Raid on somalia, p.1
Raid on Somalia, page 1
ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS
By Eric Meyer
Copyright 2012 by 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.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
Chapter One
People running, some were shouting; panicked, arms waving, jostling, and pushing. Frantic eyes searched the length of the terminal for lost loved ones. This was Reagan National Airport, with all the tightly controlled chaos of an international transport hub. People of every nationality searching for their stray luggage; lost parents, lost kids, lost gates. Navy Seal Lieutenant Abe Talley stood aside from the milling crowds and checked the departures board, looking for his flight.
“Can I help you?”
He looked around. A United staff member, little more than twenty years of age, slim, pretty, and blonde in a crisp trim uniform, was smiling at him. She brushed a strand of hair off her face. “You look as if you may be lost.”
She was hitting on him. It was nothing new, yet he would have been surprised to know they found him attractive. Talley was tall, narrow, and long-limbed, with curly, dark brown hair over a smooth face, but already beginning to show the effects of wind and weather. He thought of himself as Mister Average, with an average face, and an average build. His face looked hard and slightly angular, dominated by firm determined lips that rarely creased into a smile. His job had little room for humor. His eyes were hidden behind Rayban Aviators. People said the eyes were the mirror to the soul. Talley liked to keep his soul to himself. He was a serious man who took the job of getting his men in and out of trouble spots with minimal casualties; which is what he was paid to do. As a Navy Seal platoon leader, a lieutenant, he had more responsibilities than most men even knew existed. His remit covered a broad spectrum between life and death. And he was no stranger to death. Talley gave the United girl a pleasant smile. He was always meticulous, always polite. He let her down gracefully.
“I’m fine, thank you, Ma’am. It’s real kind of you to offer, but there’s no problem.”
She pursed her lips, gave an almost inaudible sigh, and walked away.
He found what he wanted, the United Airlines flight to San Diego. He was going home. But not to his family, not this time. Kay had sent him a text message while he was away.
A text message, she didn’t even call! She wants a divorce, for Christ’s sake! She said she’s leaving me to go to her parents’ home in Los Angeles, and taking the kids with her.
Her text had been adamant, with no room for discussion. ‘Don’t try to call me, Abe. I need time to work this out. I’ll let you know when I feel like talking about it.’
What the hell did she mean, a week, a month, or a year even? Or is it permanent? Something about the way she said it suggests my marriage really is over. What can I do? If I push too hard, I could drive her away forever, and that means I may have trouble getting access to the kids. If I go along with it and stay out of contact, will she score that against me? Probably. Dammit, I don’t know what to do. When you got married they didn’t prepare you for a possible break-up. I’ve heard the expression ‘marital minefield’, and now I know exactly what it means. It’s something that hits you with the power of a well-aimed sledgehammer.
He’d been away for a week of tests and interviews for a change of job with a new NATO taskforce, NATFOR. They were setting it up to combine elite troops drawn from six nations into a global strike force. NATFOR would be able to respond to terrorist threats in any country in the world. His job with the Seals had entailed responding to plenty of terrorist threats, but the politicians wanted more. Their intention was to have at their disposal a weapon that would strike even harder and faster, with a cross-border consensus giving them an unfettered playing field. There’d be no need for nations to argue and bicker. When terrorists struck one member country, they’d be striking at them all. And NATFOR would be there to hit back, no matter where in the world they were sent. It was the most exciting challenge he’d faced in his career, and yet he felt his life was on the slide. In his heart, he knew he’d lost his family for good.
Was joining NATFOR the final push that sent her over the edge? Or was divorce in her mind already, and I just didn’t seen it coming? The latter is more than likely true. People say the husband is always the last person to know.
Talley pushed his thoughts to a corner of his mind as a senior army officer swept towards him, complete with entourage; a four star General, no less. General Richard Kelly, the tough, competent Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. And then he looked again, as he stood formally to one side to allow General Kelly to pass. He wasn’t looking at the General, who acknowledged his Navy uniform and rank with a slight nod. No, he was looking beyond him, at a group of men showing an interest; men who shouldn’t have been showing an interest. They were driving an electric truck designed to carry baggage, except that this one was empty of any baggage. He glanced at the two men in the front, the driver and passenger both looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. Two more men of Middle Eastern appearance, walked alongside. Nothing unusual about that, there were a great many Arabs in the US, fleeing their shithouse countries for a better life. But there were others with different ideas, not ideas of building anything worthwhile, but of destroying everything that was good, clean, and civilized; in the name of God, of course. Something about the way the Arabs gazed after General Kelly so intently made him feel very uneasy.
A Federal Air Marshal lounged nearby, one of the new breed of airport security guards, and Talley walked over to talk to him.
“Excuse me, Sir. Do you recognize those guys on the baggage truck, are they airport employees?”
The man looked at him with a hard but disinterested expression. His face was pasty and sallow, the result of too much time spent indoors, and a life of boredom and inaction.
“What business is it of yours, Sailor?”
Oh shit, one of those; a gun, a uniform, and a complex.
The marshal was young, maybe mid-twenties, and overweight. His gunbelt hung low, where his heavy pistol had pulled the leather down under his bulging gut. He sported a clipped, military-style mustache, which he’d been smoothing down when Talley approached him.
“Marshal, there are notices all over the terminal telling passengers to report anything suspicious. I’m reporting it to you, right now.”
The man stared at him with an expression of growing irritation. He hitched his belt up an inch and unconsciously smoothed his mustache again.
“So you’ve reported it, Buster. Now beat it, I’ve got better things to do than listen to stupid complaints from passengers.”
Talley sighed. The guy was a waste of time. He nodded politely and walked after the baggage truck. It was moving slowly, and each time the General changed direction it followed him. The overhead Tannoy system clicked on.
“United Airlines flight UA255 to San Diego, would all passengers go immediately to Gate 32. The flight is now boarding and will close in ten minutes.”
Shit! If I’m wrong, and it’s just a couple of eager immigrants innocently earning a few dollars working in Reagan National, I’ll miss my flight.
It would cost him several hundred bucks to get another. But he didn’t think he was wrong. Something didn’t smell right, and a sixth sense impelled him to check it out. He shrugged mentally.
If I am wrong, I’ll just have to live with it. So be it.
He kept after the slow moving truck. General Kelly and his staff were heading toward the VIP lounge, and the electric baggage truck was getting closer. And then he saw the passenger bend down to pick up a canvas holdall from the floor of the cab, unzip it, and start to pull out a weapon. Talley recognized the short black barrel and slim curved clip of a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. Both of the men walking alongside put their hands inside their dark blue airport coveralls in an unmistakable gesture. They were about to draw their pistols. Talley wasn’t armed as he was about to board a commercial flight. And he was faced with four guys who all carried weapons. He had only one weapon; speed and surprise. He used both. Talley ran toward the guy in the truck, reasoning that the semi-automatic weapon was the biggest threat. The handguns would have to wait. He dived, just as the driver braked the baggage truck, and his momentum carried him forward. He flew over the baggage truck and crashed into the back of the submachine gunner. The man recovered fast, lifting his MP5, attempting to twist it around to open fire, but Talley grabbed the barrel and pointed it down at the floor. T
The two Arabs leveled their pistols at Talley, their eyes cold and determined, and their expressions unfazed. He made a last, despairing grab for the MP5. Still the man held on grimly as if his life depended on it. Which they both knew it did. As the two pistol barrels took aim at him, he twisted around in a move that would have done justice to an acrobat, and his opponent was turned to form a barrier between him and the shooters. Four shots cracked out, adding to the general mayhem in the terminal, and he felt the man with the MP5 jerk and slacken in his arms as the bullets took him in the body. Now the submachine gun was loose, and Talley jerked it out of the dying man’s hands. As he did so, he saw the butt of a snub-nose Smith and Wesson .38 tucked into the man’s belt. He grabbed for it and dived backward behind the baggage truck, rolling to one side to land behind the cover of the front wheels. Three more shots cracked out, and behind him someone screamed. He darted a fast look around the hood and saw the men were both running. The driver was already getting to his feet, so Talley did the only thing possible. He leapt up and fired off two rounds from the MP5. They hit the Arab in the upper body and threw him back to the floor. This time he didn’t get up. Talley rammed the .38 into his waistband, gripped the submachine gun, and sprinted off after the two Arabs. They were heading back in the direction they’d come from. The overweight Federal Air Marshal stepped in front of them and held up one hand to stop them, his other hand clawing for his pistol. The men opened fire, one shot each and he fell down, clutching at a growing patch of blood that saturated his shirt. They didn’t even slow up, but jumped over the body and kept going fast. Talley couldn’t shoot; there were too many civilians in the firing line. He was also aware of the risk he was running, for despite his naval officer’s uniform, he was an armed man running inside an airport terminal that was alive with warning sirens as the defense force came to maximum alert. And then the challenge came.
“Stop! Federal Air Marshals. Put down your weapon.”
Two uniformed men, both leaner and fitter than the one who’d been shot. They’d missed seeing the fleeing ‘baggage handlers’ and were staring at him. As he ran up to them, he shouted, “The two baggage guys that went past, they’re both armed, and they tried to kill General Kelly. We have to stop them!”
“You drop it now, buddy. This is your last warning, or we shoot.”
He didn’t have a choice. He pretended to slow as he reached them, and then he ducked low, and swung around with his leg. His iron-hard muscles, developed during long years of intensive training that would have driven lesser men to despair, smashed into them and sent them crashing to the floor. Talley sprang back to his feet and shouted, “Sorry, Guys, I have to stop them.” He ran on.
One of the Arabs looked around, saw Talley, and shouted something to his companion. They both stopped, and one of them grabbed the arm of a young and attractive woman who was nearby. She shrieked in alarm as they twisted her body in front of them.
“Stop! Put down the gun, or we shoot the girl!”
He came to a halt and walked slowly toward them. He could hear more shouts behind him. The chaos was worsening, and more Marshals were pouring into the terminal, yet he knew he was on his own. It would take airport security too long to get on top of this situation.
“Don’t shoot her. I’m lowering the gun, look.”
“Don’t come any nearer. Put it down on the ground.”
“Yes, Sir, I’m doing that. Look, the gun is going down on the floor.”
He lowered it and made a couple more steps forward; nearly there.
“Mister, she dies if you don’t stop right there.”
He stopped, put the gun on the ground, and raised his hands.
“It’s okay. I’ve dropped it. Look! Why don’t you let the girl go?”
The older of the two men lifted his pistol and pointed it at Talley’s face.
“You infidel dog! You have poked your nose into our business and wrecked our plans.” His lips were drawn back in a snarl, exposing blackened rotting teeth. Spittle sprayed out in front of him, and his face was red with fury. “You will not interfere again. My people have a simple remedy for dogs like you.”
He pushed the woman slightly to one side so he could aim better. Talley saw his finger move on the trigger. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly and the barrel shook. The man lacked the single-minded dedication that professionals acquire after years of training. He was an amateur. The Arab had the motivation, but fury was the wrong emotion for shooters. Maybe it would work for suicide bombers, but not for close-up, man-to-man killing. Talley saw him squint even more, evidence that he was summoning the inner will needed to finally pull the trigger and take a life. Even in a terrorist, it wasn’t always second nature. But the fractional hesitation was enough for a man who’d spent his working life training for situations like this one. He snatched the Smith and Wesson from his waistband, leveled the barrel, and pulled the trigger in one single flowing action. The shot was loud, almost deafening, and a red hole suddenly appeared in the Arab’s forehead. A jet of blood gushed out, splattering over the girl and the second terrorist. His eyes flared with fear as his friend’s lifeblood sprayed over him, but he recovered and started to raise his pistol. Talley pulled the trigger, once, twice, and he was thrown back. The girl screamed, shrieking in hysteria, and he took her in his arms to comfort her.
“It’s all over. You’re going to be okay. They’re all dead.”
“Oh God, Oh God, they were going go kill me.”
“Not now. They’re not going to kill anybody. They’re dead.”
“Stop right there! Hold it, drop that weapon, and put your hands up. Lie down on the floor!”
Talley looked around, the Federal Air Marshals had arrived, and this time they were in force. At last! Six of them stood with their handguns pointed straight at him. He slowly lowered the .38 to the floor, and lay down with his hands outstretched. One of the Marshals ran over and kicked the pistol away, just like they did in the cop shows on TV. Two more of them ran forward; one knelt on his neck, and the other cuffed him.
“Get up, motherfucker. You don’t run around our airport with a loaded weapon like fucking Rambo. That’s the way people get killed! You’re under arrest.”
They pulled him roughly to his feet and started to read him his rights.
At least they got that bit right.
Talley remained silent; he knew that anything he said to them would be a waste of time. Until someone who knew their ass from their elbow got involved, he’d have to roll with whatever these clowns wanted to do to him.
“Take the sonofabitch to the cells,” a Marshal shouted angrily. Talley sighed. There was nothing he could do to dissuade them. The explanations would have to come later, when someone more senior than these rentacops turned up. He’d need a lawyer; he realized that and smiled.
Times have changed. Once, they would have thanked me for stopping the terrorists. Not now. I broke Federal law, which is all that matters.
And then a hard commanding voice cut across the chaos and hubbub of the terminal.
“Release that man!”
They whipped around to stare at the newcomer. It was a voice that would command immediate attention from anyone, anywhere in the world. Talley smiled inwardly, General Richard Kelly, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, had arrived on the scene, flanked by his officers; each of them with his service automatic drawn and ready to use.
