Echo Six: Black Ops 6 - Battle for Beirut (25 page)

Rovere couldn't help himself. "Our battle is more full of names than yours, our men more perfect in the use of arms. Our armor all as strong, our cause the best."

Guy shot him a hard glance.

"Shakespeare, Guy."

"Fuck Shakespeare."

He fell silent, and Guy continued, "As long as that gunship is overhead, we're stuck here. Let's not make it any harder than it is."

"There's something else," Talley interjected, "We want to know the likely destination of al Saif's Gulfstream. Remember, we came here to rescue a hostage, and she's still held captive."

"Nava, yeah. We'll do everything we can to find where that bastard's taken her. That covers it. Let's spread out and get moving."

He was rushing away when Talley stopped him.

"You didn't tell me where you want me."

The Brit looked embarrassed. "Sure, stay here and keep an eye on the APC. We don't want the ragheads stealing it back from us."

"Copy that."

He turned away. Seconds later, Talley was on his own. Virgil had prepared a fortified position, surrounded with blocks of stone that had tumbled when they smashed their way into the palace. Roy was outside the rear door in the passage where he'd wedged himself behind a pile of upturned oak furniture.

I'm the cripple,
he reminded himself bitterly.
Unfit to fight, unfit to lead my men into action.

He heard a noise close to the BTR and grabbed his MP7. He still held it in his left hand. The right arm hadn't recovered any feeling.

The APC hatch popped open, and a head emerged. He grinned with relief. It was Drew Jackson, the electronics wizard. He looked at Talley in surprise.

"Boss, what gives? I thought you'd be with the others."

"Guy is leading them."

"Right."

They both turned as a concentrated burst of semiautomatic fire sounded from inside the palace. It didn't last long, and then the room fell silent.

"It looks like they got on the scoreboard. You sure you're okay?"

"It looks that way. I'm fine, just taking a backseat. You know, problem with the arm."

Jackson nodded his understanding.

"Drew, what are you doing in there?"

"Me?" he grinned, "You remember you told Admiral Brooks the satcom was playing up? It came true. After that gunship raked us with cannon fire, we had metal flying through the cabin. A sliver went right through the case of the satcom, and now it really is screwed."

"Can you fix it?"

Jackson had been thinking, his eyes closed and his brow furrowed, but he opened them and stared at Talley. "Fix it? Yes and no. I've got it partially working, but the frequencies are shot to hell. You remember we patched Werner Best through to our frequency? I managed to reach him. He's still on the USS Nimitz. But that's about all."

Something stirred in the back of Talley's mind.

Is it possible the Nimitz's formidable array of intelligence gathering equipment has picked up the Gulfstream? They may even have a record of its course and destination.

"Can you connect me with Best? I'll talk to him."

"I'll try."

Jackson climbed down into the vehicle, and a minute later called Talley inside. He gave him the handset. "Captain Best is on now."

"Werner?"

"Commander Talley. What can I do for you?"

He explained about the Gulfstream that left Arar. "It's carrying the last of the hostages. I need to know the heading and destination."

A dry chuckle came back at him. "You want me to ask these US Navy people for a favor? It's not going to happen. After they pulled us out of Masnaa, Admiral Brooks was pretty pissed at them for leaving Echo Six behind."

"That wasn't their fault. It was my decision."

"Maybe. But he wanted them to go back in to bring you out, and there was one hell of a row. These people won't give NATO their spit, not until this is smoothed over."

"You're sure? There's no one aboard who may help out?"

"The only people friendly were the flyers, the SAR guys. The rest of them would cast us loose in a small boat and never see us again."

"That bad, eh?"

The German chuckled. "Worse. We'll get through it. I'm reading your position on the satnav, what are you doing in the center of the Saudi desert?"

"Long story. We're waiting for night, and then we'll try to make it out and back to Lebanon."

"Good luck with that. If you need SAR, let me know. They'll come for you. They're good people. Listen, I'll contact Brooks when you hang up. He may be able to pull some strings and get a fix on that jet."

"Thanks, Werner. Talley out."

He felt cheered by having spoken to the German. Captain Best even sounded more human.

Maybe things are on the up and up.

Another burst of fire echoed through the corridors of the palace. Buchmann's fireteam came hurtling back through the doorway, so fast that Roy almost opened fire when he saw heavily armed men moving toward him. Behind the German, they had a young woman, wearing the black and white uniform of a maid.

"This girl worked on the domestic staff in the palace. She heard plenty of conversations between al Saif and his people. She thinks she may know where he's headed."

Talley looked at the girl. She was about twenty years old, and her face was marred by a scar that ran from her ear, across her cheek, and down to the corner of her mouth. She may have been pretty once, but she wasn't now.

"Do you speak English?"

She nodded eagerly. "I learned English from my older sister."

"Why would you want to help us?"

"My employer, Malik al Said, he is a pig, a predator, and a sadist. I hate him."

"Why didn't you leave?"

She shrugged. "How could I? The place is guarded day and night, and al Saif holds the personal documents of all his staff. People who asked to leave were treated badly, and some disappeared."

"Understood. What can you tell me about him?"

"He has a yacht. He keeps it in the harbor at Tyre, in the Lebanon. I overheard him say that if he was ever threatened, that's where he would go. The city of Tyre is home to both Hezbollah and the Palestinian PLO. I don't know how much you know about him, but he has extensive dealings with those people. He supplies them with arms and money, in return for women."

"What kind of a yacht? Is it very big?"

She grimaced. "I went there once. It is vast. I believe sixty or seventy meters in length, built on four decks. He has made it his floating headquarters, with every luxury on board. It is also well guarded. As well as the crew, there are at least twenty armed guards at all times."

He thanked her and called Buchmann to one side. "She was a good find. Take care of her, and when we leave, she can come with us. I doubt she'd want to say here."

"I'll see to her, Boss."

Talley sat down to work out their next move. True, he wasn’t in command, Guy had taken over, but he had no doubt the Brit would listen to him. They couldn't do anything until they got out, so he called Goldstein.

"Shimon, this is Talley. How are things looking out there?"

"I was just about to call you," the familiar voice of the Mossad man replied, "Zaki and I have an idea to get you all out of there. He managed to persuade the control tower we were nothing to do with the fight, and so far they believe him. He told them he needs to get the aircraft out before it gets damaged, so they've agreed to let us go. Here’s the good part. It'll be dark in another half-hour, and Zaki will pretend to take off, but as the aircraft reaches the closest point to the palace, he'll abort with technical problems. If your men can hide out in the desert close to the runway, you can scramble aboard, and he'll continue with the take off."

It could work. Provided the crew of the AH-64 doesn't know we're
on board the aircraft.

"It sounds like a plan. I'll call Guy and tell him what you said."

He heard another burst of gunfire from inside the palace, and then Guy's voice in his earpiece.

"Echo One, this is Echo Two. Rovere's fireteam is mopping up the last few defenders, but most of them seem to have packed up and left. We'll be back in a few minutes. How are things back there?"

He explained about Goldstein's plan to get them out.

"Understood, that's the way we'll do it. I'll bring everyone in, and we'll get into position. Did you…?"

That was the last Talley heard. A burst of gunfire smacked into the steel hull of the APC. Some entered the hatch and ricocheted around the inside of the cabin. Two rounds slammed into his armored vest. It was enough to throw him to the deck, and to his dismay, his grip on the MP7 slackened. The gun went skidding away from him, sliding across the smooth marble floor. He crawled after it, but several more rounds hissed over his head. One clipped his ear, ripping off a chunk of skin, and he had duck back under cover, behind the vehicle.

He felt as if he'd been kicked by a mule, but he ignored the pain and dragged himself to his feet. The remnants of the defenders had gathered outside behind a big stone ornamental well, halfway between the palace and the main gate. They had a machine gun set up on a bipod. It looked like a Russian made PK, tucked behind the stonework. Guy and the rest of the men would be returning soon, and they'd be sitting ducks when they came back in. He keyed his mic to warn them.

"This is Echo One. Heads up, guys. They have a machine gun set up outside, so don't come back through the doorway. You'll be dead center in his sights. I'll try and deal with him."

He waited, but there was no answering voice.

"Echo Two, come in."

Nothing. He put his hand up to check his headset, and it came away with a heap of messed up electronics. He recalled the bullet that had clipped his ear. There was no way he could warn the others, and in a few moments, they'd be coming back through that doorway. A target for the machine gunner and the other Saudis clustered behind that well. He peered over the hull of the vehicle and could see the Arab crouched down behind the gun, and two more men with their assault rifles resting on the stonework of the well. Echo Six would tumble into a perfect ambush when they returned.

He thought of Jackson, who was still inside the vehicle, and shouted through the open hatch.

"Drew, what's your status?"

Nothing. He looked into the hatch, peering through the gloom, and he could see Drew slumped on the steel floor. He had a nasty gash on his forehead, and the marks of several hits on his ballistic vest. Talley surmised he’d probably caught a ricochet, fallen badly, and banged his head. He could see his chest moving up and down, so he was breathing steadily and in no immediate danger, but he was out of action.

That machine gun; somehow, I have to waste it before they have a chance to inflict heavy casualties on my unit.

He took a deep breath and lunged for his MP7. His grabbed it, and his momentum carried him on behind a heavy overturned oak table. The machine gunner caught the movement, and the 7.62mm bullets slammed into the thick wood, but he was unhurt. He checked the gun and cursed. The burst that hit him and destroyed his headset, had also hit the breech of the MP7, which was bent and useless. He looked around desperately for something to fight with. The BTR.

Of course, the big armored vehicle will be more than a match for the machine gun.

He sucked in another breath and threw himself forward in another rolling dive, back behind the hull. Once again, the bullets slapped all around him, but this time he wasn't hit. His right arm was still useless, but he managed to heave himself up onto the hull and down through the hatch. He stepped carefully over Drew's unconscious body and climbed into the driver's seat. A few seconds to familiarize himself with the controls, and then he started the engine.

Ideally, he would use the heavy machine gun in the turret to take on the hostiles. Except the gun needed someone to aim and fire, using both hands, as well as a second crewman to load the 40-round belts. He would have to use what he had. Fifteen tons of Russian built, armor-plated diesel-engined APC, more than enough to deal with a few Arabs.

The hostiles must have heard the roar of the turbo diesel engine, and bullets started to pepper the hull. One came through the driver's observation slot, and he slammed it shut. He swiveled the periscope lens in front of his eyes, made sure of the direction, slammed the metal lever into gear, and started forward. He stamped on the gas. He'd selected reverse by mistake with the unfamiliar controls. The vehicle jerked backward, and his head flew forward to hit the iron cabin hard.

That was when the missile shooter stood up and fired his RPG7. The rocket whooshed across the front of the APC to impact on the stonework, several meters wide.

The explosion rocked the bodywork and brought down a dense shower of plaster and stone chips over the periscope. But he was unhurt, and he thanked whoever invented the Gallet helmet. Seconds later, the cloud obscuring his vision started to clear. He moved the lever in the opposite direction. This time, when he stamped on the gas pedal, the BTR started forward. Bullets hissed and clattered around the cabin, but he had no time to stop and close the hatches against the ricochets. It was now or never. His career was over; his life was almost over. If he lost it to protect his unit, it would all be worth it. He knew Guy wouldn't give up on Nava. He wasn't that kind of a person. The former SAS man was the toughest, most ruthless operator he'd ever known. And the best friend he'd ever had.