Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Spetsnaz Assassin

By Eric Meyer

Rafe Stoner is a gun for hire, a former Navy SEAL whose skills are in constant demand in his adopted home of Afghanistan. His legitimate business is selling surplus machinery, or so his tax return states. His real work is less prosaic, and makes him a good living from a grateful client base. The removal of inconvenient rivals is a way of life in the violent and war-torn nation.

When a name surfaces during a conversation in a bar, the alarm bells ring. Khan. A name from the past, a man he thought he’d killed. He was wrong. The warlord clawed his way back from his injuries, and has sworn a lifelong vow. Stoner must die, along with those few people who are closest to him. Yet the SEAL vet is no easy target, and Khan needs professionals capable of carrying out the hit. He finds them. Spetsnaz.

Inside Afghanistan, the bitterest memories of the Soviet invasion are reserved for the brutal Spetsnaz. Callous killers, men without scruple or mercy. Forced out after the Russian economic crisis brought deep cuts to the military, many mercenaries. Murder for hire, payment in advance. No questions asked. Willing recruits for Khan’s mission of vengeance.

Their first attack is a hit against Stoner’s friends, Greg and Faria Blum, and their three children. An attack that launches him into a desperate struggle against the Russian experts, who will stop at nothing to kill him and his friends. He has no option but to fight hard to survive against the Russian mercenaries. Then to finish the job he started all those years ago. To kill Khan, or die in the attempt.

This is an incredible story of tough, violent men in a tough, violent land. Black-Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan Spetsnaz Assassin is the latest title 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: Aug 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911092247

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.

Book preview

HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN

SPETSNAZ ASSASSIN

By Eric Meyer

Copyright 2016 by Eric Meyer

Published by Swordworks Books

www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction

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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Chapter One

Five Years Before

Chaos ruled in the valley below. Trucks queued in long lines, some with chains fitted to their tires, and others without. It made little difference; most skidded on the icy surface of the frozen snow covering the road; The single road that constituted the main highway between Peshawar, Pakistan and Jalalabad, Afghanistan. It was February and bitterly cold on the high ground. Lieutenant Rafe Stoner, U.S. Navy, watched through binoculars, doing his best to ignore the chill seeping through his bones. He chuckled at the chaotic efforts of the border guards to move the traffic through the gate. They weren’t enjoying much success.

The four-man SEAL fireteam had dug in on top of a low mountain overlooking the crossing. They weren’t interested in the passage of traffic, other than as a diversion to kill the boredom. They were waiting for their target to cross on a different, narrower track, out of sight of the border post, and at a higher altitude, half a klick from the main highway. They’d been waiting for him since the night before. Their helo had landed on the far slope of the mountain, and they trekked in under cover of darkness. Dug shallow trenches in the snow-covered hillside, and wearing Arctic camouflage, they were all but invisible as they waited.

Stoner scanned the surrounding landscape with his binoculars. His second-in-command, Chief Petty Officer Len Billets, tapped him on the shoulder and handed him a mug of hot, strong coffee. Billets carried a vacuum flask in his pack, during the winter he never went anywhere without it. Anything, Boss?

Nothing yet. He took the proffered mug and swallowed the contents gratefully. Despite their layers of Arctic clothing and the camouflage, the bitter cold dominated their every thought. Each of them wanted the action to start, if for no other reason than to get warm.

Are they sure he’s coming this way? It’s not another screw-up?

He glanced aside at Manuel Carvallo. That’s what they tell me, Manuel.

Thing is, Lieutenant, those intel weenies sit in their warm offices and come up with stupid ideas. It’s guys like us who freeze our butts off waiting for nothing to happen. You asked me, he ain’t gonna show.

No one is asking you, Carvallo. We get paid to do a job, and that’s what we'll do. They tell us to wait here, we wait.

Yeah, I get that. His face was sallow and sulky. Manuel Carvallo was a skilled operator and a good man in a fight. He was also a pain in the butt, always moaning, always complaining. Stoner had considered transferring him to a different unit, except it wouldn’t look good on the man’s service record. Instead, he did his best to ignore the gripes and stay focused on the mission. It wasn’t always easy.

Good, stay sharp, he could be here any time.

Carvallo ignored him. What if he doesn’t show? How long are we gonna stay here freezing our asses off?

He stared back at him. It was difficult and uncomfortable enough, without Manuel Carvallo getting on his nerves. We stay here until I say otherwise. That’s the way it works, and that’s what you signed up for. So button it, and keep looking.

He grunted an acknowledgement, although Stoner knew it wouldn’t be long before he came up with something else to beef about. He resumed scanning the track for any sign of the target. His name was Sher Khan, and Khan was no ordinary Taliban killer. His specialty was brutal and bloody assassination, with a difference. The small but effective organization he’d founded, Dar al-Harab, Arabic for The House of War, was a thorn in the side of the NATO Coalition, all because of Khan. He had a novel approach to murder, making it a long journey of abject terror before the bullet or bomb that finally ended the victim’s life.

Skilled with a rifle, a knife, or IEDs, he led his band of killers from the front. His targets were government ministers, senior military figures, and diplomats, the men who ran Afghanistan. Khan always informed his target of their impending death, as well as the deaths of their immediate family. The intention was to spread fear into the highest reaches of the government, and it worked.

Men who should be running the country skulked in reinforced bunkers for fear of al-Harab’s long reach. It made no difference. The end was always the same. Death. Khan maintained a network of informants across the country that would finger his targets for him. He always got his man, except for a single occasion. The man in question suffered a heart attack after receiving the warning of his impending death.

Despite their small number of fighters, Dar al-Harab had a goal - to seize the reins of power through murder and fear, to evict the foreigners, and to establish a new state. To be run under their strict, medieval interpretation of Sharia law. The Taliban were too liberal. When Dar al-Harab led the nation, the world would learn to respect the regime led by Sher Khan, who would be Caliph, and those men he chose to fill key positions. One of who was his son and future heir, Sarban, a son who was everything to him, and a future leader of the nation, after him, of course.

The American-led NATO Coalition had dispatched the SEAL fireteam into the field with a straightforward mission. To cut off the head of Dar al-Harab, to kill Sher Khan, confident that when the charismatic leader was dead, his men would disperse back into obscurity.

Heads up, Billets murmured, I see movement on the track, heading north out of Pakistan. It could be him.

It could be a local farmer bringing his goats to market, Carvallo said, Waste of fucking time.

No one took any notice. They were used to his attitude. What counted was when it came to a fight. He was fast and lethal, a pain in the ass, but a useful man to have around.

Stoner took a swift look at the sky. The light was fading, and although they had night vision equipment, the moon was high. This meant the moonlight reflected off the snow made NV gear less than useful. He focused his binoculars at the end of the track. Two kilometers in the distance, he could see a huddle of people. They could have been anything, smugglers, goat herders, like Carvallo had suggested. Or it could be Khan.

He ran through the alternatives in his head and made a decision. He would assume the probability was that it was Khan. Who else would be crossing a treacherous track on the lower slopes of the snow-covered mountain? They were in a good position for an ambush. The fourth member of his fireteam, PO3 Walt Zimmerman, had perched on a narrow ledge higher up, a ledge large enough for a single man, together with his equipment. In Zimmerman’s case, his equipment constituted a rifle. His was no ordinary rifle. Walt Zimmerman was a sniper, and he toted a weapon man enough to do the job at incredible ranges.

The Barrett M107 Long Range Sniper Rifle was a .50 caliber rifle, fitted with a Leupold 4.5–14×50 Mark 4 scope. The semi-automatic weapon carried ten rounds in the magazine, more than enough for most jobs. What singled it out from similar weapons was its incredible range and accuracy. He could take down a target in excess of eighteen hundred meters away with the first shot, and there were numerous stories about snipers achieving kills at greater distances.

I have them now, Zimmerman’s voice came over the commo from his perch high above them, Count is twenty, repeat twenty men. Two donkeys loaded with packs, and the men looked to be well armed. AK’s, and I see two men carrying RPG launchers.

How soon before you can make out the faces?

If they attacked the wrong group, Khan would have advance warning, and he’d vanish.

They’ll need to halve the distance, and even then it won’t be easy. This light is tricky. They’re moving slow, say fifteen minutes, give or take.

Roger that.

He didn’t remind them to remain still. They knew how difficult it was to pick out a man wearing camouflage, as long as he didn’t move. If he shifted his position, the eye would be drawn to movement, and the target would bolt. Stoner waited, frozen into immobility, and even Carvallo for once stopped complaining. The group drew nearer, and when they were at a distance of one kilometer, Zimmerman called again.

We have a problem. They’re wearing shemagh scarves, I guess because of the cold. Whatever the reason, I can’t make out their faces. Boss, we’ll have to guess this one. Even at a hundred meters out, it would still be difficult to ID the target.

Roger that. Everyone hold your position. We’ll wait until they’re fifty meters away, until I decide whether to give the order.

He heard Carvallo mutter, Freezing my balls off. Should just kill the bastards and go home.

Again he ignored the grumble and began going through the series of tiny, invisible movements designed to restore circulation to numbed limbs. Meter-by-meter, the men came nearer. At one hundred meters, he could make out their eyes, although turbans covered their heads, and the shemaghs disguised the lower faces. At eighty meters, a man in the center of the line turned and shouted an order. The response was immediate. They picked up the pace. Stoner could see his eyes of the man who’d given the order. Even at a distance, they were the hard, dark, cold eyes of a stone killer, feral, fanatical, and cunning. He knew beyond all doubt he was staring at the target. He keyed his mike button.

Zimmerman, listen up. The guy who just gave an order, it’s Khan. Target is confirmed.

Target is confirmed.

They waited for the sniper to take the shot. Each man froze, their fingers curled around the triggers, ready to kill the rest of the group. When Khan went down, his men would go crazy and the lead would fly. Two seconds passed as Zimmermann went through his routine. They knew he'd shut out everything, his entire being concentrating on the need to focus on hitting the target. The shot rang out, loud and startling in the silence of the mountains. It echoed around the hillside and slopes, and at the last moment, it all went wrong. A donkey stumbled, a man gave it an irritated blow with the butt of his rifle, and the beast lunged and tripped, into the path of the .50 caliber sniper round.

They moved fast. Zimmermann fired again, but the man who was Khan had disappeared from view. Half the enemy fighters leveled their rifles, and although they couldn’t see him, a hurricane of rifle fire tore around Zimmerman’s position. Then they charged, perhaps guessing they were up against a lone gunman. The path of their run would take them across Stoner’s front. He murmured, Hold your fire. Wait until they’re almost on us.

The men ran on, oblivious to what waited for them, and at the last second, he squeezed the trigger. The other two SEALs followed, and three HK-416 9mm assault rifles chattered their message of death. The Afghans didn’t know had hit them, and the lethal barrage tore them apart in a matter of seconds. Bodies lay on the snow, their blood a bright splash against the brilliant white that enshrouded the hillside. Up on the ledge, Zimmerman was still firing, but Stoner knew he hadn’t hit the target. If he had, he’d have called it in. Khan had escaped, along with half his men. He jumped up.

Charge! Go after them before they recover. Kill the bastards.

It was a hard, slogging run through the deep snow that clutched at his boots. The enemy had disappeared behind cover. They’d have to root them out the hard way. He made it to the narrow, treacherous track they’d used to cross from Pakistan, in time to see them racing across the steep slope of a glacier. Two Afghans slipped and fell screaming to the bottom, but the rest kept going. He followed, hearing the footsteps of his men as they raced after him.

Another of the Afghans fell, but this time, the man clung to the sheer rockface. The others stopped, and Khan reappeared for a brief second, shouting orders. Then he ducked down as another shot from the sniper hissed past him. He was running, ignoring the risk of a fall to get across the frozen slope and reach them. They ran again, except for the man clinging to the edge. He swung up his rifle with one hand to take the shot as Stoner came close, while clinging on with the other hand. Stoner fired a short burst that ripped him apart, and the body tumbled down the sheer glacier.

The hostiles had disappeared from view, and so they’d found another way down. The body was still falling when a long burst of semi-automatic fire peppered the rocks around him. As he dived for cover, he heard a single shout. It was eerie, a wail of abject despair. Like someone had lost everything in life they’d ever cared for.

He ignored it. Time was running out, and they’d need help. He called the predetermined air support frequency on his radio.

This is Charlie One; I have the target identified and request help. He read out the coordinates, allowing for the few hundred meters they’d gained. The pilot of the circling U.S. Navy F/A 18 acknowledged in a rich Florida drawl. This is Unicorn, your coordinates received. I’m over the target area now, and I see eight or nine men about to climb onto a truck. They’re driving toward a narrow ravine. It’s now or never, do I hit them or not?

Target is confirmed. Waste the bastards.

That’s a Roger.

The explosion when it came sent a sheet of flame that showered over the summit of the low plateau. Seconds later, the pilot’s voice came again. Target destroyed. I confirm, target destroyed.

Roger and thank you, Navy. We owe you one.

That you do. So long, guys.

* * *

Tossed across the snow-covered ground by the blast, and flung behind a pile of rocks, Sher Khan regarded the blazing vehicle. It had been a close thing, but somehow he’d got out alive. Only just. His injuries were serious, and if he didn’t get treatment soon, he’d die out there on the mountain. He was bleeding badly from wounds to his body, and the explosion had cost him an eye. Yet he was still alive.

He would take revenge for this day, and the American who’d killed his son would die a thousand deaths. He’d seen his son Sarban clinging to the rockface. He'd watched the cowardly soldier shoot him down like a dog. If he escaped the mountains and managed to live, he’d devote his life to finding the man responsible for Sarban's murder. And he’d make sure his death was a long, agonizing cry of pain.

* * *

Stoner’s fireteam made it to FOB Torkham, the Forward Operating Base, in the early hours of the morning. Tired, freezing cold, and for three of the fireteam, sick of Carvallo’s ceaseless moaning, but a hot shower and an even hotter breakfast helped them recover from the night spent on the freezing mountain. In the late afternoon, a Sikorsky UH-60 Black Hawk touched down to take them back to their base.

Stoner reported direct to the senior intel officer at the SOCOM compound inside Bagram Air Base. The Air Force Major tossed him a friendly grin as he entered the briefing room.

I gather you had a tough night out there.

They exchanged salutes. Lieutenant Stoner, reporting as ordered. We’ve had worse, Major.

Yeah, I’ll bet. Take a seat, Stoner. I’ve been following this operation through from the start, up to and including where the Navy flyer took out the truck. That guy you killed on the slope, did you know who he was?

Nope, he was just some raghead with a rifle, trying to blast my ass. I got there first.

That you did. His name was Sarban Khan. The son of the man you went out there to kill, Sher Khan. The man you did kill, according to your report.

He’s dead. As for his son, Stoner shrugged, That should take care of any problems later on. Dead men can’t take revenge.

True. You’re certain Sher Khan is dead? I gather you didn’t see the body.

He was on the opposite slope, so I didn’t see the body. The Navy pilot reported they all got into it just before the missile hit and blasted it into little pieces. He’s dead, no question.

That’s good news, Lieutenant. Ordinarily, I’d be the first to congratulate you.

Ordinarily? Stoner was picking up a strange vibe from the conversation.

Right. Thing is, we received a message, just like Khan used to send to his targets. It’s addressed to the man who killed his son, Sarban. Here, take a look!

Stoner glanced at the writing.

‘Your life is a ticking clock. Beware the wrath of Allah, and his servant Sher Khan. You and those you love will suffer a thousand agonies before you beg for the release of death. Count your days, infidel, they are few in number.’

He shook his head. This is horseshit, Major. I tell you, the guys’ dead. One of his people sent it, trying to put the heebie-jeebies on us.

The Air Force officer grimaced. I hope you’re right, Stoner. I hope you’re right.

* * *

Sher Khan didn’t have long to wait. A smuggler train was heading south through the mountains with a consignment of raw opium. He offered them a substantial sum to take him to safety, and by the following night, he was back in Pakistan. They took him to a hospital, where surgeons started work on his injuries. In the event, he was in hospital for almost a year. There were serious complications from blood poisoning, and a botched attempt to repair the damage to his eye. The operation failed, and when they discharged him, he wore a patch on one eye, and walked with a distinct limp.

But he’d survived. He may be severely weakened, but he’d lost none of his skills, and he set about regaining his shattered health. Always the death of his son was in the forefront of his mind. It festered in his brain, like a lethal virus. He would wreak justice no matter what, and in the process he’d destroy those collaborators who allowed Afghanistan to be overrun with unbelievers. His every waking thought was of killing the man who’d murdered his son Sarban.

His plans for a state run under strict Sharia law changed. He needed money for weapons, and to pay for men, and to rebuild his status and prestige. In order to earn the money, he offered his expertise to the highest bidder. He had no shortage of takers.

Chapter Two

Present Day

The President of the Russian Federation had a reputation as a man who never forgot an insult. Men had gone to their deaths for forgetting that one fact. The reason for his rage was a conversation at the G7 Economic Summit. It came in the form of a pointed reminder of his nation’s ignominious withdrawal from Afghanistan. The speaker was the American Ambassador’s senior aide, who should have known better.

Sir, I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. I mean; if you were planning something like last time, it would be a big mistake.

He paused. Last time? The man’s tone alerted him there was something more coming.

That little stunt you pulled in Afghanistan. As I recall, you ran away like scared rabbits when the going got tough. I just thought to mention it, Mr. President. Before you make a mistake and try something like that again. We’re handling Afghanistan these days. They don’t need any Russian involvement. Not like the way you’ve made a mess in Syria. He chuckled, It’s lucky you weren’t in on the Iraq War. Saddam’s men would have whupped your asses. Stay away from Afghanistan, Sir. Just a friendly warning.

The President’s security men were trying to pull him away, but he stopped them.

Is this an American threat? His pale face reddened as his anger boiled over, You think you can coerce the President of the Russian Republic?

The message got through the haze of alcohol, and the aide adopted an apologetic expression. Uh, look, Sir, it was nothing. A friendly word of advice to leave Afghanistan alone, that's all.

The glare he received could have frozen water to ice. Many nations have tried to influence the policy of Mother Russia, and all have gone down to defeat and destruction. Let me give you a friendly word of advice. Russia never forgets. Never. You think we were defeated in Afghanistan? Think again.

The American realized he’d gone too far. He smiled an acknowledgment and bid the Russian farewell.

I’ve been stupid, but everyone shoots their mouth off after a few drinks, don’t they? By the morning it will all be forgotten.

He was wrong.

In another part of the conference building, the Russian President struggled to control his temper. He glared at the Deputy Minister of Defense, General Alexander Menshikov. His chest displayed a rainbow of medal ribbons. The man was with him to fact find the views of the other G7 nations. Tell me about Afghanistan.

Afghanistan? It’s an Islamic shithole; although it does have a strategic value, situated next to China, Pakistan, Iran, and some former Soviet States south of our own borders.

Is it worth investing any effort in the country?

He paused for thought, although both men already knew the answer. Afghanistan was a strategic crossroads. Economically, perhaps yes. It would knock the Americans off their perch, and give us access to a number of trade markets, so that answer is yes. Militarily? He shuddered, No. Our people would go ape if we even suggested it.

What about something more clandestine?

He gave the President a sharp glance. You mean the SVR?

The Foreign Intelligence Service of the Russian Federation was the successor to the KGB, and had inherited all of their vast expertise, as well as their ruthless way of doing business.

Yes, the SVR. Perhaps Military Intelligence also, there’s no reason they shouldn’t get involved. We pay them enough. We should expect results.

With what object, Sir?

As you said, to give us the power over the economies of the region. Would it not be of vast financial benefit to our country? Everyone knows we’re desperate for foreign currency.

He was thoughtful for a second or two, figuring out a reply. Yes, it could be of substantial benefit to Russia during trade negotiations such as this one. It would also give the Americans a bloody nose. Victory in Afghanistan, without firing a single shot.

The President didn’t smile. "No doubt there will be a few shots fired, but