Born of War (19 page)

T
he forward operating base at Ferfer was meant to stay as small as possible; however, with the concern for both security and the disease, it had tripled in size since Captain Tola first arrived.

“I am not sure that we can defend this base given its current size,” he reported to the major as the last MarSOC team arrived. Several fourteen-man teams made up the battalion. The logistics support almost doubled the size of the footprint of the base. Teams of Special Operations Combat Service Specialists, or SOCSS, provided the food and water and all-terrain vehicles that were needed if the unit had to reach out anywhere else. Ammo came in by the pallet loads. They all were high-speed warriors born for this kind of situation.

“Go ahead.”

“We can protect the CDC encampment. The docs are starting to arrive.” He pointed over his shoulder to some white tents that stuck out from the generally brown camouflage coverings of the Marines' gear. The tents were all sealed with plastic sides, like large air bubbles. “But the MSF doesn't want our help. Hell, sir, they don't even want the Ethiopians' help.”

“I have heard that.”

“CDC has to have air-conditioning for the portable lab, and the other medical encampments have the same need. So you could walk here in the dark from Mogadishu by following the sound.” Tola and his MarSOC team hated noise. “This will all attract attention.”

“Is everyone up on shots?”

“Yes, sir, everyone was given a booster before they stepped on the bird at Djibouti.”

“Everybody has a team buddy. Everybody needs to know what to look out for with this disease.”

“Yes, sir, all the teams have been briefed.”

“How about the Ethiopian special ops?”

“I'm impressed. They don't say much but they have been patrolling on all flanks. I think they even stopped one or two Al Shabaab patrols.” Tola was impressed by the modified AK-47s they carried. There are more Kalashnikovs in the world than there are teenage boys, but most are knockoffs from villages in Pakistan. The Ethiopians were carrying the Bulgarian-modified ones handmade in a Russian factory. “And they know the local wildlife. Some of this stuff is as bad as Australia.”

The captain knew what he was talking about. He had done one float to the new Marine outpost on the northern coast of Australia. Darwin was the new Marine Corps connection to that region. The float was a tour of duty and Darwin was known for the fact that everything that moved on the ground had a chance of killing you before a call could be put out for a medic. Darwin had taught the captain to respect both the wildlife and the people who had lived there all of their lives.

“What is the plan?”

“We are waiting for the last of the CDC team to get in. WHO is on the other side being protected by the Ethiopians, and the MSF is nearby. We have talked to the man who was with the doctors last. He has given us an idea of where they were and what the bad guys look like. We have issued a warning order to my team to go on a patrol tonight that follows the doctors' route as we last know it.”

“Near that village?”

“Yes, sir, they are calling it the Village of Death.”

“Is the old man going with you?”

“Not even thinking about it. He is spooked pretty good.”

“Okay.”

“We are on our own but we have a MQ-9 Reaper on top and air cover as well. Two Hornets are on station and they are being joined by two F-35s. The Ethiopians have some Russian-made gunships with which we are trying to coordinate fire.” It wasn't a good day for an Ethiopian gunship to take a shot at a MarSOC patrol. Both the aircraft and the patrol stood to lose.

“F-35s?”

“Yes, sir. The new bird.”

The F-35 Joint Strike Fighter for the Marines was in the pipeline to replace the AV-8B Harrier. It was a flying computer. The airplane was virtually invisible, very fast, and could land in a parking lot. It would never be seen by Al Shabaab. Two of them would sit on top and, in the integration with the MarSOC team, the air strike would drop an iron hammer on Al Shabaab. The Marines on the ground were linked with the fighter in the sky. The Marines in the air and on the ground were a new generation of iPad warriors. The jet could find targets with its sensors that could never have been seen otherwise, and the iPad Marine on the ground could know where any attack was coming from in an instant. The MarSOC team on the ground had a new set of eyes that could see through anything.

“We have a name for this operation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Operation Shebelle.”

 

 

Captain Tola's patrol didn't leave the compound until well after midnight. They took the long way around the encampment and Ferfer, cutting into Somalia well north of the one road that led to the east and the village of dead bodies. As they crossed the border, Tola held up his hand and made the motion to pull back on the M4 receivers. A round was loaded in each of the chambers. The rifles were the best that Special Operations and the Marine Corps stocked. They were Heckler & Koch semiautomatic M416s with Trijicon M150 RCO sights. The German-made weapon was accurate, dependable, and deadly. It was buried in a pit for several days, dug out, loaded with a magazine, and still put ten rounds in the center of a delta target at one hundred meters. The delta was in the shape of a man. The kill zone was the imaginary spinal column, from the head down to the center of the chest. Each man carried six magazines of thirty rounds and five clips for their M45 MEUSOC pistols.

The sidearm was unique.

Marine Colonel Robert Young had designed the pistol. He took the M1911 originally built by John Browning and created a new monster. It had the drop power of the . 45 caliber slug, which was like getting hit in the chest with a sledgehammer and could last over eighty thousand rounds before the Precision Weapons Section at Quantico even thought of pulling it off the line. Each member of the team carried one.

The team crossed over the other side of the valley and then headed south until they came to the road. They then turned and followed it to the east. Tola's night vision goggles gave him a perfectly clear view of the land, the bush, the trees, and his men as they moved along slowly.

A drizzle of rain kept the night dark.

The NVGs caused the lead operator to stop on more than one occasion as he and the others saw the glow of eyes. As they got closer, it gave them the sense that they were walking through a zoo without bars.

“Shit, sir, that's a lion!”

Tola's staff sergeant had been on several tours but he was like a child seeing his first wild animal.

“Yes, and they will move.”

The creatures seemed to sense that the strange shapes and smells were something more deadly than another predator. The spent graphite from the gunpowder, even though each weapon had been cleaned a thousand times, still gave off a pungent odor. They still needed to think up a way to disguise the smell.

The huts in the village stood like tombstones marking graves. They were just shapes in the dark that made no sound whatsoever. The scavengers had picked apart the bodies some time ago and the only thing Tola could see with his NVGs and Trijicon on his M416 was what looked like rags and cans and some plastic jugs tossed around.

They stayed upwind from the huts and moved around to the east where the road started up again. The old man had told them that he had last seen the men with their captives heading east on that road.

Tola and all of his men had been trained as scouts, able to pick up a trail even days after it had been left. The rain had made it easier, as puddles had filled up the tracks but left a definable path of potholes.

“A small truck. Probably a Toyota.” Tola bent down and felt the track with his hand.

“Yes, sir,” the staff sergeant whispered to him over the communications system.

“And one wheel off.” The staff sergeant had picked up that a wrong-sized wheel had been used on the back right side of the vehicle.

“We now know who to track.” The unique imprint made it easy. They could separate this one truck's tracks from any others.

The trail turned to the south and the river. Slowly, they worked their way down to the crossing point.

At the tree, Tola felt the cold wet embers of the fire underneath the branches.

“Sir, got something.”

Tola turned to his staff sergeant who was standing by a round smooth boulder near the edge of the river. He had something in his hand.

“Evergreen?”

“Yes.” Tola looked at the empty gum wrapper underneath the smaller rock.

“Well, she was alive up to this point.” The staff sergeant held it up like a piece of evidence that needed to be saved.

Just then a thump went off behind them. “What the hell?”

It was the sniper. Every team had at least one trained long-range shot who was equipped with another weapon. He came out of the dark dragging something.

“Sorry, sir.” He had a sheepish grin on his face. “The damn thing came after me.”

The mamba stretched more than six feet long. It was dead. A bullet had exploded the first foot where the head should have been.

“Don't go anywhere near that head.” Tola knew what he was talking about. Even the smallest piece of a fang could scratch, possibly penetrating the gloves that they all wore. And with a scratch, a Marine would be lost.

“They crossed the river here. This is enough for one night. The air cover might get confused if we go farther.”

The worry of a random Ethiopian gunship taking aim on them put limits on what they could do. Tola worried about friendly fire as much as Al Shabaab. In fact, Al Shabaab didn't have any aircraft. They had given up the sky.

“You got to get rid of that freaking snake. Others might come through here and know we were here.”

“Yes, sir.”

The Marine pulled it into the water and let it float away. There would be scavengers that would enjoy the meat. The winner had finally met its match.

“Well, she was alive this far. Hope she can give it a few more days.”

Tola looked across the river. He had an idea of what needed to be done, but knew that his boss would not like it.

 

 

The patrol returned to the compound as the first rays of light started illuminating trees and tents and vehicles.

“Sir, we got a problem.”

Tola waited at the gate while the last man came in. His staff sergeant was standing next to him.

“What's that?”

“Two of our guys are reporting headaches.”

M
oncrief used his retired Marine identification card to get both Parker and himself on Dobbins Air Force base. The guard checked the passenger's driver's license and made no comment to the “Phillip Berks” sitting in the front seat. The guard did give Parker a bit of a stare, though, as Gunny had a high and tight haircut and his passenger was just the opposite. The passenger had his hair pulled back with a camouflage baseball cap and both men had on desert-brown camouflage utilities that were made by someone other than the U.S. military.

The brown camouflage utilities had been given to them some time ago by a French Foreign Legion major whom Moncrief had served with in Kuwait. Moncrief had exchanged a Marine KA-BAR combat knife for two sets of the clothes in different sizes. His uniform bulged a little at the waist whereas Parker's didn't. They wanted to try to blend in.

“These uniforms will keep them guessing.” Moncrief smiled as they headed towards base operations. “Oh, by the way, boss, thank you for making me a part of this.”

“You sure?”

“Oh, yeah. You know we were meant for this shit.”

Parker smiled. They pulled up to base operations to see a guard at the side gate with his M4 being held tightly to his chest. He was at the ready.

“Airman?” Moncrief rolled down the window.

“Yes, sir.”

“CDC.”

“Got it, sir. You can pull up to the aircraft and unload.”

The tail of the C-17 cargo jet stood above the back ramp like a three-story building. The white lights of the cargo bay illuminated several sealed pallets inside. A final pallet was being loaded when Moncrief pulled the truck up. They stopped and pulled their backpacks and large bags from the bed of the truck.

“I've never made one of these runs without a weapon,” Moncrief said as they handed their bags to a cargo master. Parker held on to his backpack.

“I still haven't.” It was clear that some kind of weapon was in the backpack.

“Thank you.”

Parker turned around to see Dr. Paul Stewart standing there. He still looked exhausted but at least he had changed to another checkered shirt and khaki pants.

“Hey, gentlemen.” An airman in a flight suit with earphones around his neck and a cable that extended into the cargo hole came up and extended his gloved hand. “I am the chief. Just let me know if there is anything you need. We will be rolling in just a few.”

Moncrief ran his truck back to the parking lot and locked it.

I wonder if I will see this truck again,
he thought as he patted it on the rear bumper. He walked past the airman and tossed the key to the guard. “Hey, give this to the op's chief.”

“But, sir.”

“If he needs to move it, tell him it's got a full tank of gas. Likewise, if it is still here in a week, he can have it.”

“Oh.” The guard stood in disbelief.

The auxiliary power unit had provided a constant buzz while they were there, but as Parker and Moncrief walked on board the engines started to wind up. A warm kerosene breeze engulfed them as they walked onto the ramp.

“It will be about ten hours straight into Djibouti,” the airman said as he pointed to the front of the pallets. “We set up some cots to make it a little more comfortable for you and we've got plenty of box lunches.”

A dozen other staffers from the CDC were there and already belted into their seats. The aircraft was made for changes of use so the seats were on roll-in platforms. The cargo hold had no shortage of room. The staffers looked on in disbelief when they saw Dr. Paul Stewart buckle up. No senior scientist or head of his department had ever made a trip such as this.

At 0600, the aircraft rolled forward and was on the active runway in less than a minute. The engines sped up and the plane moved forward until the nose lifted up and started a steep climb over the city of Atlanta. It reached ten thousand feet and then started to climb again, only to turn on a forty-five-degree bank and point itself to the northeast.

 

 

The aircraft flew through the day and well into the night as it crossed the North Atlantic, the boot of Italy, and then followed the Nile to its source. The sky was clear until they started south over the Suez.

“What's the weather look like over central Africa?” Parker stood just to the rear of the pilot and looked out through the Plexiglas windows. He could see the twisting trail of lights that followed the villages that were linked up by the Nile. To the west was a vast wasteland of the darkness of the Sahara. He saw small flickers of light in rows that were the ships coming up to and leaving the Suez Canal. The cloud cover was broken in front of them but to the south a solid line of storms extended from as far as he could see to both the left and the right. Soon they would enter the storm.

“It's the beginning of the rainy season.”

“IFR landing?” Parker was asking if the final leg would be controlled by instruments and an air traffic controller looking at a radar screen somewhere.

“Yes, sir. We will get some IFR time.”

The aircraft entered a thick mass of clouds as it started its descent over the Gulf of Aden and a turn back towards Djibouti. The airplane pitched back and forth as it descended through more than ten thousand feet of rainstorms. Finally, it broke through the ceiling just beyond the runway. It landed only a few short minutes after starting the downhill run. The C-17 did not linger while on the ground. Anything below ten thousand feet was within striking distance of a sniper shot or a ground-launched missile. Danger lurked everywhere. The airplane came to a rest and then kept its jet engines at a high spin while it quickly taxied to the far end of the base.

“We have orders to get you three out of here and then unload the cargo,” the airman hollered at them over the roar of the engines. “They have some folks waiting for you.”

The three used the door instead of the ramp to exit the aircraft.

A half dozen Marines in full combat gear and with their weapons held across their chests in the ready met them as they stepped onto the tarmac. One of the men had a pistol in a shoulder holster.

“Gentlemen.” He saluted. Warm air was pushing at them from all sides.

“We have your ride waiting for you.”

The Marine pointed to two MV-22 Ospreys that were sitting at the side ramp with their engines running and the blades in the tilt-rotor liftoff mode.

“Follow me in a line, one after the other!” The Marine led them across the runway to the side tarmac and into the rear of the Osprey. It had a dull yellow light on, and Parker could see several combat-ready Marines on the side seats with the barrels of their weapons pointing down to the deck. Each had a different type of helmet than Parker or Moncrief were used to. It was like a motorcyclist's skullcap helmet shaped to the head with space for earphones. They all had wrap-around clear-lens glasses and night vision goggles attached to the helmets.

Stewart was given a flight helmet, as they all were, and his head looked small within the shell.

“You all right?” Parker asked as they sat down next to each other.

“Yes,” Stewart shouted.

The aircraft began to vibrate as the blades spun up to a different pitch and then Parker could feel the lift push him down into the seat.

Damn, where is my bag?
He used his hands to feel below the seat until he felt the backpack's strap. He pulled the pack onto his lap and felt for the zipper. Parker didn't like the idea of going into the wilderness without his weapon. A fully loaded HK P-30 .40 caliber automatic was in the pack with two magazines carrying fifteen rounds each. It was the easiest customs that he had ever cleared.

“What's the flight time?” Parker asked the aircraft chief, who was sitting next to him with his shoulder holster on and the butt of a MEUSOC .45 automatic sticking out. He had on a sandy brown flight suit and a vest with additional clips of ammunition in the pockets.

“Two and a half hours.”

“Thanks.” Parker gave a thumbs-up. At that same moment, the blades rotated to a forward position and the aircraft's speed pulled them sideways in their seats.

It quickly spun up to over 300 knots as it headed farther into Africa.

“I have heard of you,” the chief yelled back to Parker. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

Secrecy was a relative thing.

 

 

The Ospreys pulled up to level flight somewhere over Ethiopia. Parker unbuckled his belt and leaned forward in the space between the cargo hold and the flight deck. He looked up in the darkness to see a shape much bigger hovering above them. He held on to the bulkhead as he watched the Osprey pull in behind a four-engine turboprop C-130J refueler. The Super Herk held steady at a slightly higher altitude. The basket for the fuel pipeline had an iridescent glow to it. The Osprey bounced up and down until it settled into the zone of clean air behind and center to the four engines of the Hercules. The pilots of the Osprey looked like surgeons working on a heart transplant. As any aircraft, an Osprey pilot needed to know how to refuel in all kinds of weather. The machine was made to be faster than anything that came before, with a tilt-rotor and helicopter capability. It had changed the concept of modern flight. It could go longer and move faster but it would also get thirsty. The C130-J gave it unlimited range, easily allowing it to go from Spain to Djibouti, the same distance as Anchorage to Miami. In what seemed like minutes, the aircraft slid backwards and away from the refueler.

Soon after the Osprey had refueled, the two started to descend. Breaking through a steady cloud cover that hovered over the valley, they followed each other, trailing a certain distance, with Parker's bird as the lead.

Parker looked out to see a twisting dirt-red river and several lit encampments. Each seemed to be separate from the others. A few lights lit the village of Ferfer. There looked to be a few thousand people in rows of structures that followed the main streets.

The aircraft turned toward glow markers that signaled the landing zone. As it made the descent of the final hundred feet, the Osprey again shifted from one type of flight to another. The aircraft became a helicopter and started to settle slowly as its wheels sunk into the dirt. Despite a gentle rain, dust and small rocks were thrown about everywhere.

“Let's go.” The Marine in charge signaled the men to depart the aircraft without hesitation. It was clear that the Osprey meant to stay on the ground for as short a time as possible.

Parker followed the line of men heading to a tent.

Dr. Stewart is totally out of his element,
Parker thought as he followed the man to the edge of the landing zone and the first tent. Another man, not in military camouflage but in a blue scrub suit, was standing at the entrance to the tent as well. He was covering his eyes with his sleeve.

Stewart looked exhausted. Moncrief looked ready to roll.

“God, we are back!” Moncrief said to Parker as the quiet resumed for a minute between Osprey landings.

“Yeah.” Parker turned to watch the second aircraft hover and then land. Other Marines and two women dressed in loose-fitting cargo dress followed them out to the other side of the landing zone. The bird had barely touched down when its nose started to rise.

“I need a weapon.” Moncrief's first words would have been Parker's if he didn't already have something in his backpack.

“I am sure that they can come up with something.”

The two followed Dr. Stewart, who was led into the tent by his fellow CDC doctor.

“Welcome to Africa.” Captain Tola extended his hand in the dim light of the tent. There was a makeshift table in the center of the room with a blowup of a satellite picture of the valley for miles in all directions. Marines sat on the sides in front of computer screens. Parker noticed that virtually all of the screens had images on them with a bold red TOP SECRET banner on the top.

“You are Colonel William Parker?” Tola held out his hand.

“Parker does fine.” He didn't want the command to think that they had to entertain someone of high rank. He was basically there as a medical guinea pig ready to be poked and tested. And it appeared that his alias had not lasted long. He was no longer being referred to as Phillip Berks.

Why did I do this?
he wondered as he stood there amid a tent full of warriors with much to do. They were running combat patrols every night while he and Moncrief would look out over the land with a pair of NVGs. It was worse than being suited up for a football game and never coming off the bench.

“He is the hope for all of us.” Paul Stewart said aloud. It would not take long for all of the camp to know why two civilians with no connection to the CDC or WHO, or even Doctors Without Borders, were there. “What is the report?”

“The death count is at thirty. We are treating at least sixty more who we suspect are infected. Almost all right now are in the MSF encampment. WHO has issued a GAR and we are trying to stop any movement out of the area.” The GAR was the Global Alert and Response that first got word to Stewart. “It is still early but this has all the signs of an outbreak on the same scale as Ebola in Guinea. It is moving exponentially. Ebola went from sixty to six hundred to six thousand in a matter of weeks,” said the CDC doctor

“What the hell have we gotten into?” Moncrief mumbled the words next to Parker.

“I have two Marines who are sick,” Tola inserted the comment. “And we cannot take them out of here. We can't take anyone who gets sick out of here.”

The disease needed to be contained as much as possible.