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    Echo Six: Black Ops - Killzone
    Echo Six: Black Ops - Killzone
    Echo Six: Black Ops - Killzone
    Ebook328 pages6 hours

    Echo Six: Black Ops - Killzone

    By Eric Meyer

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    About this ebook

    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, yet this time, they come up against forces beyond even their superb military skills.

    ISIS has secret bases in multiple countries outside Iraq and Syria. In Turkey, in Europe, and beyond. Finding them proves impossible, until they uncover their first lead. Information that dates all the way back to World War II. To Nazi financial support of the Islamic leadership in what was Palestine. The hunt leads them to Berlin, where a diehard SS man is serving life in prison. Then to Turkey, to Syria, and into Iraq. But as the body count rises, they are no nearer to finding the kidnap victims.

    Until the biggest surprise of all. The last country in the world they expect to find an ISIS Command Center. The pace becomes red hot as they fight their way through impossible odds to reach their objective, only to find ISIS still has one last brutal card to play. A knockout punch that threatens to blow a hole in the cozy illusion of Western security and eliminate Echo Six at a stroke.

    This is a thrilling and bloody story of NATO Special Forces, operating behind enemy lines. Men trained to go to any lengths to complete their mission, and to die for it if necessary. Echo Six Black Ops: The China Raid is by the bestselling author of many other Spec Ops stories. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo titles, the Raider series, as well as the Echo Six and Devil's Guard series of military fiction.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateDec 22, 2016
    ISBN9781911092360
    Echo Six: Black Ops - Killzone
    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

      Echo Six - Eric Meyer

      ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS – KILLZONE

      By Eric Meyer

      First Edition

      Copyright © 2016 Eric Meyer

      Published by Swordworks Books

      www.facebook.com/ericmeyerfiction

      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.

      Click on the link and tell me where to send the book!

      Foreword

      Grand Mufti al-Kousa hurried through the bomb-scarred streets, his entourage formed in a loose circle around him for protection. Rubble lay everywhere, as if he were walking through a gigantic demolition site. Every building he passed displayed evidence of the relentless attacks on the city. Attacks that had seen it become a mere shell of its former self. Like a scene from hell, painted by the Dutch master Hieronymus Bosch.

      Bodies lay everywhere, and people walked past them, taking no notice. They’d seen many bodies, and the ghastly novelty had evaporated. People died in the tens, in the hundreds, and in the thousands. It was part of their daily life. The survivors were impervious to the horror. They ignored the dead. He ignored the dead.

      The Nazis had transport standing by to whisk him to a safer region. Not a moment too soon. Al-Kousa was well aware of the risks of a stray bomb taking his life. Despite his exalted religious rank, he wasn’t convinced Allah would protect him. A fast exit from the city was a better option than relying on help from God. In this matter, Allah would have to take a back seat.

      They arrived at the building, and his people ushered him up the steps. Even here, the heart of the Nazi regime, heaps of rubble lay uncleared. Most of the windows were boarded up. Thick tape covered the few that still contained glass, in an effort to protect the interior from flying splinters. Piles of sandbags at street level protected the men detailed to stand guard. They were expecting him, and armed men ushered him through the entrance. A soldier went ahead to act as a guide. To his surprise, instead of climbing the grand staircase to the room he’d visited twice before, they led him down a series of winding passages. Stone steps descended into the basement and then down to the sub-basement levels. More guards waved them through, and the guide indicated he should go through a steel reinforced door. When he entered the room, the man sitting behind the desk delivered a cold smile of greeting.

      Grand Mufti al-Kousa, I’m delighted you could make it. I trust you are enjoying your stay in our beautiful city.

      Al-Kousa raised his eyebrows. Is he mad?

      He gave terse reply, I have been here for too long, despite the obvious attractions.

      The man stared back at him. Your transport is waiting. We can get you out tonight.

      Good. I have a total of eight people, including me.

      You and one other. There is no room for more.

      He shrugged. Very well, the others will have to take their chances. His eyes shone with glittering intensity, Save one, my anointed successor. The person who will carry the banner of Jihad.

      He turned to the door. Farooq, come in here.

      The person who entered was a boy little more than twelve-years-old. Yes, Father.

      We will be leaving tonight. Say nothing to the others, not yet.

      He looked puzzled but he dutifully replied, As you wish, Father.

      Al-Kousa regarded him fondly. His son by his third wife, he had marked him down as his successor. The boy was bright, intelligent, and keen to learn. Most important, he hated the enemies of Islam. All of them. He turned his attention to the man behind the desk.

      Reichsfuhrer, where will they take us?

      Heinrich Himmler gave him a cold smile. There is a secure passage cleared through to the Swiss border. The aircraft will land close to the frontier, and I have arranged for transport to take you across, then into Zurich. From there, you will be able to negotiate a flight to Jerusalem. I trust you will continue to work for our cause when you get back.

      Of course. Palestine will never belong to the infidels.

      He gave him a sharp look. You mean the Jews.

      He nodded. I will ensure they are turned back at the borders. He regarded Farooq. My son, you understand the importance of our holy cause. Palestine, and its capital Jerusalem, must be forever Muslim.

      I understand, Father.

      Good. If we…

      He stopped as Himmler leapt to his feet and stiffened to attention. A man had walked into the room, and his face was unmistakable. The most famous, or infamous face in the world, the leader of Nazi Germany, Adolf Hitler; at least, what remained of him. One arm hung limp and useless at his side, and his whole body trembled. He stared at Himmler for a moment, and then at al-Kousa.

      You are leaving us?

      Yes, Fuhrer. Our business here is concluded.

      Your visit to Mauthausen was instructive?

      He nodded. A lesson in how to deal with Jews, traitors, and subversive elements.

      Good, good. A pity I have so many treacherous generals around me, soldiers who are too cowardly to fight. As a consequence, this war may be lost. When are you leaving?

      The Reichsfuhrer has arranged for a flight to Switzerland tonight.

      I can arrange to fly you and Eva Braun out of Berlin, my Fuhrer, Himmler interrupted, his voice eager, A safe place has been prepared in Berchtesgaden, as you are aware.

      Hitler’s smile was lukewarm. It was no secret the Reichsfuhrer was desperate to take over the leadership of Nazi Germany. Even at this late stage, his insane ambition knew no bounds. The flight of Adolf Hitler from Berlin would effectively put him in the number one spot.

      I will not leave my people, not at this late stage. I shall remain in Berlin, and I shall fight here. If necessary, I will die here.

      But, my Fuhrer…

      Enough! he snapped, I came here to say farewell to the Grand Mufti, and confirm he will continue the work we have started. To rid the world of Jews.

      The Mufti nodded his assent. What you have begun here, we shall continue in the Middle East.

      Hitler struggled to control another bout of trembling. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stalked from the room. Two SS guards fell in behind him. Al-Kousa felt embarrassed to see the man who had once been the most powerful in Europe reduced to a shambling imbecile. He listened as Himmler outlined his instructions for the escape from Berlin, and then he left the room. Al-Kousa’s guards fell in behind him and the boy. He made it as far as the entrance when the air raid sirens went off.

      You can’t go outside, not yet, an SS guard said, The door to the shelter is across the hallway. Go there and wait for the all clear.

      They had to sit for an hour in a cramped and claustrophobic room that stank of unwashed bodies, sewage, and fear. Above them, hundreds of American B-17s unloaded their 2,000 lb bombs on the already ruined city in the latest of their daylight raids. It was an uncomfortable hour, and several near misses brought down dust and small pieces of stone from the roof. When he emerged, he saw no sign of enemy bombers shot down. Lately, he’d noticed the flak towers seemed to be firing at a slower rate than before. By March 1945, it was no surprise the gun crews were running short of ammunition. Besides, since the Russians had crossed the River Oder, they knew the end was no more than weeks away. Those able to get out had already left, leaving behind the old, the very young, the sick, and the disabled to man the defenses of the once proud city.

      They walked to the hotel that had been allocated to them. The upper floors had disappeared, and they’d transferred their quarters to the basement. Like most of the inhabitants of Berlin in 1945, they’d become little more than moles; spending most of their lives underground, only emerging for brief periods of daylight between raids. He dismissed his guards and directed Farooq to begin packing. While he worked, he gave him his final instructions should anything happen to him.

      You understand your holy mission, my son?

      The Jews?

      He snorted. The Jews, yes, but not just the Jews. The Christians took Jerusalem before, a thousand years ago. It must never be allowed to happen again.

      But the Germans are our allies. They are Christians.

      They are infidels. We use the Germans because they share some of our objectives. Once they have outlived their usefulness, we will treat them the way we treat all enemies of Allah. They will become our slaves, no more. One day, we shall establish a glorious Islamic Caliphate in the Middle East, an Islamic Caliphate of Iraq and Syria. The forces of Islam will sweep the infidels away, and we shall rule over a glorious new world. This task I hand to you, and you in turn will pass on to your oldest son.

      The boy regarded his father gravely, conscious of the honor done to him. It shall be as you say, Father. An Islamic Caliphate, and the enemies of Islam shall be as dust beneath our feet. But where will I find men to fight this holy war?

      It will be a slow process. Find suitable locations, and establish the foundations for a network of training camps in countries that are sympathetic to our cause. Palestine, Turkey, Iraq, in all of these places you will find friends.

      And Syria?

      He spat on the ground. Syria, yes, they are infidels and must be killed. Apostate Shiites and Alawites alike. When our holy warriors are ready, they will sweep across Syria and liberate it in the name of the glorious Caliphate.

      The boy looked puzzled. Father, how will we fight the armies they will send against us? They have vast numbers, machine guns, artillery, and bombing aircraft, like these in the skies over Berlin. We have none.

      He put his hand on his son’s shoulder. We have an complete faith in the cause of the Prophet, my son. The training camps you build will send out something much more powerful than artillery and bombing aircraft. Men will train to become expert, hardened fighters, and the best and most devout will go on to become martyrs. Those whose faith is absolute will carry explosives on their person, to detonate them in the midst of our enemies.

      To kill themselves? But why?

      They will spend eternity in Paradise, as it is written. The Koran states, ‘All Muslim martyrs will be rewarded with seventy-two virgins as one of the seven blessings from Allah.’ There will be no shortage of volunteers, my son. They will be our shock troops, our own squadrons of bombers. Human bombers. Ready to kill the infidel wherever he takes refuge.

      As dusk fell, two SS men arrived and led them through the narrow lanes between the rubble. When al-Kousa stumbled and twisted his ankle, an Untersturmfuhrer rushed to help, his face anxious. The SS second lieutenant, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen-years-old, urged him along. We must hurry, Sir. The American aircraft have gone, and soon the RAF will send over their Lancasters to churn up the rubble.

      Then you think they will reach Berlin. Is there no hope for the Third Reich?

      None. Now it’s up to you to finish what we started, Grand Mufti.

      Despite the pain in his ankle, he managed a smile. And I shall finish it, my friend.

      He smiled to himself.

      The fools think I am fighting the Jews. They are wrong. My fight is with all the infidels, until we’ve swept them from the Middle East. On that day, the Islamic State will reign supreme in Iraq and Syria.

      The flight in a Fieseler Storch reconnaissance aircraft took most of the night to reach the border; flying low to avoid marauding Allied fighters. A Mercedes saloon was waiting for them at the landing field. The Gestapo driver took them through the frontier post, where the formalities had been cleared in advance, and drove them on to Zürich.

      They waited for five days before the Grand Mufti and his son embarked on a Swiss Junkers 52 bound for Jerusalem. They landed safely, and he stepped out of the aircraft door stiff and sore after the long journey. The heat struck him as he stood at the top of the steps, and he smelled the dry, spicy odor of Jerusalem. He was home. A junior Mullah in brown robes and turban approached and took his arm. He assisted the Mufti down the ladder.

      Grand Mufti, welcome home. I trust your journey wasn’t too arduous.

      Nothing is too arduous in the service of the Prophet. Blessings be on His holy name. Germany is finished. He ignored the shock on the other man’s face, Which means our work is about to begin.

      Our work?

      To begin planning for the total ascendancy of Sunni Islam in the Middle East. If Allah wills it, our legions of holy warriors will fight to build a new Islamic State, a Caliphate in Iraq and Syria. But first, Jerusalem, it must never fall to the Jews. After that, we will eject the Christian unbelievers from Jerusalem. Scour them from the sacred places of Islam.

      He smiled at his son. Farooq, you will have much work to do. As will your son, and his son after him. In a future lifetime, the soldiers of the Prophet will change the world. His voice rose with excitement, We will create a dynasty, a Caliphate to rule for all time.

      The young man’s eyes blazed with enthusiasm. Allahu Akbar!

      He smiled. Yes, God is indeed great.

      Chapter One

      Captain Ömer Asan walked at the head of his unit. A proud man, like the leaders of most elite units, he regarded it as his duty to lead from the front. They approached by night, making almost no noise, and so impossible to see. The moon hid behind thick cloud, and they wore black clothing. Black helmets and boots, black packs, and weapons painted a dull black. A full platoon of the Özel Kuvvetler, Turkish Special Forces nicknamed the Maroon Berets.

      The target, a training camp outside the small town of Kilis, close to the Turkish border with Syria. Current intelligence suggested it was just one of many, and his government was worried. ISIS recruits slipped over the border from Syria and spent time in such camps learning their trade. Safe from the constant bombing and attacks from all sides, ever since the tide of battle had forced ISIS into a long retreat. For many young men and even girls, the trade was martyrdom. How to approach an unwitting target and detonate the suicide vest strapped to their body, and most important, lessons on the necessity to stay pure. Allah would look favorably on those who’d saved themselves for the wonders of Paradise, where they would find scores of virgins like themselves to satisfy their every desire.

      Until recently, the Turks turned a blind eye to the existence of such camps. Their real enemy was the Kurdish Liberation Army, the PKK, which also happened to be the enemy of ISIS. As long as the Islamic fanatics were killing Kurdish fighters, they maintained an uneasy alliance. Until ISIS began to target Turkish fighter aircraft, and brought down a fighter jet and two helicopters. Ankara began to look harder at the scorpion in their midst, and to their dismay, found evidence suggesting the number of such camps was mushrooming.

      A secret army was growing unseen and unmonitored in a number of unknown locations inside Turkish sovereign territory, an army that could put a spear in the heart of Turkey, should they choose. Even topple the government. After the first wave of suicide bombers detonated in the capital city of Ankara, killing a senior government minister, they woke up to the threat. He thought back to the briefing the previous day, given by General Hanif Osman.

      You are all aware of the recent coup attempt? How it almost destroyed our country. Captain Ömer Asan kept his expression neutral, preferring not to think how close he’d come to joining the rebellion. Osman continued, The President has issued an executive order. Never again will we permit such treachery on our soil. Our troops will scourge the nation of this poison, and he has ordered the destruction of the ISIS facilities. Our mission is to attack these training camps, and this camp outside Kilis will be the first. Destroy it, and kill everyone inside. Teach them a hard lesson. Afterward, we will hunt down and destroy the other camps. The President wants them all dead!

      The men cheered, and Captain Asan joined in. He’d recently made captain, and this would be his first chance to prove his promotion was well deserved. Provided the operation was a success.

      When we leave this place, we will leave only smoking ruins and dead bodies.

      He focused on the path they were following and held up a hand. The twenty men stopped at his signal. He’d heard something, a rustling sound close by. A few stunted trees and bushes flanked the path. Places an ambush party could hide. The camp was five hundred meters away.

      There shouldn’t be anyone patrolling this far out, although if the enemy has sent out a patrol, they'll die along with the rest of the men in the camp.

      He drew his pistol, a sound suppressed Sig Sauer P226, and crept forward. He was virtually invisible in the darkness, his clothing all black and face covered in black camo paint. Step by step, he inched toward where he’d heard the sound. He was nearly there when a bell sounded, and he almost opened fire in shock, but he regained his sense of calm. Knowing he’d heard the sound of a bell fastened around the neck of a wayward sheep or goat.

      Yet he needed to make sure and crept along the track. His head jerked up when the rustling sound came again. He looked for the animal with the bell, but it was no animal. He was staring into the muzzle of an AKM, the Kalashnikov derived assault rifle. Even as that information fed to his brain, the muzzle flashed, and a burst of 7.62mm rounds tore into his body. The first shots slammed into his armored vest, and the kinetic force knocked him over. As he fell, more bullets tore into his body. Tore into his face and up into his groin. At least one bullet entered his brain, and he died before realizing the operation was a bust. They’d fallen victim to an ambush.

      * * *

      Mamoon al-Kousa, watching from inside the compound, had anticipated the raid for several days. It had to come; his fighters had clashed with the Turks hard over the past months, following their incursion into Syria. There were also growing signs they’d uncovered other ISIS camps inside the country. Fortunately, they had friends in high places. All it took was a tipoff from a sympathizer close to the Turkish High Command, and they had everything ready to receive the infidels.

      He stared through night vision glasses and smiled, the fools were so predictable. After their leader went down, the Turkish soldiers searched for the source of the gunfire and opened fire, pouring bullets in the direction of the man who’d killed their Captain. They were too late. He’d already disappeared behind some rocks, and the bullets hacked out chunks of rock and soil as they peppered the place he’d left. When no return fire came, one of the Turks shouted a command. They leapt to their feet and charged, assuming the target was either wounded or dead. Nineteen men against one shooter, he had no doubt they’d want to take revenge for the death of their leader. Mullah Mamoon al-Kousa, ISIS commander of Northern Syria and Turkey, had anticipated that exact move.

      The grandson of the wartime Grand Mufti, both his father and grandfather had made certain he became expert in all things military, beginning at a very early age. After the creation of the State of Israel in 1948, and the short and ill-advised war between the Jews and the Arabs, he’d fled to Syria. He continued his lessons, trained hard, prayed to Allah, and never forgot the legacy of his grandfather. The creation of the Islamic State of Iraq and Syria; a solid, Islamic stronghold from where they could reach out and carry the word of the Prophet to the entire region, including the region now called Israel.

      He regarded his second-in-command, Bassam, waiting for him to give the order. An older man, a big, tough Palestinian, he was a scarred veteran of the fighting between Palestinian and Jew, until his face became too well known to the Israeli Defense Forces, and he escaped to Syria. He’d joined al-Kousa’s forces, and in a short time made himself indispensable. Recognizing his talents, the Mullah appointed him as the leader of his bodyguard.

      The missile, is it ready? And the martyr?

      The reply was immediate. They are both ready, Mamoon. On your order. He pointed to the shadowy tower at the end of the stockade. It was just possible to make out the dim shape of a man crouched at the top. He held an RPG-7 missile, pointed at the Turks. They couldn’t see him, nor could they see the young martyr hiding several hundred meters outside the compound, close to where the Turks were readying to make the attack. But he was there. Ready to fulfill the mission as ordained by God, or the man who claimed to have the ear of God. The boy who was about to die was named Birol Gul.

      * * *

      Birol was afraid, his mind almost numb with terror.

      Is it true, will I go to Paradise? Will my family, my mother and father, and their two other sons and my five sisters receive the reward they promised them after I am dead? I wish I’d been with a girl. Once would have been enough. To know the earthly delights of a female body, just in case their assurances are empty promises.

      The canvas vest felt like a heavy lead weight hanging on his body. Or perhaps it was more like a funeral shroud. He gripped the detonator, and when he was close enough, he’d press the button. Then he’d know for sure, whether Paradise existed, or it was just a story made up by the Mullahs, a fiction to transform him and others like him into human bombs. At least his family would receive the reward after he’d detonated, enough to feed them and pay the rent on their tiny apartment for the next two years. He waited for the right moment, for the fate ordained by Allah. The walkie-talkie in his pocket was silent, but soon it would soon burst into life. When it did, he would go to his death.

      Around him, the small herd of goats grazed on the stunted grass. They saw nothing of the drama of life and death, or explosive butchery that was about to tear into their midst.

      A pity the goats have to die, they’re innocent. Do goats go to Paradise?

      Somehow, he doubted it. He had many other doubts as well, but he hadn’t dared voice them. It was too late.

      I wish I’d known a girl. Just once.

      * * *

      Give the signal. Kill them.

      Bassam hit the transmit switch and spoke a single word into the walkie-talkie. A second later, smoke and flames billowed from the tower. An RPG-7 rocket roared toward the target, and now the Turks would begin to understand what they faced. Al-Kousa took pleasure in watching the trail of fire hurtling toward the attackers. He knew his father and grandfather would be watching from above. Smiling with approval at the way he was putting their murderous lessons into practice.

      The missile struck within five meters of the target area, and the ground erupted in a massive explosion and a sea of flames. When the smoke had disappeared, the shouts and screams of the wounded and dying were piteous, even though they were infidels. Some of the survivors shouted orders as they went to the aid of their stricken friends. He couldn’t see them, but envisaged them snatching out wound dressings, staunching the blood, forming a perimeter to protect against the attack they knew was coming.

      They were wasting their time. He nodded to Bassam. Give the order.

      His number two spoke into the walkie-talkie. This time, his message was for the boy waiting with his herd of innocent goats, waiting for the call to Paradise.

      Your time has come to journey to Paradise. Do it.

      A pause. Should I not wait?

      He’d been expecting the last minute nerves

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