Echo Six: Black Ops - The China Raid

By Eric Meyer

Chinese Islamists are poised to strike at the heart of Asia, as they unleash a plan to create a state in the heart of China. NATO has uncovered a plan to blackmail Beijing with the threat of a genocidal attack. Uighur terrorists have created a weapon of mass destruction, and threaten to unleash it on the capital city of the most populous nation on earth if their demands are not met. Yet the threat is not just confined to China. The weapon was built with parts sourced in the USA and Europe, a factor NATO fears could ignite a war between East and West.

Echo Six, the elite NATO Special Forces unit, is sent in to recover the device. Right from the start, the odds are stacked against them when they face a horde of well-armed fanatics. The situation worsens when the People’s Liberation Army of China gets wind of the foreign fighters on their territory. The battle against the Islamists becomes a race to avoid the clutches of the vast army of the communist mainland. An army intent on protecting its homeland at any cost.

Fighting for every inch of ground, battling overwhelming odds just to survive, the Echo Six operators press on to complete their mission. Failure to neutralize the weapon will result in the deaths of tens of thousands, perhaps millions of innocents. This is a thrilling and bloody story of NATO Special Forces, operating behind enemy lines. Men trained to go to any lengths to complete their mission, and to die for it if necessary. Echo Six Black Ops: The China Raid 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 the Echo Six and Devil's Guard series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Jan 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781909149762

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 - THE CHINA RAID

By Eric Meyer

First Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2015 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

Your suffering is my suffering and your happiness is my happiness - Buddhist proverb

Hotan, China

The dusty street was lined with crumbling, ill-repaired apartment blocks. It was also deserted. In between the shabby blocks were a number of storefronts, some little more than lean-to shacks, others no more than home-built wooden carts. Some carried the name of the owner on a sign. In most cases, the paint had peeled and scabbed from the woodwork. The windows were all tight shuttered, doors locked and vendors' carts empty. A visitor may speculate the local population knew it was a good time to be elsewhere. Anywhere. They'd be right.

It was 10.00 on a Friday morning. In normal times, people would throng the cracked and potholed sidewalks. Today was not a normal time. Today, Hotan, in the Xinjiang Uighur Autonomous Region, was a town whose inhabitants were in a state of fear. Waiting in dread anticipation of what was to come.

Hotan was close to the borders of several Islamic republics, including Pakistan, Afghanistan, Turkistan, and Kazakhstan. It was inevitable the mostly Uighur population would worship Islam. Each Friday, the muezzin called from the roofs of the mosques, and the faithful rushed to attend prayers. On this particular Friday the word had gone out, and they used the back alleys to reach their places of worship. They stayed out of sight. For today would be different for the downtrodden Uighurs of the downtrodden town of Hotan.

Their Han Chinese masters in Beijing hated Islam; they had ample evidence of their infidel beliefs. They worshipped a different God; a God known to the world as communism, the democratic rule of the people, for the good of all, so they said. The reality was different, as they'd found from bitter experience. The entire population of China had little option but to pay homage to the party bosses, a handful of tired old men who lived in wealthy, pampered isolation in the capital. Communism was once a cherished ideal, the revolution of the masses that swept the greedy and corrupt mandarins from power. The truth was different, for communism meant the dictatorship of the few over the many, men who ruled from their palaces far from Hotan. Even further from China's growing Islamic population. The distance was great, the contempt even greater. No longer was there any doubt of the yawning gap between the lavish lifestyles of the People's Deputies and their poverty stricken, starving Muslim serfs.

The Uighurs was a minority who lived in the neglected northwestern province of China. Spurred on by the new tide of Islamic fundamentalism in the Middle East, they wanted to assert their right to self-determination. Their dream was to govern their own affairs. Rule by the Mullahs, Sharia law. Their Chinese overlords disagreed and sent in units of the green uniformed People's Liberation Army. Their task was to dissuade the rebellious Uighurs from daring to mount a protest. Their methods to use excessive violence, heavy clubs, tear gas, and automatic weapons when required. There'd been a number of clashes with the hated and vicious PLA troops, but so far the only victims were Uighurs. Muslims.

It would change this Friday morning. The Imams had met in secret, and today they planned to make the speeches that would ignite their hitherto docile flocks, to propel them to violent revolt and send them along the path of the Holy War. It was time to fight, to kill.

They're coming.

The man who spoke was Saifuddin Azizi. He was born in Hotan thirty-nine years before, and for each of those years, his resentment had festered and grown. Seven years before he'd found an alternative to the grinding, manual toil and early death that was all a Uighur could expect in Xinjiang province. He'd discovered Jihad. From tiny beginnings, and helped by donations from benefactors as far afield as Saudi Arabia, he’d built up a small, but determined cadre of willing volunteers. Men prepared to fight in the name of the Prophet. Even to become martyrs, shaheeds, to die in his honor. This day would test them as never before.

Azizi glanced around as his lookout, Burhan Shahidi, came out onto the roof.

How many of them? Did you remember to count them?

The younger man was excited, his face flushed red, his blackened and rotting teeth bared in a savage smile. Today would be his first battle. Almost certainly it would be his last.

I did. Forty, maybe even fifty, Commander.

What weapons are they carrying?

All of them have assault rifles. Their officer has a pistol.

He frowned. It sounded wrong. A full platoon sent to quell a potential riot would invariably carry at least one, sometimes two light machine guns. It was the way of the Chinese Army. He smelled ambush. A trap.

What about tear gas launchers? Surely they carried the gas?

I didn't see any. None.

He frowned; he had to be sure. If it was true they carried no automatic weapons, his fighters could kill them all. Such a victory meant today would go down in Uighur history as a great victory. Unless...

Go and take another look. I have to know if they have machine guns. Be quick.

At once, Commander.

He dashed away and returned eight minutes later.

No machine guns, Sir. I'm certain.

Azizi was still uncertain, and he weighed up the odds once more. Finally, he relaxed. It was as Shahidi had said. For once, the Chinese had made a mistake, one that would cost them dear. He chuckled to himself.

We’ll deal the local Communist Party leaders a mighty blow that will reverberate all the way to Beijing. It will show the faceless Mandarins their Uighur serfs have had enough; enough of the beatings, the property confiscations, attacks on the mosques, and the random killings. This time, they’ll fight back. This time, Beijing will listen; they'll have no choice.

Pass the message on. The attack will proceed as planned. He smiled wolfishly at the boy, Today will mark the first day of our own Islamic Revolution. This is the last day Beijing will dare to ignore the teachings of the Prophet. Blessings be upon his name.

The younger man bared his bad teeth once again and ran off. Saifuddin Azizi stayed on the roof, waiting for the battle to begin. Watching. It was a simple plan. They knew the People's Liberation Army contingent would march to the nearby central mosque. They knew the soldiers would wait for worshippers to exit after Friday prayers, and then the beatings would start.

Not this time.

He had twenty volunteers, a well-trained unit recruited to fight back, to kill the hated soldiers. They were well armed with assault rifles supplied by their Muslim brethren in nearby Pakistan and Afghanistan. Both countries had a long history of Islamic resistance, and as a result, they were awash with weapons. So many that the Uighur Resistance Movement had bought their assault rifles and RPGs at a knockdown price.

He scanned the buildings opposite and watched as his men took up their positions. The barrels of their assault rifles were barely visible; dark smudges poking out from the second floor balconies overlooking the street. Three hundred meters away, the soldiers appeared, marching toward them. The lookout, Shahidi, had exaggerated. He counted no more than thirty men.

With the advantage of surprise, as well as a commanding position, they'd annihilate the Chinese soldiers in seconds. He rubbed his hands in glee. In a few minutes there would be a bloody massacre, one that would reverberate around the Islamic world for years to come. The name of Saifuddin Azizi would be no less famous. He focused on the soldiers, the uniformed men marching in step like programmed robots. Walking toward their date with destiny, to their deaths.

* * *

You see them, Captain?

The man in the dark green uniform was a captain of the Second Bureau, Military Intelligence, People's Liberation Army. He ignored the junior lieutenant. Was the man so stupid as to suggest his superior officer blind? The answer was probably yes. The impertinent and ambitious young officer made no secret of his ambition, or of his connections. He doubtless saw himself as a future candidate for Ming's job, and in China, there was a quick way to promotion. All it required was to denounce a superior officer, provided he had some evidence of wrongdoing. Real or invented, the end result was the same, promotion for one man, death or a labor camp for the other. As they watched the street, Ming was thoughtful.

They were on the high rooftop of an apartment block, looking down on the street. A hundred meters away, he could see robed and bearded men crouching on balconies, their distinctive Kalashnikov assault rifles readied. Waiting for their target to appear. So their tipoff had been correct, and he would allow the informant to be released. If the information had been wrong, Captain Gao Ming would have delighted in personally fastening the electrodes to his genitals and toasting his balls. It would have been a pleasure to watch him suffer. No matter, there would be plenty more in his basement by the end of the day.

The Lieutenant looked agitated by his silence. Probably, he wondered if he'd done something wrong.

Good, Ming thought, it will keep him on his toes, alert, anxious to please his senior officer.

Sir, we haven't warned the platoon. We must do it soon, or they could kill our men. They're nearly…

Ming waved him to silence. Lieutenant, do I have to explain everything? If we warn the platoon, they'll charge into the building shooting, and it's possible some of the bandits will die. However, it's certain a number of the residents of that building would die in the crossfire. Can you imagine the outcry in the international press? Chinese soldiers gun down innocent Uighur civilians?

The officer looked puzzled. Well, yes, but what alternative do we have? We can finish off those bandit scum, as for the headlines…

The headlines will make our masters in Beijing angry. There is another way.

Another way?

We will allow our soldiers to walk into the ambush.

But, Sir! The Muslims will slaughter them.

Possibly, but they are soldiers, they have to take their chances. The Uighurs won't get away. We have the entire town ringed with security troops, as well as gunships ready to take-off at a moment's notice. We can make this day a triumph. The Muslims will be condemned as murderers in the international press, and in future, we'll be able to hunt them down and kill them without interference.

The Lieutenant was aghast. Captain, I can't believe you're serious. You'd allow these criminals to kill our men?

He sighed. He'd hoped the fool would see sense, but obviously it wasn't to be. Without doubt, he had to deal with him, once and for all. He sighed.

Perhaps you're right. Look, what are they doing over there?

The officer stared across the street at the Uighur position. At the same time, Captain Ming smoothly drew his sidearm, pushed it hard against the other man's uniform tunic, and pulled the trigger. His weapon was a Type 67 Silenced Pistol. Developed in the 1960s, the weapon carried nine 7.65mm rounds in the clip and was relatively light and compact. What singled it out as the preferred weapon of many Intelligence and Security officers was the permanently attached suppressor.

The specially designed bullets were of low power, less effective at long-range, but at short-range both silent and devastating. The bullet penetrated the victim's heart, and Ming held the officer as he crumpled. When he lowered the body to the concrete terrace, he could see the powder burns where he'd fired at close range. No doubt there would be questions raised about his death. Except the officer responsible for the after-action report was Captain Gao Ming. There would be no questions.

* * *

Azizi watched the soldiers march in step toward their death. He already had his cellphone in his hand, and he pressed the speed dial.

Yes. He recognized the voice of Erkin Abdulla, his second-in-command, and the leader of the ambush squad.

They've turned into your street.

We see them. Do we proceed as planned?

Kill them all, Erkin. We will meet again in Paradise.

In Paradise. God is great.

Saifuddin Azizi watched the soldiers look nervously from side to side, worried by the unnatural silence. Then the shooting started.

A barrage of semi-automatic fire echoed around the narrow streets. Some of the Chinese soldiers returned fire. As their comrades fell, a few managed to score hits on those fighters foolish enough to expose themselves above the low concrete walls that protected the balconies. Still, the outcome was never in doubt. In less than two minutes, the platoon ceased to exist and became a bloody pile of torn flesh, shredded uniforms, and discarded weapons heaped on the sticky-red cobblestones. When the last man fell, the Islamists raced out on the street to collect their weapons. Captain Ming took out his cellphone and pressed the number of his second-in-command, Lieutenant Chen, who was in one of the lower apartments with a PLA camera crew.

Did you get it?

Everything.

Good. When we call in our tanks to crush any Uighur resistance, the world will understand we had no choice. You can summon the gunships. Those bandits are sitting targets.

Yes, Captain.

The gunship, a heavily armed CAIC Z-10, was sitting in a walled compound less than a kilometer away. Ming hadn't wanted to take any chances with the enemy getting away. Even though they'd warned him a gunship was a dangerous weapon to deploy inside an urban area. He'd smiled and replied, Dangerous to whom? The Uighurs? Who gives a shit? There hadn't been any reply.

He heard the roaring sound overhead and looked up to see the gunship, nicknamed Fierce Thunderbolt, arriving at the scene of devastation. Most of the enemy was still out on the street collecting weapons, and they looked up, puzzled by the noise. They didn't see the gunship at first, military aircraft were no novelty in this fractious region. When they recognized the sound of a helicopter, they continued stripping the bodies of their weapons and equipment. When the Z-10 arrived, it was too late to escape.

The 25mm autocannon, a development of the US M242 Bushmaster fired from a chin mount. Captain Ming had chosen the gunner for this operation because of his consistently high scores during previous operational sallies. He was not a local man and would have no complications with family loyalties. Neither would the aircrew; they were all men with families. There was no confusion about the fate of their own families should they fail to carry out their assigned tasks.

The huge gunship bored in with the massive Wozhou-9 Turboshaft engine roaring. The Uighurs on the street looked up again, understanding the threat. Some began to run, but it was too late, much too late. Ming was expressionless as the autocannon spoke its message of death. The roaring sound of the chain gun was the accompaniment to the rain of heavy lead hammering down from the sky. On the street, men's bodies split apart into flesh, blood, bones, and fragments of clothing.

The gunship remained hovering overhead. Although most of the bandits were dead, the gunner systematically swept the street with long bursts of fire, churning up the bloodied body parts. The gruesome firestorm seemed to go on and on. In fact it was only a minute. Captain Ming continued to watch. He touched his groin. Killing one's enemies, the enemies of the state, was immensely satisfying and stimulating. Eventually, the helicopter flew away.

He brushed a speck of dust from his immaculate uniform tunic and left the roof. Behind him, the body of the insolent Lieutenant, and below him, the bodies of his enemies. It had been a satisfying morning, an eminently satisfying morning. He looked forward to returning to his office and sipping a cup of jasmine tea as he dictated a report to his new secretary. A corporal, recently assigned, slim and lithe in her neat uniform; she was both expert and efficient, in every way.

He was still smiling when he reached the street. He stepped carefully over the bloodied bodies and reflected on the damage he’d caused to the Uighur scum. It would take them a long time, a very long time to recover. In the meantime, he could enjoy some peace in this rebellious region. He was wrong.

* * *

A short distance away, Saifuddin Azizi crouched down out of sight. He'd watched his triumph turn to dust, as the gunship tore his men to shreds. They'd known their chances of survival were not good. After the attack, it was inevitable the local police and security troops would hunt them down and kill them. But not like this. Instead of the mighty blow for Uighur unity and independence, all they'd demonstrated was their weakness in the face of the mighty Chinese military machine.

He knew it would be difficult to replace the fighters whose bodies lay shredded in the street below, while the government could draw on millions of men to replace any number of casualties. What he needed was a way to hit back, to strike a blow for his people, but this time it must be different. He already had an idea of how to go forward, something he'd been considering for some time.

Azizi had a cousin in Pakistan, a scientist who worked on that nation's weapons programs, although he'd no idea exactly what he did. He thought it was some kind of nerve gas; he'd made references to the occupational hazards from poisoning. He couldn't care less what he did, a weapon was a weapon. As soon as he was safely away, he would contact him and ask for help.

Perhaps Dr. Qasim can supply us with a toxin we could use to threaten the enemy with destruction beyond their worst nightmares.

He made his way home through the fetid lanes and alleys, and finding the water hot he took a shower to wash away the dirt and despair. Fifteen minutes later, he dialed Dr. Jian Qasim's number. When the call ended, he smiled and even rubbed his hands with glee.

The Prophet must be smiling down on him this day. If Qasim came across with the device he promised, he would soon possess a nuclear warhead. The threat to the Chinese would be immense. How could they refuse to give the Uighur's their independence and face the possibility of tens of thousands of deaths? They'd have to surrender, and victory would be theirs. Qasim was insistent the weapon would never be used. He'd agreed; the threat would be enough, more than enough.

He had one more call to make, to a contact in Beijing. He talked at length to a man who had helped the cause with money and weapons. He'd never met him, never found out his name, nor did he understand why he helped the Uighurs. It could only be because he had Uighur ancestry and sympathized with their aims; there was no other explanation. It was enough he provided the means to continue their fight. When the call ended, he was even more convinced they would succeed. The contact had promised to help and offered to provide Azizi with the necessary finance and intelligence to complete the mission.

He was ready to face his critics. They'd be prepared to vilify him for today's disaster. Until they heard what he had to tell them, and then they'd crown him a hero. There could be no doubt about the future leader of an independent Uighur state.

President Saifuddin Azizi, it sounds right.

He was already planning the layout of his presidential palace as he made his way through the dusty, impoverished streets.

* * *

Hotham Inlet - Alaska

Jesus Christ, Boss, to call this area cold is an understatement. We've been in cold places, like when we had that skirmish up in the mountains of Tibet, but it wasn't like this. You know what Shakespeare would have said?

I don't know, and I don't care. It's too damn cold.

Commander Abe Talley, leading the men of the NATO Special Forces unit Echo Six on a training mission in the Alaskan boonies, found himself irritated by Lieutenant Domenico Rovere. The officer worked to find humor in every situation, but right now it wasn't working, not for him. The temperature was reading minus fifty the last time he looked, and he wasn't inclined to check again in case it had dropped. Which he figured it probably had.

I guess that's why they call this patrol acclimatization, he told the Italian, If it wasn't cold, we couldn't acclimatize. A couple more hours, and we can head back.

We should go back now, the big German Heinrich Buchmann asserted, This is worse than Russia.

He reflected it must be cold. The massive German had a hide like a Tiger tank. Gloomy, massive, and bristling with menace, he was their lead breacher. When they needed someone to bust down a door or just a few heads, Buchmann was the natural choice. He was the personification of violence. When Buchmann arrived in a fight, men began to consider their reasons for wanting to go on. One of his ancestors froze to death at Stalingrad during World War II. The demonic cold of the Steppes had passed into family lore.

He has a point, Guy Welland nodded, We're supposed to be searching for hostiles coming in from the east, but anyone who crosses the Bering Straits in this weather needs their heads examined. They'd have to be raving lunatics.

Talley considered whether Guy was right. Welland was British SAS, a sergeant. Even in a force legendary for its lethal fighting skills, his fellow soldiers had regarded him as the best, enough for NATO to recruit him for their elite Special Forces outfit. NATFOR brought together exceptional soldiers from units in the member countries. Talley was formerly a Navy SEAL. The handsome Domenico Rovere was former Italian Alpini, the elite mountain warfare military corps. Heinrich Buchmann came from KSK, Kommando Spezialkräfte, an elite unit handpicked from the best in Germany's military. Men like Sergeant Roy Reynolds, Delta Force, and unit sniper Vince diMosta, also Delta Force. From the U.S. Marine Corps came Jesse Whitefeather, their second unit sniper. Their records were all similar. These men were warriors.

The twenty men of Echo Six were on foot, enduring an Arctic warfare and acclimatization patrol. There was a secondary objective handed to them by their NATO masters. Since the Mexican and Canadian borders had seen heavily increased security, there was evidence of Alaska becoming yet another backdoor into the United States. Not that anyone feared a Russian invasion across the few kilometers that separated America from Russia. The danger was from drug trafficking, arms smuggling, and the clandestine insertion of hostile elements into the American subcontinent. Islamic terrorists were always searching for new ways to bring their campaign of death and mayhem to the U.S. So far, there was little evidence they'd breached Alaska, the northernmost outpost, but it was only a matter of time.

They plowed on across the snow-covered terrain. Their route took them close to the very edge of the Bering Straits, treacherous and littered with ice flows and pack ice. It wasn't impossible to make the crossing, but as Guy had pointed out, unlikely. Except…

Echo One, this is Seven. I see movement about two klicks north. Looks like a couple of big RIBs. They're entering the Hotham Inlet.

Copy that, Echo Seven. Probably fishermen out of Kotzebue.

Negative, Echo One. Second Lieutenant Jesse Whitefeather USMC was a Native American Apache. As well as his world-class sniping skills, he possessed a sixth sense for trouble that was uncanny, They don't look like any I've ever seen. Not unless Alaskan fishermen have taken to using assault rifles. Besides, those boats are big. I'd guess twenty men in each. My guess is trouble.

Talley thought for a few moments. Carrying assault rifles wasn't entirely unreasonable. In these latitudes, the possibility of coming up against a polar bear or even a ravening wolf pack was a serious risk. Although when they passed through the tiny town of Kotzebue, the most he'd seen was the odd high-powered hunting rifle. Besides, fishermen went out in small parties of maybe four men at most. Two boats carrying twenty men in each sounded unusual.

Could they be some kind of a survey party for an oil exploration company? It's possible.

Keep an eye on them, Jesse. We're on the way.

Copy that.

As they closed the distance to Jesse's position, he considered the likely explanations. They could be looking for minerals, even treasure hunters. They've had more than a few wrecks in this area.

It's likely nothing, Guy murmured, his breath coming out in a dense fog as they walked, It's too cold for this kind of crap. We should be heading back. Even the fucking seabirds are too cold to fly around in this.

It was true; the coastline was desolate, abandoned, and empty of life apart from Echo Six and the incoming boats.

Jesse smelled something fishy.

He shook his head. I don't care what he smelled, it's just fishermen. Maybe we could buy something tasty for our dinner.

Talley ignored him and picked up the pace. They quickly closed the gap to reach Whitefeather. He was waiting a few hundred meters ahead of them, next to the bleak, hostile shore. Almost invisible in his Arctic White camouflage, he was staring across the angry, threatening sea. The RIBs were about a kilometer