Strike on iran, p.1
Strike on Iran, page 1
SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops – STRIKE ON IRAN
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.
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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
“Five minutes, Lieutenant.”
“Copy that.” He glanced across the cramped space. “Chief, make sure the men don’t screw this up. I want everyone working to one hundred percent.”
“You got it, LT.”
Lieutenant William Boswell nodded. He made a show of checking his weapon, a Heckler & Koch 417, heavier than the HK416, fitted with a twelve inch barrel, a scope, night vision adapter, and suppressor. One hell of a weapon. He chambered a cartridge, the 7.62 millimeter NATO caliber, and then ejected it. Finally, he made a show of putting the weapon on safe. Nolan suppressed a smile, the rest of the Platoon carried the HK 416, which fired the lighter 5.56-millimeter bullet, but the diminutive Navy Seal lieutenant insisted on the heavier weapon. It meant he was able to carry fewer rounds, due to the increased weight. Neither could he share ammunition supplies with the rest of the Platoon, except for the unit snipers. Those snipers, Nolan and Merano, carried the longer, heavier weapons for a deadly purpose. But his choice of weapon was the least of Boswell’s problems, in Nolan’s opinion. When Lieutenant Abe Talley had been accused of committing an atrocity during a previous mission, he’d been pulled off active duty pending court martial, and replaced with Boswell. The new Lieutenant was a recent recruit to the Navy Seals and anxious to prove himself. So far, there was little evidence that he was making progress in that department. Perhaps this time he’d do better. For this mission, they’d hitched a ride on a boomer, a real, live ballistic missile submarine, the USS Maine. Now they waited inside the gray-painted interior of the massive steel hull for the mission to proceed. The boat had a crew of one hundred and fifty-five officers and men and so far, Boswell had managed to antagonize almost all of them. The Lieutenant gave another irritated glance at the rating. The man was calmly relaying orders and counting down the minutes from the control room.
“You sure about that timescale, Sailor? I understood we still had some way to go.”
He said it as if the Seaman E3 had deliberately lied to him for some reason, or maybe he’d made a stupid mistake. The man stared back at him and waited a full ten seconds before replying.
“It’s four minutes now, Lieutenant.” His voice was heavy with irony.
Boswell nodded, satisfied he’d been right after all, never mind that another minute had gone by.
“The men are all ready, Chief? No screw-ups?”
Nolan suppressed a sigh. “They’re ready, LT.”
He’d had problems with Boswell since day one, when he’d first taken over the platoon. The new Lieutenant was unfortunately short in stature. Probably he’d call it vertically challenged, in his own, PC dominated world. But whatever the reason, he’d disliked the good-looking Seal Chief on sight. Boswell more resembled a computer nerd than a Navy Seal. Somewhat pale, a bit pasty, although he had passed the initial BUDS training. That was a mystery. In contrast, Nolan was tall, six-one, and lean, with the kind of chiseled features women liked. His face was not exceptional, although the strong chin and bright, sniper’s eyes the color of a clear sky were a hint that the man behind them was no ordinary man. His thick, dark brown hair was cut short at the front, sniper style, so there was no danger of it falling over his eyes when he took the shot.
Boswell nodded; the only sign of his irritation was a slight pursing of the lips. He’d told them they could call him ‘Boss’, in the tradition of the Navy Seals and other Special Forces outfits. But ‘Boss’ was a familiar title given to commanders who’d earned it. It implied respect. Otherwise it was Lieutenant, or whatever the officer’s rank.
They were in the Mediterranean, not ideal waters for the big, nuclear boomers, but the USS Maine had been conducting shallow water tests as close to the Middle Eastern shores as it was possible to go. Apparently, the people in the Pentagon had novel ideas about where they may want their boats to go in the coming months and years. It didn’t need a crystal ball to work out why, or where future trouble loomed. To starboard lay the long coastline of North Africa, the world’s number one flashpoint. Bravo Platoon had joined the Maine in the Atlantic, dropping from a C-130 into the choppy seas off the South Western coast of Portugal. The skipper had made a fast, underwater run through the warm waters of the Med and brought them to their present position off the coast of Syria.
“Two minutes.”
Boswell nodded at the seaman and swept his eyes over the Platoon, as if without his constant checks, they’d miss something. Nolan noticed his lips moving, but couldn’t make out what he said.
Some kind of checklist? A mantra maybe, or possibly a prayer? Who knows?
“Surface, surface! Make it quick, Lieutenant. The skipper said no more than two minutes on top.”
“You do your job, sailor, and we’ll do ours. You don’t need to worry about the Navy Seals.”
The man nodded, but Nolan saw his lips twitch. There was a second seaman inside the sail, the big conning tower atop the submarine’s hull. He was standing directly underneath the main hatch, next to a row of warning lights, one showing red. The red light winked out and a green indicator flared. He spun the steel wheel, pushed the heavy, counterbalanced hatch open and leapt through, followed by Bravo Platoon, Boswell in the lead. Nolan clambered through onto the slippery, wet deck plates of the sub and went aft, to where seamen were wrestling two boats out of the forward supply hatch. The night air was warm and dry, a relief after the close confinement and canned air of the submarine. He could smell the familiar odors of the sea, ozone, rotting weed, and over it all a faint, spicy aroma, something between oranges and heavy petroleum. Ten miles off the port bow was a row of lights, a couple of them moving. Syria.
“Chief, you take the second boat, you’ve got the coordinates?”
He nodded at Boswell. “All set, LT.”
He was already jumping down into the soft, rubber hull of the inflatable boat. A seaman had already started the heavily silenced outboard motor and was waiting for them to give the go-ahead. Nolan went forward to the prow and checked off the men as they climbed aboard. When there were nine Seals in the boat, he waved for the seaman to get under way. Boswell’s boat moved off a few seconds later, and they turned to watch as the submarine disappeared slowly beneath the waves until only a tiny attack periscope remained, almost invisible even at close range. There was a light swell running, and they were surprised by a sudden squall as cold rain pattered down on them. The seaman steering their boat grunted.
“That’s probably all they’ll get this year around these parts.”
Nolan felt the damp coolness inside his camouflage uniform, enjoying the refreshing sensations of real air and rain after the canned, artificial atmosphere of the boomer. It was short lived, the rain stopped as the boats closed the shore, running smoothly and quickly through the swell until they were close to the beach. The Seals jumped out into the surf, and the helmsmen immediately reversed their engines and surged back out to sea, back toward the safety of their sub. Nolan checked his wrist GPS indicator. They were in the right place, two miles south of Latakia, the bustling Syrian port. The odor of petroleum, spices and oranges was even more pronounced, now that they were onshore. A brisk, but mild and pleasant breeze blew in from the sea, and already their damp uniforms were beginning to dry out after the rain.
“Where the fuck are they?” Boswell grumbled. ‘They’ were the two men they were supposed to meet. They were Israelis, for the mission was a joint one to extract an agent from the city of Homs, an agent who had supplied both Israel and the US with valuable information. Now he was trapped by the civil war that had devastated the city, holding information that both the Pentagon and Mossad were anxious to get their hands on.
“They’ll be here,” Nolan replied. “I’d guess they’re running a little late. Give ‘em time.”
“We may not have time, Chief. If they can’t keep up, this mission is likely to be a bust. We’re running to a tight schedule here.”
Nolan nodded. Why is the man so nervous?
No mission ever went to plan, in fact no military operation. That’s what they trained the Navy Seals for, to improvise, and to land on their feet when things went south. Then he saw a light, three long flashes, followed by a single flash. It came from the highway, three hundred yards east of the beach.
“That’s it, the signal. We should move out, LT.”
“It must be a vehicle. No one said anything about a vehicle.”
“I didn’t hear anyone say it would be a donkey cart either,” Will Bryce rumbled in his deep, bass voice. He mitigated the comment with a gentle smile on his face.
Boswell glanced at him in annoyance, and then looked away. Will had that effect on people. He’d fought his way out of the black Detroit ghettoes, and along the way developed a way of handling himself that almost put an aura around him. His chin jutted forward, under a face that was almost regal, calm, serious, and determined. He had gray eyes under thick, bushy eyebrows, an undoubted throwback to his ancestors. Yet the oddity only served to enhance his face and make it more remarkable, as was his physique. Will was big, two inches over six feet, with a wide, heavily muscled body. If he resembled anything, it may have been a Zulu war chief, and he was every bit as awe-inspiring. Boswell didn’t reply. He turned away and shouted to the men. “There’s a vehicle ahead. It looks like our contact. Let’s move out.”
Nolan flashed Will an amused glance as they walked swiftly across the sand. There was a line of dunes, wild with long grass and debris washed up on the last high tide. They crossed to the road and approached the canvas sided truck, which was painted in English and Arabic, Saleem and Sons, Importers of Dates and Figs. The engine was ticking over with a deep, rhythmic droning, and a cloud of blue-black exhaust smoke poured out of the tailpipe. At first, there was no one, near, but then a man stepped out from in front of the hood. A second man joined him. Both wore traditional Syrian robes.
“Shalom.”
Boswell twitched as they came into view. Then he calmed and introduced himself.
The first man nodded a greeting. “Welcome to Syria, Lieutenant. My name is Avrim Cohen. This is my colleague Moshe Israel.”
“Right. No mistaking those names for Syrian nationals,” Boswell grinned, attempting to make a joke. It fell flat.
“That is because we are not Syrian national, Lieutenant. We are Israelis. Like you, we are only visiting this country. We use different names for our work here, of course.”
“Yeah, right. So this is our transport, yeah?”
“Yes, it is. If you would get aboard, we can begin driving to Homs. We do not have much time.”
“Before dawn?”
Avrim shook his head. “Before the shelling begins again.”
Nolan glanced at the Mossad operative. Avrim Cohen was olive skinned, with the dark hair and eyes of his ancestors. Slim and wiry, he moved with a smooth economy that hinted at hidden reserves of strength beneath the Arab robe. His partner, Moshe Israel, was also olive skinned, but was more muscled and had the blue eyes of a European Jew. Nolan wondered how that went down in Syria? But the immediate concern was the shelling. Avrim was hinting at problems to come.
“Is the shelling heavy? I mean, is it likely to cause us any problems, like slow us down?”
“Not if we go now, no. But if we are delayed, they always start their barrage at around dawn, and entry into the city will become difficult, if not impossible. Even during the hours of darkness, we could hit trouble.” He looked at Nolan’s sniper rifle, the MK11 Sniper Weapon System, noting its unusual characteristics. The heavier barrel, longer length, and the addition of a suppressor and a huge, Leopold scope sight.
“You are a sniper?”
Nolan nodded. “Yes. There are two of us, me and Vince Merano here.”
He looked across at his fellow sniper. Of Italian descent, Vince presented a total contrast to Nolan’s Anglo features. He was short, and built like a wrestler, which he had been as a youth. He had a face that was rough hewn, as if perhaps he'd gone one too many battling rounds during his early days as a keen amateur in the ring. Vince’s skin was Mediterranean dark, with dark-brown eyes under heavy brows, a low forehead almost totally hidden by a thick wave of hair so black it was almost blue. After a few drinks, he found it easy to have fun masquerading as a Mafia hit man. Avrim nodded a greeting.
“That is good, I would like one of you to ride up front in the cab and one in the rear of the vehicle. If we meet any trouble, it would be useful to be able to deal with it at long range.”
“Sure.” He looked at Boswell. “That okay with you, LT?”
The man inclined his head slightly, obviously pissed that he wouldn’t share the front seats with the mysterious Mossad operatives, but unable to argue the point. It was their vehicle, after all. And they knew where they were going. As the Seals climbed over the tailboard into the rear of the truck, Nolan got into the cab and sat next to the passenger window. He was separated from the men in the back only by a canvas curtain. The Mossad men had fitted elastic straps inside the cab roof for their weapons. Unlike the Seals, they possessed Syrian issue assault rifles, or rather, Russian weapons supplied to the Syrians. AK-74s, the successor to the iconic AK-47, just as lethal, and produced in similarly large numbers. Except that the AK-74 employed the lighter 5.45-millimeter round, which enabled the soldiers, like their NATO counterparts, to carry more ammunition.
“If you would place your weapon out of sight, Chief Nolan, it would…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. A Syrian police SUV, a British made Land Rover, came charging out of the dunes, its engine roaring. Appearing almost as if by magic, the noise of its approach had been covered by the engine of their truck. A searchlight clicked on, and they were dazzled by the harsh brightness that pinpointed them in its beam. At the same time, an amplified voice hailed them.
“This is the police! Get out of the truck. Put down your weapons, and lay down on the ground. Do not attempt to resist, or you will be shot. You must comply now!”
Nolan was already moving. He threw the canvas curtain back and shouted at the men behind, “Get out, now! Make sure you keep the truck between you and the Syrians. Move, people!”
He didn’t wait for a reply. The police vehicle was coming up fast on the driver’s side. Nolan opened the cab door and rolled out onto the roadway, clutching the sniper rifle. The other Seals were bailing out of the truck, and some had even cut away the canvas with their razor sharp combat knives, and were tumbling out of the gaps in the ripped material. Nolan crawled away from the road and into the sandy verge, where he found a slight rise to set up a shooting position. Vince Merano’s voice came into his earpiece.
“Chief, you copy?”
“Side of the road, twenty feet behind the passenger side of the truck.”
“Look to your left, I’m ten feet away.”
He glanced to one side and saw Vince sprawled on the sand, his rifle pointing at the enemy, ready to open fire. And then he saw Boswell. The Lieutenant was actually running, doubled over, into the desert. He swallowed his astonishment.
“LT, get down, get down now! You’re making yourself a target.”
For a few moments there was no reply, then he heard Boswell’s voice, trembling and hoarse with raw emotion. Or was it panic?
“Chief, we need to regroup now! They’re all over us.”
“Relax, LT, it’s only one vehicle. We can deal with it.”
“But I…”
Nolan lost his patience. “Get the fuck down, LT, before they open fire and start shooting up all of us!”
He watched the officer dive to the sand and then forgot about him. The long wheelbase Syrian Land Rover was crew cabbed, which meant it carried no more than six men. They could take them, no problem. Except for the gun, a twin Russian PK machine gun mounted on the bed at the back.
Designed by Kalashnikov, the PK was a crude weapon by modern standards. But the twin two hundred and fifty round box magazines meant it could spew bullets out at a rate of seven hundred rounds a minute, a total of fourteen hundred rounds for the two machine guns in a single minute, enough to decimate the entire squad. A Syrian soldier was swiveling the heavy machine gun, following the searchlight as it probed around the truck. In the spill of the light, he could see an officer sat in the passenger seat, a microphone pressed to his lips. He was still shouting at them to surrender.
