Echo Six: Black Ops - Battleground Syria

By Eric Meyer

ISIS is desperate for a new source of cash to fund their brutal campaign. Rumors emerge of a cache of gold hidden in the desert outside the shattered ruins of Aleppo. Buried seventy years before, the bullion is plunder from the Second World War. Treasure that ISIS is searching for, and would fund a devastating new offensive. If they succeed, hundreds of thousands of lives are at stake, and Syria will once more become a blazing pyre.

NATO issues orders for the elite Special Forces unit Echo Six to drop into Syria to counter this new threat. Before they can leave, a Syrian Muslim immigrant concocts a fake murder allegation to discredit Sergeant Heinrich Buchmann, and they must remain in Brussels to await his trial. When a terrorist attack destroys a building in the heart of NATO headquarters, the Secretary General has a change of heart. Evidence links the Brussels bombers to Syria. To the wreckage that was once Aleppo, Syria's greatest city. Where ISIS is sending their toughest and most experienced fighters to secure the gold.

Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley, former US Navy SEAL, takes his unit back to Aleppo, into the maelstrom of war torn Syria. Against a background of treachery and disloyalty from friend and foe alike, Echo Six battles to prevent the bullion from reaching the ISIS coffers. They need every ounce of their strength and skills to avoid the jaws of the trap that awaits them in the burning sands of the Syrian Desert.

This is a thrilling story of an elite NATO Special Forces unit, under pressure from enemies on all sides. Echo Six Black Ops – Battleground Syria 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 more Echo Six novels and the Devil's Guard series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Aug 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911092209

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 – BATTLEGROUND SYRIA

By Eric Meyer

Copyright © 2016 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

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Foreword

It should have been a straightforward operation. Echo Six, a unit of NATO Special Forces, was to enter Aleppo under cover of darkness and snatch an ISIS intelligence officer. Twelve Special Forces operators to target a single man, it shouldn't have gone wrong. They knew the target, Bashir al-Atassi, would be in the city to inspect the defenses ready for an ISIS attack.

Since 2012, the city had fallen apart as rival factions fought for supremacy. None had succeeded so far, and the war in the city had become a bloody battle of attrition between the Islamic Front and the Syrian Army. A power vacuum existed. Nature abhors a vacuum, and so did the Islamic State. The plan was to fill the vacuum with legions of their bloodthirsty fanatics. By sheer fluke, a NATO drone had flagged his cellphone signal. In record time, the planners put together an operation to capture the man who was a constant thorn in their side.

As they crept along the dark passages and alleyways, it was difficult to see the attraction of the Syrian city. Aleppo was crumbling into the sands. Once a thriving metropolis of over two million souls, it was dying. The gaunt ruins of apartment blocks and shopping malls were like insane sculptures, silhouetted against the piles of ruined masonry. Once, Christian had lived side by side with Jew, Sunni Muslim with Shiite and Alawite.

The multicultural life of the city had all but disappeared. Now the Islamists ruled the rubble and held sway over the stinking, burned, and bombed out buildings. Muslim Alawite government supporters in the south. Sunnis Muslims in the north and east, most financed by the Saudis. Sandwiched between them were those non-Muslims who had yet to find the means to flee. Their numbers were few.

A gentle night breeze carried the stench to all parts of the city. Peace, law and order had disappeared, and as a result, water and sanitation systems had broken down and remained unrepaired. The normal odors of the Middle East were in evidence, but much, much worse. The gut churning odor of rotting vegetables, and the stink of dead and dying flesh. In the background, the foul smell of ordure and uncleared garbage. Before, the place was worth fighting for, when the city had a beating heart. Now, the combatants were picking over the bones of a decaying corpse.

Virgil Kane was on point, a scrawny southerner with an accent to match and the looks and build of a farm boy. He also had a lethal skill with a machine gun. Virgil carried a Minimi, a 5.56mm SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon, almost identical to the American M249. Night vision goggles allowed him to lead them through the reeking alleys and little-known passages to the target. Electricity had long disappeared in the battle-scarred conurbation. In the distance, a few lights showed, but they drew their power from kerosene, or locally owned gas generators. There were no lights in the target area. It was in darkness.

They were within two hundred meters of the target coordinates. Twelve fighting men outfitted in NATO pattern camos, armored vests, and Kevlar helmets. Everything dark, matt black, non-reflective. Their sophisticated night vision equipment gave them the ability to pierce the blackness. To see where the enemy could not.

Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley, a former U.S. Navy SEAL, called a halt. The squad leader, he had the tough, confident air of a man born to command. Tall, long-limbed, with curly, dark brown hair over a calm, confident face. A face that had taken a pounding from the effects of wind and weather. Beneath the camos and thick armored vest, it was still possible to make out muscles that were hard, like whipcord. He kept turning his head, constantly checking. For the locations of each of his men, and more important, any sign of the enemy. He held up a hand for them to stop as Kane flashed a signal.

He murmured into his mike, What is it, Virgil?

Fighters, coming this way. The bastards should be tucked up in bed, what're they after?

It wasn’t good news. They’re after us.

How do they know we’re here?

A security leak, that’s how. NATO is in Brussels, Belgium, and a sizable portion of the Belgian population is Muslim. The math isn’t hard to work out. The Mohammeds aren’t on our side, that’s for sure.

We’ll worry about the how later. What matters is they’re here.

He called to Buchmann, the big German who was bringing up the rear. He was the perfect trooper to guard their six and guard against a surprise attack. Gloomy, massive, and bristling with menace, he was a tank of a man. Built like the Panzers his forefathers had raced across Europe in Hitler's futile bid to conquer the world. 

 Heinrich, we’re pulling back to find another way through. What's the...

Negative, Echo One, that’s not going to happen. We have soldiers coming up from behind. Forty men is my best guess.

They couldn't go back, and they couldn't go forward. The options had narrowed to a single one. The roof, he snapped, Guy, find a way up.

On the way.

The former SAS Sergeant, Guy Welland, was his number two. Of medium height, at first glance Guy was unexceptional. A second glance may notice the Brit had shoulders the width of library shelves. His dark, brooding eyes were always on watch, always alert for a hostile threat, and when he moved, it was like lightning. Guy was a sergeant, and the unit had commissioned officers senior in rank to a sergeant. Yet he was second-in-command to Talley. Echo Six had a single criterion for promotion. Merit.

The Brit cast his eyes around, and they locked onto a drainage pipe. A second later he was clambering up the rusty, fragile-looking structure. It swayed and threatened to tear away from its mountings, but he shinned up it like a monkey. He made the top, disappeared over the parapet, and two seconds later, a long, thin rope snaked downward.

Talley sent the first man up, the Italian Lieutenant Domenico Rovere, a handsome womanizer, and a ruthless killer when he wasn’t quoting the second love of his life, William Shakespeare. The Italian former Alpini parachutist tended to quote Shakespearean passages at odd times. Like when they were up against overwhelming odds. An antidote to the tension that gripped them all. Tall, dark-eyed, dark-haired, and olive skinned, he had a reputation for considerable prowess with the ladies. A reputation of which he was more than proud.

The rest followed in quick succession. Virgil responded to the order and started up the rope. Buchmann was the last, and he looked at the line, his face creased with doubt. In the time it takes me to climb that rope, they'll be all over us, Boss. I'll stay here and cover the rear.

He opened his mouth to refuse, but it was already too late. A patter of running feet announced the arrival of the fighters from in front. Men appeared into the alleyway, saw movement, and opened fire. Bullets smacked around them, and they dove to the ground, searching for targets. Talley carried a sound suppressed weapon, a Heckler and Koch MP7. The lightweight, compact assault rifle fired a tiny 4.6mm precision round capable of punching through thin armor. Buchmann sported an Mk 47 Striker grenade launcher, which was neither quiet nor precise. As a stealth weapon, it was useless. As a piece of lightweight artillery, it was devastating.

Buchmann held his fire while he squeezed the trigger of the MP7. His bullets took down the leader of the group in front. At once, the gunfire increased, then the men behind opened up, and bullets blazed along the alley like a horizontal hailstorm. Both men pressed flat against the rough surface and listened to the screams of men hit by the fusillade of lead. From up on the roof, the unit fired at the enemy forces, forcing them back and hacking into the numbers.

What're they doing? Buchmann asked. It came out as 'Vot are zey doing?' He'd never troubled to perfect his English accent. The German had a simple philosophy. There were few misunderstandings he couldn't resolve using his massive strength. They're crazy, shooting at their own side.

He'd already arrived at the answer. My guess is the men behind are Syrian Army, and those in front are Islamic Front. One bunch was out to ambush the other, and we wound up in the middle. We have to get away from here fast, and there's just one way. Over that roof. They're already falling back on both sides, so we'll give 'em an incentive to stay away. Heinrich, put three grenades in the middle of the men in front, and three more behind us. The moment the last grenade is on the way, get up that rope.

Ja, I see that. What about you?

When you hit the roof, reload, and give 'em another three grenades at each end. I'll tell Guy to open fire, and we'll hit them with everything we have. With any luck, they'll keep their heads down long enough for us to get away.

Buchmann grinned, and before he could give the word, the German aimed and fired. Three times in rapid succession, then he swung around and fired three more grenades. The first salvo exploded, amidst screams and flashes that lit up the night.

Buchmann, go!

He didn't need to give the order a second time. The man swung up the rope with a mechanical action of his huge, muscled arms. It was like looking at two steel pistons, driving a cumbersome machine. Buchmann weighed as much as two ordinary men, yet it was all muscle, and he reached the roof as fast as if he was climbing a ladder. Talley lay on the ground, watching for targets, making sure no hostile had the great idea of shooting a man shinning up a rope. A short burst of semi-automatic fire came from the south, the soldiers, and bullets peppered around him. He shifted his stance to target the shooter, pulled the trigger, and saw his bullets strike. Then Guy was calling him.

Echo One, this is Two. You need to get up here ASAP. We can see an anti-aircraft gun mounted on a truck coming in, and it has its own searchlight. My guess is you have less than thirty seconds before they deploy. Grab the rope and hold on.

Guy, that anti-aircraft unit will slaughter us. I'll stay to take care of the searchlight. I want you to lead the men...

The interruption was curt and angry. Forget it, we're not moving out until you join us. Grab the rope.

No, I...

Grab the fucking rope!

He took the rope, and it felt as if a high-speed winch pulled him upward. Halfway to the top, the searchlight on the anti-aircraft truck came alive and bathed the entire area in harsh light. He felt like a World War Two bomber caught in a battery of searchlights, and the soldiers below took advantage. Bullets pinged around him, and his unit returned fire. The two SAWs went into action. Minimis, the European equivalent of the American M249. Some of the incoming fire stopped as the targets dove for cover. Two bullets struck his vest, then he was over the top, and he let them drag him away from the edge.

Time to get out of here, Boss, Guy snapped, There's a war starting down here. I told diMosta and Vann to take out that light. It'll give us a chance to get out under cover of darkness.

Negative! As long as the light is on, they'll shoot at each other. You found a way off this roof?

No sweat, we can jump from roof to roof for the next three buildings. After that, they're just ruins. We can descend to ground level, and make a sharp exit before they bring up more men.

Then let's go. And Guy...

What?

He regarded the Brit. Thanks. You, too, Buchmann. It was like a fairground ride. Now let's move.

Guy led the way, racing over the rooftops as if he was traversing a flat stretch of smooth concrete. It wasn't, the surface had its share of obstacles. TV aerials, satellite dishes, washing lines, ventilators, and the occasional heap of unused building materials for much needed repairs. The beam from the searchlight kept them in shadow, and their NV goggles lit the way. A leap to the next building, then the next, and they came to a stairway.

He vaulted the stairs four at a time, and they reached the ground several seconds later. In the distance, the battle still raged. Talley put on speed and reached the front.

We're gonna need to find transport to get us away. They know we're here now, so all bets are off. It's a pity about the target, but my guess is Bashir al-Atassi will be long gone after he heard the shooting. If either side catches him inside the city, they'll hang him over a fire and roast him.

Head for the bus station, Drew Jackson suggested. Always the practical one, Jackson was the kind of man who didn’t stand out in a crowd. Average looks, average build, and a brain that was a technical encyclopedia. He was their demolition specialist, and the unit boffin. They’d yet to come across something Drew couldn’t fix or blow up.

We'll take the next bus leaving town. He grinned, When I say take, that's what I mean. No need to buy tickets.

Talley nodded. You know the way?

He pointed. About six hundred meters in that direction.

Let's go.

They ran.

* * *

Bashir al-Atassi listened from his hiding place inside the first floor apartment and wiped away the pus from the raw wound under his nose. He'd been about to flee the city, when he heard shooting and men running down the stairs. A veteran of numerous fights, he could surmise when the sound of men's boots meant business. These men meant business. He moved fast, yet with as little sound as possible, ducked down below the window so they couldn't see him, and waited.

When they spoke, he was astonished to hear English voices. He peeked over the window ledge to see who dared to come to this place. Their uniforms were unusual, but in the faint glow of the false dawn, he was certain he'd recognize them again.

They weren’t all American, but a mix of American and European, which meant NATO. Al-Atassi was a fluent English speaker with a Master's degree from the London School of Economics, and he was no stranger to the different accents. After he graduated came the uprising in his native Syria. He abandoned his plans for a doctoral degree and went home. Home to something he'd dreamed about all his life. A movement to promote the glories of Allah. As well as the munificence of Sharia law to all humanity. For any who remained unconvinced, there'd be a demonstration of what horrors awaited those who would veer from the teachings of the Prophet.

He took over the emergent intelligence service of the Islamic State, using his skills to turn it into an efficient organization. His agents were always searching and probing unconquered territory for weakness. This time, he'd decided to spy out the opposition in Aleppo at first hand before they attacked. Besides, there was a second reason for him coming to the city. He was due to meet a man who had promised much to help their cause.

It was unlikely anyone would recognize him, although he had to be careful. Al-Atassi was tall for an Arab, over six feet. Lean as a telegraph pole, with a long, flowing beard of which he was inordinately proud. His height would make him stand out in a crowd, and his beard marked him as an Islamist. Not that wearing a beard in Syria was unusual. Except that this beard was different. A stray bullet grazed across his upper lip more than twelve months ago. It traced a furrow where previously there’d been a mustache.

Despite the efforts of the Medecin sans Frontieres medics, the damage needed more than their rudimentary facilities. It meant he could not grow another mustache over his lips. Instead, under his nose he displayed a red-raw furrow. The wound never healed. They told him to report back the following week for further treatment. Before he could return, Islamic State fighters executed the three medics, and the remainder of the staff fled. The wound oozed pus, which was inconvenient. It also made him a target for anyone who knew of his distinct facial feature. Enough to cause his death.

He wrapped his scarf around his face and waited for the infidel soldiers to pass. When they'd gone, he waited for another hour, and then stepped out into the early dawn. The city was quiet, the shooting had stopped, and he made his way to the garage outside the city where he'd parked his vehicle. As he scurried through the battered and scarred streets, he reflected on those men he'd seen earlier.

They could be a problem, and the way to deal with a problem is with bullets and bombs. If I find out who they are, I’ll be certain to arrange their early demise.

His movement had another problem. Money. In the early days, when the Islamists had stormed across the sands, they'd swept all before them. Valuable property fell into their hands, much of which was oil wealth. The infidels had started a new campaign of targeting their storage tanks and convoys. The money was running out. Even the Saudis, ever willing to sponsor terrorism in the name of the Sunni religion, had cut off much of their funding. The result was a dwindling bank balance, and the steady trickle of fighters away from their cause.

It had to stop. At the rate they were hemorrhaging money, they would be broke within months. No weapons, no explosives, and no vehicles. Not even money to pay the necessary bribes. Last, the money he'd stashed in a secret offshore account was draining away, as he had to draw on his personal reserves to pay his sources. Money he needed to finance a comfortable retirement. Safe from the vengeance of those who'd blame him for the destruction of an entire country.

He reached the garage and went inside. His battered Peugeot truck was where he'd left it, but a man was sitting in the passenger seat. He raised his assault rifle, just in case, but a voice called out a greeting.

Relax, Bashir, it's me. Who did you expect, the American Navy SEALs? Or Assad's Secret Service.

He didn't know the man's name. All he had was what he called himself. Abu. Nothing more. He gave the man a cold look, resenting his sneer as he stared at his ruined lip. Abu fingered his own luxuriant mustache, in a calculated insult. You heard the shooting? I thought they'd taken you.

He made an effort to control his anger. After all, he'd graduated with honors from the London School of Economics. He was no stinking camel rider. No, there were foreign troops trying to infiltrate the city. Special Forces. They ran into a unit of Assad's soldiers. There was never a problem.

The other man stared at him for long moments, to underline the insult. If you're sure you weren't followed here.

I was not followed, no. What do you have for me?

He smiled, revealing blackened stumps. Gold, my friend, enough gold for you to conquer Syria and win the war in Iraq. Your dream of a Caliphate would be realized, perhaps in a matter of months.

Gold? He put a note of disbelief into his voice, Where would you find gold in this place? There is no gold, Abu. You've been smoking too much marijuana.

I do not imbibe such things. Your suggestion insults me. The gold is there, the question is what will you pay me for the information that leads to its recovery?

Al-Atassi became serious. Abu's voice held a note of honesty. First, how much gold are we talking about?

Five tons, approximately.

He opened his mouth to speak, but found himself struck dumb. He had to work through the calculations before he came at a figure. A ton of gold was worth over thirty million dollars, U.S. Five tons, one hundred and fifty million dollars.

Impossible.

Abu shrugged. If you say so. I will take the information to another party prepared to listen. And pay.

Five tons of gold! The answer to my prayers, enough to keep the fight going until we achieve victory.

Do not be too hasty, my friend. First, where is it?

In this country. I will not say more, not yet.

Inside Syria, yes?

The man smiled. Yes.

How did it get there, and who does it belong to?

The man smiled. It dates back to the Second World War, when the Nazis were fleeing the wrath of Allied retribution.

Al-Atassi considered what he'd said. Tons of Nazi gold was still missing, despite an incalculable number of searches.

What is the price for this information?

Ten percent.

Fifteen million dollars! He spat on the ground. The London School of Economics had not altered his Arab haggling techniques. Forget it. I will pay one percent, as a finder's fee.

Not good enough, Bashir. Make me a sensible offer, or I go to another buyer.

Two.

Eight.

Three percent, but first I must verify what you are offering.

Verification is not a problem, but three percent is. Seven percent, and that's my final offer.

Minutes later, they settled on five percent, as both men had known they would. Honor had to be satisfied, and each considered they'd driven the harder bargain. They spat on their palms and shook hands.

Good, we have a deal. Tell me, in which area is the gold hidden?

Abu's expression became crafty, but a moment later he shrugged. There's no reason you shouldn't know. It is about thirty kilometers north of here, not far from the Turkish border.

The name of the place?

Deir Semaan.

The Monastery of Simeon?

Not the monastery, but that area, yes. It is buried deep, in a place you would never find. He leered, Too deep for you to find without my knowledge.

Very well. When do we meet?

At the Monastery, in two weeks’ time. You will need trucks to transport the bullion, and men to dig.

"Two weeks! We