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    Alpha Squad: Hunt for Boko Haram
    Alpha Squad: Hunt for Boko Haram
    Alpha Squad: Hunt for Boko Haram
    Ebook305 pages4 hours

    Alpha Squad: Hunt for Boko Haram

    By Eric Meyer

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    oe Tyler, a former SEAL, works as a contractor for the CIA’s Alpha Squad program in Afghanistan. He is determined to avenge the murder of his brother, killed during the 9/11 attacks on the World Trade Centre. During a retreat from a disastrous mission, Tyler inadvertently kills a Chinese officer, and Beijing is determined to extract retribution. The CIA sends Tyler’s squad out to Nigeria while they wait for Chinese anger to abate.

    The target is a Boko Haram warlord, and from the moment they land in the capital, their troubles start to pile up. The Nigerian officer assigned to assist them is hostile, threatening their operation, and Tyler has a further problem. His girlfriend and young son are in the country, and they have gone missing in Boko Haram territory. Bullet for bullet, he fights desperately to save his family and kill the warlord who threatens to unleash a campaign of rape, pillage, and murder on Nigeria.

    Alpha Squad – Hunt for Boko Haram is an incredible story of Africa during the early days of the Boko Haram insurgency. A full-length novel by the bestselling author of many Spec Ops series. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo stories, Heroes of Afghanistan, Raider, Echo Six, and Devil's Guard titles.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateMar 13, 2018
    ISBN9781370870264
    Alpha Squad: Hunt for Boko Haram
    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

      Alpha Squad - Eric Meyer

      ALPHA SQUAD – HUNT FOR BOKO HARAM

      By Eric Meyer

      Part of the ALPHA SQUAD series

      Copyright 2017 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.

      Foreword

      They exited the mosque into the burning midday heat. Sun blazed down on the parched earth, and some were barefoot, although if the hot earth scorched their feet, no one appeared to notice. Their eyes shone with awe, their minds fired by the incendiary words of the Imam who'd preached to them for three straight hours. He’d warned of the evils of Western ideas, Western attitudes, and worst of all, the infidel Western religion.

      This was a man who used religion like a chef would use ingredients and spices. Combined with his rhetoric, the recipe would produce a fierce dish, a dish known as Jihad.

      Sambo was a warlord, a gaunt man, with a lined face. He was of above average height, and his body carried no fat. Beneath the robes he’d adopted to identify with radical Islam, his body was muscular. A veteran of endless bush wars, he was still lean and fit, despite being in his fifties. He had a face many men described as noble, although he owed no allegiance to Islam, or to any other religion or creed. Noble he was not. The way of the Prophet was a tool, no more.

      His wives would testify to his wiry strength. They would also testify to his brutality. Outwardly a saint to his followers, behind closed doors, his women bore the scars of innumerable beatings. Away from his public face, ‘Saint’ Sambo was a misogynist and a savage.

      He’d shouted his fiery rhetoric to the faithful, We must drive away the infidels. Their presence is an insult to the name of Allah, as are their schools that pollute the minds of our people. We must follow the teachings of Allah, and stop this creeping Westernization.

      The response was an exultant shout, Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!

      He held up a hand to silence them. Last year, Sheikh bin Laden struck a mighty blow for Islam. The World Trade Center lies in ruins. Now we must continue the fight, and drive out the foreign evil that blights our nation. If we’re to feed and clothe our families, and educate our children, we must drive out these spawns of the devil. Are you with us?

      Most of them had shouted and waved their hands in exhilaration. A few remained still.

      If you’re not with us, you’re against us. In which case you are a friend of the infidel, and you are our enemy.

      The remainder of the hands soared into the air, and he’d nodded in satisfaction.

      We have weapons, and now we will get more.

      Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar!

      The squalid village square was a testament to their financial poverty. Although not one man considered it might also be a testament to the poverty of their religious ideas. Or wondered why Islam and poverty always seemed to go hand in hand. They returned to their homes, some elated by the prospect of Jihad. Others remembering previous times, and outcomes that had failed to live up to the promises of their leaders.

      At dawn, they traveled to a neighboring village. A few men owned battered AK-47s, relics of earlier wars. Some toted ancient shotguns. All carried machetes, honed to a razor’s edge. God’s work required nothing less. They reached the target village, the largest in the region, and approached the police station. The police owned weapons, locked into a secure armory. Soon, they would take them. Chike Sambo regarded his men, assessing their readiness to carry out God’s will. Sambo’s will, and he gave an approving nod. They were ready, to a man. Sixty men. Sixty jihadists.

      It is time.

      The hour was still early, and no one had roused. The only sound was the patter of their feet on bare earth, and they arrived outside one of the few well-built buildings. The police station showed no evidence of activity. Sambo nodded to the man next to him, his second-in-command, Victor Gowon, who waited eagerly for instructions.

      Gowon cut a strange figure for an insurgent. Short and paunchy, bald as a billiard ball, he always wore a worried expression. Always concerned to please his master, the man he worshipped. Gowon was the perfect servant, like a butler in a colonial mansion, yet his obese exterior concealed a soul of granite. If his boss required him to execute an innocent woman or child for no reason other than a whim, he'd gladly obey. Another veteran of the bush wars, he was ever prepared to use a gun to reinforce his master's will.

      Victor, take three men, and go inside. Kill them all.

      Yes, Sir.

      The four men mounted the steps. He tried the handle and found it locked. He looked back at Sambo, who gave him an impatient wave. Victor nodded to the two biggest men, and together they shoulder charged the door. It sprung open, and they surged inside. One policeman was asleep, his head resting on the desk. He jerked up at the noise of the door crashing open, and his eyes flared wide; first, in annoyance, and then in anger.

      What is this? You cannot come in here!

      Gowon smiled and pulled a machete from his belt. I have a crime to report.

      What crime?

      The murder of a policeman.

      His hand came up in a blur of motion, and the machete slashed across the man's neck. The razor-sharp blade almost decapitated him, and he fell back in a welter of blood that pooled on the desk, saturating the documents and files scattered on its top.

      They were already searching the office, and he shouted, The keys to the armory, find them quickly.

      Several minutes later they found the key and opened the steel door. Inside, they found several AKM assault rifles and a variety of lesser weapons. Mainly pistols, but of more interest, a machine gun. Victor wondered how the police had managed to acquire an American M-60, but what did it matter how they’d procured it? The weapon now belonged to Boko Haram. They’d be sure to put it to good use.

      They entered the cellblock and found five prisoners incarcerated in the cells. Three were Christians, and they hacked them to death with their machetes. Two claimed to be Muslims, and when asked if they wanted to join the holy cause, they nodded eagerly. Whether their agreement was to escape their confinement, or to avoid the alternative of a gruesome death, was unclear. Whatever their motives, they would either learn how to kill the enemies of Islam, or go the way of their fellow prisoners.

      They’d completed their work, and Victor led his men outside. Other fighters were carrying out different tasks in the center of the village. They’d entered the grocery store, and men were passing out cardboard cartons of food and bottles of water. A few men had gone in search of vehicles, and they brought two Toyota trucks to the village square. The villagers were starting to stare, and the owners of the vehicles shouted in indignation, but the insurgents formed a perimeter around them, weapons pointed outward, daring them to interfere. None interfered. They began to load the supplies they’d stolen onto the trucks, pausing when a man shouted. An angry voice raised in protest. He was the merchant whose shop they’d looted. Once again, the machetes rose and fell, leaving him a bloodied, dismembered corpse, a warning to others.

      After a final look around, Chike Sambo climbed into the passenger seat of the lead truck and grunted for the driver to proceed. He kept the speed low, heading toward the dense jungle a few hundred meters away, and the men jogged along behind. Behind them, they left a village in shock. Several of the insurgents had torched buildings in the center, as if to add to the death and misery in their wake. A plume of smoke marked their leaving. Not far ahead lay unimaginable horrors.

      * * *

      The morning after the attack, Father James Kirby, SJ, a sixty-three-year-old Vietnam veteran, celebrated the mass for his flock in a nearby village. The numbers were down, and instead of upward of fifty people who normally attended, he counted fifteen. Rumors of the violence had reached them. The perpetrators had disappeared into the bush; with no suggestion they were about to continue their campaign of violence. But still, people were nervous. He hoped, he prayed, they’d spare this village, which was named Gilani. The population was mainly Christian, and even the few Muslim inhabitants were happy to coexist in peace. He began the Our Father, and voices murmured the words of the prayer.

      Who art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.

      The sound came from outside, the patter of many feet, and his hopes rose. His people were coming back, unafraid of the threats.

      Thy kingdom come, on earth as it is in heaven.

      The voices faltered as the chapel door opened, and several armed men entered. Heads turned, and a deathly silence ensued. It was unusual for men to bring weapons to communion.

      As he forgives those who trespass against us.

      His was the sole voice, the rest were staring at the newcomers in terror.

      And lead us not into temptation.

      No one joined him. He held up his hands to his flock in supplication. My friends, do not be afraid. God will protect you, all of you. He is here in this place, and you have nothing to fear.

      He opened his mouth to continue, but his throat was dry. The metallic noise of the cocking action of the assault rifles was loud. Eight rifles were pointing at him and his fellow celebrants. He had to do something, had to stop what was about to take place, and he walked forward.

      My friends, all are welcome in God's house. Please, do not bring violence into this place. Celebrate the word of the Lord.

      The reply came several seconds later. The man standing closest to the front murmured something to the men behind him. They jerked up their rifles and squeezed the triggers. The tiny chapel reverberated to the chatter of automatic weapons. In less than half a minute, his fifteen congregants were dead and dying, slumped on the floor in pools of blood. Yet he was alive, and he felt the terrible guilt of the survivor.

      Father Kirby ran to an elderly woman who acted as the village midwife. She was still alive, her body squirming in agony, and her eyes wide with agony. Blood stained her clothes, turning them a dark shade of red. She tried to speak, but failed. He heard a noise behind him, and it was the leader of the attackers. The muzzle of his rifle betrayed a wisp of smoke from its still-hot barrel.

      He gave him a stern look, the look of a man confident in his God. We must take this woman to the village clinic. They may be able to save her.

      The man’s face was empty of emotion or empathy, except for black eyes blazing with the ferocity of the fanatic.

      They will not save her.

      Of course they will.

      The man put the muzzle of his rifle against the woman’s chest and pulled the trigger. Three bullets tore into her heart, and she was still. Father Kirby gave the man a pitying glance. Why kill her, especially in in God’s house? Why commit such sacrilege?

      As he spoke, he knew he was wasting his time. He'd seen these people in Vietnam. There, they called them Vietcong. The same faces, the same soulless expressions, the same lack of concern for human life. They killed because they could. The rest didn't matter. Whatever ungodly cause they espoused, be it Communism, Islamism, or any other 'ism,' it made no difference. Their business was brutality, murder, and slaughter. The brutal mass killing of men, women, and children, guilty or innocent, it made no difference.

      He knew they were saving him to last. Knew in their sadism they'd want him to watch his flock torn apart by gunfire, and then it would be his turn.

      Hail Mary, bless art thou amongst women. Blessed is the fruit…

      They were his last words. The insurgents had gathered around him, and as one, they opened fire. Eight assault rifles fired on full auto. Upward of fifty bullets tore into his body and ripped it into bloody shreds.

      Sambo nodded to his men. You have done good work, but we have much to do. We must go.

      He left the chapel, and one man still lived. Someone told Sambo he was the teacher who ran the village school. His mouth moved, and flecks of blood dribbled from his lips. Sambo looked at him, and the man said, Why are you doing this?

      It is the will of Allah, he spat out, aiming his rifle. The teacher knew his life was over, but he managed to gasp out a few last words, Who are you?

      The man smiled before he pulled the trigger. We are Boko Haram.

      Chapter One

      The air smelled different as they neared the border. They’d traveled across Eastern Afghanistan and entered the Wakhan Corridor National Refuge, a vast national park stretching to the China border. A place almost abandoned by man, a litter of broken rocks, low mountains, hills, and gullies. Clumps of stunted, half-dead foliage dotted the region, struggling to survive in the unremitting and harsh climate.

      They weren’t inside the Wakhan Corridor for a vacation. The four men of Alpha Squad were in hot pursuit of a bunch of Afghan arms traffickers. Their CIA bosses had ordered them to track them down, and preferably kill them. The group had been supplying arms and ammunition to both al Qaeda and the Taliban; sophisticated weaponry, like the Stinger missiles supplied by a generous American government to help the Mujahideen defeat the Soviet invasion. And the armored fighting vehicles, machine guns, and shoulder-launched missiles left behind when the Soviets scuttled back to Russia.

      Following the invasion last November, the generals were nervous about their enemies acquiring more powerful and deadly weaponry. They tasked Alpha Squad to deal with it. Their instructions were clear. Take out the traffickers, by any means. Provided the means were permanent.

      They were all former Special Forces. Tony Hammett, the taciturn squad leader, Mr. Ordinary, average height, average build, and average looks, the perfect undercover soldier. Regular haircut, not too short, not too long, a good squad leader, and a tough fighter, who looked after his men. Chris Murphy from Chicago, his huge, black second-in-command, a tough man and a skilled, hard fighter. He’d left the military following a spat with a local cop. The man raped his sister, and he beat him so badly he’d had no choice but to leave law enforcement. He’d also had no choice but to abandon his cozy hobby of raping women. They’d taken Chris to court for battery, and everyone expected him to serve a long term of imprisonment, until he skipped bail of a hundred thousand dollars and signed on with Alpha Squad.

      Jerrod Burns was a lean, mean Southerner who hailed from Alabama. A weasely figure, he was almost a caricature of a southern redneck. He was also a long-time pal of Murphy, and he’d lent him the money for the bail bond. Money he’d lost when Murphy skipped before the hearing. Burns was a former marine, who’d served with distinction in the Fleet Marine Force, before taking early retirement to cash in on his skill and experience. CIA had snapped him up and welcomed him to the ranks of Alpha Squad. The fourth man was Joe Tyler, the lean, hard, former Navy SEAL. He’d lost a brother in the World Trade Centre attack. Filled with grief, he’d come to Afghanistan to seek revenge.

      He found more than he’d bargained for in the Islamic Republic, and it wasn’t revenge. Even now, he was still trying to make up his mind about certain things. One was Sarah Glass, a former girlfriend who’d given birth to his son years before, and he’d known nothing about it. Until he met her again and found out what he’d missed. At first, it was a beacon of light and hope during the blackest time of his life. Yet he’d wanted something else, payment for the murder of his brother, and he’d continued his quest for revenge.

      He still remembered her words when she’d offered him a stark choice.

      You can choose life with me and your son. Or you can continue this crazy quest for revenge, and rejoin your old unit, the Alphas. You can’t have both. What do you want, life or death?

      After a blazing row he’d split with Sarah, or rather she split with him. He’d gone back to his old CIA mercenary unit, Alpha Squad, and it was like he’d never left. He carried an M4A1 assault rifle, wore camos and an armored vest, and once again, he was chasing bad guys. Not the men he’d come to Afghanistan to seek out and kill, but he was back doing the job he knew. The guilty ones would have to wait.

      He glanced around and sniffed the air. It smelled different with good reason. They’d tracked their quarry across the National Refuge, until they reached the eastern border of Afghanistan. On the other side of the hill lay a different country, the vast icon of the mysterious Orient, and seat of a brutal, all-pervasive regime with the biggest army in the world. China.

      What do we do, Boss? Jerrod asked, looking at Hammett, This is the border.

      We do what they pay us to do. They want those traffickers taken down, so that’s what we’ll do.

      But that means going into China!

      Jerrod Burns’ voice was a rich, southern drawl, and he made it sound like ‘Charna.’

      Chris Murphy chuckled. We’re in hot pursuit, Jerrod, in case you didn’t notice. Who gives a shit where we go? Murphy looked at Hammett, What’s next?

      The squad leader had been perusing a map on his electronic pad. The next town we come across is Dabuda. After that it’s just wilderness every which way you look. They must be there. If I’m wrong, China’s a big place, in which case we’ve lost them. Dabuda it is.

      Amen to that, Jerrod intoned.

      Hammett nodded. Lock and load, and remember, the Chinese mightn’t be too pleased about us entering their territory.

      Fuck the Chinese, Murphy grunted.

      Hammett raised an eyebrow. There are a lot of them to fuck.

      Rules of engagement? Tyler asked him.

      If you see a guy pointing a gun at you, I don’t care whether he’s black, white, yellow, or pink. Chinese, Afghan, or from Outer Mongolia, ace the sucker.

      Copy that.

      They jogged across the rough ground. The men they were following were also on foot, and they had to move fast to stand a chance of catching them. Oddly, they’d yet to see their quarry. They’d helicoptered Alpha Squad to the ambush point. There they found the intel was faulty, and they’d arrived one hour too late.

      All they had to go on were footsteps in the dust, and they’d started to track their prey. All were skill trackers, although Jerrod Burns was the real expert. His skills learned back home, where he spent much of his spare time pursuing his first love of hunting wild animals. Here it was different. The prey was likely to shoot back.

      Burns took point, with Hammett behind. Tyler, covering the rear, followed fifty meters back, attempting to wipe some of their back trail. If they could follow the arms traffickers, other hostiles could follow them. And in China, there were a lot of hostiles. Hostility was a way of life; millions of potential enemies, maybe billions, who the hell knew how many there were inside that vast and mysterious country.

      Tyler saw a vehicle approaching in the distance, and it looked like a jeep. In this area, a jeep meant either military or traffickers. Bad news. He alerted the others.

      We have probable hostiles about two klicks to the south. Keep heading north.

      Copy that.

      They jogged on, and the plume of dust from the vehicle disappeared. They crested a low hill, and in the distance the town of Dabuda lay before them. The place was an isolated cluster of buildings in the middle of nowhere. He held up a hand to call a halt, and they gathered around him. According to my watch, nightfall is in about two hours. We’ll rest up and wait until the light starts to fade.

      Tyler was grateful of the rest. Unlike the other men, his return to the Alphas was recent, and he was less than one hundred percent fit. His aching muscles eased, but the break didn’t refresh his mind.

      He couldn’t stop thinking of his girlfriend, Sarah Glass. Yet the men responsible for the murder of his brother couldn’t go unpunished. His thoughts were divided between the two, and both were the most important things in his life. He’d chosen to stay with the Alphas, but he still wasn’t sure if he’d made the right decision. It hurt; knowing the warmth and love of a conventional family could be his again. A good woman, slim, pretty, clever, and an expert with horses. She’d established with her former husband a dude ranch in Afghanistan before the trouble started.

      When the Taliban killed her husband, she continued to run the ranch alone. Until Joe came back into her life, and then he left her again. The last he’d heard, she was making noises about leaving the country and starting afresh, but he no idea where.

      I wish I knew where she went. She never told me. Maybe that was intentional.

      Heads up. That jeep is on the way back.

      They looked where Murphy was pointing. When the vehicle had disappeared, they assumed it was traveling in the opposite direction. They were wrong. It was coming back, coming toward them, and they dove for cover. Tyler ran for a low hill and raced to the top. He pressed the transmit button.

      You’re wrong. It’s not the jeep. It’s a truck.

      What do you see?

      Chinese Infantry, about twenty men riding in the back of the truck, no wait. There’s a second vehicle bringing up the rear, and yeah, it’s our old friend, the jeep.

      Any idea what they’re up to?

      Give me a minute.

      The vehicles were heading toward an intersection. If they took the western route, they’d come straight toward them. If they took the eastern route, they’d be driving toward the town of Dabuda. The two vehicles came closer, and at one point, he thought they were about to turn to the east. The truck slowed and began to make the turn. He wasn’t turning to the east, but to the west. They were coming straight at them.

      Both vehicles are heading toward us. We have maybe five minutes before they get here.

      "Do you think they’ve

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