Echo Six: Black Ops - Box Set (Books 1-6)

By Eric Meyer

They are an International elite unit created by NATO to carry out missions where no other could hope to succeed. A mix of Seals, Delta Force, British SAS and French, German and Polish SpecOps operators. Led by a former Navy Seal, Lieutenant Abe Talley. This is Echo Six.

This complete box set contains the full text of the first six full length novels. That’s right, all six books! Buy the box set today and read them all from start to finish:

ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS
Hostages are about to die, facing execution at the hands of the scourge of the seas - pirates. The objective is inside Somalia. Al Qaeda has taken piracy under its control to fund their worldwide quest for terror and death in the name of Islam. Talley’s unit is hastily transferred to a nuclear carrier patrolling the Arabian Sea. Echo Six is to go ashore, kill the pirates and rescue the hostages. Exfiltration will be via the advanced, super-silent Black Hawks of the secretive 160th Aviation Regiment. Yet plans can and often do go wrong. And this time is no exception.

ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 2
Hostages are about to die, facing execution at the hands of the scourge of the seas - pirates. The objective is inside Somalia. Al Qaeda has taken piracy under its control to fund their worldwide quest for terror and death in the name of Islam. Talley’s unit is hastily transferred to a nuclear carrier patrolling the Arabian Sea. Echo Six is to go ashore, kill the pirates and rescue the hostages. Exfiltration will be via the advanced, super-silent Black Hawks of the secretive 160th Aviation Regiment. Yet plans can and often do go wrong. And this time is no exception.

ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 3
North Korea has achieved a breakthrough with nuclear warheads, and is about to arm their strategic missiles. Weapons which could set the world ablaze. The Echo Six unit commander, Abe Talley, is ordered to take his men across the 38th Parallel. Their mission is to locate and destroy the nukes. As well as their creators. They must enter the heart of the most secretive, repressive and brutal nation on earth. And somehow find a way back.

ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 4
The North Koreans have new allies in their quest to unleash a nuclear fireball on their hated neighbors. And this time, they are about to succeed. Chechen rebels possess the prize the North Koreans desire more than anything else; Nuclear warheads.

ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 5
The war in Syria has become a massive, life or death struggle between two Islamic foes, the Syrian Army and the rebels. Each tries to outdo the other, with bigger and better weapons. Until they cross the line and start production of the deadly CX9 nerve gas. The time for the West to watch is over. Now it’s time for direct action.

ECHO SIX: BLACK OPS 6
After a blazing operation to destroy Syrian chemical weapons, it is time for Echo Six to take a well-earned furlough. Until Lieutenant-Commander Talley's girlfriend disappears in the war-torn city of Beirut. And Hezbollah kidnaps a senior member of the United Nations.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Swordworks Books
• Release date: Feb 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370087181

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.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

People running, some were shouting; panicked, arms waving, jostling, and pushing. Frantic eyes searched the length of the terminal for lost loved ones. This was Reagan National Airport, with all the tightly controlled chaos of an international transport hub. People of every nationality searching for their stray luggage; lost parents, lost kids, lost gates. Navy Seal Lieutenant Abe Talley stood aside from the milling crowds and checked the departures board, looking for his flight.

Can I help you?

He looked around. A United staff member, little more than twenty years of age, slim, pretty, and blonde in a crisp trim uniform, was smiling at him. She brushed a strand of hair off her face. You look as if you may be lost.

She was hitting on him. It was nothing new, yet he would have been surprised to know they found him attractive. Talley was tall, narrow, and long-limbed, with curly, dark brown hair over a smooth face, but already beginning to show the effects of wind and weather. He thought of himself as Mister Average, with an average face, and an average build. His face looked hard and slightly angular, dominated by firm determined lips that rarely creased into a smile. His job had little room for humor. His eyes were hidden behind Rayban Aviators. People said the eyes were the mirror to the soul. Talley liked to keep his soul to himself. He was a serious man who took the job of getting his men in and out of trouble spots with minimal casualties; which is what he was paid to do. As a Navy Seal platoon leader, a lieutenant, he had more responsibilities than most men even knew existed. His remit covered a broad spectrum between life and death. And he was no stranger to death. Talley gave the United girl a pleasant smile. He was always meticulous, always polite. He let her down gracefully.

I’m fine, thank you, Ma’am. It’s real kind of you to offer, but there’s no problem.

She pursed her lips, gave an almost inaudible sigh, and walked away.

He found what he wanted, the United Airlines flight to San Diego. He was going home. But not to his family, not this time. Kay had sent him a text message while he was away.

A text message, she didn’t even call! She wants a divorce, for Christ’s sake! She said she’s leaving me to go to her parents’ home in Los Angeles, and taking the kids with her.

Her text had been adamant, with no room for discussion. ‘Don’t try to call me, Abe. I need time to work this out. I’ll let you know when I feel like talking about it.’

What the hell did she mean, a week, a month, or a year even? Or is it permanent? Something about the way she said it suggests my marriage really is over. What can I do? If I push too hard, I could drive her away forever, and that means I may have trouble getting access to the kids. If I go along with it and stay out of contact, will she score that against me? Probably. Dammit, I don’t know what to do. When you got married they didn’t prepare you for a possible break-up. I’ve heard the expression ‘marital minefield’, and now I know exactly what it means. It’s something that hits you with the power of a well-aimed sledgehammer.

He’d been away for a week of tests and interviews for a change of job with a new NATO taskforce, NATFOR. They were setting it up to combine elite troops drawn from six nations into a global strike force. NATFOR would be able to respond to terrorist threats in any country in the world. His job with the Seals had entailed responding to plenty of terrorist threats, but the politicians wanted more. Their intention was to have at their disposal a weapon that would strike even harder and faster, with a cross-border consensus giving them an unfettered playing field. There’d be no need for nations to argue and bicker. When terrorists struck one member country, they’d be striking at them all. And NATFOR would be there to hit back, no matter where in the world they were sent. It was the most exciting challenge he’d faced in his career, and yet he felt his life was on the slide. In his heart, he knew he’d lost his family for good.

Was joining NATFOR the final push that sent her over the edge? Or was divorce in her mind already, and I just didn’t seen it coming? The latter is more than likely true. People say the husband is always the last person to know.

Talley pushed his thoughts to a corner of his mind as a senior army officer swept towards him, complete with entourage; a four star General, no less. General Richard Kelly, the tough, competent Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. And then he looked again, as he stood formally to one side to allow General Kelly to pass. He wasn’t looking at the General, who acknowledged his Navy uniform and rank with a slight nod. No, he was looking beyond him, at a group of men showing an interest; men who shouldn’t have been showing an interest. They were driving an electric truck designed to carry baggage, except that this one was empty of any baggage. He glanced at the two men in the front, the driver and passenger both looked to be of Middle Eastern descent. Two more men of Middle Eastern appearance, walked alongside. Nothing unusual about that, there were a great many Arabs in the US, fleeing their shithouse countries for a better life. But there were others with different ideas, not ideas of building anything worthwhile, but of destroying everything that was good, clean, and civilized; in the name of God, of course. Something about the way the Arabs gazed after General Kelly so intently made him feel very uneasy.

A Federal Air Marshal lounged nearby, one of the new breed of airport security guards, and Talley walked over to talk to him.

Excuse me, Sir. Do you recognize those guys on the baggage truck, are they airport employees?

The man looked at him with a hard but disinterested expression. His face was pasty and sallow, the result of too much time spent indoors, and a life of boredom and inaction.

What business is it of yours, Sailor?

Oh shit, one of those; a gun, a uniform, and a complex.

The marshal was young, maybe mid-twenties, and overweight. His gunbelt hung low, where his heavy pistol had pulled the leather down under his bulging gut. He sported a clipped, military-style mustache, which he’d been smoothing down when Talley approached him.

Marshal, there are notices all over the terminal telling passengers to report anything suspicious. I’m reporting it to you, right now.

The man stared at him with an expression of growing irritation. He hitched his belt up an inch and unconsciously smoothed his mustache again.

So you’ve reported it, Buster. Now beat it, I’ve got better things to do than listen to stupid complaints from passengers.

Talley sighed. The guy was a waste of time. He nodded politely and walked after the baggage truck. It was moving slowly, and each time the General changed direction it followed him. The overhead Tannoy system clicked on.

United Airlines flight UA255 to San Diego, would all passengers go immediately to Gate 32. The flight is now boarding and will close in ten minutes.

Shit! If I’m wrong, and it’s just a couple of eager immigrants innocently earning a few dollars working in Reagan National, I’ll miss my flight.

It would cost him several hundred bucks to get another. But he didn’t think he was wrong. Something didn’t smell right, and a sixth sense impelled him to check it out. He shrugged mentally.

If I am wrong, I’ll just have to live with it. So be it.

He kept after the slow moving truck. General Kelly and his staff were heading toward the VIP lounge, and the electric baggage truck was getting closer. And then he saw the passenger bend down to pick up a canvas holdall from the floor of the cab, unzip it, and start to pull out a weapon. Talley recognized the short black barrel and slim curved clip of a Heckler and Koch MP5 submachine gun. Both of the men walking alongside put their hands inside their dark blue airport coveralls in an unmistakable gesture. They were about to draw their pistols. Talley wasn’t armed as he was about to board a commercial flight. And he was faced with four guys who all carried weapons. He had only one weapon; speed and surprise. He used both. Talley ran toward the guy in the truck, reasoning that the semi-automatic weapon was the biggest threat. The handguns would have to wait. He dived, just as the driver braked the baggage truck, and his momentum carried him forward. He flew over the baggage truck and crashed into the back of the submachine gunner. The man recovered fast, lifting his MP5, attempting to twist it around to open fire, but Talley grabbed the barrel and pointed it down at the floor. The Arab squeezed the trigger and a hail of 9mm rounds spat out of the barrel to impact the floor of the terminal, sending up pieces of shredded carpet and vinyl floorcovering. The noise of the shots sent a clear message to the passengers in the terminal, and people reacted, screaming, running, shouting orders, while Talley tried to wrestle the gun out of the man’s hands. He felt a blow to his head. The driver had joined in the fight, punching him hard to try and force him to release his hold on the MP5. He took one hand of the barrel, swung his fist and felt it connect with the Arab’s chin. The man pitched backward with a loud shriek and fell off the truck. People were streaming past, and the Arab disappeared beneath a stampede of panicked feet. The other two men now had their weapons in their hands. Talley looked around fast. The General’s entourage had pushed him through the door into the VIP lounge, and two armed officers stood guard outside. The message was clear. If anyone wanted to try for General Kelly, they’d have to shoot their way past them first.

The two Arabs leveled their pistols at Talley, their eyes cold and determined, and their expressions unfazed. He made a last, despairing grab for the MP5. Still the man held on grimly as if his life depended on it. Which they both knew it did. As the two pistol barrels took aim at him, he twisted around in a move that would have done justice to an acrobat, and his opponent was turned to form a barrier between him and the shooters. Four shots cracked out, adding to the general mayhem in the terminal, and he felt the man with the MP5 jerk and slacken in his arms as the bullets took him in the body. Now the submachine gun was loose, and Talley jerked it out of the dying man’s hands. As he did so, he saw the butt of a snub-nose Smith and Wesson .38 tucked into the man’s belt. He grabbed for it and dived backward behind the baggage truck, rolling to one side to land behind the cover of the front wheels. Three more shots cracked out, and behind him someone screamed. He darted a fast look around the hood and saw the men were both running. The driver was already getting to his feet, so Talley did the only thing possible. He leapt up and fired off two rounds from the MP5. They hit the Arab in the upper body and threw him back to the floor. This time he didn’t get up. Talley rammed the .38 into his waistband, gripped the submachine gun, and sprinted off after the two Arabs. They were heading back in the direction they’d come from. The overweight Federal Air Marshal stepped in front of them and held up one hand to stop them, his other hand clawing for his pistol. The men opened fire, one shot each and he fell down, clutching at a growing patch of blood that saturated his shirt. They didn’t even slow up, but jumped over the body and kept going fast. Talley couldn’t shoot; there were too many civilians in the firing line. He was also aware of the risk he was running, for despite his naval officer’s uniform, he was an armed man running inside an airport terminal that was alive with warning sirens as the defense force came to maximum alert. And then the challenge came.

Stop! Federal Air Marshals. Put down your weapon.

Two uniformed men, both leaner and fitter than the one who’d been shot. They’d missed seeing the fleeing ‘baggage handlers’ and were staring at him. As he ran up to them, he shouted, The two baggage guys that went past, they’re both armed, and they tried to kill General Kelly. We have to stop them!

You drop it now, buddy. This is your last warning, or we shoot.

He didn’t have a choice. He pretended to slow as he reached them, and then he ducked low, and swung around with his leg. His iron-hard muscles, developed during long years of intensive training that would have driven lesser men to despair, smashed into them and sent them crashing to the floor. Talley sprang back to his feet and shouted, Sorry, Guys, I have to stop them. He ran on.

One of the Arabs looked around, saw Talley, and shouted something to his companion. They both stopped, and one of them grabbed the arm of a young and attractive woman who was nearby. She shrieked in alarm as they twisted her body in front of them.

Stop! Put down the gun, or we shoot the girl!

He came to a halt and walked slowly toward them. He could hear more shouts behind him. The chaos was worsening, and more Marshals were pouring into the terminal, yet he knew he was on his own. It would take airport security too long to get on top of this situation.

Don’t shoot her. I’m lowering the gun, look.

Don’t come any nearer. Put it down on the ground.

Yes, Sir, I’m doing that. Look, the gun is going down on the floor.

He lowered it and made a couple more steps forward; nearly there.

Mister, she dies if you don’t stop right there.

He stopped, put the gun on the ground, and raised his hands.

It’s okay. I’ve dropped it. Look! Why don’t you let the girl go?

The older of the two men lifted his pistol and pointed it at Talley’s face.

You infidel dog! You have poked your nose into our business and wrecked our plans. His lips were drawn back in a snarl, exposing blackened rotting teeth. Spittle sprayed out in front of him, and his face was red with fury. You will not interfere again. My people have a simple remedy for dogs like you.

He pushed the woman slightly to one side so he could aim better. Talley saw his finger move on the trigger. The man’s eyes narrowed slightly and the barrel shook. The man lacked the single-minded dedication that professionals acquire after years of training. He was an amateur. The Arab had the motivation, but fury was the wrong emotion for shooters. Maybe it would work for suicide bombers, but not for close-up, man-to-man killing. Talley saw him squint even more, evidence that he was summoning the inner will needed to finally pull the trigger and take a life. Even in a terrorist, it wasn’t always second nature. But the fractional hesitation was enough for a man who’d spent his working life training for situations like this one. He snatched the Smith and Wesson from his waistband, leveled the barrel, and pulled the trigger in one single flowing action. The shot was loud, almost deafening, and a red hole suddenly appeared in the Arab’s forehead. A jet of blood gushed out, splattering over the girl and the second terrorist. His eyes flared with fear as his friend’s lifeblood sprayed over him, but he recovered and started to raise his pistol. Talley pulled the trigger, once, twice, and he was thrown back. The girl screamed, shrieking in hysteria, and he took her in his arms to comfort her.

It’s all over. You’re going to be okay. They’re all dead.

Oh God, Oh God, they were going go kill me.

Not now. They’re not going to kill anybody. They’re dead.

Stop right there! Hold it, drop that weapon, and put your hands up. Lie down on the floor!

Talley looked around, the Federal Air Marshals had arrived, and this time they were in force. At last! Six of them stood with their handguns pointed straight at him. He slowly lowered the .38 to the floor, and lay down with his hands outstretched. One of the Marshals ran over and kicked the pistol away, just like they did in the cop shows on TV. Two more of them ran forward; one knelt on his neck, and the other cuffed him.

Get up, motherfucker. You don’t run around our airport with a loaded weapon like fucking Rambo. That’s the way people get killed! You’re under arrest.

They pulled him roughly to his feet and started to read him his rights.

At least they got that bit right.

Talley remained silent; he knew that anything he said to them would be a waste of time. Until someone who knew their ass from their elbow got involved, he’d have to roll with whatever these clowns wanted to do to him.

Take the sonofabitch to the cells, a Marshal shouted angrily. Talley sighed. There was nothing he could do to dissuade them. The explanations would have to come later, when someone more senior than these rentacops turned up. He’d need a lawyer; he realized that and smiled.

Times have changed. Once, they would have thanked me for stopping the terrorists. Not now. I broke Federal law, which is all that matters.

And then a hard commanding voice cut across the chaos and hubbub of the terminal.

Release that man!

They whipped around to stare at the newcomer. It was a voice that would command immediate attention from anyone, anywhere in the world. Talley smiled inwardly, General Richard Kelly, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, had arrived on the scene, flanked by his officers; each of them with his service automatic drawn and ready to use.

Who the hell are you? one of the Marshals snarled. Being an army officer doesn’t give you authority in this airport. This man is our prisoner. He’s under arrest for breaking Federal rules. There’s nothing you can do about that, so stand aside and let us do our work, or we’ll put you in the cell with him.

Kelly stepped forward until his face was six inches away from the Marshal’s flabby cheeks.

I’ve come from a meeting with your boss. That’s the President of the United States, in case you didn’t realize. Would you like me to explain to him how you behaved here? I watched you men ignore an obvious threat and then stand aside while this officer dealt with it for you. And then you arrest him! I’m not sure whether to report you for dereliction of duty or a lack of basic mental faculties. But either way, you will release that man immediately, or I’ll see to it that you spend the next twenty years inside a Federal penitentiary for failing to do your jobs and respond to a threat of clear and present danger.

But I was only doing my…

No! There are only two possible outcomes here. Either way, this man will be released. The question is, do you leave this terminal in handcuffs or not?

With bad grace, he nodded to the other men, and they freed Talley. Kelly watched them and gave a satisfied nod.

Lieutenant, come with me. You men, he turned to the Marshals, I suggest you start preparing your report. I promise you a request will be made from the White House before the end of the day. They’ll want to see everything that happened here, the security videos, as well as an individual report from each of you. You’d better believe that your testimony may yet be used in court when people start asking questions about your failures. Now get about your business and secure this terminal. Move!

They scattered, astonished that their petty authority had been trumped so readily. Kelly turned to Talley. Come back to the VIP room, son. I’d like a word with you. And by the way, I owe you my thanks. I guess they were after me.

No need for thanks, Sir. But yes, it seems you were the target.

They walked through the door into the quiet luxury of the VIP lounge. Kelly’s aides had emptied it of passengers. There was only General Kelly, his officers, and Talley.

Which branch are you, Lieutenant?

Navy Seals, Sir. Coronado.

Kelly nodded. So I presume you were here in Washington for NATFOR.

Talley nodded. Something like that, yes, Sir.

Old security habits died hard. But then again, this was the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Maybe he should lighten up.

I assume you were accepted?

Yes, Sir, I was. Echo Six, I’ll be joining them at Bragg in a couple of weeks for training.

It’s an intensive course, and I had some input into some of the challenges you guys will have to face. I don’t envy you. But when you graduate, you’ll be ready for anything.

Yes, Sir.

They got a commander yet, this Echo Six?

No, Sir. It’s a new unit, and we’ll be shaking down together before they make a decision.

But they’ll choose this guy from inside the squad?

Yes, Sir, I believe so.

Kelly nodded again. My thanks again, Lieutenant. I gather a couple of civilians were shot during that fracas. Those Marshals ought to be hung out to dry. They sure will if anyone listens to what I have to say. Maybe we’ll meet again, Lieutenant. Let’s hope it’s under happier circumstances. Good luck with your new assignment.

He took the General’s offered hand, and an aide showed him out. There may just be time to catch his flight back to San Diego. It was a forlorn hope. When he reached the gate, the flight attendant gave him a stern look.

You’re too late, I’m afraid, the gate closed three minutes ago. If you’d like to go to the United counter, you can enquire about a later flight if there are any spare seats. You’ll have to pay, of course.

He nodded. Yeah, of course.

Christ, what a day! He handed over three hundred dollars more for a later flight to San Diego, then sat down to wait. He’d almost been killed here in Washington, and he was still trying to work out who was the greater threat, the Arabs or the Marshals. Now he was returning to a cold, empty home in San Diego.

What the hell is happening to me? If there’s such a thing as luck, I’m fresh out of it.

Fuck it, he said quietly to himself. All they’ve gotta do now is hijack the flight to really make this the day from hell.

An elderly woman was sitting nearby. She was fiddling with a deaf aid, but whatever she’d done to the volume, she turned fast to stare at him.

What? What was that about a hijack? You should watch what you say, Mister, or I’ll report you to the Federal Air Marshals.

He gave her a tired smile. You’re right, Ma’am. It was my mistake. Please accept my apologies.

I should think so too! Her frosty glance lingered a while, then she got to her feet and moved to a seat in the next row.

Talley sat quietly on his own, doing his best to emulate three wise monkeys. From this moment on, he’d see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil. He heard a voice intrude on his self-imposed solitude.

Hey, that’s my seat, Buster. I was sitting there.

He looked up at a large woman squeezed into a voluminous, belted trench coat, carrying a heavy purse in one hand and a fire bucket sized carton of popcorn in the other. He sighed and got to his feet.

My mistake, sorry, Ma’am.

* * *

There was hardly a breath of wind, and Sam Meers, former ROTC with the coastguards, decided to leave the kids at the helm. Below decks on the forty-foot ketch, there was still plenty to do, he mused. First things first, he moved across to the chart table and checked their course, comparing it with the overhead GPS repeater. He frowned. They were too far to the northwest, and these were dangerous waters; pirate waters. Sailing around the world out of their home city of Boston, they’d crossed the Atlantic and rounded the Cape of Good Hope, the southern tip of Africa. Now they were heading across the Indian Ocean to Goa, the former Portuguese colony off the west coast of India. They’d spent a couple of nights in Port Elizabeth, which allowed time for sightseeing and replenishing supplies, and they’d put out to sea again. The plan was to hug the coast of Africa, sail up the Mozambique Channel, and then head east across the ocean to Goa, with a stop in the Seychelles along the way. He remembered the advice from the police post in Port Elizabeth.

As soon as you clear the island of Mozambique, immediately head due east. If you keep heading north, that’s Somali waters, pirate waters. Very dangerous.

He’d explained it all to his fifteen-year-old son Toby. How the maneuver to the east was so critically important. The boy was young to steer the craft through the night, that was true, but there were so many navigational aids, the boat almost steered itself. But in this case, almost didn’t cut it.

He’d repeated himself at least three times. As soon as we’re two miles clear of Mozambique, put the wheel over and head due east. Got it?

Sure, I’ve got it, Dad. No sweat. I’ll take care of it.

According to his chart, they were now almost sixty miles north of Mozambique. Toby had been on watch since just after midnight. The boy had insisted he was old enough to handle it. Sam had woken several times in the night to check on him, and Suzy, his daughter and Toby’s younger sister, had joined her brother at dawn.

Did the boy fall asleep at the wheel?

He called out to Judith, who was still dressing in the forward cabin. I’m going up top, darling. We’re off course. I need to check with Toby.

That’s okay, I’ll finish dressing, and then I’ll cook breakfast, so take your time. Tell the kids chow’s up in thirty minutes.

But he was already running up the short companionway ladder that led to the cockpit. Something was wrong. The boat had slowed, and there was no good reason for it to slow. He reached the cockpit, and to his relief, Toby and Suzy were safe.

Why are you slowing down, son?

Those guys in the boat, Dad, they’re waving at us. I guess they might need our help. Or something, I’m not sure, he added uncertainly.

Sam stared across the flat sea. Fifty yards off their starboard side, a big inflatable RIB was keeping pace with them. The boat was crammed with men, armed men. He counted eight of them, six armed with AK47 rifles. The other two carried shoulder launched RPG missiles. Several of them were waving, that was true. Waving at them to heave to and stop. He had no choice, so he hit the button under the control panel to stop the engine and waited for them to come aboard.

The Meers family watched with dismay as the laughing, leering Somalis rampaged through their boat, ripping out closets, drawers, snatching anything of value. Sam watched from the rear of the cockpit, standing in front of his family, keeping himself between them and the pirates, but knowing it was a futile gesture. Judith stormed at one of the Somalis when he came out of the cabin carrying the part of the contents of her closet, an evening dress she’d treasured for the few occasions when they could dine ashore.

Hey, you, leave that alone! I paid a fortune for that dress.

The man laughed at her, and they recoiled. His face was brutish, thick lips, black teeth drawn back in a snarl, and a face that bore the scars of repeated knife wounds. He stared at her for a long moment; an expression of longing on his face. Another pirate, who appeared to be in in command, shouted something to him. The man laughed and carried on throwing the spoils into the RIB. The leader walked across to the Meers family.

Everything on this boat has been confiscated, he said with a smile. So it is useless to tell my men to stop. None of this belongs to you, not anymore.

His English was almost perfect, his voice calm. He was about twenty-five years old and short, perhaps five feet four inches tall, and an inch shorter than Judith. But he had the body of an athlete, with smooth ebony skin and hard well-defined muscles, and the confident air of a man who commanded other men.

In fact, the boat has been confiscated too.

He chuckled, inviting the family to join in the joke. After college, Sam had served his early years on a Coastguard patrol vessel. He’d learned about weapons, despite spending most of his time learning about ships and the sea, rather than guns and ammo. He studied the weapon in the man’s holster. It was something he hadn’t come across before, and without doubt the largest handgun he’d even seen. The man noticed the direction of his gaze and proudly drew the weapon, a revolver.

You like my gun, do you? It’s a Smith & Wesson Model 500. She’s a five-shot, double-action revolver, firing the .500 S&W Magnum cartridges. When I shoot someone with this little toy, they’re dead. Bang, bang! Know what I mean?

He grinned, but Sam got the point.

He nodded. I know what you mean. What are you planning to do with us? Will you put us ashore?

The man exploded into laughter. He called out to his men and told them what Sam had asked. They grinned, pointing at him in derision as they continued searching the yacht for valuables.

You may as well know what I have planned for you. My name is Joshua Nkebe, and I am the leader of this group. We will take you ashore, certainly, but you will be held captive until your ransom is paid.

Ransom? What are you talking about? We don’t have any money! Every penny we owned was put into buying this boat.

Nkebe laughed. You must have family who care about you. They will find a way to pay. Perhaps they will sell some property, cash in some stocks, whatever. It’s immaterial. What is important is that you understand the only way you leave Somalia, is after the ransom’s paid.

You motherfucker! Judith flared. You want to bankrupt our families to pay for your filthy lifestyle? They’ll never go for it. We’re not rich.

He shrugged, ignoring the insult. They’ll find the money. They always do.

And if they don’t? Sam asked him.

He laughed again. You don’t want to know.

Yes, we do, Mister, Judith shouted. Tell us. What are the alternatives?

Alternatives? There is only one. If the ransom is not paid, we kill you. We have no choice. We have to show people that we mean business.

You got the yacht. You can sell that, Sam insisted.

Oh, we will, we will. But the ransom is what we need. I would guess we’d be looking at about five million for the four of you.

Five million! That’s crazy. We don’t know anyone who can raise that kind of money.

The man shrugged. Then we kill you. It serves a purpose, you see. When people see your bodies, it encourages the other families to somehow find the money. But you shouldn’t worry, not yet. They usually pay up.

‘Usually’ didn’t cut it, not where a man’s family was concerned. Sam Meers had only one slight hope, something that might help them in their current predicament. He’d activated the hijack beacon, and someone may notice. If not, they were dead.

* * *

He should have stayed with the Navy Seals, but his new job had required him to quit the US Navy to sign up for NATFOR. Lieutenant Abe Talley was leading a team of men up an almost sheer rockface in the Blue Ridge Mountains. They’d been transported by helo the two hundred miles from Fort Bragg, where they’d trained to exhaustion for the past two months. This was an exercise designed to push them to the limits; an assault up a hundred meter cliff to a prepared position at the top, manned by a squad of Bragg’s instructors. If they were successful, they went on to complete the final month of training before assignment to operations. They were not joining an ordinary unit. The President and Secretary General of the United Nations, together with the NATO members, had decided to respond to the mounting terrorist threat by putting together a combined force, NATFOR, using exclusively men drawn from the Special Forces of six nations that had agreed to participate. Not everyone was in favor of the new unit, especially some of the senior United Nations people. Only the intervention of Ban Ki-Moon had overridden their objections and given them the mandate to extend the fight against Islamic terrorism to the whole of the globe. Some crazy staff officer had designated the twenty man squads ‘Sixes’, a nod to the six nations that would be represented in each unit. They’d given Talley leadership of Echo Six, following a word to the NATO commanders from the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. It had been well meant, following his action at Reagan National Airport, but what should have been an honor, the peak of his military career to date, was in retrospect more of a millstone. His squad had the orneriest, most awkward, egotistical men he’d ever encountered. Maybe it was because they were from different elite units that they followed the urge to compete, to be the best, to the bitter end. It meant they were not easy to lead. Like right now, when he’d told them to follow him up the cliff face. Already, he could see two of his men ten meters above him, climbing the sheer rockface as if they had suckers attached to their hands and feet. Sous Lieutenant Michel Dubois, a French paratrooper from the 2nd Regiment, Etranger de Parachutistes, or Foreign Legionnaires, the 11th Parachute Brigade. He was a man born with an inbuilt sense of Gallic superiority. And Sergeant Karl Brenner of the German KSK Kommando Spezialkräfte; determined to show there was no fighting man in the world to compete with the best that Germany could offer. They’d almost flown up the cliff face, ignoring every precaution that he’d insisted on to prevent unnecessary casualties. He wanted them to understand that getting to a mission in one piece was almost as important as fighting it with bravery and skill. Yet he knew there was nothing he could do to rein them in. If he tried to make them follow his orders, they pretended not to understand English, despite all of them having been chosen for their fluency. Men like that lived on the edge. They thrived on danger, on challenge, and competition; as long as they stayed alive.

A bunch of crazy assholes, Lieutenant.

He looked across and down, the Britisher was three meters from him, Sergeant Guy Welland from the British 22 SAS Regiment. As tough and hard as they come, and with a background in the kind of black operations the secretive English unit was famous for; and rarely ever spoke about. Welland looked to be in his late twenties, medium-build, and the only giveaway that inside the compact body was something exceptional were the straight, wide shoulders, like granite shelves jutting out either side of his head. Everything else about him was compact, hard, and neat. The determined jaw, short jet black hair combed straight back, and deep dark eyes that normally looked out at the world with a dreamy, thousand-yard stare. Except when he concentrated, then they focused like powerful twin headlights. He looked like a man who never sweated anything. He was both competent and hard, the very essence of a British SAS NCO. Despite opposition, Talley had made him his number two, over the heads of other members of the unit who were more senior. So far, Welland had done nothing to suggest he’d made a wrong decision.

You’re probably right, Guy. But as long as they don’t make any noise when they fall, I’ve no complaints.

He knew they wouldn’t fall, for they were perfectionists. If they ever left the military, they’d make a fortune in the mountain climbing business.

Welland nodded. They were all carrying full equipment for the assault. Their SCAR rifles, a new development, weighed almost eight pounds, and the 5.56mm ammunition they carried in clips festooned around their webbing added substantially to the weight. Over their MTP camouflage, the multi-pattern design that enabled a soldier to almost disappear into most terrains, they wore armored vests, and on their heads the useful CGF Gallet Half Head Helmet. Added to the weight of their assault rifles and armor, each man carried a heavy pack, containing amongst other things spare ammunition for the SAW M249, the Squad Automatic Rifle, the unit’s machine gun; as well as grenades and explosive charges for the final assault on the target. Every man carried the sidearm of his choice, and like most of them, Talley carried his 9mm Sig Sauer P226, a weapon that had saved his life on several occasions during his service in the Seals. They carried no climbing ropes and no pitons or other climbing aids. This was free climbing, a test to demonstrate the almost superhuman abilities these men would need when they went into action. He smiled as he remembered the safety question the Italian had asked Captain Killian. Lieutenant Domenico Rovere was Italian Special Operations Airborne, a former member of the 4th Alpini Parachutist Regiment ‘Monte Cervino’. He was dark like most Italians, dark haired, olive skinned, and dark eyed. He was well built, more muscled than Guy Welland, with a baby face made him appear much younger than his twenty-five years. Rovere’s specialty was chasing the ladies, when he wasn’t playing practical jokes on other members of the unit or quoting poetry. They were wary of him now, and apart from new recruits, he’d given up the jokes for the most part. Maybe it was to have more time and energy to spend on his main pastime. Women. He also had a secondary pastime, quoting Shakespeare and romantic poetry. It was a close call whether it was harder to bear than the jokes.

Rovere looked at the officer with a mournful face.

Captain, without ropes, what will happen if we fall?

Captain Killian, the Delta Force veteran giving the briefing, had given him a scornful look. He’d put Rovere in his place on more than one occasion, and he had no time to waste on stupid questions. They all knew how much the Italian got under his skin, as did Rovere himself. But it didn’t stop the constant and pointless queries.

That’s an idiot question, Lieutenant. Anyone who falls off that cliff will die. He stared at the man for five long seconds. Or was that some kind of question about the afterlife?

They all laughed, except Rovere, who looked crestfallen and fell back on one of his interminable stocks of quotes. It hath been often said, that it is not death, but dying, which is terrible, he murmured.

Sit down and shut up, Lieutenant.

Rovere nodded at Killian and sat. They’d known the score when they signed up for NATFOR. Only the best of the best, drawn from the six participating NATO countries would be considered. Any of them that worried about falling off some sissy rockface wouldn’t be any use to them when the shit really hit the fan; when they were up against overwhelming odds in the field, facing barrages of shot and shell. If they couldn’t beat overwhelming odds under the harshest and most demanding conditions, they had no business being there.

Talley continued to stare up at them. Brenner had narrowly beaten Dubois and was crawling over the parapet, ten meters up from his position. Dubois scrambled over the edge, and the two men looked down at him like children. As if to say, ‘look what we did’. He exchanged glances with Welland, and they fought their way up the last of the rockface, followed by the rest of the men. Most were Americans. In fact, Talley’s squad only had a few representatives from other countries. Maybe the most colorful was Sergeant Jerzy Ostrowski, from the Polish GROM, the Operational Mobile Reaction Group; Poland’s elite. Jerry, as they called him, was a hard, tough soldier and an all round nice guy. On duty, the Polish trooper fought hard and with innate skill. Off duty, he played just as hard and was well like by the men. People said he was descended from nobility, dating back to when the Teutonic Knights had aided the Poles, during their fifteenth century battles against Russia. Their fighting ferocity had made them the scourge of Europe. Jerry firmly denied any aristocratic ancestry, and when they pushed him, he’d reply, That’s a load of crap. I’m here to fight, not learn how to prance around on a horse like some pox-brained noble.

Talley put up a hand and reached over to haul himself on top of the cliff. He got to his feet. Dubois and Brenner were lounging on the ground, ostentatiously drinking from their canteens.

Fuck you too, arrogant pricks! Even so, maybe they have a right to be arrogant. They went up that rock face like world-class climbers.

He smiled to himself. They sure were good, damn good. One day, their skills would be needed, and Echo Six would appreciate having these men in their midst. Guy Welland appeared over the top, walked over to him, and the rest of the men followed shortly after. They were all superbly fit. He’d seen them at work on the range and in simulated battles, both day and night. When the time came, they’d do what was asked of them, there was no question in his mind. The last man came over the cliff top, and he prepared to move on to the target.

Guy, we’ll move out as five squads, four men in each. I want Dubois as the back marker, and I’ll put Brenner’s men out on the flanks.

Welland smiled. You don’t think Dubois will complain, not being allowed to lead from the front? It may be an insult to his Gallic pride, Boss.

I don’t give a shit about his Gallic pride. He’s in the rear. You can take the point. I’ll follow you, and I want the other two squads to fan out behind me. That should do it.

Roger that, Boss.

Talley stifled a grin. No matter how hard he tried to correct him, the old-fashioned British voice procedure sounded quaint to his American ears. Welland ran off to assemble his own squad, and Talley called over Brenner, Dubois and Lieutenant Rovere. As expected, Brenner objected at being pushed out to the flanks.

Verdamt! I should be on point, Lieutenant. My men move faster than anyone. This is wrong.

No way, your bunch of noisy louts would give the game away before we even get near, Dubois sneered. This is a job that calls for subtlety, not brute strength and arrogance. I would be happy to take the point, if you wish."

Talley smiled to himself. For ‘subtlety’ read French, for ‘brute strength and arrogance’ read German. Both men started an argument, which he moved to end.

Shut the fuck up! Both of you, follow my orders or you’ll be RTU’d. Clear?

They both nodded. RTU, returned to unit, was the ultimate threat, an ignominious end to their ambitions in Special Forces.

Good, this is how we’ll…

He stopped. A helo had appeared, sweeping up and over the cliff they’d just scaled, and swooping down for a landing. It had come in fast and low, obviously a hotdog pilot showing off his skills. Talley prepared to give the guy hell when he landed. The clown had just wrecked a vital and dangerous training mission that had taken weeks and tens of thousands of dollars to put into motion. The helo dropped down low for a neat landing, less than ten meters from where they stood, and the skids touched down; the rotors starting to spin down. It was an Army Little Bird, the Bell MH-6. Beloved of Special Forces, the helo could go anywhere and get into tiny spaces where bigger aircraft wouldn’t stand a chance. The Little Bird could carry six personnel, but this one only had two people inside, the pilot and another man; hard to make out through the scratched Perspex of the egg-shaped canopy. The pilot climbed out, dressed in flying gear, helmet, and dark glasses. His mouth was partly covered by his boom mic. Talley strode over and vented his anger.

What the fuck do you think you’re doing? This is an important mission. Men are risking their lives up here, and you’ve just destroyed weeks of training and planning. When we get back, I’ll have you…

Ten-hut!

One of his men had seen the passenger climbing out the other door. Talley recognized him instantly. Rear Admiral Guy Alexander USN, seconded from the US Navy to command NATFOR. He was the man at the top, and Talley’s boss. He stood to attention and saluted.

Sir!

Alexander nodded a greeting and sketched a salute. A Rear Admiral, he’d been just about everywhere and done about everything there was to do during his naval career. He was tall at six-three, and lean, with the kind of features people called chiseled. He was handsome for a middle-aged man, with rich blue eyes that had spent many years staring out to sea, looking out for America’s enemies. His hair was white, cut short high above his forehead. An imposing man who would make his mark on any gathering, whether up there on a remote cliff top, on the bridge of the missile cruiser he’d once commanded; or indeed, in the electric atmosphere of the White House situation room where he’d spent many an anxious hour. His reputation was fearsome to those who didn’t meet his exacting standards. To those who did, he was respected, and ready to go to the wire in their defense. It was said that only one thing mattered more than the Navy he’d spent his life serving, and that was the men serving in it. He finally smiled.

Relax, Lieutenant. Tell your men to stand down. I need to talk to you about a little problem that’s come up.

Talley gave the order, and the men sat around, watching curiously as they waited for Alexander to spell it out.

First of all, allow me to introduce my pilot. This is Captain Caitlin Walker, US Air Force. She’s been seconded to act as my assistant.

Talley’s jaw dropped as the Captain removed her helmet and shades, offering him her hand.

I’m sorry about your mission, Lieutenant. It was too tempting, seeing that difficult approach to your unit. I like to get in as much practice as possible. I don’t fly as often as I could. Did you hear me coming? she grinned.

Er, that’s okay. I didn’t, er, no.

He was almost tongue-tied. Caitlin Walker was not the flashy jock he’d expected to see behind the sunglasses. She regarded him with a cool, amused smile. Her hair was short, coppery red, lustrous, and styled in a neat bob that accented her high smooth forehead. Her skin was free from blemishes and burnished to a deep California tan. Her eyes were wide-set, thick-lashed, and inky black. She wore no makeup that he could see, and her eyes were naturally full and dark, adorned with eyelashes in a natural arch that gave her an almost skeptical look. She was a girl anyone would notice, with a strange combination of simplicity and sophistication, which made her overwhelmingly attractive without even trying to be anything special. Talley had been on his own for several months since his wife had given him the heave-ho. He’d decided to avoid women for the time being and concentrate on his military career. This was a woman who could change his mind. She sensed his discomfort and unease, and something more when she looked at him; a stare of undisguised interest. Admiral Alexander cleared his throat.

This problem I’ve brought along, Lieutenant Talley. Let me spell it out for you. What do you know about pirates?

Pirates? You mean the old style Blackbeard, as they called Edward Teach? There was Captain Morgan, and Barbarossa. Or do you mean the more modern variants, like the Somalis?

The Somalis.

Right. They’ve got the Horn of Africa pretty well covered, and they operate far out into the Indian Ocean. The pirates have taken over a large chunk of the Somali mainland, an area called Puntland in the northeast. They’ve become the local de-facto rulers, even to the point of levying taxes, running their own bank, and making loans to businessmen. It’s good business for what used to be poor fishermen. Normally, they take hostages and offer them, and the ships they steal, for huge ransoms. They’re well-armed and quite well-organized, so very difficult to deal with.

Very good, Lieutenant. And now they’ve also graduated to murder. If their hostages’ companies and families can’t come up with the ransom, their latest trick is to murder them. ‘Pour encourager les autres’, so to speak. And that’s our problem, their latest victims. They kidnapped a Boston family, the Meers, two adults and two children. We picked up their emergency hijack beacon, and a recent satellite pass enabled us to confirm it. Sam Meer was a Coastie, served in the ROTC. I knew him briefly when he sailed under my command. He was assigned as Coastguard Liaison during an anti-drug sweep. With the Meers family, it makes a total of sixty-seven hostages they’re holding, if our calculations are correct.

I thought our policy was to pay the ransom, avoid military action that may lead to bloodshed, and deal with them in the long term through political means.

You’re right, up till now we’ve pursued a hands-off policy. Ever since we had a bad time in Mogadishu when we thought we could influence matters in Somalia, the State Department’s been nervous about any direct intervention. But now it’s changed, for three reasons. First, the ransoms have risen to epic proportions. They’re asking five million dollars for each of the Meer family, a total of twenty million dollars. Second, we’ve discovered that they’re funneling a proportion of the ransom money to Al Qaeda. The terrorists have levied a kind of tax on them to finance their operations. So effectively, they’re expecting us to pay them to conduct a war against us.

And the third reason, Admiral?

This time it was Caitlin Walker who replied. Thirdly, they’re about to murder some of the hostages, The Meers family.

Something in her tone alerted him; there was more to the story.

What’s the rest of it?

Walker is my married name. My family name is Meers. Sam Meers is my brother.

They were silent for a few moments. He nodded.

I’m sorry.

Sorry for more than the problems of her brother. She’s married. Damn! The good ones always get away.

We’re very close, Sam’s wife Judith and the two kids, as well. They’re good people. They sold everything to finance this once-in-a-lifetime round the world trip. It’s a crap way for it to end. And it may cost them their lives.

Talley saw her eyes mist up. Understandably, she was pretty cut up about the fate of her family. Admiral Alexander went on, giving her a sympathetic glance.

They’re not going to wind up that way, Captain. That’s why we’re here. Lieutenant Talley, I want your squad, Echo Six, to go in and bring them home. As well as the rest of the hostages they’re holding, of course. You’ll have the full support and backing of NATFOR.

Yes, Sir. What kind of time scale are we looking at here? You know that for the next four weeks we’re still classified as a training unit. We go to full operational readiness in one month’s time.

Those people haven’t got a month. If the Somalis don’t get the ransom, and they won’t, there’s nobody to pay that kind of sum, they’ll be dead inside of five days. I want your men to teach those bastards a lesson.

It was as well the Admiral wasn’t aware of the infighting between some of his foreign nationals. An outsider might see it as evidence they were anything but ready to move and fight as a single, cohesive unit.

You want the truth? They’re not ready, Sir. The training still has some way to go. But can we do this? No question! Echo Six is the best in the business. If it can be done, we’ll pull it off.

Alexander nodded. Good. I’ll assign Captain Walker to liaise between your unit and myself. I suggest you return to base right now. I’ve arranged for the Black Hawks to come in early to fly you all home. There’s no time to waste on formalities. You’ll need to pack, and then you leave on a C-130 for the Persian Gulf.

Where will you be based, Sir?

I’m afraid won’t be with you, Lieutenant. I’ve only just learned I’ve been handed command of a carrier. So my successor will be handling this one.

You’re leaving us? I’m real sorry to hear that. Who is your replacement?

Christ, what a time to start changing the man at the top! Right at the start of a critical operation.

The Commissioner General of the UN, Ismail Gul, has liaised with NATO to source a new commander. They’ve agreed to assign an army guy to the post, a Brit, Colonel Hakim. Alexander smiled. Commissioner Gul recommended Colonel Hakim personally, said he would be the best man for the job, and he’s probably right, I’ve heard good things about him. I know that NATFOR will be in good hands. He’s an expert in Arab affairs too, which will be very useful. As you know, it’s one of our prime areas of operations, the Middle East.

Yes, Admiral.

They sure could use someone who could get a take on what the Arabs were thinking. He recalled Ismail Gul. He’d met him once at the UN in New York; medium height, with a lean build, and swarthy, dark hair and eyes. He sported a small mustache that reminded some people of Adolf Hitler, which did not help when he was sometimes criticized for his links with right wing groups in Europe. He had a reputation as a tough negotiator, innovative, yet a fair-minded man who was known to have stepped in to resolve disputes when others had failed. Yet he was not universally liked. For some people, he was the ultimate messenger of peace. For others, he was a megalomaniac in waiting. Talley remembered him as a cold, ruthless professional. They couldn’t all be right, and time would tell which of the many faces of Ismail Gul was the true one.

Alexander continued. When you reach sandland, you’ll land at Riyadh Air Base. They have helos waiting to fly you on to your destination, and I’ll hand over all the relevant intel to my successor. Remember, time is not on our side, Talley. If you don’t get those people out inside of five days, they’ll be killed, and it’ll all be for nothing. Don’t screw this one up. These pirates have to be taught a lesson. We’re going to end this piracy problem, and right now, you’re the line in the sand. I want it stopped dead.

I’ll do my best, Sir.

I’m sure you will. Good luck, Lieutenant.

They shook hands. He turned to Caitlin Walker.

Captain, we’re leaving. They’re waiting to fly me out to my new command.

CHAPTER TWO

Sam Meers lay on the filthy grass that covered the floor of their hut. They’d come for Judith, and she stood up and looked him in the eye.

No matter what happens to me, take care of the kids, Sam. You’re all they have left.

He wanted to shout, to rave, to attack the two men who’d come to take her from the stinking hut they’d been locked inside for a week now. But the men were armed with AK-47s, and besides, he was weak. Each day they gave them a bucket of brackish water and a bowl of rancid rice mixed with some dubious vegetables. It was not enough to survive on, not for any length of time. He reasoned it was deliberate; starved and weakened captives caused less trouble. They were in an isolated Somali village. He estimated it was ten miles from the coast, far enough inland to prevent a surprise landing by any rescue party. Day after day they waited for news of what would be their fate. Now, they were beginning to find out.

Mom! Suzy screamed.

Leave my mother alone, Toby shouted at them. He tried to pull her free, but one of them cursed him and kicked him in the stomach, sending him reeling away, gasping for breath, but he came back to clutch at his mother. Another man entered the hut. He carried a pistol in his hand, a battered old Russian Makarov. He pointed it at Toby.

Tell your son to back off, Mister. Otherwise, I’ll shoot him.

Toby, come here. We can’t do anything, not right now.

Disconsolately, he let go his mother’s arm and watched as they led her away. They waited in fear of what new horrors they had yet to face. And then the screams came.

What are they doing to Mom? Suzy asked. Her face was screwed up in terror.

You don’t want to know darling. It’s not nice.

Are they killing her?

No, they’re not killing her.

No, they’d want her alive, to use her, to abuse her body. She was being gang raped, that was obvious. These men are animals. They’ll take her every way they can, and cause her as much pain as they deem appropriate to satisfy their perverted lusts.

We have to do something, Dad. Toby shouted abruptly when the screams were at their height. We can’t let this go on.

What do you suggest?

We have to escape. We need to get out of here and get help.

"Toby, we’re unarmed, locked into hut in a secure compound, surrounded by barbed wire and a horde of armed Somalis. They watch us day and night, and even if we did get out, where would we go? They control the entire area