Black Ops Heroes of Afghanistan: Retribution

By Eric Meyer

Afghanistan is a land ripped apart by unending warfare. Inside this seething cauldron of violence, Rafe Stoner, a former Navy SEAL, maintains a precarious existence. His business, selling surplus machinery, is a cover for his real work. Stoner is a gun for hire, and his services are in constant demand.

When a CIA agent offers him a small fortune to take on a contract, he smells trouble. The job is almost suicidal. They want him to risk everything to rescue an operative. An Agency sniper, trapped and threatened with a horrific death at the hands of a notorious drug lord and his army of fanatical fighters.

Helped by his old friend, the Russian Greg Blum, they head for the town of Khost. Ahead of them, a horde of Taliban veterans. Men sworn to bring about the death of Americans. Stoner and Blum become enmeshed in a vicious battle that threatens them with a violent and bloody end. For the drug lord has a hobby. Extreme torture. Capture would result in an unspeakable and agonizing death.

This is an incredible story of tough, violent men in a tough, violent land. Black-Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan Retribution is by the bestselling author of many Special Ops novels. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo stories, the Raider series, Echo Six, and a number of Devil's Guard titles.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Oct 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781911092018

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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BLACK OPS - HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN: RETRIBUTION

By Eric Meyer

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.

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Foreword

I'm giving you an order. Take him down, you hear me, Mister?

Stoner recalled the words of his senior officer back at Bagram SOC, Special Operations Command. Lieutenant Commander Donald A. Judd was a man who did his homework, although it never made him popular. Nor did his efforts make him successful. He was a man who went 'by the book.' An officer who owed his seniority more to connections in Washington than personal merit; his family connections extended to the Pentagon, and their objective was to make certain the family scion was always at the top of any preferment list.

Like his command style, his uniform was starched and pressed in accordance with U.S. Navy regulations. It didn't fool everyone. Despite the immaculate duds, inside SOC, they considered his planning more than suspect. Or worse. Judd also resented men who showed more talent than he did. Which was why he made no secret of the fact he detested the handsome, black haired and dark-eyed Lieutenant. Not that he was especially tall, but Judd had to look up to meet his gaze. Like now, inside the briefing room in the SpecOps compound. The aircon had broken down. Although it wasn't that hot, Lieutenant Commander Judd already had a sweat stain on the back of his shirt. Maybe it wasn't the heat.

Stoner kept his voice even. Let's be clear on this, Commander Judd. You want us to kill him.

A loud sigh, not surprising, the rulebook was hazy on subjects like assassination.

I want you to take him out, Lieutenant. Is that clear enough for you?

The other men had grinned. Chief Petty Officer Chris Rodgers, a master sniper and keen hunter back in the U.S. of A. Andy Hughes, in a previous life an auto mechanic, and Julio Alvarez, who'd joined the Navy fresh out of college. They were PO3s. The four SEALs comprised an independent fireteam, and their current target was to locate and kill Mohammed Ahmadi. A man who'd decided the Afghan drug industry was his personal fiefdom. ISAF and Afghan National Army teams sent to destroy the opium crop were ambushed inside his territory. At last, Kabul began to take notice. Then Ahmadi graduated to killing those politicians who tried to persuade farmers to move from opium to legal crops. At that point, the spotlight fell on him, hard and bright. The message was clear. Make him go away.

He'd become a mythical figure inside the crumbling, poverty-stricken city of Asadabad the capital city of Kunar Province. Conveniently close to the Pakistan border. Ahmadi was a will o’ the wisp, appearing and disappearing as if by magic when punitive raids tried to target his business. The town held him in high regard because he distributed funds to widows to help buy them food. Some were unaware he'd created the widows by killing their husbands himself, a punishment for failure. Sometimes he'd kill men for the hell of it. Ahmadi was a man who would have felt at home in the torture cellars of the Gestapo, or the KGB. He ran his empire with a ruthlessness that would have done credit to Joseph Stalin.

They decided to end the running sore his empire had become, and made a decision to send in the SEALs to locate and destroy. They gave the job to Lieutenant Rafe Stoner, an officer with a growing reputation for bringing his assigned missions to a successful conclusion. Although the man they really wanted was his second-in-command, Chief Petty Officer Chris Rodgers. He was a sniper. That's what it stated on his jacket. But he was much more than a regular sniper.

He'd become a legend inside Afghanistan, and his skill with a rifle held in awe by those who'd been privileged to see him at work. He employed a McMillan TAC-338 Sniper Rifle, chambered for the .338 Lapua Magnum rounds, accurate to sixteen hundred meters, and in the hands of a master, as much as two thousand. Chris always smiled when people gave him those figures. He knew different. The bodies of men he'd killed at over two thousand meters had littered the squalid hills, remote wastelands, and the packed earth of village squares.

When they'd finished having their fun with Lieutenant Commander Judd, they went over the maps, double-checked their gear, and walked out to the waiting MH-6 Little Bird. His mind snapped to the present. The mission was a go, and it was time to get serious.

The four men wore MARPAT camos, body armor with Kevlar chest plates, cutaway half helmets, shades, and headset mikes visible in front of their lips. They also toted a fearsome array of weapons and pouches for spare magazines. Where they were going, there'd be precious little chance of resupply.

Stoner patted the Sig Sauer P226 pistol tucked into his shoulder holster as he watched his men board the helo. Satisfied, he seated himself and nodded to the pilot. The trip to Asadabad was one hundred klicks from Bagram, less than half an hour at the cruising speed of 250 km/h. They clung to the outboard seats as the light rotorcraft gained height. The huge military base at Bagram fell away below them, and the Little Bird set course to the east.

He watched the countryside fly past them, an unending ribbon of rocks, parched fields, and tumbled stone dwellings; the usual vista of a shattered and broken country. He was thinking about how crappy it was down there when Julio Alvarez shouted a warning.

Lt, there's something on the ground. I thought I saw the flash of a lens, could be a shooter.

Roger that. Chris, check it out.

Roger that.

Rodgers had eyesight that would do credit to a bird of prey. He searched around, and then used his detached scope to check out a spot he found interesting. They waited. It could be a shooter staring up at them, maybe someone with binoculars, part of a missile crew. The Taliban still managed to get hold of Stingers, though no one knew how. They also had plenty of the Russian made ground-to-air shoulder-launched missiles. They were known as the Strela, the Russian word for Arrow. They waited. Tense, watching for the telltale trail of smoke and flame that would rise toward them. None came, and then Chris said the words that allowed them to relax.

There's nothing, probably part of the windshield of a smashed vehicle. No sign of hostiles.

Stoner didn’t relax until they were a long way past the suspect area. The weather was fine, and the sun beat down over them. It made for a journey that was less unpleasant than most, especially when the enemy weren't shooting at you. Almost a pleasure flight until the outskirts of Asadabad hove into view, and the pilot began to reduce altitude.

The city lay in a valley where the Pech and Kunar Rivers joined between two mountain ranges. The city was a place of poverty and disease, home to insurgents and smugglers, usually the same thing. It was also the home of Mohammed Ahmadi. He'd chosen his base well. It was difficult to approach the city without warning. It was also easy to slip across the border into the Pakistani badlands when trouble threatened, a perfect base for a drug warlord, or a murderer.

The pilot put them down two klicks outside the city behind a stand of trees, and then took off again. They watched the helo climb into the clouds, and then found cover at the edge of a small wood. Stoner surveyed the town, looking for signs of a reaction to their landing.

What do you think, Chris?

He used the detached scope of his rifle for a few more seconds. They know we're here. They couldn't have missed the helo. Yet their reaction is slow. I can't see any hostiles coming our way. In fact, I can't see any movement at all.

Our priority is to stop him getting out before we have a chance to nail him. What're we looking at down there?

Rogers lowered the scope. We're shorthanded, Boss. Two roads out, one to the west and the other to the east, he could take off either way if we're not careful. It's a lot of territory to cover.

Roger that. He had four men for a job that would have needed five times that number.

Fuck Lieutenant Commander Judd. He's done it to show how he can deploy minimum resources to carry out the operation. But if Ahmadi runs, it'll all be for nothing.

He pointed to the two roads, west and east.

Andy, stake out the Jbad road to the west. Julio, take the east, the road to Asmar. Let's move, people, before our friend Ahmadi takes to the hills. Stay out of sight, and call if you see any movement. If he tries to get past, stop him. Chris, we'll head toward the town. There's a chance we may catch sight of him before he breaks and runs.

Copy that.

The two men jogged away, following the treeline to a line of broken rocks. They gave enough cover to move to their positions without showing themselves. Andy and Julio carried identical weaponry, Colt M4A1s with an M320 grenade launcher slung under the barrel, enough to cover any exits along the roads, and to stop most vehicles, should it be necessary.

He glanced at Rodgers, who had his rifle assembled and was waiting for the order to move. His silence was uncanny. When he stood still, he almost disappeared, like a chameleon. Blending in with his surroundings, as much a state of mind as any camouflage.

Time to move out. We'll head toward the town and take a look around. Ahmadi's place is on the outskirts, so we may get lucky and get a shot.

Rodgers nodded without reply. Once into the kill zone, silence was a tool of his trade, and he rarely spoke without having something important to say. They walked toward Asadabad until they were less than a thousand meters from the first crude stone dwellings. Ahmadi's building was different, a large, stone-built detached house with no windows on the side that faced away from the town. The place a shooter would choose to line up a kill shot. It made sense.

Why give a sniper an even break?

They crawled the next two hundred meters and reached a dried up streambed. He stopped and nodded to the sniper.

Chris, I'll go in from here. You can set up here, and I'll try to flush him out into the open. Either you'll get him or one of the others if he runs. He has to move sooner or later.

Rodgers used his sniper's eye to survey the ground. It's a risk, Boss. You'll be on your own if the shit hits the fan.

We don't have a choice. I'll call you if I see him.

Your funeral.

For some reason those words made him shiver. The sniper was a veteran of countless black operations, and back home, he hunted the Appalachians like a man possessed. Like many SEALs, he looked physically unimpressive on the outside. Without his clothes, his body betrayed the sinewy muscles and rugged build of a man who'd dedicated his life to the outdoors. His face did little to impress anyone who came across him, until they looked into his eyes. They were dark, like his hair. Yet they were much more, shining with a laser-like intensity. Some said he'd been a hawk in a previous life.

Stoner shrugged off the bad feeling and started crawling along the streambed. After a few seconds, he looked back, and Rodgers was no longer there. Disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. Like...magic. He'd seen it before, but still wondered how the hell he managed it.

He'd sure give David Copperfield a run for his money.

Without Chris, he was alone. If the drug lord's men came at him in strength, he was a dead man.

He smiled at his unease, pushed it to one side, and crawled on. He reached the wall that surrounded Ahmadi's house and stood to peer over, but it was too high. He glanced around for something to climb on, and froze. He'd seen a CCTV camera move on the side of the building. It looked directly at him, and then moved on.

Did they see me? Not likely, the camera would have stayed pointing at me.

Even so, with the camera opposite, he had to forget climbing the wall. Which meant it was time for Plan B. He sneaked around the perimeter, keeping low, conscious there could be more cameras. He took a quick look back and couldn't see Rodgers, although he knew he'd be watching every move. Stoner made it as far as he could without going out into the open and checked. The main gate to the compound was open and unguarded. Was it possible he could get inside and do the job, pop the target, and get out before they knew what had hit them? Maybe, but something bothered him.

How come they don't know we're here? They must have heard the Little Bird, surely. So why no patrols hunting for us, have we caught them with their pants down?

He decided to take a chance and stabbed the transmit button.

Chris, it all looks quiet. I'm going in. Stay sharp.

Two clicks confirmed he'd received the transmission. He took a tight hold of his M4A1, loosened his P226 automatic in the shoulder holster, and made a final scan of the area. Clear. He ran. Shock and awe; that's what they taught the rookies. Hit them so hard and fast they’d shit themselves in fear and run. He bounded forward like an Olympic athlete, despite his heavy gear. Adrenaline poured through his system and drove him onward. He covered the twenty meters to the open gate, sprinted inside...and discovered he was wrong. More wrong than he could ever believe.

They hadn't missed the Little Bird. They just weren't so fast to respond. Ahmadi's men were there, lined up and waiting to go. A fast count made it forty men, armed with a variety of weapons, everything from AKs to M-16s, British SA-80s, and French FN FALs. They were staring back at him in shock. Wondering how come this single American soldier had appeared in their gateway. They didn't stop to wonder for too long, and a dozen throats bellowed in anger.

He ran in the only direction possible, into the town. If he went back the way he'd come, there was no cover, and they'd be on him like hungry sharks. He sprinted between two tall buildings and down a narrow alleyway. It stank of feces, and he recalled the Afghan sewage system was almost non-existent, outside of a few towns and cities. Bullets buzzed around him, and some ripped chips of stone from the walls. He took a fast turn around a corner and found a narrow doorway with stairs leading upward.

They were close, too close, and he dived through the entrance and raced up the stairs. He emerged onto a roof and ran to the edge. The next building was a meter away, and he jumped, landed on his feet, and kept on running. He cleared four more buildings and finally stopped to draw breath behind a ventilator shaft. He couldn't detect any pursuit, not yet. He was still working out his next move when a voice came into his earpiece.

This is Hawk One, Condor One respond.

Judd, Hawk One. Great choice of radio call signs.

He stabbed the button and spoke in a low murmur, Condor One, strength three.

Strength three, understood. You must speak louder, Condor One. It's hard to make out what you're saying.

Even over the radio, Judd sounded more like an irritable clerk than a naval commander.

Louder, copy that. Was there anything else? I'm kinda busy right now.

Condor One, you are required to abort your mission. I say again, abort the mission.

He struggled to make sense of the order. They drop his team into enemy territory, and then tell him to abort. It didn't add up. Besides, there was a big problem, a bunch of turbaned, cutthroat killers waiting for him to show his head.

Negative, Hawk One. We're in a hot zone here. Abort is not an option.

I say again, Condor One. Abort. That is a direct order.

And I'm telling you no can do. Forget it, Judd.

He knew using his real name would upset him.

Too bad!

But Judd had gone off the air. He came back after a full two minutes. This is Hawk One. Rodgers, Hughes, Alvarez, do you read?

Acknowledgments came from Hughes and Alvarez. From Rodgers, there was just the double click.

You heard my order. The Little Bird is circling back to pick you up from the LZ. Be there, or you're in the shit.

Sir, he heard Alvarez speak out, The Lieutenant is inside the town. We have to wait...

No, you do not. You'll meet that helo in six minutes, or expect to face a court martial for insubordination when you get back. He paused for a moment and then continued. His voice sounded more reasonable, as if someone more senior was listening in, It's not my decision. The Afghans have put a temporary stop on all Special Forces operations. If we don't comply, we can wave goodbye to all the efforts we've made over the past few years. Get out now. That's an order. Hawk One out.

Stoner couldn't move, couldn't leave, and couldn't do anything except wait. A few minutes later, in the distance, he saw the helo approach and land two klicks out from the town. When it took off, he could see two men mounted on the starboard seats. The third man would be the other side. He was alone. He'd just have to manage. He hadn't signed up for the Boy Scouts.

He started to peer over the top of the wall, to assess the enemy he'd heard in the street below. He whirled when a shrill scream came from behind him.

Allahu Akbar!

An Afghan fighter was running at him, all black turban, bad teeth, and AK. Stoner rolled to one side, and the burst of 7.62mm bullets hammered into the wall next to where he'd been crouched. More men burst onto the roof shooting from the hip, and he returned fire in short bursts. Two of them went down, but more were pouring out onto the roof from the top of the staircase. The man who'd shouted pulled the trigger again, but this time his gun was silent. Either it had jammed, or he was out of ammo. He bared his teeth in fury and threw himself at Stoner. He had his hands outstretched, ready to claw and strangle the infidel.

The SEAL inched to the side, measuring angles. When the man was close, he put three bullets into his chest and waited for his momentum to bring the dying man to him. He hugged the body in front of him as the other fighters fired burst after burst. The body twitched and jerked as hot lead thumped into the corpse, but Stoner's shield blocked the enemy bullets.

Men raced toward him, screaming in frustrated fury, and he waited for them to get close. Until the last moment when he lifted the body, and this time threw it at them. Some went down, and some recoiled in horror as their dead comrade became entangled with them. Two men started to swing their rifles up to take the shot, but he was already past them, racing for the staircase. At the top step, he fired a short burst, which knocked over three of his pursuers. He started down, but more men were coming up, expecting to meet their fellow fighters. Before they realized their mistake, he'd wiped out two more, the rest turned and fled.

He vaulted over the bodies and found a door, almost invisible in the darkness. It was unlocked, and he went inside and pushed it shut. Three heavy iron bolts were fitted to the woodwork, and he threw them across to bar their pursuit. Now he had a new problem. He was trapped unless he could find another way out fast. He ran through the apartment, and when he reached the window, he could see more fighters massing in the street below.

He counted fifteen of them, and no doubt there'd be a similar number up on the roof. He looked for another escape route, but it was just the door and the window. Men started pounding on the door, which left the window. He looked out and pulled back, as a hail of shots slashed through the air and whistled around his head. The window was out. There had to be a way, had to be something. He searched through the apartment, checking the two bedrooms, the kitchen, and the big living room. It was obvious someone wealthy owned the place, which was a palace by Afghan standards.

Several shots whistled through the window, and he ducked below the level of the sill. It was time to rethink his options, if any. He was in an enemy town, the lair of a notorious drug lord. They knew where he was, there was no way out, and their intention was to kill him. He had one chance.

Unlock the door, and when it opens, hit them on full auto. Charge down the staircase and take my chances in the street.

It was a crappy plan, suicidal, no question, but there was nothing else. He slammed a fresh clip into the rifle and moved to the door. He was going to his death; any other outcome was almost impossible.

It was no time for recriminations, no time for Monday morning quarterbacking, no point in blaming Judd. He was a warrior, trained and paid to fight hard. To expect a warrior's death when things didn't pan out. So be it. He took a deep breath and slid the first bolt aside. The