Echo Six: Black Ops 8 - ISIS Killing Fields (7 page)

“Russians?” For a moment, he was lost for words, “Sir, what would Russians be doing out here?”

“They’re involved, you know that.”

“Yes, Sir, the whole world knows they’re involved. But it’s an air campaign, they’re sending over fighter bombers to prop up Assad’s regime in Syria.”

“Which is just across the border,” Brooks pointed out.

“Yessir, that’s true, but there’re no signs the Russians are trying to muscle in inside Iraq. Are there?”

The Admiral paused for a moment, and then his keen eyes rested on Talley. “Not yet. But it’s not the fighter-bombers that worry us. It’s…” Talley waited, “ground troops.”

“Ground troops? That’s impossible.”

Brooks’ smile was cold. “Is it? According to the Chairman of Russia’s defense committee, Russian volunteer units, thousands of men, could be on their way to Syria, maybe tens of thousands. He made it quite clear, as volunteers, they’d be legally entitled to fight for Assad, assuming he’s extended an invitation, which we believe he has. Then there’re the Cubans.”

Talley stared his disbelief. “You’re kidding me, Sir.”

“Nope. We understand they’ve sent several hundred tank troops to fight alongside Assad. The war in Syria is spreading, Commander, escalating fast. Our task is quite simply to make sure it doesn’t spread over the border.”

He grimaced. “You’d better tell ISIS. They don’t seem to understand how to play by the rules.”

Brooks stared back at him. “ISIS, yeah. That’s the big problem. If we could hit them real hard, and undermine their command structures, the need for the Russians to involve themselves would go away.” His eyes bored into Talley, “Now you know the extent of the problem, I have new orders for you. You and your men will patrol the border with Syria for the next three months. The mission is this, to prevent ISIS getting through, and to harass and attack the enemy wherever you find him. Locate them, get in fast, and kill them all. Wipe the bastards out, and we can all go home. Any questions?”

The action they’d fought earlier came to mind. “Yessir. How do you expect us to get to the border?”

The hard eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, how?”

“Those vehicles they gave us are falling apart. They’re not fit for purpose, Admiral.”

Brooks considered for a moments. “You have twelve men in your unit at present, is that correct?”

“Yes, Sir, we’re under strength right now.”

“You know the reason we’re up against it? Budget cuts.”

Talley grimaced. “Tell me something I don’t know. We’ve been driving the result of the budget cuts around the desert. It’s no way to fight a war, driving vehicles fit for the scrapyard.”

“What do you need?”

“Something fast, highly mobile, go anywhere, and able to mount a heavy machine gun. You want us to seek out and destroy the enemy, we need the tools to do the job.”

The Admiral stared back at him. “It sounds like you have it all worked out. As it happens, I can help you. An American company has been pushing me to take three of their vehicles for NATO evaluation, and these were sent out for another unit. I don’t suppose you’d like to take a look at them first.”

“What are they, APCs? We need something light and fast, Sir?”

“Then that’s what you’ll get, Mister. Something light and fast, and well-enough armed to get you in and out of trouble before they have time to pull up their underpants, or whatever it is these guys wear under those robes.”

“We’re not sure they wear anything, Admiral.”

He stared at him. “You’re kidding me, surely?" He shrugged, "Whatever. Come with me. Let’s go take a look.”

“Come with you where, Sir?”

“Around back. This stuff was brought here, intended for Charlie Platoon, but they’re not here. See what you think.”

Mezze Air Base, Outside Damascus, Syria

Captain Yuri Semyonov stepped outside his quarters and sighed as he surveyed the chaos. He'd managed little more than three hours rest after a night bombing raid against hostile positions. ISIS, Free Syrian Army, they never told him the truth. Many things had changed in Russia, but transparency wasn't one of them. Not that he cared. They were all the same, these Muslims. He was too young to have taken part in the Afghan debacle, but Chechnya was different. Muslims terrorizing the population with shootings, bombings, and kidnapping children, then there were the Shaheeds. Who in Chechnya hadn't lost someone, even a distant friend or relative, to the crazed fanatics?

He shuddered, was there any end to the killing? Would anything satisfy these butchers other than a dictatorship of the Caliph? Dictatorship, a word to remind any Russian of the terrible times the nation had suffered under Joseph Stalin. Yet these people would never learn. Not until some bloodthirsty warlord or Mullah had clawed his way to the top over a mountain of bodies. Followed by the inevitable declaration, he was the new supreme leader, the appointed of Allah himself.

Then there were the Russian ground troops. He suppressed another shudder. Putin had recruited these men from those who'd fought in Ukraine. Men who'd used extremes of savagery to subdue the Ukrainians, measures that included murder, rape, and even bringing down a civilian airliner with a full complement of passengers. Now they were here, a company of a hundred men, including thieves, drunkards, rapists, and murderers. Only yesterday, the company commander, a Major Rostov, had insisted his squadron of SU-25 ground attack fighter-bombers fly a suppression mission for him, to devastate a rebel held area outside Palmyra. An area that they'd ordered the Major to capture to prevent the insurgents establishing a forward base.

Captain Semyonov refused. The area in question contained a large number of civilians, including a school and a medical center. Rostov had stomped away, angry and muttering threats. Too bad, he hadn't signed up to commit a war crime. He started walking toward the flight line, the row of six Sukhoi SU-25s, and the jeep almost ran him down as it screeched to a stop. The man who jumped out was Major Rostov.

"You're flying another mission this morning, Captain."

"That's correct, Major, Al-Bukamal, close to the Iraq border. Our intelligence people say the rebels have been using the town as a staging post for arms and troops, bringing them into Syria."

Rostov drew his thick lips back in a contented sneer. "I know where you're going, Captain. I spoke to the military commander last night. Colonel Demidov agreed with me. Your planes would be more use to us attacking the rebel held parts of Palmyra."

He felt his anger begin to rise. If Demidov wanted to change his orders, he should come straight to him, not pass it on through this psychotic bully. "I take it you made the Colonel aware of the civilians in the area you want us to attack."

He smirked. "I did. The Colonel, and I quote, said, "Fuck the civilians. Bomb the savages back to the Stone Age. I suggest you go talk to him, Captain Semyonov. He'll tell you the same. When the job's done, we're sending in the gunships to stir up the rubble. Make sure there aren't any survivors."

"I will. Now get out of my way, Major. I've got work to do."

"In Palmyra." The other man’s voice was harsh.

He climbed back into the jeep, a GAZ Tiger, the approximate equivalent of the American Humvee, and roared away. Semyonov considered confronting Demidov right away but then changed his mind.

"Fuck Demidov. If he wants me to bomb civilians, he can tell me himself. I've got work to do."

He carried on walking until he reached the end Sukhoi. His wingman, First Lieutenant Vladimir Borodin, was engaged in the walkaround check, tugging at the control surfaces and checking the missile attachments to the wing hardpoints. Borodin saw him coming and waved a greeting.

"Captain, you're late this morning. What did The Pig have to say to you?"

Major Rostov had a pink face with thick, round lips and tiny, beady eyes. Vladimir nicknamed him The Pig the day he arrived, although not to his face. Rostov was not the kind of man you'd cross. Most psychotic killers weren't. He told him about the change of plan for the morning raid.

"Palmyra, that place again?" Borodin wiped his forehead as he digested the news. It left a black, greasy mark like war paint, "They know the rebels have mingled with the civilians, surely?"

"They know."

"And they want us to attack, just the same?" He scowled, "You need to talk to Demidov and shake out the rules of engagement. We're flyers, Yuri, not murderers."

The Lieutenant was right. "I'll go see him now. Tell the ground crew to have my aircraft ready to fly. Assuming they don't court martial me for disobeying an order."

He stared at the implacable face of Colonel Demidov.

"I could court martial you for disobeying an order, Captain Semyonov."

He was careful to keep his expression neutral, knowing he trod a fine line between legitimate protest and mutiny. "Yes, Sir. With respect, I believe there's a question of a possible war crime being committed here. I mean to say, Palmyra is..."

He didn't get any further. Demidov's fist slammed down on his desk. "I know there's a fucking war crime being committed, you fool. ISIS controls the town, and when they're not busy destroying ancient monuments and buildings, they're raping and executing the locals. That's what I call a fucking war crime, Captain. We're trying to stop them."

He held up his hand as Semyonov tried to go on, "No, no, I know what you're about to say. It doesn't justify us dropping our munitions on their heads. I see that, but what choice do we have? If we do nothing, more civilians will die and ISIS continues on their orgy of rape and murder. If we bomb, sure, a few civilian casualties will be inevitable. The Americans call it collateral damage. At least it'll enable us to beat the bastards and go home."

"Sir, I understand. Although I believe we should look at the targets again. Major Rostov wants us to carpet bomb the city, unless I've missed something."

Demidov chuckled. "I'm sure you're right. The Major is an extraordinarily zealous officer. Why don't we go over to the planning hut and take a look at the target again? See if we can pinpoint where to make your attack, and which areas to avoid."

"Yes, Sir, that would help. Although we don't know..."

The Colonel cut him, "No, Captain, it's not we who don't know, it's you who is unaware of the latest developments. The Cubans are already on the way, a squadron of tanks, T-72s."

"On the way to Palmyra? But, I thought they were supposed to train the Syrians to fight on their own."

"The plan has changed. Our superiors have decided to make Palmyra a priority target. Once you've completed your ground attack, I have a squadron of Hinds, Mil24s, to seek out targets of opportunity. When we're reasonably sure ISIS has taken a good hammering, Major Rostov goes in with his men."

"Into Palmyra? ISIS has many troops in the city. They'll outnumber him."

Demidov gave him a wintry smile. "They may do, but he won't be alone. The T-72s will act as his armored support and mobile artillery should he need it. We're going to give ISIS a bloody nose, Semyonov. This is the start of the big fightback. The word from Moscow is Assad is already preparing to sign a number of contracts. The purchase of billions of dollars of military equipment is at stake. Together with major projects to rebuild the country when the war is over."

"Yes, Sir."

Assuming there's anyone left alive after ISIS
has wiped out most of the population.

"Good. Let's take a look at those targets. See if we can't spare the schools and medical facilities. Even though it’ll leave them for ISIS to butcher and destroy."

Semyonov knew the Colonel was right. Doing nothing wasn't an option. It would leave the initiative with ISIS. Yet he was also wrong, as was this entire combined arms operation. After his six Sukhois had carried out their raid, the Hind gunships would almost certainly shoot up anything that moved. Then Rostov's savages, together with the efficient and implacable Cuban tankers, would finish off anything still left standing, or alive, guilty or innocent, ISIS or civilian.

What a way
to fight a war. Maybe I should have taken up a career as a physician, as my parents wanted me to, except that wouldn't let me fly my wonderful aircraft.

Once again he sighed.

It is going to be a long war,
and very painful. Aren't they all?

* * *

They were known as Light Strike Vehicles, LSVs. The frame buggies were used for fast hit-and-run style raids and scouting missions. Although not popular with the Army brass, Special Forces found them invaluable for their type of behind the lines asymmetric warfare. There were three of them, already painted in sand colored desert camo. Each sported an M2 .50 Browning machine gun on a pedestal.

"Any idea of the top speed?" Talley asked Brooks. In his head, he was working out how that last engagement would have gone down if they'd had fast, reliable attack vehicles.

"One hundred and thirty kph, so they tell me, at least on a decent surface. Less off road, but these babies will ride the rough ground like they're flying."

"We ate the dust of their Land Cruiser last time out, Admiral."

Brooks smiled. "These things eat Land Cruisers for breakfast. Top speed isn’t much different, but their speed over rough terrain is unbelievable. They weigh less than a thousand kilos, so they ride easy over soft sand."

"How come you're giving them to us?"

"Charlie Platoon is not here yet, so I reckon you should take them. I'll try and fix up for three replacements; although Brussels is gonna go ape. We're supposed to be making all kinds of budget cuts, yet these things cost a fortune. The spec includes the most modern sophisticated electronics fitted inside the LSVs. Communications, navigation, fire control, you name it, and it's in there. It's all ruggedized, desert proofed, so you'll be in the driver's seat the whole time." He stared at Talley, "Well? You want them, or stay with the Land Rovers?"

He didn't need to think, as long as the Iraqis hadn't been responsible for their maintenance. That was unlikely, as they'd just been shipped out from the States as part of America's contribution to NATO. He'd grab them. "I'll take 'em."

"Good. Report to me at 18.00, and I'll hand you the details of your next mission."

"Yes, Sir. When does the new operation start?"

"21.00, Commander."

"21.00. I see, Sir. I meant, on which day. How long can you give us to shake down these new vehicles?"

"You leave at 21.00 today, Commander." He checked his watch, "That gives you, oh, about nine hours, so I wouldn't waste any time. You'll need supplies for five days, although you should be back in two or three. I'll tell you the rest when you report at 18.00. That's all."

"Yessir."

Talley went to round up his men and give them the news. It didn't go down too well.

"You're kidding us, Commander!"

He stared back at them and grimaced. "I agree with you, but that's what the Admiral says."

Guy strolled up to him. "What about vehicles? We can't drive those Land Rovers. They're not fit for the scrapheap."

"It's not the Rovers. Come with me."

He led the way to the tiny compound where the three LSVs were parked. "These are ours, men, and what we'll be using for this trip."

"Mamma mia!" Domenico Rovere stared at the sleek buggies.

He smiled. "Mamma mia is about right. We'll drive these into the enemy's heart like a dagger. Get in fast, do the job, and get out just as fast."

The Italian regarded him thoughtfully. "Is this a dagger which I see before me, the handle toward my hand? A dagger of the mind, a false creation, proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain? I see thee yet, in form as palpable, as this which now I draw."

Heinrich Buchmann's forehead creased in confusion. He responded by drawing out his combat knife, a wickedly sharp tool of which he was more than proud. "Lieutenant, this is a dagger."

Rovere stared at him in astonishment. "Heinrich, I merely spoke in metaphor. Shakespearean metaphor."

"This metaphor, what kind of weapon is it?"

He let him down gently. Buchmann was a man to be handled carefully, like old, unstable dynamite. "Not that kind of a weapon, my friend. One your German philosophers would have once fought with."

His huge head moved up and down in agreement. It was like a bear shaking off the raindrops after a heavy rainstorm. "Ja, I see that." It was obvious he saw nothing.

Talley decided it was time to take over. He explained the good points of the LSVs, the speed, maneuverability, the sophisticated, state of the art electronics. "It means if we run across those ISIS characters in the Toyotas again, we'll be able to run around them in circles. And with the electronics we'll be able to call for support from anywhere on the battlefield."

Guy Welland shifted his gaze away from the LSVs to Talley. "Until they go wrong."