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    Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Righteous Strike
    Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Righteous Strike
    Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Righteous Strike
    Ebook305 pages4 hours

    Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Righteous Strike

    By Eric Meyer

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    About this ebook

    A new insurgency is brewing on the Afghan-Pakistan border. General Ishaq Khan, known as the ‘Hammer of God,’ is the architect of this new terror. During a bloody battle, Khan kidnaps a group of journalists following Congresswoman Barbara Adams. Her work was to highlight injustices against women, yet now Adams and her party have become the victims.

    The Bin Laden raid on Abbottabad has left diplomatic ties shattered, making an official rescue mission impossible. The Congresswoman’s husband turns to former Navy SEAL for help. Rafe Stoner is a drunk loner with little to live for. His refusal is brief and to the point. Until he discovers General Ishaq Khan, beloved leader of the Haqqani insurgency, has made the biggest mistake of his life. He has given Stoner a reason to live. A reason to fight.

    He agrees to take on the mission with his best friend Grigory Blum. They are about to enter the gates of hell as they pit their skills and weapons against the might of the Haqqani. What began as a rescue becomes a desperate fight for survival. At the end, one question remains. Who will live, and who will die?

    Heroes of Afghanistan: Hammer of God is an incredible story of tough, violent men in a tough, violent land. This is the latest title by the bestselling author of many SpecOps series. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo stories, Heroes of Afghanistan, Raider, Echo Six, and Devil's Guard titles.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSwordworks Books
    Release dateJun 3, 2019
    ISBN9780463618530
    Black Ops: Heroes of Afghanistan: Righteous Strike
    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

      Black Ops - Eric Meyer

      HEROES OF AFGHANISTAN

      RIGHTEOUS STRIKE

      By Eric Meyer

      Copyright 2018 by 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.

      Prologue

      The attack was the last thing they expected. Chitral, a sleepy town close to the border between Pakistan and Afghanistan, the last place they’d expect a war to start. War was for other places. War was for Afghanistan, the volatile nation across the mountains. Trouble was for the extremist Islamist tribal districts, where killings were almost a daily routine, but not for here, not in Chitral.

      General Khan held up a hand, and the men walking behind him in a long column came to a halt. These men owed him their total allegiance. After the first few victories, which he ascribed to the teachings of the Prophet, his fame had grown, and more men flocked to his banner. They’d even invented a nickname for him that he enjoyed, The Hammer of God. The title gave him a great deal of amusement. God had little to do with his success, which was more to do with a propensity for extreme violence. Strike hard where they least expected you, kill indiscriminately, and reward your men well.

      He stopped to examine the town through his binoculars, glancing aside at his second-in-command, Bruce Griggs. Or as he now called himself, Colonel Bruce Griggs, an American, and a deserter, a fugitive from the U.S. Navy SEALs who'd found refuge inside the ranks of the Haqqani network. A network of thieves, murderers, and thugs under the banner of extreme Islam, their name created fear wherever they went, especially in their heartland, Northeastern Pakistan. The General intended to win a famous victory here, to bring in more recruits. More weapons, and more cash.

      A piece of cake, Griggs murmured to his boss, They're like lambs to the slaughter, General.

      Let’s hope so, Colonel.

      They exchanged a smile, both men enjoying their rank titles. Before the Haqqani network, Griggs had been a Petty Officer Third Class in the U.S. Navy, and Khan a Junior Sergeant in the ranks of the Pakistani Army. The benefits of starting an army soon became apparent. Including the ability to award him any rank he desired.

      Khan was short, his beard sparse and well trimmed. His coffee skin showed the scars of some childhood disease, maybe acne. It could have been smallpox, after insurgents murdered the medics sent to inoculate the population. He was also big boned, and some would say fat. Despite the obese appearance, he was a hard man, both inside and out. A man determined to impose his will on others No matter how many he had to kill. He’d adopted part of the comic opera uniform of a banana republic dictator. A tunic covered in stars and medals, worn over his long robe, and on his head the same turban as worn by most Islamic insurgents. Somehow, the ragged headgear didn't look as imposing as the more formal peaked cap of a general officer as regulations demanded in armies worldwide.

      By contrast, ‘Colonel’ Bruce Griggs wore no uniform and displayed no badges of rank. A tall and lean man, he looked almost emaciated. It was an illusion. He was a hard-bitten, stone killer. No beard, but a chin covered in three-day old stubble, and eyes as black as death, a contrast to almost translucent skin. He lived for violence, and his petulant, thin lips were almost set in an expression of rage. As if the world had treated him with less than the appreciation he deserved, and he courted vengeance, like a politician courted votes. He'd adopted the dress of an Afghani tribesman, slung with cartridge belts across both shoulders.

      They were opposites, the short, pudgy General Khan, a man who had enjoyed a life of easy, good living, and the tough former Navy Seal. Yet as unlikely as they were, they made an ideal combination. Khan, with his encyclopedic knowledge gained while fighting the various Islamic insurgencies, and Griggs with his knowledge of unconventional and asymmetric warfare. They’d enjoyed a few successes against the Pakistani Army. As a result, men had flocked to his banner. Almost one hundred fighters walked behind them. Some sought glory in the eyes of the Prophet, but most had simpler ambitions, loot and women.

      What's that? Griggs pointed to a convoy of vehicles driving into the trail from the other side. Khan raised his glasses.

      SUVs, expensive. They could be United Nations.

      Griggs’ lips formed a rare smile. Excellent. Those vehicles will be useful, and I have little doubt they would pay well to recover the people riding in them.

      A bonus, Colonel. Tell your men not to kill them. If they have to shoot, make sure they leave some of them alive. They’ll be valuable. I suggest we go in now, before they have a chance to escape.

      * * *

      Congresswoman Barbara Adams glanced out the window of the Land Cruiser she was traveling in. A striking woman with hair that had once been flaxen, but had turned a muddy auburn, she’d once enjoyed admiring gazes from many of the men she met in the course of her work. Not many looked at her in that way these days, and she was feeling her age after the grueling journey. Also feeling the extra fifteen pounds in excess weight she carried, despite the best efforts of her personal trainer and nutritionist.

      The journey so far had been interesting, and despite the danger, she anticipated talking with the women of Chitral to learn how they felt about Pakistani government efforts to improve their lives. After intense pressure from the United States, and from the United Nations, Islamabad promised to investigate the laws that protected women from abuse. Her mission was to test the waters, to assess their sincerity.

      Many people felt the promises were no more than window dressing. After a great deal of lobbying from special interest groups, she'd decided to see for herself. She’d come to Pakistan, and now she rode in the second vehicle of the six-vehicle convoy. In front of her, four soldiers rode in the lead SUV, and four more guards occupied the rearmost vehicle. Two Congressional aides rode with her, and the other vehicles carried the journalists, all of them women who’d insisted on making the trip.

      Her convoy rolled past squalid dwellings, and she saw little to give her any confidence. Women bustled along the streets, most carrying bundles of goods, some shepherding gaggles of young children. When she saw any men, they were sitting on the dusty street, or at rickety tables and chairs outside pavement cafés. She sighed, as far as she could tell nothing had changed. The place was typical of most rural towns inside Pakistan, poverty stricken, flea-bitten, squalid mess. The women were still the underdogs, and the men did little but sit and talk to one another.

      Her fury peaked when she saw an angry confrontation, a man standing at the side of the road, beating a woman. Presumably she was his wife, and she’d dropped a bundle of clothes. It wasn’t difficult to work out what had occurred. The poor woman had taken the clothes to the communal washhouse. She was bringing back the clean garments when she stumbled and fell. The man had seen the mishap and rushed out to punish her. She wanted to stop and give him a verbal lashing, but in this area, where most men were armed, she had to be careful.

      Dammit, it’s going on in front of our noses. This is exactly the kind of thing we came to witness at first hand. Stop the vehicle. I’m going to talk to them.

      You should wait for the escort to check out the area. Her secretary, Diane Brown, looked worried.

      Call them on the radio. I'm not going another yard until we’ve checked this out.

      Ma’am, are you sure about this? They told us Chitral was a dangerous place, and we weren’t to stop here for any reason.

      I don’t give a shit what they said. Stop the convoy.

      Diane snapped an order, and the driver braked to a halt. Barbara was talking into the microphone connecting them to the escort vehicles, and the other vehicles jerked to a stop. Diane stepped down from the Land Cruiser to check out the area, and a hail of bullets sent her spinning to the dirt. The lead escort vehicle performed a U-turn and came back. Soldiers were already tumbling out, and the lieutenant in charge of her escort detail shouted at her to get back in the car. She ignored him and went to Diane, searching for signs of life. There were none.

      Diane had been with her for what seemed like forever, but she put aside her grief. Time to mourn later; right now she felt an incandescent rage at these people and their brutal society. She assumed the shooter was the man who’d been beating his wife. He’d unslung his rifle, and it seemed a logical conclusion. Until more shots cracked out from further down the street, and the Pakistani abuser folded when three bullets smacked into him.

      Did my escort take out the man who murdered my aide? I’m not sure.

      She was already working out the diplomatic implications when a bunch of men charged in from the other end of the street, and a machine gun began chattering. In horror, she watched her lead escort vehicle turn into a pincushion as the long bursts tore through the bodywork, the bodies of her soldiers jerking as they died. Further back, more gunfire announced the deaths of the rest of her bodyguard, and within seconds, everything had changed, her intention to rescue the beleaguered woman forgotten.

      Men came toward her, guns aimed, and she had little doubt their fingers were on the triggers. They were a horde, and she made a new assessment of the threat they faced, either an assassination, in which case she was powerless to stop it, or a kidnapping. Perhaps they knew an American Congresswoman was in the area and were aware she would be a valuable hostage. Armed men surrounded her and the other women in her party, and a man barked an order in barely understandable English.

      Put your hands up! If anyone tries to resist, we will shoot you all.

      Some women sobbed as the insurgents herded them into a group, pushing them toward a long, low building. Barbara Adams had other ideas. She planted her feet firmly on the ground and refused to move.

      I insist on speaking to the man in charge. Who's running things around here?

      A young man with a scarred face and a missing eye, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen-years-old, hissed a reply. You do not ask questions, lady. You go where we tell you. Hurry, or they'll drag you along by the hair.

      She didn’t move. They can try it, buster, and you’ll bring more trouble down on your head than you could possibly imagine. Who’s in charge?

      A new voice intruded. I am General Khan. What is it you want, Madame?

      She swung round to look at the newcomer. Pudgy face, a short beard, she was surprised at the pleasant expression on his face, almost a smile, but not quite.

      A wolf about to enjoy its prey, and anticipating the enjoyment, that’s more like it.

      I want you to back off and let us go. Do you know who I am?

      No, Madame, I don’t know who you are. But I have little doubt you’re about to tell me.

      I’m an American Congresswoman. My name is Barbara Adams, and I’m on a legitimate fact-finding mission approved by your government in Islamabad. I require you to stand down and allow us to proceed. Otherwise…

      Enough. He held up a hand, like a traffic cop, I assume the United Nations sent you. One of their endless, interfering fact-finding missions.

      No, I represent the United States government. Although this mission does have the approval and consent of the UN.

      He nodded. That mission is now at an end. You and the rest of your party will accompany my men. I have work to finish in the town, and in the meantime, they will put you somewhere safe.

      You call this safe? she snarled, Taken prisoner by a bunch of bandits?

      A shrug. We do our best. Now I know you’re a VIP, you may be certain I will instruct my men to take particular care of you.

      I’d advise you to let us go, Mister. You’re bringing a world of pain down on your heads.

      But I will let you go, he beamed, It's just a matter of negotiating with your government for a suitable fee. Something to compensate me for my trouble, and for facilitating your safe onward journey.

      You mean a ransom, she spat.

      Call it what you like. It will be a substantial sum, one that will aid my cause considerably.

      I'm a wealthy woman, what kind of sum did you have in mind? I can get it to you much quicker than negotiating with my government.

      It will be in the region of one hundred million dollars.

      She stared at him. You're insane.

      The smile faded. My men believe I’m a messenger from the Prophet. They call me, the Hammer of God.

      You’re a fucking lunatic.

      Perhaps. But you’re still my prisoner. That's the price, one hundred million dollars.

      I won't pay.

      I never thought you would. However, your government will pay. That is, if they ever want you to go home alive. He glanced his men. Take them, and keep them secure. These women are very valuable, so make sure nothing happens to them. Is that clear?

      Yes, General.

      Barbara Adams had no choice but to allow them to lead her away. Behind her the contingent of journalists trailed in a loose, frightened group. Cowed by the guns of their captors, they obeyed as the insurgents pushed them inside a grim, solid stone building. It looked like they’d once used it to store grain. It had one obvious benefit in this lawless region. The place looked sturdy enough to survive a shell from a medium tank. There was no light, no ventilation, and no sign of any arrangements for sanitation. The door slammed shut. She heard the bolts sliding across, and two of the female journalists started to sob, which irritated her beyond belief.

      Sure, we’re in serious trouble. But if we’re to get out, they’ll have to fight. Not cry their eyes out.

      Shut up.

      The sobbing ceased. Okay. Now listen up. We must work out a way to get out of here. Does anyone have military experience?

      I do, a voice said from the darkness, My name is Sara. Sara Carver.

      Excellent, Sara. Come here, and we’ll try to work something out between us. The rest of you, search the place. I know it’s dark, but use your hands to feel around the walls. There has to be a way out.

      * * *

      Bruce Griggs was enjoying himself. A small garrison had protected the town, and while most of the soldiers had either surrendered or run, a few were putting up a token resistance. He walked at the head of twenty handpicked men, the elite unit he’d created to act as the spearhead of the Haqqani force. They went from building to building, and when they found a house occupied, he ordered his men to toss grenades through the windows in case soldiers sheltered inside. When the grenades exploded, they’d charge in under a hail of gunfire and kill any survivors.

      One of his men, Hamid, who was older, tried to point out the inhabitants had little choice if armed soldiers forced their way into their homes.

      He’d shrugged. Too bad, if they didn't like it, they should have refused to let them in.

      They would have killed them.

      He gave him a wolfish smile. Which would save us the trouble. I don't see the problem, so keep firing. Don’t stop until they're all dead and the town is ours. Oh, yeah, Hamid, there’s something you should know.

      What is that?

      He put three shots into his belly, and the man went down screaming. The penalty for questioning my orders. Does anyone else have any questions?

      No one replied, and he nodded in satisfaction. Keep moving and keep killing. Don’t stop until they’re all dead.

      They didn’t know if he meant the soldiers or the civilians. So they continued going from house to house, shooting everything that moved, until the streets ran red with blood.

      Chapter One

      The city of Jalalabad was in Southeastern Afghanistan. Many of the buildings were in a poor state of repair, outside of the modern downtown district. There were exceptions, and one of them was the smart, three-story building with a sign outside that identified it as Ma Kelly's. Outside, it was a bar, a very plush, sumptuous furnished bar. Inside, the abundance of rich woodwork, thick carpeting, and plush upholstery would pleasantly surprise a visitor. The walls displayed expensively framed reproductions of famous paintings, and if anything about them was remarkable, it was the subjects depicted in the canvases.

      All were of women, women in various stages of undress, and many of them naked. Like the painting that took pride of place in the center of the room, a huge reproduction of Manet's Olympia, showing a naked young woman lying on a bed, black cat at her side, and attended by a black maid; a famous painting, and one that had a veneer of respectability in the famous Paris gallery, the Musée d'Orsay. The subject was unmistakably a whore, which was the first clue as to the purpose of the establishment.

      Most of the people in the bar were women. Young, pretty women, and their low-cut dresses did little to hide their voluptuous charms. Several men, prospective clients, lounged around, drinking, talking, and many had a pretty young girl on their laps.

      Ma Kelly’s was a brothel; some said the best brothel in Jalalabad. Once the men had completed the formalities, a few drinks, a short conversation with the whore of their choice, and of course the money changing hands, they'd disappear to one of the many rooms on the second floor. Presiding over the room was the ample, pneumatic figure of Ma Kelly, a bottle blonde, with breasts most would consider more than ample, some a definite health and safety hazard. She always wore a smile on her heavily made up face, and why not? Business was good.

      She ran the establishment with military precision, and those who wished to purchase sex generally agreed there was no finer place in Jalalabad. The girls were content, for there was no better place to work in the whole of Afghanistan. Unlike most brothels, Ma Kelly looked after her girls. She banked every cent of their substantial earnings in a secure place, where they could access it at any time.

      Ma Kelly was half-owner of the brothel. The owner of the other half lived in an apartment on the third floor. At that moment, he was at home inside his apartment, stretched out on a wide comfortable bed, surrounded by empty bottles, and lying next to a pretty girl who was also naked.

      At first glance, he was nothing unusual, a genuine Mr. Average. A tad over five feet nine inches tall, and when dressed in his usual all black outfit, pants, shirt, boots, leather coat, people described him as scrawny. Although the two heavy .50 caliber Desert Eagles he normally toted on a harness strapped to his chest set him apart from the pack. Naked like he was now, it was a different story. The whipcord muscles were well defined, hinting at hidden reserves of strength.

      Something about Rafe Stoner, naked or dressed, told of an inner refusal to conform to the norms of regular society. Men generally avoided picking a fight with him, although it was not always easy to pin down the exact reason. Most women knew the reason instinctively. He was dangerous, wound up tight, like a coiled spring. To underestimate was a mistake. Women found him exciting, bringing a hint of the unknown and the unpredictable to any relationship.

      He didn’t look like the part owner of a successful brothel. Unshaven, unwashed, his face, gaunt and lined, Ralph Stoner had turned his back on life. A former junior officer in the U.S. Navy SEALs, he'd first come to Afghanistan to fight the war. When he resigned from the Navy, he returned to make his fortune buying and selling surplus machinery. The business proved to be less than profitable, and so he took a different direction. Years before he came to the rescue of Ma Kelly, helping her solve a few problems with competitors who were trying to put her out of business. He invested money, muscle, and bullets into the business, took a part share in return, and made his home in the spacious apartment on the third floor.

      In the early days the profits were sparse, and barely covered the losses on his other business. But he kept the surplus machinery business running to demonstrate a means of earning a living. He also had another line of income. Stoner was more than useful with a gun after years of service in the Navy SEALs. Men knew his reputation and came to him for help, especially when they found he was prepared to work for peanuts if the cause was just. If the client was rich, he took payment accordingly. Some men came to him wanting petty revenge, and he sent them away. He had principles. Not too many, but what he had he wasn't prepared to compromise. In a land of violent, murderous thugs, he was different. He was a murderous thug with scruples.

      He was as good with a gun as he was hopeless with women, and after many years, he was alone. He’d dated plenty of girls, and once planned to get married. For several reasons, his plans came to nothing. A Frenchwoman he'd loved more than any other, Madeleine Charpentier, died when her vehicle, an ambulance, struck an IED. He’d come close to other women, but it just never worked out. His latest squeeze, a Second Lieutenant in the U.S. Infantry, had finally gone and dumped him. She’d told him she wanted nothing more to do with a man like him. He was still trying to work it out.

      Rafe Stoner never lacked for company. As part owner of the brothel, he found solace in one of the prettier whores. Her name was Afifa, which translated as chaste. Despite the name, at the age of eighteen she’d learned more about satisfying men than most women would learn in twenty lifetimes.

      His eyes opened, and she was nestling in the crook of his arm, still asleep after the previous night's lovemaking. Her skin smelled fragrant and musky, and her face was elfin, prettier than any of the other girls who worked downstairs. She was also much in demand, but when a man owns a brothel, one of the fringe benefits is he has first choice of the merchandise. He treated her well, and she was more than happy with the arrangement.

      He was still staring down at her when her eyes flicked open. Her hand moved toward his groin. Stoner, did you want to…

      No. Go back to sleep.

      She gave him a faint nod, her eyes drooped, and soon, her breathing was regular again. He glanced at his wristwatch, and it was almost 10.00, too early to get out of bed. Besides, he had no particular business that day. Not that he could recall. He felt hungover and decided to stay where he was, admiring this pretty girl who shared his bed. There were worse places to be, and although part of him felt satisfied, the other part suffered

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