Echo Six: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 7-11)

By Eric Meyer

They are an International elite unit created by NATO to carry out missions where no other could hope to succeed. A mix of Seals, Delta Force, British SAS and French, German and Polish SpecOps operators. Led by a former Navy Seal, Lieutenant Abe Talley. This is Echo Six.

This complete box set contains the full text of the five full length novels. That’s right, all five books! Buy the box set today and read them all from start to finish:

TIBETAN FURY
An intelligence failure condemns Echo Six, an elite NATO SpecOps unit, to walk into a bloody trap inside Kashmir. Outnumbered and outgunned, they are forced to retreat under heavy fire. Airlifted back to Afghanistan, Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley is aware they need time to rebuild. Time to train replacements for those men whose bodies they left behind in the snows of Kashmir.

THE CHINA RAID
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.

ISIS KILLING FIELDS
ISIS strategy is unchanged, to expand their bloody Caliphate by means of conquest and slaughter. Yet the tide has begun to turn against the brutal regime. The Russians have arrived in force, along with their legions of aircraft and armor. In spite of this, the Mullahs ignore mounting losses and continue to send jihadi fighters to probe the Syria/Iraq border.

BATTLEGROUND SYRIA
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.

KILLZONE
An ISIS terror group snatches the US Ambassador in France, the latest in a number of high-level kidnaps. After a failed Turkish rescue effort, the President demands they assign the best NATO unit to the task. Echo Six, the Spec Ops unit led by Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley. Each operator is a veteran of their nation’s elite units. Their reputation is legendary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Mar 13, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370087655

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

PROLOGUE

The gentle sounds of bells. Water, running down a nearby rock face, diverted into a temple pool. Tenzin Davaika stopped to listen and to contemplate, as he had done for every hour of every day since he'd come to this place. A cold breeze ruffled the folds of his saffron robe, and automatically he adjusted the closure. The robe was short on his lean body, for he was tall for a Tibetan, a testament to his half-American parentage. His body was spare, almost to the point of emaciation, and his head shaved bald. Despite his puny physique, he moved with a steady, steely grace, evidence of a huge reserve of inner strength, either mental or physical, maybe both. He showed no sign that he was aware of the bitterly cold, snow-covered landscape.

Tibet was a high, cold country nestling in the Himalayas, the highest region on earth, and an average of five thousand meters above sea level. The sky was clear and blue, and the air temperature hovered around zero, as it usually did. It was all part of the natural glory that had once made this place a paradise on earth. Snow, mountain peaks, temples, streams, he had come intending never to leave. Times change.

The Chinese invaded paradise in 1950. The invasion marked a beginning of the pain, not an end; soldiers, policemen, beatings, imprisonments, harassment, and the theft of Tibetan property. Worse still, the MSS, The Ministry of State Security, brought their apparatus of terror to this peaceful land. Here in Lhasa, the hands of the MSS were drenched in the blood of innocent Tibetans. The warning had come just this morning from the Abbot. It was only what he expected.

Tenzin Davaika, I received a message from a friend in the city. The Ministry of State Security has somehow discovered you are not a native Tibetan. They plan to come here and arrest you as a spy.

He'd worked to keep calm, reciting his mantra, controlling his breathing. Still, his mind was in turmoil. At best, it would mean a life sentence in a harsh labor camp, at worst, a 9mm bullet in the back of his head. No appeals, no mercy. It could hardly be any worse. Except for one indisputable fact. He was an American spy, or had been once. However, there was something else, something far more important they must never find out, no matter how much pain they inflicted.

They may well discover he'd worked for CIA. He was resigned to that. Even though he'd left that organization, they may find out he still passed information to a contact in Lhasa for transmission to the outside world. He was resigned to that, too. For he passed on information about Chinese atrocities, pogroms, troop movements, weaponry, armor, anything that might be of interest to China’s enemies. And hasten the end of the occupation. As long as they never discovered the real secret. And they never would, not from him. He calmed his mind, as he was about to set out on a long, hard road, and there would be much pain and agony along the way.

How long do I have, Master?

They will come in the early morning, as they always do. You must leave here by tonight. Do not say goodbye to your brothers. We know some of them are Chinese plants. I will send you to a monastery in the southwest, close to the Nepalese border. You should be safe there, and you can cross into Nepal if danger threatens.

He'd thanked the Abbot; the man meant well and wouldn't know what he faced. Couldn't know. He spent the rest of the day in prayer and contemplation. He was ready. It would begin when he stepped through the gate. He wore his inner robe, outer robes, and a thicker robe to protect him from the elements. The rest of his possessions he carried in a small bundle, a bowl, a water-strainer, a razor to shave his head, a needle and thread, and his medicine. Insulin syringes for diabetes. They were the only possessions a Buddhist monk was allowed to own. He would have given up all of them for the chance to stay.

The night was cold as he waded through thick snow on the track that wound its way down the mountainside. Not the quickest route to Lhasa, but State Security could easily be watching the main road. Overhead, a pair of fighter jets descended, their navigational lights bright, to land at the military airfield outside Lhasa. Probably Shenyang J-11s, the Chinese variant of the Russian Sukhoi 27. He'd seen similar aircraft on the ground when he reported in to his controller in a previous life, when he worked undercover for the Agency. The People's Air Force had many such jets with which to subdue their slaves, as did tyrants the world over. There was always money for weapons and soldiers, but never enough to feed and house their populations.

Help me understand, Buddha. How can we reach the minds of these men?

He was shivering with cold when he reached the outskirts of the city, but inside he was calm, as he'd learned in the monastery. He recited a prayer as he walked and felt warmed by the familiar beauty of the words. Even though the Chinese brutes infested every part of his beloved Tibet, he was content.

He picked them up in the distance, a few hundred meters away. A group of soldiers clustered around a jeep, an ugly, Chinese-built Beijing BJ212. They had no lights, so they were waiting in ambush. Waiting for him. He'd seen the glow of a lighted cigarette. China had the highest percentage of smokers in the world. He tensed, ready to run.

He jogged off the track, just as a searchlight came on and flooded the area with harsh, bright light. He was too slow, caught in the periphery of the beam. They shouted, and he started to run across the snow, running from the city, and floundering away from the soldiers. He heard the jeep engine start, and then it was behind him, hurtling across the soft snow. He changed course, headed for a ditch, a place he could hide until they were gone. But it was too late, as he'd known it would be. The vehicle swung past him and skidded to a stop.

Soldiers leapt out, three men carrying Type 56 assault rifles, the AK-47 clones manufactured in China in their millions; the weapons utilized by the PLA, the People's Liberation Army, to suppress dissent to the dictatorship who ruled China. They were also used by Ministry of State Security troops, Department Two, the thugs who broke most heads in Tibet. The men wore Department Two flashes on their green uniforms. These men wore the Department Two flashes. State Security.

The first soldier smashed his rifle butt on his head, and he went down. The saffron robe was no defense against the flurry of kicks that followed, and the pain almost caused him to cry out. Instead, he recited his mantra and began a chant to Padmasambhava, the Guru Rinpoche. The noise infuriated his attackers, who redoubled their efforts to cripple him with their boots until a single word cut through the clear night air.

Teng! Stop!

The kicking ceased at once, and the monk raised his head to inspect his foes. The two soldiers who'd attacked him had moved back, panting after their exertion, and their officer stood over him. The face was known to him. Known to every man, woman, and child resident in Lhasa, a Chinese senior officer. The brutal face was topped with a baldhead, and he wore no hat, despite the cold. It made the sheen of skin look even more brutal and threatening.

The thick lips were twisted in a sneer, like a spoiled, sadistic child who has the entire world as its plaything. Beneath the brutal head, he possessed a physique that matched his propensity for brutality. Of average height, he was built like an oak tree, with thick muscles and a huge, broad chest, big enough to stop a tank.

His reputation was of a man who found enjoyment in the amount of pain he caused, especially to Tibetans, who he regarded as sub-human. He was a legend in Lhasa, the stuff of nightmares, something to frighten unruly children.

The sneer twisted into a smile.

Good evening. He spoke in clear English, almost without an accent, although he was known to be fluent in Tibetan, and of course Mandarin. A cold night for a stroll. We've been waiting for you, Tenzin Davaika, American spy. Do you know the penalty for spying in the People's Republic of China?

This is Tibet, not China.

The smile broadened. A million soldiers of the People's Army say different. The Autonomous Region of Tibet is a part of China, and always will be. And you, my friend, will face punishment for spying. You know what that is?

I know.

Good. In your case, there will be no long term of imprisonment while awaiting execution. The court will, of course, sentence you to death.

Chinese justice, he spat out, angry with the brutal State Security officer. He cautioned himself to be calm, but it was too late, the words were out. He'd known they would be here, would arrest him, would imprison and probably execute him. It was the way it had to be.

It is the justice of Major Xu Xilong.

He nodded to his two men, and they moved in with their boots raised, ready to resume the beating. Tenzin Davaika restarted his prayer.

CHAPTER ONE

The call had come in less than an hour before they were due to go on leave. It had been a grueling training exercise above the Arctic Circle, in Northern Norway. After the snow and ice, even returning to the quirky old city of Brussels was welcome. And Abe Talley had an even more pressing reason to look forward to this coming vacation. Sitting apart from the others, he worked to control his rage when they entered the conference room.

The commander of the NATO Special Forces outfit Echo Six, he had the tough, confident air of a man born to command. He was taller than average for a Special Forces operator, long-limbed, with curly, dark brown hair over a face that showed the effects of wind and weather. A man that any girl would look at twice, and frequently did. Except any girl didn't interest him, only one. He tried to relax.

His men saw the signs and gave him a wide berth. They knew what the problem was, and knew it was unjust. They also liked and respected him. And knew he'd have no choice but to follow orders.

Talley bunched his fists, then relaxed them, and made an effort to calm his racing brain.

I have to get to Israel and see her. It may be my last chance. I could lose her.

A visit to Israel, the Holy Land. To make a last attempt to talk to his girlfriend Nava. She'd made it to her ancestral home for the first time, and he'd gone through hell to make it happen for her. In a complete turnabout, she'd joined a religious commune and turned her back on him. It was maybe his last chance to work things out with her. Somehow, he knew he had to make it work. He loved her with an intensity that hurt.

Except it started to unravel when Admiral Carl Brooks, their boss, called them into the briefing room just after they landed in Belgium. His face was grim.

Your vacation is cancelled. I’m sorry. No, I'm not sorry, he amended, You know about the upcoming Mid-East peace conference to be held next month in Geneva? The American NSA guys have been working overtime to sift through the heap of intercepts that tie into the conference. It's obvious the Islamists would dearly love a chance to disrupt it, and kill a few Western diplomats at the same time. The US Vice President will be there, as well as the US Secretary of State, so it’s a tempting target. Too tempting for our old friend Wasim Aziz. NSA believes they're gathering their resources for a major attack, to be preceded by suicide bombers, and followed by at least a score of their fighters breaching the building with heavy weapons. We want you to go get Aziz. Without him, and more importantly, without his money, it'll fall apart.

Where is he? Talley asked. Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley, commander of Echo Six."

Brooks paused for a moment. Kashmir. The Pakistani-controlled segment.

Shit, Reynolds exclaimed, Sorry Sir.

Brooks smiled. Shit about sums it up. I intend to use two units for this operation. Echo Six will drop into Kashmir and terminate Aziz. He's the moneyman, the most important link in the chain. Terrorism doesn't come cheap, as I'm sure you know. At the same time, Alpha Six will target the hostiles who've already entered Europe. Some of the insurgents are known to be hiding in Switzerland, and the Swiss police are cooperating with NATO, as far as their neutrality will allow. As you're all aware, since the Congress of Vienna in 1815, their constitution forbids them from joining NATO. That's all, you fly out tonight.

Amidst the groans, they heard the voice of Lieutenant Domenico Rovere, the Italian who claimed as his hobbies Shakespeare and women. Not in that order. He was also a lethal and effective killer. Right now, Shakespeare was his choice.

The fire-eyed maid of smoky war, all hot and bleeding will we offer them.

Can it, Guy Welland murmured, but loud enough for most of them to hear. Welland was a specialist, a specialist in war and in killing. A veteran of the British SAS, he was also the unit's second-in-command. A sergeant, when there were men who were more senior in Echo Six, but no one argued he didn't deserve the job, even though he didn't look to be up to much, not physically.

At first glance, he looked average. Medium height, medium coloring, and conventional haircut. He was also the owner of smooth, unremarkable features, enough to make him almost invisible in a crowd, although his build was anything but average. His shoulders were the width of library shelves, and even in a tough outfit, he was known to be an extraordinary soldier. His dark, brooding eyes were always on watch, always alert for a hostile threat. When Guy perceived a threat, his strength and speed of response were nothing short of phenomenal; as so many of his enemies had found out, to their cost.

* * *

Abe Talley, in command of Echo Six, the NATO Special forces unit, and with the rank of Lieutenant Commander, was thinking about his number two. Guy had been different of late, moody and introspective. Even so, he’d clammed up when Talley offered to talk it through. Guy was Jewish, or at least, of Jewish ancestry. The problems his people encountered, most often in Islamic countries, were no surprise to anyone who kept up with current affairs.

Is that it, the problem that’s bugging him?

The nature of their work, most often countering the threat of Islamic terrorism, meant they were confronted with the ugly face of Muslim violence against non-Muslims. And if there were Jews they could attack, they rarely missed the opportunity. Was it something like that?

I’ll try again, and see if I can get him to talk about it.

He put it into a corner of his mind and resigned himself to a journey that would be long, numbingly cold, and exquisitely uncomfortable. They flew in a C-17, the huge four turbojet Boeing transport designed to be as much a test of men's endurance as much as a means of transport.

No one complained when they took a short stopover at Bagram Air Base outside Kabul in Afghanistan. It was a break from the wearying monotony, and they had a chance to stretch their legs. Night had fallen when they landed. An Air Force colonel driving a Humvee came out to meet them. He had a truck trailing behind, which took them aboard and ferried them across the airfield to the Special Forces compound, screened off from the rest of the base. He led them inside the secure briefing room, and in the bright white light, they were able to get a good look at the man. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face had the unhealthy pallor and broken veins of a man who was sick. Or one who drank more than was good for him.

My bosses asked me to give you a rundown on what to expect in Kashmiri airspace; weather, temperature, landscape, and most important, enemy troops. It's a place with special problems, and he put the accent on the word 'problems', In that part of the world, Gentlemen, everyone is the enemy. The Indians may assume you're Pakistani and shoot you. The Pakistanis assume you're Indian, and shoot you just the same. Then there's Al Qaeda, who shoot everybody, anyway.

What about the LZ, is it secure? What do we know about it? Talley asked.

It's high in the mountains, pretty damn cold this time of year, but it's deserted. The last time we took a detailed look at the satellite intel, it was clear. You'll land less than five klicks from Aziz's headquarters, he pointed to a map surrounded by photos of several buildings, There'll be more than enough time to locate him and destroy the target.

Why doesn't he say 'kill Aziz'? That's what we're going for. Why so squeamish?

How're you planning to get us out? What's the plan for exfil? Guy asked.

The Night Stalkers offered their services, he replied. There was no need to say more.

The United States Army 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, also known as the Night Stalkers, was a Special Operations unit of the United States Army that provided helicopter aviation support for various clandestine forces.

They're old friends, Guy told him, If they say they'll be there, they'll be there.

Gotcha. I've uploaded the maps and relevant data to your tactical pad, and we have prepared the demolition charges that Sergeant Jackson requested. This should be a straightforward operation. We've allowed for every eventuality. Little more than a training exercise.

Talley looked at him sharply.

In which case, why did they transport us halfway across the world? What isn't he telling us?

Just one small thing, he continued, Lashkar-e-Taiba have moved a number of men into the area. They're regrouping their forces since the Pakistani Army gave them a bloody nose last year.

Any connection with Aziz? Talley asked.

No. He shook his head, Absolutely not, we've checked and double-checked. It's just coincidence.

Talley shared a look with Guy. 'Coincidence' was a word they'd heard on too many occasions in the past. It usually translated to 'total fuckup'. The Colonel continued.

This operation has been well planned from start to finish. It's a milk run. Straight in and straight out.

A milk run, Colonel? Rovere exclaimed, not hiding his disbelief, Al Qaeda, Lashkar-e-Taiba, they're not exactly amateurs.

He smiled. We've gone through the satellite overheads, UAV footage, and a heap of intercepts from cellphones and local traffic. These local groups in the Kashmiri badlands are not at all sophisticated. Believe me, they're not the Taliban. Their equipment and training is pretty basic, to say the least.

Talley nodded, still skeptical. Nothing was that easy, except maybe death and taxes. You're certain?

One hundred percent. Our intel is as tight as the security here at Bagram. You can bet your pension on it.

His voice was full of confidence and enthusiasm, yet his expression was at odds with the strident tones. The Colonel was clearly a man used to saying what people wanted to hear, regardless of accuracy or truth. He finished with a sickly grin that didn't fool anyone.

In that moment, Talley was convinced it was all going to go as wrong as anything could go wrong. He kept quiet, and the officer indicated the meeting had ended. The Colonel walked across the room and out through the door at the end. He emerged outdoors in the full spill of light from the briefing room.

In the chill winter air, they heard it clearly. The shot was loud, a single 'crack' that was little louder than a plank of timber splitting. Immediately, sirens began to wail, and searchlights came on, bathing the area in hard, bright light. Guy was first to move. He raced for the light switch, plunged the room into darkness, and ran outside, followed by Talley and Reynolds. They dragged the Air Force officer's body back inside, and Talley went back out to take a look. It was good shooting, but not for the victim.

Jesse Whitefeather, one of the unit snipers, was already there. He glanced at the fence designed to obscure sight of the compound from the outside and pointed to a small hole in the fabric.

It's the height of a man's head. The shooter watched and waited until a target presented, then 'bang'. So much for the Colonel's confidence. He bet his pension and lost.

They looked out at the surrounding landscape. Whitefeather was seeking out any places where the bullet could have come from, and none was close. He whistled in awe.

That was one hell of a shot, more than just good shooting. Those people are learning their business.

Ain't that a fact? And now the operation has suffered its first casualty. How many more?

Guy came back outside and stared at Talley. Didn't that Colonel say something about 'the security here at Bagram'. I guess it means his intel was worthless, Boss. I've got a nasty feeling about this one. The enemy is ahead of us, no question.

I can't argue with that.

His number two gave him a satisfied nod.

It's time go find them and kill them. Islamic turds

He's not usually so passionate, Talley thought to himself.

Guy, what is it with you? What's the problem? You're letting your emotions rule your thoughts.

A pause, then he shook his head. It's this operation, Boss. They're waiting for us. I can almost smell 'em.

He stared at Sergeant Welland for a few moments.

Is he right? What are we getting ourselves into?

* * *

He looked around the cold, dark night, as the icy winds 10,000 meters above the Himalayan peaks swirled around him. They'd HAHO jumped, High Altitude, High Opening, from the open ramp of a C-17 Globemaster, flying at 11,000 meters above Pakistan.

The plan was to glide across the border in a long, shallow descent, and he needed to make constant adjustments to the 'chute to stay on course for the LZ, inside Pakistani-controlled Kashmir. Although the region they were headed was controlled by another master. Al Qaeda.

He thought back to the briefing earlier that day and the death of the Air Force colonel. They never found the sniper, and he hadn't expected them to. The business of combat sniping meant taking the shot, and then moving out fast. The shooter had known his business, no question. One thing was certain; they were getting their act together, using a degree of skill and professionalism that was something new. No matter what they called themselves, Al Qaeda, Lashkar-e-Taiba, Hamas, and a hundred others, they continued to improve their tactics and skills. Clearly, they regarded the taking of innocent lives as a serious business. And even more serious, and better trained than most of them, was the main enemy, Al Qaeda. Wasim Aziz's group.

His black 'chute rippled above him as a crosswind took hold, and he corrected again. He checked his wrist mount GPS and confirmed he was on course. He was dropping fast, height 1260 meters, and he'd soon be on the ground. Below, he knew everything was covered with snow, showing a pale green through the NV goggles. They were dressed like white ghosts in their mottled arctic camouflage, their weapons similarly camouflaged.

Maybe the Arctic warfare exercise was useful. We're used to freezing our butts off.

He surveyed the ground. There were no lights immediately below, just a small town in the distance, maybe ten klicks away. That was strange. In the briefing, there was supposed to be a small town, less than five kilometers from the LZ, and the target should be on the outskirts. Towns meant there'd be outlying farms. Roads, maybe tracks, motor vehicles, a shepherd's hut lit by an oil lamp to deter wolves. But there was nothing. He touched the transmit button.

This is Echo One. Heads up, the area surrounding the LZ is in complete darkness. Take extreme precautions. We could be dropping into a hot zone.

A bunch of clicks acknowledged. They'd be ready. He touched down in a deep snowdrift, hit the quick release on his harness, and swept up his weapon to check for any signs of hostiles. If he did see anything untoward, the Heckler & Koch MP7 was more than capable of dealing out death and destruction to whatever faced them on the ground, both soft and hard targets. The compact, lightweight assault rifle was a product of the German arms manufacturer's genius. The ammunition was as lightweight as the gun, tiny 4.6mm rounds, yet toughened enough to penetrate body armor. Against most targets, personnel or even lightly armored vehicles, it was devastating. Talley's gun was fitted with the tailor-made suppressor, which did not interfere with its accuracy or rate of fire. Fitted with Tritium-illuminated flip-up night sights, the MP7 could and did deliver invisible, silent death.

He swept the surrounding area, but the NV goggles only returned the ghostly, green glows of hills, both near and distant. And snow. Nothing moved. Until one by one, the rest of the unit touched down, all within a radius of fifty meters, guided by their GPS units. Inside of five minutes, they had their 'chutes hidden, and the men were ready to move out. He signaled to Jesse Whitefeather, one of the two unit snipers.

Take point. You know where we're headed. And Jesse... The Indian turned and waited, Stay alert, even more than usual. There's a lot I don't like about this.

He nodded and jogged away. The Marine Lieutenant, a tall Apache Native American, had a brown, implacable face and dark, almost jet black eyes that seemed to see through you. He was a first class sniper, considered one of the best in the entire US Military by his Marine Corps General. But he had something else, skills that right now Talley needed more than ever. He could move through terrain in total silence, and perhaps more important, he possessed a sixth sense for trouble that was almost uncanny. He waited until the sniper disappeared and then prepared to move out. He turned to his number two.

Guy, take the back marker. Jesse is up front scouting for trouble, and we'll put a Minimi front and back, just in case. The SAS man gave him a quizzical look, I smell trouble.

Roger that. I agree. Something's not right here.

He loped off to take up position in the rear. Talley turned to the second sniper, Vince DiMosta, the short, dark, second-generation Italian American. Vince, close up, I want you with me. All of you stay alert.

He couldn't shake off the feeling that something was badly wrong. Ever since that Air Force colonel, and his breezy confidence about operational security. Just before a sniper drilled a hole in his head.

They moved off and covered the terrain fast and in almost total silence. The ground was thinly covered with snow, and their footprints were a giveaway, but there was nothing to be done about it. They would be in and out in a single night before the harsh light of dawn betrayed them to a watching enemy. When the signs of their passing were discovered, they'd be long gone. They moved fast, and soon Talley saw the ghostly outlines of buildings, a town up ahead where they'd expected it. Yet no lights showed. It explained why the countryside had showed so dark from above, but it was strange, very strange. They passed a series of irrigation channels hacked out of the hard, stony ground, and then the track began to descend toward the town. In the distance, he swore he saw something move.

Echo Five, this is One. How're we looking, Jesse?

A pause. I'm...not sure. Hold it. They waited, Hostiles! They're everywhere. Jesus Christ, hit the dirt!

The snow around them erupted as a chatter of gunfire spewed bullets around them, chewing up the snow. They were already flat on the cold, white surface, sheltering from the incoming fire and searching for targets. A second later, Roy Reynolds pulled the trigger of his Minimi and began to return fire. Talley keyed his mic.

Jesse, what's going on up there?

I'm coming back in. Heads up, I'm ten meters ahead of you.

He kept watching as Whitefeather fast crawled across the snow and joined him.

They're all around us, well dug in, almost as if they were waiting for an attack.

An ambush?

Jesse paused, took aim, and squeezed the trigger of his Accuracy International Arctic Warfare rifle. The heavy .338 Lapua Magnum round spat out of the barrel, and the wind carried the shrill scream back to them. He nodded in satisfaction.

That bastard was asking for it. He was their sniper. I noticed the Dragunov first, once seen, never forgotten. Yeah, they were about three hundred meters ahead. They were so close I couldn't even use the commo.

What's your take?

I don't know yet, but they've learned a lot. I'd guess from the tactics our ISAF soldiers use in Afghanistan. And they're using night vision gear.

Fuck.

Yeah, it kind of loses us the advantage. They're coming in, Boss.

Roger that.

Talley could see them now, and they hadn't learned everything. Like not to leave a good defensive position to mount a full frontal attack. He popped a double tap at a man who seemed to be leading the charge and watched him go down. Reynolds had got into a steady rate of fire, short, accurate bursts, and the hostiles were starting to go down. The rest of his men instinctively found tiny folds in the snow-covered ground from which to fight back, and the night was torn apart by the sounds of gunfire and the screams of wounded men.

Guy slid across to join him, firing furiously from his HK410. Virgil crawled over to add the second Minimi to their firepower, and Vince found a low hillock off to their flank to make a usable sniper stand. Talley looked at Guy.

What about the rear, who do we have back there?

Drew Jackson and Kaz Lipinski are at the back. Heinrich Buchmann rounded up a couple of men to cover the left flank, and Rovere has another two out on the right. We're well covered, Boss.

As he spoke, they heard the sound of Buchmann's weapon, the explosive 'thud' as he launched a grenade at an enemy position. The huge, menacing German was using the experimental XM25, in military parlance a 'Counter Defilade Target Engagement System'. AKA, the 'Punisher'. It sure dealt out punishment wholesale, and the enemy was suffering from his barrage of grenades, but still it wasn't enough. Talley started moving to a better position, but then ducked his head as a mortar round exploded only meters away.

Jesus that was close! We have to pull back and find a better defensive position. We'll be wiped out if we stay here.

Those irrigation ditches a few meters back looked possible, Guy suggested, Until they bring up more mortars.

It'll have to do for now. He keyed his mic. This is Echo One. Start pulling back. I'll cover the center with Roy. Domenico, Heinrich, stay on the flanks but work your way back.

A series of acknowledgments followed, and their gunfire began to ease back as more men slipped away. Two more mortar shells exploded nearby. The first was a resounding miss. The second landed close to Rovere's position. Seconds later, the Italian came on the commo.

Boss, I lost two men, Claude Vartan and Ludwig Fromm.

A Frenchman and a German, both good men. Dear Christ, they haven't been with the unit for long.

Both dead?

Affirmative, the mortar shell landed right on top of them. I'll need help to get the bodies out.

I'll give it to Buchmann's team. Stay in position.

Copy that.

The enemy had other plans. A series of shouts and screams preceded a second wave of attackers, and this time they came in much greater numbers.

Boss, this is Vince. We need to pull out now. I can see fifty or more fighters heading straight for out positions. They came pouring out of the town like woodlice. They'll be on us in about half a minute, maybe less.

Roger that. Keep firing. Buchmann, belay that last order. I want you and the men you have with you to join me in the center. Rovere, you come, too. It's the only way. We have to concentrate our firepower and hit them hard.

Copy that. Buchmann's voice, laced with a heavy, Germanic accent, which always became stronger in the heat of action. Seconds later, he threw himself down and resumed firing with his grenade launcher.

But they still came. Green ghosts racing toward them, firing their AKs from the hip. A short, bearded man was in the center, firing a big automatic pistol, shouting, urging them on. Jesse hit him twice, and the heavy bullets knocked him to the ground. The combined fire from Echo Six’s assault rifles, machine guns, and sniper rifles took a fearful toll of the attackers, and they slowed and then halted. But still more fighters could be seen pouring out of the town. A second wave was forming, and it wouldn't be long before they renewed their attack. It needed a decision, and fast, a hard decision.

Pull back to the irrigation ditches, Talley shouted, Don't stop for the bodies, or you'll join them. We'll regroup and set up a new defensive position.

Another mortar shell landed, this time only a few meters in front of them.

I'm hit!

He turned at the scream. One of the Minimis had gone silent, and Roy Reynolds, the big, tough African American, was clutching his shoulder. He looked at Talley and grimaced.

Sorry, Boss. Shoulder wound, I'll be okay.

Get moving, Roy, and stay low.

I'll take the machine gun, Guy shouted, Just get out of here.

The trooper nodded and crawled away awkwardly, unable to use his right arm. Talley made a quick assessment of their position; he could ill afford to lose any more men. Reynolds’ wound was a blow. The big, black trooper was a rock that underpinned the entire unit. When everything went south, he could always rely on Reynolds to keep going, keep fighting, and bail them out of trouble. And now he was wounded, out of action. He glanced at Guy, who returned the look with an expression that needed no explanation. They were screwed, no question. He called Drew Jackson, their communications man and demolitions wizard, still covering the rear.

This is Echo One. Drew, crank up the radio, and call in for an exfil.

A pause. That bad?

Worse. Tell them we'll need those helos to pick up ASAP. We'll work our way out of here and find an LZ where they can put down. We can't use the first one. It's compromised. Tell them to call when they're in the air, and we'll pass on the coordinates.

I'm on it.

And then get everyone around you under cover in the irrigation ditches, if they haven't done that already.

Copy that.

He emptied a clip into the crowd of fighters that had moved nearer. They were only two hundred meters away. Then he reloaded, slung the MP7, and took the Minimi from Guy. Known in the US as the M249, it was a rugged platoon weapon, lightweight and capable of immense firepower from the 200-round mags. Reynolds had left a canvas bag with the spare clips. He looked inside. Five left, he'd need them all.

Guy, get out of here. I'll hold them off.

The Brit grinned. No way, Boss. When we go, we go out together.

He paused to fire another clip into the bunch of hostiles in the distance. Most of the enemy did not have the luxury of NV goggles and probably thought the night gave them invisibility. Bad mistake. Four men screamed as the nickel hard bullets ripped into them, and the rest dropped flat. He keyed his mic.

Rovere, DiMosta, Whitefeather, it's time to go. Guy and me will cover you, so get out now. Set up a defensive position as soon as you're clear, and we'll pull back through you.

Copy that.

Their firing slackened as more men pulled back until there was only Talley, Welland, and Buchmann. The big German was using the launcher again, firing the small 25mm grenades in groups of four, spread across the enemy's front.

Buchmann, your turn. Get moving. Cover us when we pull back.

He nodded and raced away at a crouch. When he was a hundred meters back, he opened fire again, and the lethal grenades flew overhead to devastate the enemy positions. He nodded in satisfaction; they had a good chance to get clear of this mess, until the next message came in.

Echo One, this is Jackson. We have a problem, Boss. The change of plans caught the Night Stalkers flat-footed. They're not even fueled-up ready to go. They didn't expect the call until much later in the night.

Understood, we'll have to wait. In the meantime, tell them we'll need aerial support. These bastards will be all over us in a few minutes.

Yeah, I told them we'd need something. Admiral Jacks is calling around to see what's available. Maybe a Predator?

That'd do the trick.

His earpiece went silent. He looked at Guy. There was a lull in the firing. The Brit nodded. He called Buchmann.

Heinrich, you ready for us?

Ja.

Let's go!

They got to their feet and chanced a crouching run, zigzagging across the snow. Bullets hissed overhead to target the enemy as the men in back gave them covering fire, and Buchmann fired shower after shower of grenades. They dropped flat next to the big German, who was feverishly reloading the XM25. Further in the rear, more of the Echo Six troopers were still firing clip after clip, inflicting heavy casualties. But still they came.

Wait for a lull, Talley croaked, almost out of breath in the thin, cold air.

They nodded, and when they came, poured more fire into the oncoming fighters. They were fanatics, driven by a crazed religious hatred, but human flesh can only take so much, and soon they lost heart for a second time.

Go!

Talley catapulted to his feet and made sure the other two men were running alongside him. They reached the irrigation ditches and dropped down next to his men in the shallow gullies. He looked around and couldn't see anyone missing. Rovere was nearby.

Domenico, what's the situation?

Grim. A couple more wounded, but nothing serious.

Understood. Drew, how about that help, how are they doing?

Jackson finished talking and clicked off. They have an AC-130 on the way. The gunship was crossing Pakistan with an escort of F/A 18s when they got the call and diverted. ETA is twenty-five minutes.

Roger that. Guy, can we hold them?

He grimaced. Just about. It'll be close.

Close is good enough.

It took the hostiles fifteen minutes to reposition and zero in their mortars. Each time they came nearer, Vince and Jesse picked them off with the long rifles, after they'd crawled back through the snow to reach a new firing position. Talley watched them and waited. Waiting for the barrage to start again, and waiting for the promised air support.

They're like robots. They keep coming, Guy observed. For once, his voice sounded tired, There must be a hundred of them out there, and Christ knows how many we've killed. Do these people never give up?

Not when their priests tell them about Paradise, and twenty odd virgins waiting for them to screw.

I thought it was seventy-two virgins, Rovere interrupted.

Maybe. Why don't you give it a try?

He grinned. As the bard once said, 'for in that sleep of death what dreams may come'. But I'll give it a miss for now.’

Shakespeare knew nothing, Guy snapped. Talley glanced at him. He was normally cool under fire.

What’s bugging him?

There was no time for him to answer. Yet another attack was coming in, another human wave, thirty or forty men racing across the churned up snow and eager to kill the infidels who'd dared to enter their sacred soil. Once more the night came alive with their loud cries of hate and anger, and then the screams of agony started as Echo Six returned fire. First, the ferocious 'crack' of the sniper rifles as they shot at long range. Then the machine guns and assault rifles joined in, and finally Buchmann fired, adding the steady drumbeat of his grenades to the inferno of fire and steel. They fired clip after clip, leaving the white snow dyed red with enemy blood. And once again, they faltered and then ran. Virgil, the wiry southerner, who combined the looks and build of a farm boy with a lethal skill with the Minimi, crawled over to Talley.

I'm out. Do you have any spare mags?

He looked in the canvas bag. One, you can take it. Guy, see how the rest of them are doing.

He crawled back a couple of minutes later. They're all low on ammo. Buchmann is down to his last four grenades, and there's about a clip apiece for the HK410s. How about you?

Talley looked down at his webbing. Two clips for the MP7. Then we'll be using handguns. He keyed his mic. Drew, any update on the air support?

Give me a few seconds. They watched, and waited. The darkness seemed to press in on them, colder, blacker, despite the brilliant white that covered the ground. The shooting had stopped, and the night was still. Four minutes, he came back, They want us in a tight bunch, no more than a five-meter radius. I've given them the satcom coordinates, and they'll triangulate a fire zone way outside our position.

Roger that. Okay, men, you heard it, so keep tight around this position. We've all seen an AC-130 in action. I don't want any mistakes.

Amen to that, Guy murmured.

They packed in close to each other, and Talley took over the satcom handset. Almost immediately, the gunship pilot called in; his voice as clear as if he was making a local rate phone call.

This is Spooky, incoming Alpha Charlie One Three Zero. One minute to target, confirm your location and clearance to open fire.

Talley looked around. They were all squashed in tight like Eskimos huddled together during an Arctic storm. That was a good simile; the storm that was about to hit would resemble the forces of hell, as if they were conjured up by a demon. At least, it would seem that way to the people on the receiving end.

This is Echo One, Alpha Charlie One Three Zero, location confirmed. You're clear to open fire. Repeat, clear to open fire.

Roger that, Echo One. Hold on to your hats, and say a prayer for the other guys.

Like hell!

The Lockheed AC-130 gunship was a heavily armed ground-attack aircraft variant of the C-130 Hercules transport plane. What singled this aircraft out from its cargo-carrying sister ships was the devastating armament, a single General Dynamics GAU-12/U Equalizer, a five-barrel 25mm Gatling-type rotary cannon. Powered by a pneumatic system, the rate of fire was almost two thousand heavy 25mm cannon rounds per minute.

The electric Gatling cannon was mounted to fire from the port side of the aircraft. Typically, the gunship performed a pylon turn, flying in a large circle around the target while keeping the gun fixed on the target, which allowed it to fire for much longer than a conventional attack aircraft. The result was devastating.

The night was lit by bright pinpricks of light, sparkling fireflies that danced toward the ground. Above the AC-130, a pair of F/A 18s patrolled ceaselessly, watching for any sign of interference. The Kashmiris below never knew what hit them. The heavy cannon rounds descended like a solid curtain of satanic rain, smashing into the target and turning flesh and bone into bloody ruin. The thunder of the massive cannon, added to the roar of the four straining turboprops, was awesome. The death toll was even more awesome.

Jesus Christ, Roy exclaimed, still clutching his wounded shoulder, I've seen it before, but I still don't believe it.

Instinctively, they pulled tighter into the circle, as far away from that terrible rain of death as possible, from the mechanized terror that came to a small corner of the Kashmiri highlands.

Some men tried to run, but they may as well have tried to avoid droplets of rain in a monsoon. The cannon fire sought them out, tracked them, and tore them apart. And then there were no more targets left to kill. The gunship circled for a few minutes more, seeking another target but without success.

Echo One, this is Alpha Charlie One Three Zero. You guys okay down there?

This is Echo One. We're good. That's a big thank you, guys. We owe you one.

You're welcome. I just picked up some traffic over the radio. The Night Stalkers are on the way, about a half hour before they arrive. They've instructed us to stay on station in case we're needed.

Roger that. Be advised, two of our own guys out there, they were killed in the firefight before you arrived. We'll be going to retrieve their bodies.

A pause. I'm sorry to hear that. We'll hold our fire.

Talley climbed to his feet. Let's go find our men. They're coming home. Roy, you're hurt, so stay here. Vince, stay with him, you too, Virgil. The rest of you, let's go find them. We're taking them home.

The carnage was incredible, human flesh and bone torn into small pieces, mixed up with snowflakes, and then minced into little pieces. Churned up with broken metal parts of AK-47s and bent brass cartridge cases into a bloody mess. They waded through the bloody field of death until they reached the two fallen men. Claude Vartan, whose remains would be buried back in France, and Ludwig Fromm, who recently moved into a new apartment outside Brussels with his wife and young son.

* * *

The helo crews watched as they lifted the two bodies aboard and then helped Roy Reynolds inside. Blood dripped through the battlefield dressing, and a crewman came forward to put on a fresh bandage and administer a shot. There was no need to say anything. No words could mitigate the events that had overtaken them. It had been a disaster.

The journey back to Bagram was mostly completed in silence. They were escorted by two new arrivals, another pair of F/A 18s circled like anxious sheepdogs around a flock of sheep. It was a long journey, with only the bitter taste of failure to keep them company. Even Rovere, always buoyed up and optimistic, wore a scowl. Thirty minutes out from Bagram, he moved up next to Talley and Guy Welland.

That Air Force colonel, if the Taliban hadn't got him, I'd have gone after him myself, he muttered.

Take it easy, Talley said gently, We'll never know what went wrong. It's not the first intelligence failing in the world, and it won't be the last.

He realized Buchmann had joined them and was listening.

This time you're wrong, Boss, Guy interrupted, With a major al Qaeda operation going down, someone should have looked it over much closer. It wasn't a failure. It was criminal neglect.

Buchmann nodded his head slowly. His big, brutal face was stretched into a tight mask of anger. Talley shuddered.

If that Air Force officer hadn't taken the sniper bullet, Heinrich would have gone looking for him, and God help him.

Guy struggled hard to contain his anger. His last words were, Someone's going down for this one. Heads are gonna roll.

* * *

Heads are gonna roll!

Vice Admiral Brooks stared at them as they filed into the briefing room. He'd only said those four words and nothing more when they landed. They'd watched in silence as the bodies were unloaded and carried away on a base ambulance. He followed up with another four words.

Briefing room, ten minutes.

They filed in, unchanged in their Arctic camos and helmets, the weapons still covered in strips of white cloth. He nodded to Talley and then waited until they were all inside. Buchmann stood at one side apart from the rest of the men, his face dark with fury. Talley had never seen him so angry, and reflected that the intel officer had almost been lucky the sniper got him. Buchmann's justice would have been long and painful.

Brooks stared at them for a few moments before he spoke.

Sit down, men. First, three USAF personnel are under arrest. It seems they recycled old intel reports because they were too busy running some Afghan aid scam in Kabul. The Air Force went crazy when I told them about the fuckup in Kashmir, and it took them about ten minutes for find out what was happening. Those men, a captain, a lieutenant, and a master-sergeant, can expect to serve long terms if they're found guilty.

They should be taken out and shot! Guy murmured but loud enough for him to hear, As if we don't have enough problems with these Islamic scum, we have our own people to contend with.

Talley stared at the SAS man, surprised at the strength of his anger.

You're angry, I know that. We all are, Brooks soothed.

When your people get killed unnecessarily, it makes you that way. Sir.

Brooks grimaced. I know that, Sergeant Welland. But this affair is now officially in the past as far as we're concerned. It's out of our hands. We're NATO not USAF. We need to get back to what we do best.

We were going on leave, Admiral, Talley reminded him.

Yeah, that's true, but things have changed. Besides, Echo Six took a hard fall back in Kashmir. We all know when you fall off a horse, you get right back in the saddle. I'm damned sorry it went down that way, but we're moving on.

We lost two men, Talley persisted, They're not moving on. Nor their families.

I'm sorry, but we'll have to mourn them later.

And what about Wasim Aziz? He's still on the scene and killing our people.

Brooks looked at his watch. A few minutes ago the Brit Astute class submarine Aggressive, out in the Indian Ocean, launched a Tomahawk cruise missile. It took out the residence of Wasim Aziz. He held up a hand as the room buzzed with anger.

I know, I know. You're asking why we didn't do that in the first place. There are reasons, powerful political reasons. But we had to look past those, and that's why we committed the Tomahawk. As near as we can tell everyone inside is dead, as are the occupants of the three houses nearby. You should know the fallout from the Pakistanis will be, to put it mildly, terrible. They'll do everything short of declare war on the NATO Alliance. And remember, they're a nuclear power. It wasn't what we wanted, but the debacle you suffered tonight forced our hand.

Someone from the back shouted, Tell that to the families of Vartan and Fromm.

He closed his eyes for a moment. Again, I'm sorry.

Talley rose to his feet, but at a sign from Brooks, sat down again.

I said when you fall off the horse, you get right back on. That's the way it's going to be. You have a few hours for a shower, change of underwear, and a hot meal. Then it's back in the saddle. You're going out again, another mission.

They stared at him in silence.

You're joking!

He stared at Welland, the SAS man. No, Sergeant, I'm not joking. While you were being shot at in Kashmir, a hot potato dropped into my lap. Echo Six just happened to be here, in the right place, at the right time to take on this mission.

We're due on leave. I have things I need to do, he protested, his voice sharp with anger, Christ, my people are depending on me.

Talley stared at him. People? Does he mean his family, or his race, the Chosen People? How can I get him to spell it out. Maybe I can help him.

I can't help that, Brooks overrode his objection, I've been handed my orders, and those are to put Echo Six back into the field.

Where? Guy pressed him.

He seemed to be considering his answer, but eventually gave it to them in one word.

Tibet.

Guy shook his head as if he'd been punched. That's now part of China, Admiral! Communist China.

He nodded. Yes, so I've been told.

The last I heard, they have upward of three million troops. As well as their Ministry of State Security, Secret Police, Militia, Cops, and Christ knows what else.

Yep.

Fuck it.

Yep. I agree with you, but we can't. We've been handed this, and we're going in.

Afterward, Talley took Guy Welland to one side and tried again.

What is it, what's eating you?

Nothing.

That's crap, and you know it. Someone's in trouble. Who is it?

He sighed, a deep, long breath. Finally, he answered, Did you know I have family in Egypt?

No, I didn't. Jews?

Guy smiled. What else? We may not all attend temple on a regular basis, but yes, that's our religion, our heritage, and our culture. My great-uncle, Abraham Weissman, lives in Cairo with his family.

I assume Weissman was the family name, before it changed to Welland?

Yeah, some of my folks altered it when the Nazis came to power and started the Second World War. It wasn't considered politic to own to a Germanic name.

Understood. So this Uncle Abraham, he's in trouble?

They all are. He lives in Cairo, a widower. The Muslims killed his wife several months back. That was the first warning. He has two daughters, they run an antiquities business. You heard of Kristallnacht?

Nazi Germany, 1938, when the Brownshirts tore up Jewish homes and businesses, and left the streets covered in broken glass from their smashed windows.

That's right. They're doing it to Abraham. Posted Islamic extremists to watch his place. They've threatened to smash up his place and rape his daughters if he doesn't get out of Cairo immediately.

Nice people. Devout Muslims.

Yeah. They told him to leave his property behind, all of it. He's a wealthy man. It's everything he's worked for all his life. He's a fighter and not prepared to give in to blackmail, but what does he do? I told him I'd go to Cairo and help him sort it out, but now...

Guy spread his arms wide, as if asking for an answer. But what?

You said sort it out, how do you mean?

It's a local Imam at back of it. Abraham gets on with his neighbors fine, but this priest has his eyes on Abraham's villa, just outside the city. It's a beautiful place, furnished with antiquities, paintings, sculptures, you name it. I'll go talk to him, persuade him to stop. Or else.

Or else you'll kill him.

This Imam and his people, are they serious?

Guy stared at him. You're kidding, right? They're Muslims, angling to rob a rich Jew of everything he owns. They've already murdered his wife. Yeah, they're serious, no question. We can't prove it, but there's no doubt.

How long do you think he has before they move in on him?

He shrugged. A few weeks, no more. He complained to the cops, but they're not interested. Not in a Jew."

I guess not. My friend, I can't do anything now, but here's a promise. When this operation ends, I'm coming with you. To Cairo.

It's not your fight, he objected, I mean, it may come down to something illegal, the cops could come looking for you.

I don't give a shit what it is. You're not going alone. I'm coming along to help out.

Me too.

Ja, I will come.

They looked as Rovere and Buchmann entered. They'd obviously been nearby, listening.

Hey, there's no need...

Makes no difference, the Italian argued, Like it or not, we'll be with you.

Ja, like the Musketeers, Buchmann grunted.

There were only three of them, Talley pointed out.

Three? But they still killed people, Buchmann said, We are going to kill this man, Ja?

Nein! Guy said sharply, and then he mumbled, unless it becomes necessary.

It looks like we'll be heading for a vacation in Cairo as soon as we get back, Rovere said cheerfully, I always wanted to see the pyramids.

CHAPTER TWO

Who do you work for, Mr. Campbell?

He had to take a few seconds to gather his breath and fight the pain of the savage blow to his kidneys. Silently, he repeated his mantra, over and over.

I told you. My name is Tenzin Davaika. I am a Buddhist monk. My Abbot will tell you ...aagghh!

One of the soldiers had used his nightstick to jab him in the groin, and the pain was unbelievable. Again, he fought for breath.

Who do you work for?

There is no pain. Only blue sky, the soft sigh of the wind, and the purity of mountain snow.

"My name is Tenzin Davaika. Please…

Another hard jab.

Please, you must believe me. I am a simple monk. I do not work for anyone. I serve the Lord Buddha, only in his name. There is no other.

Major Xu Xilong put up a hand to stop the next blow. The Major regarded the bloody body slumped in the chair, his arms tied to the sides.

This one will need a different approach. These damn monks. They are all so difficult to torture, almost as if they enjoy it.

You like pain, monk?

Pain? He looked up in surprise, No, how could I? It is just, I can only tell you the truth. I am a simple monk.

If that is the case, why are the Americans so interested in you?

I don't understand.

He looked at his Chinese tormentor, watching, waiting for the next blow. He knew what the Major wanted, but he couldn't give it to him. It would gain nothing and would result in the deaths of many men and women he called his friends. And one man more than any other, a man he had to protect at all costs. They must never know. He repeated his mantra. He'd gone into this willingly and known this moment would come.

I have to have faith, just to survive. Have to! So much depends on it.

I don't believe you. Do you deny your name is David Campbell? That you are an American? He held up his hand as the monk went