SEAL Team Bravo: Black Ops – Afghanistan in Flames

By Eric Meyer

When insurgents destroy a refinery, the owners, multi-national corporation Afgas, face bankruptcy. CEO Adnan Kovac devises a scheme to bring the dollars flooding back into the country. He needs a war which will plunge the country into chaos and suck in the major world powers. Their reaction is always the same, to send vast sums of foreign aid money. Money he can use to rebuild his refinery, along with the planeloads of troops to protect it. A former Taliban fighter turned mercenary, Akram Khan, will carry out a mass killing at a foreign junior school, trusting that international outrage will do the rest. The plan misfires, and the Taliban treat the murder as a rallying cry for a new jihad.

US Navy SEAL Lieutenant Kyle Nolan is on a recon assignment on a helicopter that takes him close to the wrecked refinery. Close enough to hear a call for help from men on the ground. He persuades the pilot to land in the middle of a firefight and rescue a man pinned down by enemy fire. The Coalition has been caught unawares, and armed bands have restarted the killing.

The country is ablaze with a new insurgency. Except this time, Afghanistan’s nuclear-armed neighbors decide to take part. Tanks mass on the borders, and jets engage in aerial duels. Missiles begin the countdown inside their silos. World War III is imminent, and only the death of the killer, Akram Khan can stop it. It is a job for a small, elite unit. A unit like Bravo.

This is a thrilling story of a US Navy SEAL Team, under pressure from enemies on all sides. Seal Team Bravo Black Ops: Afghanistan in Flames is by the bestselling author of many other Spec Ops stories. These include the popular SEAL Team Bravo titles, the Raider series, as well as Echo Six and the Devil's Guard series.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Apr 4, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911092155

Eric Meyer

Eric A. Meyer started working on the web in late 1993. Since then, he's been a college webmaster, one of the original CSS Samurai, a standards evangelist at Netscape, the author of many books and online resources, an occasional code artist, the technical lead at Rebecca's Gift, and a cofounder of An Event Apart. He lives with his family in Cleveland.

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SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS – AFGHANISTAN IN FLAMES

By Eric Meyer

Copyright 2016 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.

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Foreword

CNN International News: NATO has announced the further withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan. The situation has stabilized after years of war, and at last, the country is looking at a period of new prosperity. The billions of dollars of investment will at last provide the solid foundation for peace in that troubled land. Here in the United States, families anticipate their loved ones coming home. In other news, the war against ISIS still rages. Homeland Security has raised the terror alert level following new threats made against the United States.

They appeared like fleeting shadows from the depths of the night, eight men. The northern part of Afghanistan had been quiet of late, and the security guards posted at the natural gas refinery in Qala-e-Naw were not in evidence. Men cut corners on the long, cold nights on watch, as is the norm. Not unusual in a place where men were paid to guard against a non-existent threat. Their lack of vigilance was premature.

On that bitter cold March night, the frost was heavy on the harsh surface. The thaw was late this year, and the guards were inside their hut; clustered around the warmth of the paraffin heater when they should have been patrolling the perimeter.

The natural gas processing plant was the pride of the province of Badghis, in northwest Afghanistan. Many of the population of nine thousand people worked at the plant. In the short time it had been operating, men, women, and children had experienced a miraculous increase in their quality of life. They had jobs and wages, a hospital for their children when they were sick, and even a school, although no girls attended classes. Girls had other priorities, cooking, cleaning, and keeping themselves pure for when a man took them for himself. They could look forward to a lifetime of slavery and bondage; hidden from the sunlight by the voluminous blue burqas their gender required them to wear. If they were lucky, their husbands wouldn't beat them with too much savagery.

Sediq Rasooli, the lean, hardened leader threw up a hand, and the seven men behind him dropped to the hard, frozen ground. They were at the top of a small rise, overlooking the gas refinery of Qala-e-Naw. The tall, metal cylinders were stark against the night sky, surrounded by a mass of pipework and girders. Near where they waited, the pipeline stretched away from the refinery, going north. Supplying Helmand province and neighboring regions with the essential gas to heat their homes and cook hot food during the icy temperatures.

Not for much longer. His small warband had a vital task to perform. To destroy the refinery, so the precious gas would cease to flow. Then the population would know the truth. The Taliban were not defeated. Far from it, as they sat shivering in their unheated homes, eating cold food, they would have time to dwell on the reality of Afghan politics. The Taliban was here to stay and would bring them to the realization of the glory of the Prophet. When they had defeated the infidel invaders, the nation would know Allah’s mercy, through reading the Koran and learning the wisdom of Sharia law.

He watched intently, and after ten minutes had elapsed, knew their mission would succeed. The guards were comfortable inside their hut, and they would have a clear run to the perimeter. He glanced around at his men. They’d swapped their white robes for black and dark brown garments, and all wore black scarves to hide their faces. With the black turbans, they would be all but invisible, except for the scars. Two of his men were missing an eye, with just a dark cloth patch to hide the wound. Rasooli had a deep scar that ran down from his forehead and underneath his scarf. Four had faces riddled with childhood acne, exacerbated by the powder marks as the result of repeated firing of a weapon from the shoulder. Only the youngest of them displayed clear skin, so far unblemished by war or disease. It wasn’t to last.

The Talibs looked back at him, their faces alive with enthusiasm. They were waiting for his final words, final because none would leave this place. This was a Shaheed mission. Each member of the band had made his peace with God. Their fate had been written, as if in tablets of stone. Within the hour, every one of them would be in Paradise, surrounded by nubile virgins, and reaping the rewards the Prophet promised to those men who became martyrs.

We are about to fulfill the will of Allah. Does any man doubt there is a God, his name is Allah, and he sent his Prophet Mohammed to earth to show us the way?

Praise be His holy name, seven voices replied in unison.

He stared at them for a moment longer and gave a grim nod. Praise be His holy name, he repeated. Jamal, you have chosen to be the first. You know what to do?

Jamal Rasooli was his young cousin. The boy’s mother had pleaded with him to leave him behind. He was the last of her sons. Her husband and eldest son had died in a futile attack against an American armored patrol. She’d been carrying another baby, who turned out to be a boy, but the shock caused her to miscarry. She had no other children, and to be childless in Afghanistan was a brutal reality no woman wanted to face.

Without relatives to support her, and prevented from seeking work by the medieval laws of the Mullahs who ruled her home village, she would have to choose between the worst of two evils; beggary, which would condemn her to almost constant starvation, or prostitution. The life of a whore would leave her at the mercy of any man who wanted to use her as a punch bag to satisfy his contempt for women. Prostitution was also a crime, and Sharia law unequivocal. If she went before an Islamic court, she would face the agonies of death by stoning. Sediq had listened to her pleading and then scolded her.

Woman, we are warriors of Allah, about to embark on a holy mission. What you are doing is wrong, trying to dissuade us. This is blasphemy.

She’d gone quiet then, knowing her fate was sealed. They would die, and her life would end in hunger and pain.

Jamal stared back at his cousin. His task was to approach the guard hut at the entrance to the refinery and knock on the door. They would confront him with weapons drawn, which would make no difference. Underneath the dark woolen jacket over his robe, he wore a suicide vest. The heavy canvas garment had pockets that contained sticks of C4 explosive. The wire to the detonator ran down his sleeve and into the palm of his hand. All they would see was a young boy, with his hands empty of any weapon. Unarmed, or so they would think. It would be their final view of this world. The explosion would send them straight to hell, a punishment for their cooperation with the unholy government in Kabul and infidels from overseas.

He stared back with all of the easy confidence of a thirteen-year-old. I know what to do, Sediq. Is it time?

The warband leader gave a final glance at the target below. Yes, it is time. Go with God, and soon we will meet in Paradise.

He hugged the younger man and held him tight for a few seconds. Jamal wriggled away in embarrassment. He was a warrior, a brave warrior, and he needed no comfort from Sediq.

We will meet in Paradise, the boy agreed. He got to his feet and went to each of the men, shaking their hands. Each intoned, It is the will of Allah that we meet again. God is with us, and we carry out His holy work.

He jogged down the path and stopped when he reached the hut. Sediq watched him knock on the door, and after a few seconds, it opened. Three men crowded in the doorway, each pointing a rifle at the newcomer. One barked a question, and Jamal didn’t answer. The guard's eyebrows knitted in surprise, and he shouted even louder. The boy opened his mouth to shout the praises of Allah, and in that instant, they knew. One man, quicker than the others, got off a shot that tore into Jamal, but it was already too late, much too late.

Even as the bullet left the muzzle of the rifle, he’d pressed the button of the detonator, shouting, Allahu…

He didn’t get it all out. The stunning shock of the bullet as it pierced his belly silenced the cry, and then the explosives detonated with a massive roar.

On the hill, Sediq felt a momentary pang as he saw his cousin blown apart. Then he dismissed the emotion. He'd done his duty, and the guard hut was a smoking ruin. Jamal was in Paradise. Now it was their turn. He jumped to his feet and threw up the hand clutching the assault rifle. Attack, attack! Allahu Akbar! Paradise awaits, kill the unbelievers!

He raced along the path, his men hard on his heels, heading straight for main gate. The explosion had made a huge gap in the defensive perimeter, and nothing prevented them carrying out their assigned tasks. He leapt over a small obstacle, and with a start, recognized the head of Jamal. He put it out of his mind, for it was irrelevant. They were on a mission from God. There was nothing to stop them. No guards, no gates, no perimeter wire, nothing. The entire gas refinery was at their mercy.

As they ran through the compound, vaulting over pipes and ironwork that made their progress an obstacle course, he shouted orders to his men.

You know what to do. Abu, make sure you place your charges on the pipeline. I want it destroyed for at least two hundred meters. Hamid, the gas storage tanks, quickly. The rest of you place your charges anywhere you find equipment that will be difficult to replace. Hurry! They’ll have heard the explosion from ten kilometers away, and they'll send troops. If you see any of the refinery personnel, kill them. God is great!

God is great, they echoed.

He went to his assigned target, the refinery control room. It was no more than fifty meters away, and he raced past the pipes and tanks, lit by the flickering flames from the explosion. The door to the control room was locked, but it was easy to open it with a burst from his AKM assault rifle. Six bullets destroyed the lock, and he kicked the door open with his boot. When he ran inside, a man was standing opposite, staring at him. His mouth was open in terror, and in his hand, he held a pistol pointed at Sediq.

This is private property, he faltered, You...er... must leave immediately. Otherwise, I will report you to…

His voice tailed off. The Taliban leader chuckled, a grating laugh that had the icy overtones of imminent death. Your infidel collaborators are all dead. Who will save you now? Only Allah, and if you have faith, you should call on His mercy.

The man lowered the pistol. Will you let me live? I don’t want to die. I have a wife and five children.

Sediq greeted his comment with another laugh. It sounded like faulty bearings in a gas engine, harsh and metallic. The presentiment of a catastrophic end. We will all die, because it is Allah’s will for the faithful to meet death and see the full glory of His mercy.

The man's mouth opened and closed like a fish, but he failed to reply, struck dumb by terror. The seconds ticked away, and he knew it was long enough for his men to have completed their assignments. He walked to the engineer, knowing the man was too frightened to shoot. Sediq snatched the pistol from his shaking hands, and then placed the charges. It wasn’t just about cutting off the gas supplies. Their mission was to destroy the refinery so utterly it would take years to rebuild; a mortal blow to the unbelievers and apostates in Kabul.

When he’d finished, he went to the door and looked out. The headlights of trucks were visible in the distance, and he estimated they’d be here inside of two or three minutes. It was time, and they were ready. Even if some of his men hadn’t finished placing their charges, they were certain to detonate in sympathy with the other explosions. If not, the exploding, burning gas would do the job. He took out the remote detonator, a converted cellphone, and turned back to the engineer, who was shivering in terror.

The moment is upon us. Have you made your peace with God?

The man stared back at him, still unable to speak, shaking his head from side to side. Sediq shrugged, what they were about to do would put this entire region in turmoil. They’d have to divert massive sums of cash to repair the damage. He knew they'd recover, but it would send a message that would resound around the halls of government. The name of Sediq Rasooli would be remembered for decades to come.

He jabbed his finger on the button of the detonator and screamed, Allahu Akbar! All it took was a light pressure, and the signal transmitted to the charges. He saw an enormous flash of white, felt searing, awful heat, and then there was nothing.

* * *

Sediq underestimated the effects of the destruction of the refinery. A week after the explosion the company officers met in the Kabul headquarters of Afgas, the owners of the destroyed facility. They had much to discuss. More than any of them knew was on the agenda. Save one man. There were four men present, but it was the word of one man, Chief Executive Adnan Kovac, that would decide their future. They all knew it would be bad. How bad was what they’d come here to discover. They watched him and waited. Like a snake watches a mongoose, waiting for the death lunge. Their Chief Executive had that effect on people.

Kovac was a short, bald, thickset bull of a man. He had the muscles of a stevedore, which had in fact been his employment before he left his home country. He arrived in the United States from Croatia. Ostensibly a penniless refugee, he’d exploited his contacts in certain parts of the criminal underworld. Most were in the drugs trade, which enabled him to re-invest his money in produce and make his first million inside of twelve months. Two years later, he made his first billion, having climbed his way up the ladder over the bodies of several men who’d tried to oppose him. Then he decided to invest his fortune in the mineral resources of Afghanistan.

He formed Afgas with the three other men present at the meeting, to exploit the recovering economy of the benighted nation. Flushed with optimism, and Kovac's assurances, they committed all of the company’s cash to building the refinery at Qala-e-Naw. At first, it made money. Lots of money, and plans were in hand to build a second installation.

Now it was gone, all of it, the refinery and the money, along with their dreams of a constant stream of cash to pay off their creditors and fund their extravagant lifestyles. The bank account was empty, and the gas had ceased to flow. He stared at the other three men, his chief operating officer, Zak Willoughby, the company accountant, Grant Murdoch, and company lawyer, Philip Worthington. He hated them for their smooth Harvard educated faces, designer suits, hand-tooled brogues, and polished loafers. His clothes never hung well on him, despite the money he threw at his tailors. He didn’t care. Neither did he care about their sneers. He wasn't one of them and knew they believed he lacked what they would consider as ‘polish.’ All that mattered was the ability to make money. He had it, and they didn't, which meant taking the all-important decisions that would ensure high levels of profit. They sometimes disagreed with his bullying management style, although it made little difference. Besides, he despised them for their weakness and inability to see the bigger picture.

He placed his briefcase on the table. He was proud of that briefcase. The company that sold it to him told him it was made of layers of titanium. The final cost was in excess of five thousand dollars, and the unique selling point was its ability to withstand any kind of attack. Up to and including a bomb blast. It wasn't an affectation. Inside the case, he carried more secrets than he'd care to admit. If anyone got hold of it, well, he didn't want to go there. What was the expression? 'Heads would roll.' They sure would. He opened the lid, took out a document, and pretended to read. He already knew what it contained. Calling it a bombshell would be an understatement.

We’re broke! It was little more than a murmur, but all three flinched.

Murdoch, the accountant, stared back at him. When you say broke, Adnan, what do you mean? Could you spell it out? How much do we have left with which to rebuild?

I meant what I said. It’s gone, everything.

That's impossible. How will we service our debts? You know where some of that money came from. Those people won’t be happy if we fail to pay. I mean…

You mean they’ll come gunning for us.

Well…

Much of the company-financing package he’d put together came from the drug trade. These men knew about it, and they’d all agreed. It was the sole way to get access to the tens of millions of dollars they needed for such a speculative venture. It was also a massive risk. He knew the kind of men they were dealing with, and failure to repay the debt would mean the principals pursuing them to the ends of the earth for payment. No matter where they hid, one day, armed men would appear on the doorstep, offering them two alternatives. Pay what you owe, including accumulated interest at a rate that would cause even a banker to sweat blood, or die.

You’re right. They'd come after us, he acknowledged. He saw the other men flinch again and didn’t bother to conceal his grin.

Weaklings!

What we have here is a situation that requires a drastic solution, if we’re going to survive this.

By drastic, what do you mean? How drastic?

He sneered at Worthington, the lawyer. The man had picked up on the word for good reason. In discussions of this magnitude, drastic had an ominous meaning, illegal and worse. Next to him, Zak Willoughby nodded his agreement with the question.

Another spineless weakling!

Kovac paused for effect. He could see them hanging on his next words, waiting for the magic solution that would free them from the horrors of forced bankruptcy. Fine, he had that solution. It was time to spell it out to them.

We need a war.

They stared at him. A war? Worthington spluttered, Tell me you’re kidding.

He silenced him with a savage look. This is too serious for jokes. No, my friends, there’s one thing that will save us. A good old-fashioned, one hundred percent, bullets and bombs in the air, boots on the ground, shooting war. We need troops and aircraft. Armies of soldiers running around killing each other.

He held up his hand as all of them began to protest. Wait! You haven’t thought this through. Think about it; the moment a war starts, the dollars start to flow, billions of dollars. Suddenly, everyone wants to throw money at the solution, and I intend to make sure a big chunk of those dollars come our way.

"But how do you start a war? Murdoch gasped.

Never mind the how, he snarled, I’ll take care of the how. Just think of the benefits. One of their priories will be to win hearts and minds, and how will they do that? By restoring heating and cooking for the natives. That means paying us to rebuild the refinery, so they’ll hand over the money with a smile on their faces and beg us to make a start.

Until the Taliban destroy it again, Murdoch grumbled.

They won’t destroy it. Kovac stared at them, a smile pasted on his face, They won’t destroy it for a simple reason. That's the beauty of the war, the other benefit. There’ll be so many troops deployed in the area the Taliban would need an army to mount another attack. The insurgents will be on the run, harried from place to place by drones and helicopter gunships. They won't have time to think about hitting us again, let alone actually do it. Think about it, his face changed, his eyes glazed as he outlined his dream. He was a man who wasn’t about to see his dream destroyed, no matter how many thousands of lives it cost.

Adnan, I don’t know about this. A war, people will die, in the hundreds and thousands. Jesus Christ, it’s not that easy. You can’t just start a war.

Worthington sat back in his chair, a smug look on his face. Like an adult who'd just explained a simple fact to a child, or a lawyer after he'd just told his client he was going to jail for a long time and there was no alternative.

Kovac waited him out with a cold smile. You’re right, Phil, and you’re wrong. Look at your history. World War Two began with a cross-border raid, a bit of subterfuge, and bingo, the armies start to roll. No, no, he grinned, I’m not planning on World War Three. I’m just making a point. Leave it to me, and I’ll kick these bastards into action. Once the war starts, prices will rocket, and that includes the price of our natural gas. Governments will be throwing money at a solution to end the war. They always do. That means grants, loans, and bribes to the right people in the right places. Our share price will go through the roof, and I guarantee we'll have politicians queuing up at our door to pay for the reconstruction.

Philip Worthington still wasn’t convinced. An experienced lawyer, he’d seen too many schemes that started on a wave of naive optimism, and then collapsed because their proponent hadn’t thought things through. He was also a devout Catholic, and the idea of committing murder in the name of profit was an anathema to his beliefs.

Adnan, it's not right. First, it goes against everything I believe in, and...

You're Catholic, ain’t that right, Phil? What're you worried about, letting it all out at confession? Some priest bugging you over a little thing like this? Forget it. There's only one confessional you need to concern yourself with, and that's right here in this room. Nothing, and I mean nothing, leaves this meeting. Clear?

Well, yes, Adnan, but...

Hey, Phil, what do you think, the fucking Vatican's gonna find out what we're up to? Not in a million years.

It was a false assumption, and one that would come back to haunt him, to his death.

Worthington made another attempt to appeal to Kovac’s conscience. Adnan, what you said about the origins of World War Two. It was rather more than ‘a cross-border raid.’ If I remember right, they shot up a Polish border post and killed a lot of innocent people. People call that murder.

Kovac shot him an angry glance. "I don't give a shit what they call it, Phil. This isn’t the United States, or Europe. This is Afghanistan. They murder people every day, when did you ever let that worry you? A few people get killed; a school or a hospital is destroyed by insurgents, who gives a goddamn?