Free Echo Six: Black Ops 5 - Strikeforce Syria by Eric Meyer Page A

landed hard. I’ve sent a couple of men to search for more survivors. You never know."
    He nodded. It was more than a nightmare. The unit decimated even before they reached the target.
    "What about Beckerman?" Rebecca demanded.
    Guy shook his head. "No sign of him, I'm sorry."
    She glared at him. "You know what’ll happen to a Jew taken prisoner in this country?"
    "I know. I am also Jewish, Miss Dayan, and I’m well aware of what these people are capable of." He looked back over the heap of bodies. "Not that any of us need a reminder after seeing that."
    She didn't reply, but Rovere wasn't finished. He stared at Talley.
    "You still haven't answered. What's next?"
    Talley was wracked with doubts. Military wisdom dictated they should get out of the country by the quickest means possible, but there was more than military wisdom at stake. Scores of bodies, which lay close to where he stood, innocent people murdered by the brutal Syrian regime. And millions more people in a neighboring country that shared its border with Syria. A country the Syrians had vowed to exterminate. Israel. He was quiet, as he watched the searchers trickle in from the desert. There were no more survivors.
    He was left with twelve men including him, as well as the Israeli assassin, Rebecca Dayan. It wasn't enough. It hadn’t been enough when Echo Six was intact. He realized they were staring at him, waiting for an answer to Rovere's question. Pullout and head for the border? It was the sensible option, the only option. And then the wind gusted slightly, and he caught the stench of bodies, already decomposing.
    If the Syrians succeed in producing CX9, there’ll be many more just like them.
    "We proceed as planned. Let's move out."

    * * *

    The big Ural-4320 6x6 truck bumped at a steady pace along the desert highway. The driver, Mustafa Naseem, felt tired. He'd been driving all through the evening and into the night, so it was long past time when any officer should have called a halt. Except in this unit, Third Corps did everything on the run. Their commanding officer was fanatical about pushing his men forward into action, always striving for more glory, more enemies killed. Allah knew there'd been more than enough bodies this night. They'd shot those people down in droves after they’d rounded them up. He could still hear their cries of agony as they fell, shredded by heavy machine gun fire.
    Some of the men had objected, but General Assad, a relation of the President, was reputed to have a simple philosophy. You're either for me or you’re against me. And if you’re against me, you must be killed out of hand. Mustafa was careful to say nothing that may suggest he was anything other than totally committed to General Assad. What had happened wasn't right, but he had no plans to add himself to those bloody and broken corpses. He reached into the top pocket of his tunic and pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes and a Bic lighter. He clicked the lighter, and the flame momentarily caused him to lose concentration. At the last second, he swerved away as he saw the body lying in the road and braked to a halt. He jumped down, but before he could reach it, the commander, Major Hafiz, ran up to him, his face contorted in rage.
    "Why have you stopped, Corporal? You know the orders. We stop for nothing! Nothing, you hear?"
    Major Hafiz raised his swagger stick to strike him on the face, but Mustafa shouted, pointing to a dark shape lying in the dust. "There's a man in the road, Sir. He looks wounded. He’s wearing a parachute. I think he may be an enemy soldier."
    The Major walked slowly to the spot where the Corporal pointed. Sure enough, it was the crumpled figure of a man tangled in the shroud lines of a parachute. He kicked the body with the toe of his highly polished boot and was rewarded with a groan of agony.
    Good! The man is alive.
    “Who are you?” There was no reply, so he kicked the man again. “Who are you?”
    Another groan. He was