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    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Hammer of ISIS
    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Hammer of ISIS
    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Hammer of ISIS
    Ebook337 pages5 hours

    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Hammer of ISIS

    By Eric Meyer

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    ISIS is on the rampage, and the slaughter of the innocents has begun. The Islamists have an agenda, the creation of a Sunni Islamic Caliphate across Iraq and Syria. A Caliphate that will turn the Middle East into a field of corpses. They must be halted, before their blood-soaked crusade becomes unstoppable. Yet the US government refuses a full-scale military response, and the Iraqi government is too weak to act. The problem is passed to the Navy Seals.

    Chief Petty Officer Kyle Nolan and Seal Team Bravo infiltrate Iraq. The mission, to eliminate the ISIS kingpin inside his Tikrit powerbase. They penetrate the town, but before they can make the hit, they uncover a secret that could change everything. ISIS has a weapon with the potential to cause the deaths of countless millions. A weapon they are about to deploy.

    With the clock counting down to annihilation, the Bravo operatives are forced to put their lives on the line to halt the genocidal attack. This is a thrilling and bloody story of US Navy SEALs, trained to go to any lengths to complete their mission. SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops Hammer of ISIS is by the bestselling author of many other Spec Ops stories. These include Raider Black Ops: Crisis Ukraine, previous SEAL Team Bravo titles, as well as the Echo Six and Devil's Guard series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateJun 30, 2014
    ISBN9781909149540
    SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops - Hammer of ISIS
    Author

    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.

    Read more from Eric Meyer

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      Book preview

      SEAL Team Bravo - Eric Meyer

      SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS – HAMMER OF ISIS

      By Eric Meyer

      3rd Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2014 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.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      CONTENTS

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ELEVEN

      CHAPTER TWELVE

      Foreword

      Basra Airfield, Tikrit - March 2003

      Incoming! Take cover.

      Dwight Logan risked a last look around at their defenses. They'd already lost the Lieutenant, as well as two bio-warfare scientists dead and four soldiers wounded. Some of the unit had scattered when the attack began. The shells landed a few hundred meters away, but the Iraqis wanted more. They corrected their aim, and artillery fire began to creep in on their position. Smoke drifted around them, a thick, choking fog, but it did little to hide them from the enemy.

      The Iraqis knew they where they were. They also knew they could take their time, deploy their artillery at a distance and pound Logan's unit into bloody gristle with HE shells. He coughed and hawked into the sand. The air was acrid with the stench of exploded ordnance and the smells common to all battlefields. Blood, feces, urine, hot oil, and burning rubber. And fear. He ducked lower as a shell landed close to their position, scattering sand and hot metal fragments over their heads.

      That was close, too close.

      Reilly's hit, Sarge.

      He kept his voice calm, if they panicked and ran, they'd be lost.

      How bad?

      Taylor Reece gulped in air, as he struggled to contain his terror. His eyes were wide, and the pupils huge. Logan nodded, this was the PFC Reece's first experience of the hell of heavy artillery fire, and so far, he'd stayed at his post. He was about to shout a reply when they heard the roar of low-flying aircraft.

      The men looked up as a flight of American F-16s, graceful, lethal and deadly, swooped down to attack an unseen target some distance away. The planes fired their missiles, and then roared vertically into the sky in a blaze of afterburners. They trailed flares as a swarm of anti-aircraft missiles pursued them. None of the aircraft was hit, and Logan gave a satisfied nod.

      Crappy shooting by the Iraqis, or perhaps they were crappy, Soviet-era missiles. Maybe a bit of both. Although not all enemy missiles miss the target. We’ve seen a few burnt out armored personnel carriers destroyed by Iraqi shells and missiles, a warning not to underestimate the ragheads. Not by too much.

      He squinted down at PFC Reilly. The soldier wasn't moving. Reece joined him and knelt down to look closer. He promptly vomited.

      He's...oh, Jesus Christ, he's dead. His fucking guts are spread all over the ground.

      He stared around wildly, looking for an escape.

      Keep calm, Private Reece, and stay alert. The camel jockeys are all around us.

      They're Republican Guard, Corporal Benitez snarled, his voice tinged with fear. People reckon they're their elite troops.

      Elite my ass. If they come at us, we'll show them how American soldiers fight. It's their artillery doing the damage, not those pansy Republican Guard mothers.

      Benitez grunted. What're we gonna do with the canisters, Sarge?

      Logan turned to look at the ten steel canisters they'd discovered hidden in a pit next to an abandoned and destroyed police station. After they'd dug them out, a shell struck their communications equipment. It also decapitated their radioman. Which meant they couldn't pass the vital intelligence that they'd uncovered WMDs to Battalion Headquarters. Proof at last of Saddam's chemical warfare program.

      They loaded the canisters on their Humvees and were heading back when the Republican Guard found them. Under fire from a battery of 122mm howitzers, the Lieutenant ordered them to unload their lethal cargo and bury it back in the sand. It was a good call; minutes later a number of salvoes arrived and scored direct hits on their vehicles. They also took out more of the platoon. The Lieutenant was sitting in one of the Humvees at the time the shells hit, and the explosion tore the vehicle apart. Along with the Lieutenant.

      Command of the platoon passed to Logan, and aside from keeping remaining men alive, he had a single priority. To report the existence of the canisters, and get them back to American lines where they could be made safe. Besides, there may be more of them out there, somewhere in the limitless deserts of what had once been Persia. The world had laughed at the notion of Iraqi WMDs, and poured ridicule on the NATO Alliance. Now they had the evidence, real, hard, solid evidence. Provided they could keep the canisters safe in the face of the artillery barrage. And provided they could stay alive for long enough to tell the world.

      Get someone to help bury those canisters, Benitez. We can't move them, but if they're under the ground, they should be safe. Reece, pull yourself together. Give them a hand and start digging.

      He smiled at the irony of their situation. They'd uncovered what the world hunted for, the WMDs, and dug the lethal canisters out of the ground. Now they were about to hide them back in the bowels of the earth. He smothered smile as three of the men grabbed shovels and began shoveling sand to create a shallow depression.

      Where's the goddamn air cover? PFC Hampton snarled to no one in particular. I'll bet the fucking flyboys are still eating breakfast back on the air base.

      The Sarge glanced at him. Cool it, Private. You saw those F-16s earlier. They're up there somewhere, just not right here. They've got their hands pretty full fighting the enemy.

      And we haven't? Why don't they come and help us out of this mess?

      Yeah, yeah, I know. He wiped the sand out of his eyes, feeling tired with the heavy weight of responsibility. Trying to hold them together in the face of the fierce artillery barrage. Every man knew the prospect of defeat loomed over them. Our guys will be here soon enough. Until then, we need to stay alive.

      They dug like fury for an hour, except for those times when howitzer shells exploded close enough to fill the air with hot steel fragments. When the hole was just large enough, they started to maneuver the canisters into the shallow pit they'd made. As soon as they rolled in the last canister, they worked fast to cover them up with sand. Every man was aware of the devastating consequences of an artillery shell hitting one of the canisters. Charlie Platoon had zero protection from any leak of nerve agent. They'd left the NBC suits behind when they'd been forced to pull back by the Iraqi barrage. If even one of the canisters were damaged, they'd all die, a death that was too horrible to even think about.

      Logan jerked around as heavy machine gun fire sounded from a new direction, a couple of klicks to the south. The gunfire intensified, and then they heard the sharp crack from the 120mm smoothbore cannon of an M1A1 Abrams add to the racket.

      One of ours! Thank Christ.

      At least someone was hitting back at the enemy. Anti-tank missiles launched in a shallow trajectory across the sky, attempting to seek out and destroy the American heavy armor. All the Iraqis achieved was to give away their position. A pair of A-10s came in at low level, their 30mm GAU-8 Avenger Gatling cannons firing depleted uranium rounds at the AA positions, and the missile storm ended. Logan smiled, the Warthogs sounded like a roll of thunder when they opened up on a ground target. Whoever was on the receiving end quickly discovered the meaning of the expression, 'The Hammer of the Gods.' But the Iraqis weren't finished with Charlie Platoon, not by a long way.

      Incoming!

      It was Corporal Rogers who shouted the warning. They hit the dirt, and less than a second later, a shell exploded. This time, it found a target.

      It's Hampton, Sarge, he's hit.

      The soldier was screaming in agony, trying to get to his feet in an attempt to relieve the pain of his injuries.

      Get him back on the ground, Logan shouted. For Christ's sake, pull him down before a shell blows his stupid head off! The next one'll kill him.

      Hampton stared around, his eyes wide with the intense agony of the wound. Oh, Jesus, it hurts. Oh, fuck, it hurts! I need a medic.

      Corporal Benitez, give Hampton some help. Put a dressing on the wound before he bleeds out. The rest of you men, keep shoveling sand and get those canisters covered. Make sure your rifles are handy and keep your eyes peeled. Those Republican Guards could hit us at any moment.

      Someone grumbled they couldn't do both jobs at once, dig sand and watch for the enemy. Even so, they threw themselves into the task, shoveling furiously. Heavy bursts of incoming fire are a great motivator, Logan mused. Especially when you're standing next to canisters of nerve agent.

      Another shell exploded further away, showering them with more sand. Raoul Benitez wiped it away from Hampton, and continued to clean his wound, wiping away the blood, sand, and crap with his scarf. It was all he had that was big enough, and when he was done he fastened the bloody rag over the torn flesh to slow the bleeding. It was hopeless. Hampton was still bleeding, and the wound looked bad. There was nothing more he could do, the guy needed a hospital fast, a medevac.

      Christ, Raoul, it hurts! he screamed again, as Benitez pressed down on the dressing to hold it in place.

      Pipe down, Hampton, Logan snarled. He could almost smell the seeds of panic beginning to take root in the man. I know it's bad, but you're alive. If we keep our heads down and stay quiet, they may miss us. Rogers, have you covered up those canisters yet? You know if they score a direct hit on them, we're all dead.

      As he said the words he smiled to himself. Dead from a high explosive shell, or dead from a catastrophic leak of nerve agent, what the hell was the difference. He silently recited the soldier's prayer.

      If I to die on the battlefield, make it real quick.

      We couldn't bury all of them, Sarge. There wasn't time after that last shell hit.

      Logan shook his head in exasperation. This situation was farcical.

      Jesus Christ, thousands of people scouring Iraq for Saddam's nerve agent. We found it, and we can't get the word out! The way things are going, we never will.

      Move it, we don't have much more time. They have our range, and the next salvo could be even nearer.

      Or on top of our heads.

      He grabbed a shovel and ran to lend them a hand. Behind him, Hampton screamed again.

      Dear God, I need something for the pain. Oh, Christ, I'm gonna die.

      No you're not gonna die. Just hang in there, Logan snapped, You'll die when I tell you to die, and not before!

      I'll give him another shot. You hang in there, Sam, Benitez shouted.

      He snatched an ampoule of morphine from his pack, crawled over to the wounded man, and dug the needle into his arm.

      Just take it easy, you'll be okay. A couple of seconds, and...

      Incoming!

      Cover!

      Here they come! Oh, my Christ, there's hundreds of them!

      Logan raised his head and risked a quick glance. In the distance, he saw movement. The enemy.

      There're hundreds of the bastards. Where's the rest of our unit? We need help, and we need it fast.

      A further shell whistled overhead and exploded. More hot splinters splattered the ground around them. He felt a searing pain when a fragment tore through his pants leg, gouging a slice of flesh out of his thigh. He forced himself to ignore it.

      They'll have to do better than that if they want to kill me.

      For the twentieth time, he wondered what had gone wrong. They were part of a combined outfit, not unusual in this war. Their job was to locate the supposed Iraqi WMDs, although so far they'd had no success. Headquarters had ordered them to join an attack on Basra Airfield, Tikrit, just in case the chemical weapons were stored there.

      Logan commanded Charlie Platoon. His men were a tough bunch from Fort Devens, Massachusetts. They also had a number of CIA paramilitaries to back them up, making it the weirdest outfit he'd served with. Although he had to admit the spooks were good soldiers, almost as tough as Bravo Company.

      It all went wrong. The plan had been to storm across Northern Iraq, in close support of the main attack. At the last minute, the damned Turks screwed with the timetable. Instead of a four-hour flight, Turkey, supposedly a NATO ally, had refused permission for overflights of their territory.

      The result was a ten-hour flight, which meant a long delay and the start of even more serious problems. Saddam's fighter-interceptors, MIG 23s, 25s, and even some 31s, were still a danger. Valuable fighter-bombers were diverted to escort the cargo planes instead of providing air cover for operations. Operations like this one.

      After the bloody attack on the airfield, they'd entered Tikrit to take a look around. It was like a miracle when they found the canisters; the WMDs that everyone had been turning Iraq upside down to find. Standing orders were to maintain radio silence in the event of making a discovery, until they were well clear of the location. They were heading back in when the enemy counterattacked, and the canisters became a liability they could have done without.

      If they fell back into enemy hands, well, it was best not think about that. The whole point of fighting this war was to prevent the use of WMDs, to save the world from a genocidal attack by the crazed dictator Saddam Hussein. Yet if they weren't careful, Saddam was about to get back his deadly canisters.

      A hurricane of bullets buzzed overhead, and they all ducked. An HE shell exploded even closer than the previous one, only a few meters behind where they sheltered in the shallow foxhole. Behind them! He risked another look over the top and felt a lurch in his guts. They'd lifted the artillery fire to avoid hitting their own men. In front of him the wide line of Iraqi soldiers was closer. Much closer. He could make out their uniforms now. Republican Guard sure enough. Saddam's elite.

      Fuck it.

      Rogers, put down the shovel and get the SAW ready for action, let's see if a taste of the machine gun makes them think twice about coming any nearer. Make it snappy. They're almost on top of us.

      I'm on it.

      The rest of you, lock and load. Fire when ready.

      The Corporal propped the M249 on the edge of the shallow ditch that served as a trench, and several seconds later pulled the trigger. The magazine containing two hundred 5.56mm rounds emptied in seconds, and PFC Reece, his loader, slammed in a new mag. Reece started to duck back down as enemy fire chewed up the ground in front of him, but a bullet slammed into his Kevlar helmet, and jerked him around. He threw up an arm, and another bullet slammed into his palm.

      I'm hit!

      That's a scratch, forget it. Keep shooting!

      Rogers fired another burst, and the rest of them blazed away. Logan emptied his magazine and was in the middle of reloading when he heard the radio inexplicably switch on. As if an exploding shell had jolted the damaged electronics back to life. Hot damn!

      He grabbed the mic and keyed the transmit button, This is Charlie Platoon. We're taking heavy fire. A strong force of Iraqis is about to overrun us. We need support here, and fast!

      He waited a few seconds.

      Damn them, where are they?

      He heard a crackling noise, as if there was something shorting out inside the set. Then someone acknowledged. He recognized the voice of Major Underwood, the temporary commander of B Company.

      Charlie Platoon, this is Bravo. Receiving you strength one, the signal is pretty lousy. Maybe your radio is u/s. I don't copy what you're saying, but we're kinda busy here, fella. Sergeant Logan is the guy you need to talk to. He'll look at the radio for you.

      This is Logan. Major, we need help real bad. Sir, we found the canisters, nerve agent. This is it, the WMDs we've been hunting. Do you copy?

      I'm still not receiving you well. Whatever you want, you'll have to hang in there. Pal, if I were you, I'd definitely get someone to look at your radio.

      Fuck the radio, he shouted in desperation, We need help now, dammit!

      A pause. Your signal just faded to nothing, soldier. Call back when you get that radio fixed. This is a waste of time, you need to talk to Sergeant Logan, he'll know what to do. Do your best, soldier. Bravo out.

      The radio went dead.

      Fuck! He doesn't know what we have here, no one knows. The canisters of nerve agent, the world has to know about them. Why won't they listen!

      He slammed a new magazine into his M-16 and emptied it at the oncoming enemy. They were stretched across the sand in a wide arc, several soldiers deep, all of them shooting as they ran. Hurling down a withering curtain of lead at the few survivors of Charlie Platoon. The incoming fire was like a metal hailstorm.

      Shit!

      The gunfire intensified, and it was as if even the air he breathed was almost a solid mass of hot steel. An Iraqi round smacked into the breech of his assault rifle, shattered the plastic, and ripped through the steel internals. He tossed it aside and drew his pistol.

      Keep firing. We have to hold them off. Two of you, get back to shoveling the sand. We have to bury the canisters before they get here.

      There's no way, Sarge, the Corporal shouted, Look at them coming. There's too many. We need to pull back now. Oh, shit!

      Logan followed his gaze, and saw more Iraqis had come in behind them. Keep firing, we have to hold out. See if...

      Incoming!

      They ducked their heads, and the mortar shell exploded. Benitez was still trying to help Private Hampton, and although he crouched low, his knee stuck up over the ditch. A stray fragment of steel sliced through his leg.

      Aw, shit! he shouted. Then he went quiet, as he fainted from the pain.

      It was chaos everywhere, and Logan shook his head to try to clear it. He made a quick assessment, at this rate, they'd be wiped out. He looked again and saw the enemy only fifty meters away. At least the artillery had stopped; they didn't want to drop shells on their own men. He ducked down again and saw blood pouring from Benitez’s wounded knee.

      Someone help Benitez!

      What're we going to do, Sarge?

      He glanced at Jordan Rogers, who had pulled out a dressing to wrap around the knee. Then he looked again over the top. The Iraqis had stopped firing and slowed their mad charge to a walk. They knew they'd won. There was no question, no argument. They had Logan's tiny remnant of a platoon beaten hands down. Outnumbered, outgunned, out everything.

      What rankled more than the defeat was the knowledge they'd uncovered the biggest secret of the Second Gulf War. The lethal nerve agent everyone had been chasing their tails to hunt down.

      Dammit, we had it in the palms of our hands.

      They'd laid their hands on the canisters. Had brought them out of their hiding place, ready to hand over to the chemical warfare people who followed the Army. And now they'd have to hand them right back.

      Fucking Iraqis! Fucking radio! Fucking war!

      With a heavy heart, he pulled a white bandage from his pack and fixed it to the muzzle of his rifle. Jordan Rogers stared at the white flag of surrender, and Logan could swear he saw tears in the corner of the man's eyes.

      What're we going to do, Sarge? he repeated.

      We're gonna eat Iraqi chow, Corporal Rogers. It's gonna be a while before you taste a hot dog again.

      Before he surrendered he touched the crucifix around his neck, given to him by his parents on his confirmation, and said a short prayer. The other men watched, knowing he was a genuine believer, and giving him a little space.

      You better hope the Iraqis don't steal that thing, Sarge, one man said, Where we're going, we'll need God on our side.

      No one laughed. They'd once taken Sergeant Logan's cross as a joke, a bit of fun, but since they'd been in action, it wasn't funny anymore. The cross was the talisman they believed would give them that all-important edge. Might even help get them home.

      I'll take good care of it, he told them, Don't worry, men. The big guy upstairs will watch over us, no matter what happens.

      He raised the rifle barrel and waved the white flag. The first Iraqi soldier, an officer, reached their position and stared down at them. His eyes blazed in his face, fanatical and determined. For a moment, they all thought he was about to gun them down where they stood. Then he relaxed, and waved the barrel of his rifle in an unmistakable gesture. Logan tossed his weapons down, and the rest of the men followed his lead. The Iraqi gave them a humorless smile.

      I am Major Omar Shafi of the Republican Guard. You are now my prisoners. His English was mangled but intelligible.

      Yeah, I kinda figured that, Logan nodded by way of a reply. He looked sideways at the place they'd buried the canisters. A shell burst had ripped away the flimsy covering of sand and exposed the steel canisters, which appeared to be undamaged. The Major’s eyes fell on them, and he walked over to inspect the cache. His smile broadened.

      Allah be praised, I have found them. Sergeant, I believe I owe you my thanks. This was Iraqi property, and now it is my property. I'm grateful you have returned it in good condition. He chuckled, Perhaps you fought on the wrong side.

      In your dreams, shithead!

      As they marched into captivity, they had one consolation. The way the war was going, the Iraqis would never get a chance to deploy that stuff. And their imprisonment would be short. They'd be released inside a few weeks when the NATO Coalition overran the country.

      He was wrong. On both counts.

      Chapter One

      The Present Day. Somewhere over Iraq

      It was a normal operation, and yet the objective was to kill a man. An evil man, one who made it his mission to slaughter Americans, Iraqis, civilians, and even fellow Muslims. A man who murdered anyone standing in the way of his dream, the creation of an Iraqi Caliphate. ISIS Commander Malik al-Bukhari was a blood-soaked killer. A man who was long past his sell-by date. Taking a life was not something they took lightly. However, in this case, al-Bukhari's premature death would be a cause for celebration.

      Many unknowing civilians, collateral targets, would survive as a result of al-Bukhari's demise. Ordinary Iraqis could look forward to a life free from fear and violence. As much as they could look forward to a peaceful life in a Muslim country.

      Chief Petty Officer Kyle Nolan shivered in the bone-chilling cold of the high-flying aircraft. At least the idea of removing the bloodthirsty ISIS commander from this earth was compensation for the dangers and the discomfort. It was a good operation, a noble mission, one in which any man should be proud of his involvement.

      What was it Shakespeare wrote about Henry V's speech before Agincourt?

      ‘He that outlives this day, and comes safe home, will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d.’

      Well, okay, maybe that was putting it too strongly. In any case, like most SEAL missions, no one would ever know. Even so, taking out this particular target was enough to make a man feel good. He smiled to himself. Like saving

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