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    Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury
    Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury
    Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury
    Ebook318 pages5 hours

    Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury

    By Eric Meyer

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    About this ebook

    An intelligence failure condemns Echo Six, an elite NATO SpecOps unit, to walk into a bloody trap inside Kashmir. Outnumbered and outgunned, they are forced to retreat under heavy fire. Airlifted back to Afghanistan, Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley is aware they need time to rebuild. Time to train replacements for those men whose bodies they left behind in the snows of Kashmir. However, the clock is ticking, and once again, they are thrown back into combat.

    The Chinese have arrested a Buddhist monk on charges of espionage and sentenced him to death. Unknown to his captors, this is no ordinary monk. David Campbell is the stepson of the wealthy White House Chief of Staff. David turned his back on the trappings of Western civilization and adopted the lifestyle of a Tibetan Buddhist. The White House is adamant he must be brought home. However, they cannot involve American forces, in what would amount to an act of war on China. The solution? Echo Six. This time they will go head-to-head with the Chinese People's Liberation Army. Echo Six must penetrate the Chinese ring of steel around Tibet and bring out the American monk alive.

    The bloody battles stretch from the city of Lhasa, across Tibet, and into the snow-covered peaks of the Himalayas. This is a story of heroism, betrayal, and the brave operators of Echo Six. Black Ops VII Tibetan Fury is a worthy action packed sequel to the best selling Echo Six – Black Ops novels.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateFeb 12, 2014
    ISBN9781909149465
    Echo Six: Black Ops 7 - Tibetan Fury
    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.

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      Book preview

      Echo Six - Eric Meyer

      ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 7

      TIBETAN FURY

      By Eric Meyer

      Second Smashwords Edition

      Copyright © 2014 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

      PROLOGUE

      CHAPTER 1

      CHAPTER 2

      CHAPTER 3

      CHAPTER 4

      CHAPTER 5

      CHAPTER 6

      CHAPTER 7

      CHAPTER 8

      CHAPTER 9

      CHAPTER 10

      CHAPTER 11

      CHAPTER 12

      Prologue

      The gentle sounds of bells. Water, running down a nearby rock face, diverted into a temple pool. Tenzin Davaika stopped to listen and to contemplate, as he had done for every hour of every day since he'd come to this place. A cold breeze ruffled the folds of his saffron robe, and automatically he adjusted the closure. The robe was short on his lean body, for he was tall for a Tibetan, a testament to his half-American parentage. His body was spare, almost to the point of emaciation, and his head shaved bald. Despite his puny physique, he moved with a steely grace, evidence of a huge reserve of inner strength, either mental or physical, maybe both. He showed no sign that he was aware of the bitterly cold, snow-covered landscape.

      Tibet was a high, cold country nestling in the Himalayas, the highest region on earth, at an average of five thousand meters above sea level. The sky was clear and blue, and the air temperature hovered around zero, as it usually did. It was part of the natural glory that made this place a paradise on earth. Snow, mountain peaks, temples, streams, he had come intending never to leave. Times change. Tibet changed.

      The Chinese invaded paradise in 1950. When their invasion was complete, it marked a beginning of the pain, not an end. Soldiers, policemen, beatings, murder, imprisonments, harassment, and the wholesale theft of Tibetan property. There was worse to come. The MSS, The Ministry of State Security, brought their apparatus of terror to this peaceful land. Here in Lhasa, the hands of the MSS were drenched in the blood of innocent Tibetans. Davaika had to be careful, now more than ever.

      The warning had come this morning from the Abbot. It was no surprise when the head of the monastery summoned him.

      Tenzin Davaika, I have received a message from a friend in the city. The Ministry of State Security has somehow discovered you are not a native Tibetan. They plan to come here and arrest you as a spy.

      He'd worked to keep calm, reciting his mantra, controlling his breathing. It wasn't easy, for his mind was in turmoil. If they took him, at best it would mean a life sentence in a harsh labor camp. At worst, a 9mm bullet in the back of his head. No appeals, no mercy. They would sentence him for treason, passing secrets to the enemy.

      It could hardly be any worse, except for one indisputable fact. He was an American spy, or had been once. However, there was now something else, something far more important they must never find out, no matter how much pain they inflicted. A secret he'd been entrusted with, a secret so vast it could mean the end of everything he held dear, if the Chinese uncovered it.

      They may well discover he'd worked for CIA, perhaps they already knew. He was resigned to that. He'd left that organization, but they may find out he still passed information to a contact in Lhasa for transmission to the outside world. He was resigned to that, too. Tenzin Davaika was happy to convey information about Chinese atrocities, pogroms, troop movements, weaponry, armor, anything that might be of interest to China’s enemies. And hasten the end of the occupation.

      As long as they never discovered what lay hidden deep inside his head. And they never would, not from him. He calmed his mind, for he was about to set out on a long, hard road. There would be much pain and hardship along the way, no matter how it ended. Safe, outside his beloved Tibet, or in a Chinese condemned cell.

      How long do I have, Master?

      They will come in the early morning, as they always do. You must leave here tonight. Do not say goodbye to your brothers. We know some of them are Chinese plants. I will send you to a monastery in the southwest, close to the Nepalese border. You should be safe there for a time, and you can cross into Nepal when danger threatens. They will find you, eventually.

      He'd thanked the Abbot; the man meant well and wouldn't know what he faced. Couldn't know the whole truth. The Tibetan American monk spent the rest of the day in prayer and contemplation. He was ready. His ordeal would begin when he stepped through the gate. Davaika wore his inner robe, outer robes, and a thicker robe to protect him from the elements. The rest of his possessions he carried in a small bundle, a bowl, a water-strainer, a razor to shave his head, and a needle and thread. They were the only possessions a Buddhist monk was allowed to own. He would have given up all of them for the chance to stay.

      The night was bitterly cold as he waded through thick snow on the track that wound its way down the mountainside. Not the quickest route to Lhasa, but State Security could be watching the main road. Overhead, a pair of fighter jets descended, their navigation lights bright, to land at the military airfield outside Lhasa. Probably Shenyang J-11s, the Chinese variant of the Russian Sukhoi 27. He'd seen similar aircraft on the ground when he reported in to his controller. That was during his previous life, when he'd worked undercover for the Agency.

      The People's Air Force had many such jets and powerful weapons with which to subdue their slaves. As did tyrants the world over. There was always money for them to buy weapons. To pay soldiers and policemen, and build jails, but never enough to feed and house their populations.

      Help me understand, Lord Buddha. How can we reach the minds of these men?

      He was shivering with cold when he reached the outskirts of the city, but inside his mind he was calm, as he'd learned in the monastery. He recited a prayer as he walked and felt warmed by the familiar warmth of the words. Even though the Chinese brutes infested every part of his beloved Tibet, like cockroaches. No, not like cockroaches. The insects did no harm to his people, committed no crimes of unspeakable brutality. The Chinese were beyond any civilized comparison.

      The stark beauty of the landscape restored his mental balance, and he was content. Until he saw them. They were in the distance, a few hundred meters away. A group of soldiers clustered around a jeep, an ugly, Chinese-built Beijing BJ212. They had no lights, so they were waiting in ambush. Waiting for him. He'd seen the glow of lighted cigarettes. China had the highest percentage of smokers in the world. He tensed, ready to make an effort to evade them.

      He jogged off the track, too late. A searchlight flared into life, and flooded the area with harsh, bright light. He was too slow, caught in the periphery of the beam. They shouted, and he started to run. He struggled through the snow, floundering away from the soldiers. Behind him, the engine of a jeep coughed into life, and hurtled across the soft snow. He changed course, heading for an irrigation ditch, a place he might hide from the soldiers until they were gone. It was too late. The vehicle swung past him and skidded to a stop.

      Soldiers leapt out, three men carrying Type 56 assault rifles, the AK-47 clones manufactured in China in their millions. Weapons utilized by the PLA, the People's Liberation Army, to suppress dissent to the dictatorship who ruled China. They were also used by Ministry of State Security troops, Department Two. The thugs who were proud to proclaim they broke most heads in Tibet. These men wore Department Two flashes on their green uniforms. State Security.

      The first soldier smashed his rifle butt down, and he went down, with blood flowing from the gash in his head. The saffron robe was no defense against the flurry of brutal kicks that followed, and the pain almost caused him to cry out. Instead, he recited his mantra and began a chant to Padmasambhava, the Guru Rinpoche. The chanting infuriated his attackers, who redoubled their efforts to cripple him with their boots until a single word cut through the clear night air.

      Teng! Stop!

      The kicking ceased at once, and the monk raised his head to inspect his foes. The two soldiers who'd attacked him had moved back, panting from their exertions, and an officer stood over him. The face was known to him. Known to every man, woman, and child resident in Lhasa. A Chinese senior officer, his face topped with a baldhead. He wore no hat, despite the cold.

      The thick lips were twisted in a sneer, like a spoiled, sadistic child who has the entire world as its plaything. Beneath the brutal head, he possessed a physique that matched his propensity for brutality. Of average height, he was built like an oak tree, with thick muscles and a huge, broad chest. Wide enough to stop a tank.

      The reputation he enjoyed was of a man who found satisfaction in the pain he caused to others, especially to Tibetans, who he regarded as sub-human. He was a legend in Lhasa, the stuff of nightmares, something with which to frighten unruly children.

      The sneer twisted into a smile.

      Good evening. He spoke in clear English, almost without an accent, so he knew. The officer was also known to be fluent in Tibetan, and of course Mandarin. But he spoke English. A cold night for a stroll. We've been waiting for you, Tenzin Davaika, American spy. Do you know the penalty for spying in the People's Republic of China?

      This is Tibet, not China.

      The smile broadened. A million soldiers of the People's Liberation Army say different. The Autonomous Region of Tibet is a part of China, and always will be. And you, my friend, will face punishment for spying. You know what that is?

      I know.

      Good. In your case, there will be no long term of imprisonment while awaiting execution. The court will, of course, sentence you to death.

      Chinese justice, he spat out, angry he'd shown emotion to the brutal State Security officer. He cautioned himself to be calm, but it was too late, the words were out. He'd surmised they could be here, almost certainly they'd arrest him. That they'd imprison and a summary execution would follow. It was the way it must be. Karma. As long as they never discovered the secret he carried, buried deep inside his mind.

      Xilong grinned, pleased to have penetrated his calm exterior. It is the justice of Major Xu Xilong.

      He nodded to his two men, and they moved in with their boots raised, ready to resume the beating. Tenzin Davaika restarted his prayer.

      Chapter One

      The call came less than an hour before they were due to go on leave. It had been a grueling NATO training exercise above the Arctic Circle, in Northern Norway. After the snow and ice, even returning to the quirky old city of Brussels was welcome. And Lieutenant-Commander Abe Talley had an even more pressing reason to look forward to this coming vacation. Sitting apart from the others, he worked to control his anger when they entered the conference room.

      The leader of the NATO Special Forces outfit Echo Six was a man with the tough, confident air of a born commander. He was taller than average for a Special Forces operator, long-limbed, with curly, dark brown hair over a face that showed the effects of wind and weather. A man that any girl would look at twice, and frequently did. Except it wasn't any girl who interested him, there was only one. He forced himself to relax. It wasn't easy.

      His men saw the signs and gave him a wide berth. They knew what the problem was, and knew it was unjust. They also liked and respected him. And knew he'd have no choice but to follow orders.

      Talley bunched his fists, then relaxed them, and made an effort to calm his racing brain.

      I have to get to Israel and see her. I could lose her.

      A visit to Israel, the Holy Land. To make a last attempt to talk to his girlfriend Nava. She'd made it to her ancestral home, and he'd gone through hell to make it happen for her. What happened next astonished him. In a complete turnabout, she'd joined a religious commune and turned her back on him. With luck, he'd have one last chance to work things out with her. Somehow, he knew he had to make it work. He loved her with an intensity that hurt.

      Except it started to unravel. Admiral Carl Brooks, their boss, called them into the briefing room just after they landed in Belgium. His face was grim.

      Your vacation is cancelled. I’m sorry. No, I'm not sorry, he amended, You know about the upcoming Mid-East peace conference to be held next month in Geneva? Talley didn't reply, and Brooks went on. "The American NSA guys have been working overtime to sift through the heap of intercepts that tie into the conference. It's obvious our Islamist friends would dearly love a chance to disrupt it, and maybe kill a few Western diplomats at the same time.

      The US Vice President will be there, as well as the Secretary of State, so it’s a tempting target. Too tempting for our old friend Wasim Aziz. NSA believes he's gathering his resources for a major attack, to be led by suicide bombers. They'd follow up with at least a score of their fighters breaching the building with heavy weapons. We want you to go get Aziz. Without him, and more importantly, without his money, it'll fall apart."

      Where is he? Abe Talley asked.

      Brooks paused for a moment. He pulled a wry face. Kashmir. The Pakistani-controlled segment of Kashmir.

      Shit, Reynolds exclaimed, Sorry Sir.

      Brooks smiled. Shit about sums it up. I intend to use two units for this operation. Echo Six will drop into Kashmir and terminate Aziz. He's the moneyman, the most important link in the chain. Terrorism doesn't come cheap, as I'm sure you know. At the same time, Alpha Six will target the hostiles who've already entered Europe. Some of the insurgents are known to be hiding out in Switzerland, and the Swiss police are cooperating with NATO, as far as their neutrality will allow. As you're all aware, since the Congress of Vienna in 1815, their constitution forbids them from joining NATO.

      He glanced around the room, waiting for a question, but there was none. He nodded. That's all, you fly out tonight.

      Amidst the groans, they heard the voice of Lieutenant Domenico Rovere, the Italian who claimed to have only two hobbies. Shakespeare and women. Not in that order. He was also a lethal and effective killer. Right now, he elected to quote Shakespeare.

      The fire-eyed maid of smoky war, all hot and bleeding will we offer them.

      Can it, an irritated Guy Welland murmured. His voice was loud enough for Rovere to hear. Welland was a specialist, a specialist in war and in killing. A veteran of the British SAS, he was also the unit's second-in-command. A sergeant, when there were more senior men in Echo Six. But no one argued, even though he didn't look to be up to much, not physically.

      At first glance, Guy Welland looked average. Medium height, medium coloring, and conventional haircut. He was also the owner of smooth, unremarkable features, making him almost invisible in a crowd, although the build beneath his coat was anything but average. His shoulders were the width of library shelves, and even in a tough outfit, he was known to be an extraordinary soldier. His dark, brooding eyes were always on watch, always alert for a hostile threat. When Guy scented trouble, his strength and speed of response were nothing short of phenomenal; as many of his enemies had found, to their cost.

      * * *

      The distance they had to travel in the huge transport aircraft gave Talley time to think things through. Right now, he was thinking about his number two. Guy had been different of late, moody and introspective. Talley offered to talk it through, but he'd clammed up. Guy was Jewish, or at least, of Jewish ancestry. The problems his people suffered, most often in Islamic countries, were no surprise to anyone who kept up with current affairs. Talley wondered if it had to do with his relatives.

      Is that the problem that’s bugging him? Someone threatening his family?

      The nature of their work, usually countering the threat of Islamic terrorism, meant they were often confronted with the ugly face of Muslim violence against non-Muslims. Jews were their favorite target, on those occasions when they weren't fighting each other, Sunni against Shia.

      I’ll try again, and see if I can get him to talk about it. Maybe I can help. He's my best friend, as well as my number two. However you look at it, I need to get involved.

      He put it into a corner of his mind and tried to resign himself to the journey. A flight that would be long, numbingly cold, and exquisitely uncomfortable. They flew in a C-17, the big, four turbojet, Boeing transport designed to be as much a test of men's endurance as a means of transport.

      No one complained when they took a short stopover at Bagram Air Base outside Kabul in Afghanistan. It was a welcome break from the wearying monotony, and they had a chance to stretch their legs. Night had fallen when they landed. An Air Force colonel driving a Humvee came out to meet them. He had a truck trailing behind, which took them aboard and ferried them across the airfield to the Special Forces compound, screened off from the rest of the base. He led them inside the secure briefing room, and in the bright white light, they were able to get a good look at the man. His eyes were bloodshot, and his face had the unhealthy pallor and broken veins of a man who was sick. Or one who drank more than was good for him. Afghanistan was a shit duty.

      My bosses asked me to give you a rundown on what to expect inside Kashmir; weather, temperature, landscape, and most important, enemy troops. It's a place with special problems, and he put the accent on the word 'special'. In that part of the world, Gentlemen, everyone is the enemy. The Indians may assume you're Pakistani and shoot you. The Pakistanis assume you're Indian, and shoot you just the same. They don't ask questions first. Then there's Al Qaeda, who shoot everybody.

      What about the LZ, is it secure? What do you know about it? Talley asked.

      It's high in the mountains, pretty damn cold this time of year, and the place is clear. The last time we took a detailed look at the satellite intel, the ground around the LZ was as deserted as the surface of the moon. You'll land less than five klicks from Aziz's headquarters, he pointed to a map surrounded by photos of several buildings, Close enough to locate and destroy the target.

      Why doesn't he say 'kill Aziz'? Why so squeamish?

      How're you planning to get us out? What's the plan for exfil? Guy asked.

      The Night Stalkers offered their services, he replied. Do you know them?

      They nodded to each other, satisfied. The United States Army 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, AKA the Night Stalkers, was a Special Operations unit of the United States Army that provided helicopter aviation support for various clandestine forces.

      They're old friends, Guy told him, If they say they'll be there, they'll be there.

      Right. I've uploaded the maps and relevant data to your tactical pad, and we have prepared the demolition charges that Sergeant Jackson requested. This should be a straightforward operation. We've allowed for every eventuality. Little more than a training exercise.

      Talley looked at him sharply.

      In which case, why did they transport us halfway across the world? What isn't he telling us?

      Just one small thing, he continued, Lashkar-e-Taiba have moved a large number of men into the area. They're regrouping their forces since the Pakistani Army gave them a bloody nose last year. Our assessment is there's nothing to interfere with this operation.

      No connection with Aziz? Talley asked, suddenly concerned.

      No. He shook his head, Absolutely not, we've checked and double-checked. It's just coincidence.

      The combination of Wasim Aziz and Lashkar-e-Taiba was bad news, and Al Qaeda was the icing on the cake. Talley shared a look with Guy. In their world, they didn't believe in coincidence. 'Coincidence' was a word they'd heard on too many occasions in the past. It usually translated to 'total fuckup'. The Colonel continued, oblivious to their concerns.

      This operation has been well planned from start to finish. It's a milk run. Straight in and straight out.

      A milk run, Colonel? Rovere exclaimed, not hiding his disbelief, Al Qaeda, Lashkar-e-Taiba, they're not exactly amateurs.

      He smiled. We've gone through everything, satellite overheads, UAV footage, and a heap of intercepts from cellphones and local traffic. Stupid bastards, they can't help themselves bragging on their phones. These local groups in the Kashmiri badlands are not sophisticated, in no way. Believe me, they're not the Taliban. Their equipment and training is pretty basic, to say the least.

      Talley nodded, still skeptical. Nothing was that easy, except maybe death and taxes. You're certain?

      One hundred percent. Our intel is as tight as the security here at Bagram. You can bet your pension on it.

      His voice was full of confidence and enthusiasm, yet his eyes were at odds with the strident tones. The Colonel was a bullshitter, a man used to saying what people wanted to hear, regardless of accuracy or truth. He finished with a sickly grin that didn't fool anyone.

      In that moment, Talley was convinced it was all going to go as wrong as anything could go wrong. He kept quiet, and the Air Force officer indicated the meeting had ended. He walked across the room and out through the door at the end, leaving it open. The Colonel emerged backlit by the spill of light from the briefing room.

      In the chill winter air, they heard it clearly. The shot was a single 'crack' that was little louder than a plank of timber splitting. Immediately, sirens began to wail, and searchlights came on, bathing the area in hard, bright light. Guy was first to move. He raced for the light switch, plunged the room into darkness, and ran outside, followed by Talley and Reynolds. They dragged the Air Force officer's still body back into the room, and Talley went back out to look for the location of the sniper. It was good shooting, but not for the victim.

      Jesse Whitefeather, one of the unit snipers, was already outside, searching. He indicated the fence designed to obscure sight of the compound from the outside. There was a small hole in the fabric.

      It's the height of a man's head. The shooter watched and waited until a target presented itself, then 'bang'. So much for the Colonel's confidence. He gave Talley a cold smile. He bet his pension and lost.

      They stared out at the surrounding landscape. Whitefeather, the expert sniper, was seeking out those places where the bullet could have come

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