

They'd stared back at her from the stone bench in the town square, where they gathered each day to smoke and gossip.

You're not a Muslim. You don't understand how things work in this town. Go away.

She returned their stare for a few seconds.

One thing's for sure; you losers don't work in this town.

The classroom was inside Iraq, an Islamic country that frowned on, even punished, relationships between opposite sexes. She recalled her conversation with the Imam, a harsh, hawk faced man who maintained his authority with equal measures of threats and punishment.

Sir, with the greatest respect, these are innocent young children. I feel they should learn to work together, to play together, and to understand each other. It is part of the process of…

The boys must sit on one side of the classroom, and the girls on the other. You should know even children have to obey Sharia law, or suffer the consequences. Do not test me, woman; or you will suffer the consequences as well. You will not find them pleasant. You are here on sufferance, no more.

She'd had no choice but to incline her head in agreement. Of course, Imam, please forgive me. I'm just a stupid woman.

She'd smiled to herself as the semi-literate nodded, unaware of the irony.

Yes, women should always remember what they are.

I will, believe me. Oh yes, how could I forget in this place.

He missed the sarcasm and walked away. She proceeded to keep her children separate, as he'd ordered. They expected nothing different. Islam taught them to expect harsh, medieval punishments for those who transgressed the rules handed down by the Imams. Rules designed to stifle independent thought or any kind of initiative. Rules intended to hurt, to wound, and to kill. Especially females.

A is for...

America, a young boy shouted. She nodded at Govan Tovi, a friendly Kurdish kid with whom she'd found a natural affinity with right from the start. He was aged eleven or twelve, though because of his slight stature, he looked younger. It made him a target for bullying. Fellow Kurds called him Mouse. One boy, a Sunni Muslim who despised all Kurds, called him much worse. Often, he threatened Govan with violence.

Correct. A is for America. And I is for...

Islam! another young Kurdish boy exclaimed, happy to supply a correct answer.

I is for ISIS!

Abdul Raheem, Govan's tormentor, was around the same age as him but a much bigger boy, almost twice the size of the Kurd. Abdul was also a loner. Most of the mainly Kurdish population of Musa Laka, viewed him with suspicion. Some had left town already, fleeing to survive. Many went to join the Peshmerga.

The Peshmerga, the legendary Kurdish Freedom Army, was locked in a long and bitter war with their neighbors. A war seemingly without end, yet they fought on with almost suicidal bravery. The name Peshmerga meant, 'those who confront death.' They took it literally, and none who joined their ranks harbored any illusions about the fate that awaited them.

She'd asked Govan about them, and he told her the Peshmerga was not new. The organization came into existence with the emergence of the Kurdish Independence Movement in the early twentieth century. The drive for self-determination was spawned by the collapse of the Ottoman Empire, which had ruled Kurdish lands for centuries.

The Peshmerga fought hard. They were also friendly to the United States, and even helped locate Saddam Hussain. Later, they captured Osama bin Laden's agent Hassan Ghul in 2004. The intel they gained was one of the precursors to Operation Neptune Spear, when U.S. Navy SEALs located and killed Bin Laden inside his Pakistani compound.

Not all residents of Musa Laka were Kurds. Abdul Raheem's family were devout Sunnis, part of a minority in the town who were bitter opponents of their Kurdish neighbors. Their son Abdul made no secret of his fascination with the homicidal Sunni cult of ISIS, also known as the Islamic State of Iraq and the Levant, or ISIL; two different acronyms, yet the same psychopaths, the same torture, and the same beheadings.

As well as his sociopathic views, Abdul Raheem labored under a further disadvantage. He was ugly, with a face cratered like the surface of the moon. Pockmarked and scarred with the stigmata of childhood disease that neither his parents nor Allah had managed to prevent. She was worried about the effect it was having on him, making him so disruptive, that she even spoke to his parents about her concerns.

We've tried everything, his mother wailed. The father would not deign to speak to a mere female, a white infidel, and not even a Muslim.

Which treatments did you use for his facial acne and scarring? she continued pressing the mother for answers, Do you have the names? I can find out if there is anything different which may help him. What were they, creams, antibiotic ointments, pills? Do you have the containers, so I can take a look?

The woman looked bewildered. Containers? We prayed. We went to the mosque, talked to the Imam, and even gave him gifts for him to pray to Allah that Abdul would be healed. He said only God had the power to make him better.

She couldn't speak at first. She was totally dumfounded. At that moment, she realized how far she'd come from the streets of Washington DC, about a million miles.

That fucking Imam, taking gifts from these people for his quack remedies.

I can try to obtain medicines, if you would like me...

The father interrupted before she could finish. The Imam said prayer would be enough. You must leave.

She left. Afterward, she discovered the Kurds had long discarded medieval religious notions of medical care, in favor of antibiotics and other drugs with provable efficacy. So had many of the Sunni minority in the town, but a few, like the Raheems, relied on the Imam. Besides, a small gift was cheaper than expensive Western drugs.

The first warning of impending trouble came when the Peshmerga was called away to cross the border into Syria and defend the front, following the flight of the Syrian regular army. Thirty men of the PKK, the Kurdistan Workers' Party, arrived to defend the town. Thirty militiamen were all that guarded Musa Laka from the ISIS threat. Their commander maintained they were enough to defend them from the bloodthirsty threat of ISIS. Some townspeople believed him and stayed in their homes. Others treated his remarks with disdain, and packed up and left. People who'd been through it before said when ISIS arrived in force; the tiny PKK militia would be wiped out to a man. As would the Kurdish residents.

She remembered waking up at the first sounds of battle. She raced outside and almost collided with one of the soldiers.

That noise, do you know what it is?

He'd shrugged. Machine guns and heavy artillery, artillery shells, missiles, who knows?

But it's getting nearer.

Yes. ISIS is coming.

What about the Iraqi Army? Will they not help us?

He smiled. Which Iraqi Army? Do you mean the one that ran away when they heard ISIS was coming?

She was aware there had been attempts to stop them. Fighter-bombers roared across the sky. Ear-splitting explosions echoed as they dropped their ordnance and roared back to their distant bases, wherever they were. As a result, the ISIS attacks slowed, and some allowed themselves to believe the enemy was beaten, that the army would return and ensure their security. Yet the Islamists still came on, like a dark, polluted tidal wave.

The American girl soon learned the truth. ISIS would come, sooner or later. Nothing would stop them. Yet it did not diminish her determination to carry on, to ride out the danger. Her mission was to keep the children calm and attend to their education. She would carry on, regardless. Like now, when she tried to head off a classroom confrontation.

We don't talk about ISIS, Abdul, she smiled, trying to persuade him with kindness, They're bad people, very bad. They kidnap and kill our friends and families. We don't want to discuss them.

My father said they'll bring the people back to the true faith, and they'll kill all unbelievers.

They're killing the Kurds, Govan Tovi exclaimed, They're scum, nothing more than murderers. I hate them.

They're not murderers! I'll kill you for saying that!

Come here and try it! the smaller boy sneered, hoping the bigger boy wouldn't take him up on it.

Victoria Madison looked uncertainly around her class. She was twenty-six years old, and she'd started to become aware what would happen to her if the Islamists overran the town; a white girl would be prized by these Arab terrorists, especially a slim, attractive, blonde like herself. She'd seen the looks many Arab men gave her, looks of urgent, violent lust.

Some even approached her and offered her money for sex. She made no complaint, knowing it would make no difference. She was just a woman, and they were men. Besides, she'd come here to try to make a difference, not to stir up trouble. It was especially important to her to succeed, as she could trace a distant strain of Kurdish ancestry on her mother's side. Yet she had to be careful, otherwise she knew she could easily wind up as meat for a Sunni brothel.

She felt exasperated. Despite their strict religious laws, they were the most lewd, lascivious, misogynistic men she'd ever encountered. A single spark was enough to have them raping and killing women, and slaughtering each other. It wasn't just the men who gave her a hard time. Even some of the young Arabs were little better than the adults. When they were older, they would embark on an orgy of killing. No question. Then there were the rapes, always the rapes. After all, this was an Islamic nation. Men could and did rape innocent women, and the Imams always blamed the woman.

Until a year ago, she'd been on course for a conventional marriage and fast-track career in Washington DC. Her world was a glittering array of dinner parties and official functions, where she often deputized for her mother, who was recovering from a long illness. She worked with a Washington charity in a deprived area of the city and was also happily engaged to a career naval officer, Lieutenant Commander Robert Johnson. She recalled the time she came home to the apartment they shared and found him in bed with another woman. At least he'd had the grace to look embarrassed.

Victoria, I'm truly sorry. You have to understand. It was an accident. I didn't mean for anything to happen.

She ignored him and looked at the girl clutching the bedcovers to her breasts, Get out of here, now!

But I'm not wearing any clothes.

I don't give a shit. Get out of my bed, and get out of my apartment.

When the girl stepped into view, she was both naked and young, less than twenty years old, probably an intern. Robert had just passed thirty, and no doubt felt the need for the reassurance of a younger woman in his bed. It was an old story, and so was her reaction to his perfidy.

Look, Victoria, we need to talk this over. Let her get dressed while we make some coffee and talk about it.

There's nothing to talk about. Get her out of here.

He tried to assert his masculine authority. I live here, too, you know. If I want to invite a friend back, I should be able...

Her Kurdish blood bubbled to the surface, and she attacked him, punching and kicking with a bitter and vengeful fury. There was little need to toss him out. He ran with his girlfriend as if the hounds of hell were pursuing them. Quite how she made out on the icy streets of the nation's capital in midwinter was of little interest to her. But the subsequent break up was as bitter and cold as the snow-covered sidewalks. A week later, Commander Johnson called her.

Victoria, listen, I'm sorry, real sorry.

For what? Did your girlfriend catch a cold?

She's not my girlfriend, honestly. It was a one-off thing, nothing of any importance. What matters is you and me; we should be together, the two of us.

Don't you mean the three of us?

A pause. You mean Zoey? That's finished. It's all over.

Zoey, I was curious about her name, but I didn't mean her. I meant you, me, and my father, or are you telling me it hadn't occurred to you that having the Secretary of Defense as a father-in-law hadn't occurred to you?

Well, yes and no. But seriously, all that matters to me is your happiness.

Lying sonofabitch!

That's sweet of you, Robert. In that case all you need to is stay well away from me. That way I'll be happy.

Now listen, Victoria...

Goodbye, Robert.

She hung up the phone. Afterward, he still tried to slink back and patch up the relationship. He just couldn't accept she never wanted to see him again, especially the part about her father's influence on his naval career. He didn't give up, not at first.

His persistent and unwelcome attempts to resume the relationship became a kind of guerilla war, until her father intervened to stop the harassment. It was that or a court order to keep him away, which would have ruined his career. Her emotions in tatters, she decided to make a clean break and did what so many young Americans had done over the years. She joined the Peace Corps.

Her first assignment was to Northern Iraq, a two classroom Kurdish school fifty kilometers south of her current posting. Her excitement turned to dismay and then horror as she watched the slow, murderous advance of ISIS. And then one morning the head teacher came into her classroom.

They're coming. The soldiers have already deserted their posts. We have to leave quickly.

How long do we have?

She was aware the children were watching and listening to the exchange with disbelief, as well as more than a measure of naked terror.

An hour, no longer. We have arranged to take the children to safety. So all that remains is to relocate the staff. We have a vehicle waiting to take you to Musa Laka, where they've had no school since the Islamists destroyed it three years ago in a lightning raid.

What about these children?

We're taking them to a place up in the mountains.

Without having the chance to inform her family, they whisked her away to Musa Laka, near the Iraqi-Turkish border. A mainly peaceful Iraqi Kurdish town, she set up a local school. At first, it was successful, and there was only token opposition to her teaching children to read something other than the Koran. Until ISIS again began to draw near.

It was all happening again. Two days ago, the commander of the PKK militia came to her just before school was about to start. He looked to be as old as her grandfather, with only one eye in his craggy, scarred face. The missing socket was uncovered, constantly weeping septic pus. She had to force herself not to look away.

You must leave.

She'd stared at his good eye for a few seconds. Leave! That's impossible.

They're closing in on the town, and they could be here soon. Very soon.

By 'they' he meant ISIS. She thought of them as the eleventh plague, after the ten plagues of Egypt in the Old Testament Book of Exodus. There was no doubt in her mind the ISIS plague was by far the worst. Forget a plague of frogs or locusts; the Islamists had them beat hands down for death and cruelty.

Can't you defend us, you and your men?

I'm sorry, I can't offer any guarantees. I want to evacuate all Westerners and VIPs just in case.

I'm not leaving, no way. The children need me. We've only just started to make good progress. What about them, what are your plans?

The children? There's nothing I can do for them. They will have to take their chances.

If my children can't leave, neither will I.

He'd shrugged and walked away. She'd had enough of the bullshit. They'd pushed her out of her last post, and this time she was going to stay. She could only hope the militia would be sufficient to defend the town.

Now she wasn't sure she'd made the right decision. Her PKK guardians looked less confident and more like a beaten army. Still, she resolved to stay in post and look after her children, even if they did have to evacuate when the enemy arrived. She'd be sorry to leave this place. The shabby stone building standing on the edge of town had been little more than a squalid ruin when she arrived. She'd evicted the goats, cleaned up the place singlehanded, even begged and borrowed the shabby, broken desks and chairs. With few offers of help, she'd even helped dig the latrine pits outside at the rear of the building. She resolved to carry on.

K is for...

What's that noise? It sounded like a shot. They must be hunting, or maybe part of the militia is training. I hope that's all it is.

She put it out of her mind. She was reaching for the word Kurd or Kurdistan, but Govan Tovi got there first.

Killers. Men like ISIS.

Fuck you, Tovi, Abdul snarled, When they get here, I'll tell them to kill you first.

They'll shoot you first, you ugly Sunni shithead.

Right, I've had enough.

The bigger boy shoved his desk so hard it toppled to the floor, and he rushed across the schoolroom to reach Govan. He almost made it but stopped as the door crashed open. A man stood in the entrance, backlit by the sun streaming in from outside. For several seconds, there was silence in the room. She became aware of terrifying sounds coming from outside, shouts of terror, screams of pain, and bursts of gunfire.

The man in the doorway was young, certainly less than twenty years old. As well as the assault rifle he carried, he had bandoliers of ammunition draped over his body. His face was half concealed by a black keffiyeh, and his robes were also black. He still hadn't spoken. Instead, he was staring at her, and she was convinced he was enjoying what he saw.

Is he here to rape me? Dear God, please, no!

She looked at her children. They were all staring at the man, and most wore expressions of shock and terror. It emboldened her to take the initiative, to confront him.

Who are you? What do you want?

He ignored the question. You are American?

The accent was weird, not what she'd expected. He spoke with what sounded like an English accent. In a split second, she realized the truth. He wasn't a local, wasn't an Iraqi. He could only be from one organization, and she knew then her worst fears had become reality. His sleeve was wet with what had to be blood, lots of blood. With a shudder, she tore her eyes away from the dark stain and looked into his eyes. They were cold and dark. Like chips of granite.

You are from ISIS? she asked him, forcing herself to keep her voice level.

He swelled with pride. My brothers have brought enlightenment to this town. Yes, I am ISIS. Answer my question, are you an American?

Yes.

I mustn't say anything about my father. If they find out, they may behead me almost before the words are out of my mouth, although death could be better than the alternative.

He smiled, although it was more of a crooked leer. Good. These children. Get them outside, now!

What for?

Because if you don't, I will set fire to the schoolroom.

She nodded. Children, quickly, you must leave. Pretend it's a fire drill and line up outside. I will be with you soon.

The fighter moved to the side, and they started to file out through the door. Abdul Raheem paused next to the man.

Sir, I am a Sunni. Please don't kill me.

The man patted him on the head. I won't kill you, don't worry. You must go with the others.

"Are you