Black Ops Omnibus Page 3

  “At least a hundred rebel soldiers are stationed around this village,” said Zena. “If we start shooting, they’ll all descend on us.”

  “Then we’ll deal with them as well,” snapped Jack.

  That temper again, thought Alex. There’s no way the man can control it. “Walk,” he said, looking across at Jack.

  He started to stride forward before Jack could reply. A pair of shades were wrapped around his face, and he’d pulled the hood of his sweatshirt up around his neck. The rucksack was slung across his right shoulder. Even so, there wasn’t much chance of them passing off as locals. The fishermen on the quay all had dark, weather-beaten skin, hardened by years out on the sea, dark hair matted with salt, and brown eyes that had sunk back from the sun. We don’t look anything like them, realised Alex.

  “Second turning off the square,” said Zena, her tone hushed. “That’s where the car is.”

  Alex was walking through the square now, with Jack at his side and Zena just behind them. He could see one of the soldiers glance suspiciously towards him, then hear muttering in Arabic. He’d picked up a few words of the language when he’d fought in the second Iraq war, but the local accent was impenetrable, and he couldn’t make out a word of what they were saying. But sometimes you don’t need a translator. You could understand precisely what they were saying from the look in their eyes.

  Who the hell are these guys? What the fuck are they doing here?

  Alex quickened his pace. He could see the Toyota just around the corner. Twenty yards. The Toyota was a big, black machine, with blacked out windows. From the scratches, it looked as if it had plenty of miles on the clock, many of them through rough territory, but that would suit them just fine. The Land Cruiser was one of the most reliable vehicles in the world. At a hundred thousand miles it was just starting to get run in.

  “Stop,” shouted a voice.

  The English was rough, but the command was clear enough. One of the soldiers had climbed down from the jeep, advancing towards them with his AK-47 stretched out in front of him. “Run,” snapped Zena. “I’ll cover you.”

  Alex didn’t hesitate. He kicked back with his heels, and with a burst of acceleration covered the remaining distance to the Toyota in a few seconds. Behind him he could hear the rattle of gunfire. Bullets scratching through the air and men screaming. The keys were in the ignition. He kicked the engine into life, and pausing only to check that Jack was alongside him took the car up into second gear. Then he slammed into reverse, backing the car out into the square. He was monitoring the situation from the rear-view mirror. Zena had ducked behind the statue. She’d pulled a Uzi machine pistol concealed under her sweatshirt and had released a round of fire that had killed the soldier who’d been advancing towards them and left another wounded on the ground. But the remaining three men had hunkered down inside the jeep and were putting round after round into the statue. It was impossible for her to fire back. And it was only a matter of time before she was hit.

  Jack had already assembled the SA-80 from his rucksack, and slotted its mag into place. As Alex spun the Toyota around, he released a sharp volley of fire straight into the jeep that took out two of the rebel soldiers.

  One man was left. With the reckless bravado that Alex had sometimes noticed in amateur soldiers, he stood up suddenly, reaching for his gun. Not very professional, pal, thought Alex, as he took the Browning from his shoulder holster and put a bullet straight into his chest. He was already falling to the ground, but Alex put another round into his neck just to make sure.

  Zena was running for the Toyota. As Jack flung the door open, Alex had already slammed his foot to the floor. The car skidded across the dusty surface of the road, accelerating fast along the track that led out of the village and towards the main Tripoli road.

  He checked the mirror.

  Zena was sitting in the back, slotting the Uzi back into her shoulder holster. There wasn’t so much as bead of sweat on her face. Alex had fought alongside plenty of good soldiers in his time. But he’d never seen anyone with the steady confidence under fire he’d just witnessed. It didn’t matter what flag she fought under. Nor whether she was a man or a woman. She was as good a solider as either of them. Probably better.

  “I thought you were staying in the village to make sure we had some transport out of here,” said Jack, nodding towards her.

  “Christ, man, we can’t leave her here,” said Alex.

  “Orders are orders,” said Jack.

  “Not for you,” snapped Alex. “At least not the way I heard it.”

  He remained silent.

  “You can drop me here,” said Zena.

  She was gesturing towards the two-lane highway up ahead of them. The Tripoli road.

  “You’re coming with us, and that’s final,” said Alex.

  Chapter Five

  Four armed guards manned the entrance to the Presidential compound. Alex tapped his foot on the brakes, slowing the vehicle down to ten miles an hour. Zimbabwean mercenaries, he reckoned. All four of them were big black guys, with immaculate olive green uniforms, and claret-red berets perfectly angled on their heads. Worth their pay, thought Alex. We don’t want to get into a scrap with these boys. Not if we can possibly help it.

  “Unit Five,” said Jack curtly as they drew up alongside the sentry point. “Major Regis Maruma is expecting us.”

  They mere mention of the name made the guard flinch. He didn’t look like a man who was afraid of much. But he was scared of his commanding officer, that much was clear. What kind of bastard is he, wondered Alex.

  “This way,” he said.

  The doors swung open, and Alex steered the Toyota inside. The compound was on the outskirts of Tripoli, built three miles inland from the coast, and constructed to the highest specification from the oil money that flowed into the country and kept its rulers, if not its people, in style. The walls were twelve foot high and at least five feet wide, made from concrete re-enforced with steel. It would take a tank in full charge to batter its way through. There were turrets every fifty yards around the perimeter, each one protected by a machine gun unit. Inside, there was a barracks off to the left hand side, a parade ground that formed the centre of the complex, a set of administrative buildings, and on the far right, a lavish villa where the Colonel lived with his family.

  Alex drew the Toyota to halt right in front of the parade ground. A man was walking straight towards them. His claret beret was at an angle on his head, and there was a wooden baton tucked under his right arm. More than six foot tall, heavy at more than two hundred and fifty pounds, but agile, he was instantly recognisable from the briefing back on the ship. The Zimbabwean commander. Regis Maruma.

  Alex stepped down from the Toyota.

  “Are you the Englishman?” said Maruma.

  Alex took a step forwards and offered the man his hand. “Alex Marden,” he said. He gestured behind him. “And Jack Rogan.” He hesitated before introducing Zena. Unit Five had negotiated with The Colonel for two men to bring him out and arrange his escape to Zimbabwe. They hadn’t said anything about a woman. Particularly an Israeli one. If they realised she was from the Mossad they’d execute her on the spot. That much was certain.

  “And this is Zena Rubenstein,” he said.

  “I was told two men,” said Maruma. He gripped his baton in his right hand and pointed it towards Zena. “No one said anything about a lady.”

  “I’m from Military Intelligence,” said Zena, stepping forward. “We calculated that more resources would be needed for this operation.”

  Maruma eyed her contemptuously. “We should have been told.”

  “Well, she’s here,” said Jack roughly.

  Alex cut him short. “I apologise,” he said. “The situation is moving very quickly. We needed to change the evacuation plan. There’s no time to lose.”

  Maruma nodded thoughtfully. He was still looking at Zena, and judging by his expression, wasn’t convinced by their story. But whether to believe th
em or not wasn’t his decision to make.

  “Will you take us to The Colonel,” insisted Alex.

  “Of course,” said Maruma.

  They started to walk across the parade ground. A man was being led into the centre of the square. An Arab, about twenty, Alex judged. Naked apart from a pair of shorts. On his back there were thick, blood-stained marks. A whipping, realised Alex grimly. The man had been beaten to within an inch of his life. He was dragged towards the centre of the square, then thrown roughly onto the dusty ground.

  “Stop,” said Maruma, gesturing towards Alex, Jack and Zena. “I want you to watch this.”

  “We need to move,” said Jack.

  Maruma tapped his baton against Jack’s chest. “I said watch...”

  The man was struggling as four soldiers picked him up again. He’d been strong once reckoned Alex. He had the lean, toned muscles of a sportsman or a solider. But the strength had been beaten out of him and all that was left now was a skeleton, some blood, and the wasted remains of body tissue. A stake was planted in the centre of the square, and the man was led towards it, and ropes used to tie his hands around the wooden pole.

  “Finish him,” barked Maruma.

  It was a chilling, cold command that rattled out across the parade ground. Four soldiers snapped to attention, each one carrying a four-foot bamboo stick. The man on the pole glanced around, then buried his face into the wooden stake. The first solider took a short run, just five yards, then lashed the stick into the man’s back. The knotted, stiff wood cut deep into his already wounded skin, opening up three separate cuts from which blood started to flow freely. He roared out in pain, but his lungs and throat were already weak, and the cry was wheezy, like an old man’s. Another soldier ran up, smashing his stick into the victim, then a third, then a fourth before the first man returned. The blows were raining down on him in a ceaseless barrage, and it was only seconds before he lost consciousness.

  Alex kept his eyes rooted to the ground. He watched plenty of men die over the years. But he didn’t reckon he’d ever seen as pitiful or as painful a demise as this one.

  “Stop,” shouted Maruma.

  He strode towards the stake. The man’s back was beaten into a messy pulp, with hardly an inch of skin left on it. At least three pints of blood had spilled onto the ground, and more was still flowing. Maruma reached out to check his pulse, decided he was dead, then walked back, looking straight at Zena.

  “The man was a member of the Revolutionary Guard, but we believe he was passing information to the rebels. I wanted you to know how we treat those who betray us.”

  A slow smile spread across his lips. With his baton, he pointed towards the villa.

  “Now, I shall take you to meet The Colonel.”

  Chapter Six

  Alex had read somewhere once that famous leaders were always smaller in real life than you imagined. That was certainly true of Colonel Zayed. After ruling the country for nearly four decades, he was instantly recognisable. A thin, drawn face, a hooked nose, a scar down one cheek, and a simple grey military tunic, it was the same man whose image adorned every spare wall in Libya. But he was shorter than he’d ever appeared on television or on his propaganda posters. Five-two maximum, reckoned Alex. And possibly less once he took his boots of.

  As they walked into the room, The Colonel was pouring over a map. There were three generals next to him, and a pair of secretaries, both male. It was just after ten in the morning, and outside the sun was already turning fierce, but inside the main hall the air-conditioning kept the temperature a pleasant twenty degrees. The Colonel was jabbing at the map, snapping in Arabic. Even with his limited knowledge of the language, Alex could follow what was happening. He was ranting at his commanders, blaming them for the imminent collapse of his regime. But the man was composed, and in control. There was a precision to his orders that suggested he would use what limited forces he had left under his command to maximum effect.

  “Our guests,” said Maruma, looking across the room.

  The Colonel walked slowly towards them. He might have been short, reckoned Alex, and his regime might have been on the brink of defeat, but the man still had a presence about him. His eyes were sharp and alert, with a cunning depth to them, and he moved with the confidence of a snake who knows his prey is already cornered. He stopped three feet short of Alex, looking straight into his eyes, before allowing a half-smile to cross his face. “The British and the Americans,” he said, speaking a slow, heavily accented English. “My oldest and dearest friends. Even whilst their jets were attacking my troops, I knew they would never abandon me.”

  “We’re here to get you out,” said Alex.

  The Colonel nodded. “A temporary retreat,” he said sharply. “The military situation has turned against me. But the people of this nation will be lost without me. They will soon realise that they are being deceived by a Zionist, al-Queda conspiracy organised by the Israelis and the Saudis.” He returned the map and slammed his fist down on the table. “And they will turn on the rebel dogs, and hang their bodies from every lamp-post in Tripoli. The clamour for my return will be irresistible.”

  Two of the generals backed away.

  “But for now I will take refuge with my Zimbabwean friends until my forces have re-grouped and I can return in triumph. What plans have you made for my escape?”

  “We’ll escort you to coast,” said Alex. He nodded towards Zena. “My colleague from intelligence has joined us because she is an expert on moving VIPS secretly out of a country. A fishing vessel will take us out into the Mediterranean. We’ll be met out at sea in the darkness by a Royal Naval ship which will take us out to a British battleship. From there, an unmarked helicopter will take you to Cyprus, where a private jet has been arranged to take you to Zimbabwe.”

  The Colonel nodded. He showed little interest in Zena, Alex noted with relief. He was simply mulling over the plan, calculating his own chances of survival. “When do we leave?”

  “Tonight,” said Alex. “After dark.”

  “Very well.”

  “We need the document,” said Alex.

  The Colonel turned around, walking back towards the table. “There’s only one problem,” he said. “It isn’t here.”

  “Not here,” said Jack. “A deal is a deal. We can’t bring you out without the document.”

  The Colonel was leaning over the map. “I have been in power for almost four decades. Over that time, there have been hundred of documents, detailing different agreements with regimes and banks and oil companies around the world.”

  On the map, he pointed towards a stretch of desert right in the interior of the country. About a fifty miles east of where they had rescued the hostages less than twenty-four hours earlier.

  “There is a bunker right in the heart of the interior,” The Colonel continued. “Over the years, all the most sensitive documents of my regime have been stored there.”

  “Then you’ll need to get it,” snapped Jack.

  “Correction, my friend,” said the Colonel. His eyes turned first to Jack, then to Alex, and finally to Zena. “You’ll have to get it.”

  Alex walked across to the map. They’d flown right over the bunker only yesterday. “That area is in rebel hands,” he said.

  “You’ll break through their lines

  “Why can’t you send one of your men?” said Jack.

  The anger was evident in his voice.

  “The rebels know all my forces,” answered The Colonel. “If they see them trying to break out, they’ll attack on the spot. You have a decent chance of passing yourself off as foreign aid workers or oilmen.”

  Alex was about to speak. But he held himself back. The Colonel was right, he realised. They stood a far better chance of getting to the bunker than any of his men did. And it was their mission to retrieve the document. Nothing else mattered.

  He looked towards Jack. “Okay,” he said. “We’ll take the Toyota.” He nodded towards Maruma. “It might get rough out
there. We’ll need a machine gun, AK-47s, handguns, grenades and explosives.”

  “You don’t need to start a whole war.”

  “If we get into a fight, we need some kit with us,” snapped Alex. “This job is dangerous enough already.”

  “Do as he says,” said the Colonel.

  Maruma accept the order, and walked swiftly from the room. “The vehicle will be ready in twenty minutes Meet us on the parade ground. You can wash, and study the route until then.”

  Alex turned around to leave. They had only a few minutes to prepare themselves for the journey ahead. The Colonel told one of his secretaries to show his guests to a private room where they could get ready. It was to the left of the main hall. A brightly furnished bedroom with an en-suite bathroom, a plate of sandwiches, pastries and soft drinks had been laid out for them. Alex grabbed a Coke and a chicken sandwich and knocked both back. It was just after eleven in the morning and he was already starving. Looking out of the window he could see one of Tripoli’s prosperous suburbs, but the streets were abandoned, and only a few hundred yards away he could hear the sounds of mortar fire. The city was about to fall, he reminded himself. By the time they got back – if they got back – The Colonel might already have been captured. He might even be dead.

  “Jesus, man, this isn’t what we signed up for,” said Jack.

  “We signed up for whatever shit gets thrown at us,” said Alex.

  Zena looked at them both sharply. “We’ve got a job to do and we should get on with it.” She’d laid a map on the bed. With a red pen, she’d drawn a route that would take them straight out of Tripoli, due south along the main highway for seventy miles, then south-east across minor roads for another thirty It was only a hundred miles to the bunker. In normal circumstance, they could make it there in two hours, and back in the same time. A five hour round-trip, at most. But right now, the roads were crawling with rebel troops. They had no clear idea what they might be up against.