Born of War (29 page)

T
hey were getting close and knew it.

Tola and Parker stopped one more time under two large acacia trees. They squatted down between the trunks of the trees to get out of the wind.

“We need to make sure we are downwind when we get close.” Parker held up his hand to feel the wind direction. It was coming from the northwest and Ferfer.

The flight time for the Ospreys will not be long.
He wasn't sure if the aircraft could make it through the turbulence that was building above them in the clouds. The aircraft would, however, have what pilots called a “push.” It meant that the aircraft would have a tailwind that shoved them across the surface of the earth. If the MV-22s had a speed of three hundred knots, it would be relative to what their ground speed would be. With a push, the aircraft could be doing four hundred or more knots on the ground. The climb up would be brutal and the descent would be like riding in a washing machine on full tilt. And they would have to turn into the wind for the transition because the nose of the tilt-rotor needed the resistance of going against the wave. But they would move fast.

“We could be alone on this.” Parker kept his hand in the air as he felt the gusts come and go. It was the increase and decrease of the wind that troubled him the most.

“Sir, I understand that you received the Navy Cross.”

Parker didn't think of those times. It was not something that one typically talked about. There was, however, one exception. Two men in the middle of Somalia with no one else who was friendly for nearly a hundred miles could discuss anything.

“It was a long time ago.” He didn't say more.

“You didn't like that guy from the Agency?” Tola was hitting all of the hot buttons as he wiped off his wet face with his hand.

“I have learned to not trust the CIA.” Parker dropped that subject as well. It took him years to learn that his parents had been lost to terrorism because the CIA didn't act on a suspicious suitcase that had been loaded on Pan Am Flight 103. The file was sealed after the crash at Lockerbie and had been locked away forever in some secret vault at Langley. The Agency thought they were tracking a suitcase of heroin for New York that would be exchanged for money to support the terrorist activities sponsored by Libya. In fact, the Samsonite didn't have heroin in it, and the bomb tracking at the time was in its infant stage.

“What about you? You say you are from Washington?”

“Yes, actually we call it Lincolnville. It is more Alexandria, Virginia, than Washington.”

“And you ran track there.”

“Yes, and cross-country.”

“Do you like doro wot?” Parker asked.

“Yes, you know of doro wot?” Tola wiped his face again with his hand. It was a chicken-and-hard-boiled-egg dish with Ethiopian farmer's cheese. “Don't talk to me of doro wot now.” He laughed quietly.

The wind started to subside for a moment.

“We will be close very soon.” Despite the rain, the thorn bushes had been broken down from the truck. In one place he could tell the truck had gotten stuck. It looked like a wild-game watering hole with the deep ruts in the center and hundreds of footprints to the sides. A small piece of rag had fallen out of the truck bed leaving its calling card on the edge of a newly made mudhole.

“Yes, it is time to start moving to the east so that we remain downwind.” Tola had a good sense of the track. The wind and rain would help as long as they kept the elements hitting their faces.

Parker pulled back the slide on his Kalashnikov to see the bright gold of the round that was partially in the chamber of the weapon. He slowly let the slide move back into place without making any metallic noise. It was the metallic noise that he feared the most. Metal on metal would give away a position more quickly than any other sound. It was not a sound made for nature.

“Let me send them an update.” Tola covered the tablet with its plastic holder. He tapped on the keys several times sending an encoded message to the F-35 on station above, which was instantly relayed to the operations center.

Parker listened for sounds during the break in the wind. He thought he heard the hum of something large.

“We have a new friend.” Tola showed the message to Parker. It said that the mission warranted extra support. A C-130 gunship was parked overhead as well.

“Why a gunship?” Parker knew that the extra power was a blessing. Its automatically fed artillery guns could rain down fire on any enemy position and rake the ground with hot, burning shrapnel.

“This is why.”

Tola showed the tablet to Parker. The F-35's cameras were able to look through the overcast and see what appeared to be ants all moving in the same direction. They were coming from the east. A battalion or more were heading towards their location on the ground. It looked like a convoy of trucks. The image was so clear he could tell the different sizes and shapes of the trucks.

“So we do know that they are close. Very close.”

F
aud's truck was running as fast as it could with the driver cutting between the potholes and bomb craters left from more than a decade of war.

“You know we have uranium here,” Faud said to his driver.

“Uranium?”

“Yes, what is needed for power plants and energy.”

“Don't go too fast or we will lose the banner.” Faud was holding on to a flag with the Red Crescent, marking the truck as being an ambulance. It didn't matter that the banner was a lie. He knew that it would cause anything in the sky above to hesitate before shooting at them.

“Yes, brother.” The driver was stupid but loyal. He had been with Faud since the beginning.

“I have not been home now for more than ten years.” Faud was from Saudi Arabia. “I was actually born in Mecca. My mother was on the hajj when she delivered.

“It was the year of the plague.” Faud held out his hand in the wind as the truck turned again and then hit a rut that caused it to fly up into the air.

It was the year that another form of meningitis had swept through the camps of the visitors to Mecca. Thousands became ill and thousands died. Somehow he was spared. It was meant to be.

They passed through an arch that had been partially blown away. It was on the edge of another small village through which the highway passed. Children with bare feet ran along the side of the truck. It gave them something to do.

Faud lifted his Kalashnikov more to change positions then anything, but when he did, the children stopped and ran away. They knew that curiosity could be overcome by fear and death.

“What is that up ahead?” the driver asked.

On the other end of the village there were three trucks parked across the road. The bed of each of the trucks was packed with armed men. One truck had a large antiaircraft gun mounted in its bed. It was an odd sight, as the truck was too small for the weapon. When it fired the frame would shake and the gunner would hold on for dear life. It could not fire on the move. Faud had seen many of these outfitted trucks as they were, oftentimes, the only thing that could take on the Russian gunships the Kenyans used.

“They must want their toll.” Faud had seen plenty of renegades on the roads. They would hold up a passing vehicle for blackmail even if it were a truck loaded with fighters heading to the front. It often amounted to nothing, as the thieves would see that they were outgunned by the trucks they were stopping and would have the good sense to let them pass.

“I will tell them who we are.”

They would look at the sign of the Red Cross and think that they had someone who would pay. The thieves would be wrong.

The truck came to a stop. The men had their guns trained on the vehicle.

“
Al-salamu alaykum!
” Faud opened the door and waved the greeting at the center truck. He didn't hear a reply.

Two men came from around the center truck and ran up to him. They grabbed him before he could raise his weapon. The others with Faud looked on in shock. Another, younger man came from behind the first truck with his pistol raised.

“Brother, what is this?”

The lieutenant continued to point the weapon at Faud's chest. He didn't say anything.

An older man came from behind the truck as well.

“Godane!” Faud said his name without thinking.

It was Sheikh Mukhtar Abu Zubeyr himself—leader of Al Shabaab and a member of the Isaaq clan.

“Faud, you knew that the fleet was near?”

“Yes, but we have not . . .”

“Be quiet.” Godane held up his finger to his lips. “You moved the missile without telling me.”

“It was for its protection.” Faud was becoming defiant.

“And you protect this
Amriiki
who speaks poorly of me.” Godane was furious.

Tarriq's reports had made it back to Godane.

“Take him away.” Godane looked away as if Faud was no longer standing there.

Faud struggled as they pulled him to the side of the road. His rifle fell before he could reach for it. They turned him towards the trucks and he saw the men crowd forward to see what was happening. They didn't bother to tie his hands as they forced him to his knees.

The lieutenant came up. Faud felt the barrel of the Hungarian pistol press against the side of his forehead.

“I am to be a martyr,” Faud said.

“W
hat's going on?” Moncrief had just returned from his tent where he had reclaimed a set of utilities. The combat uniform was of a United States Marine. He had an M416, a vest loaded with magazines and a MARSOC . 45 in his shoulder holster. His question was directed towards Buckley Warren, who was standing at the edge of the compound with a satellite phone next to his ear.

Warren turned away as if Moncrief wasn't standing there.

“What is your name?” Moncrief put a finger on Warren's chest.

Moncrief had figured out that Warren knew that Parker and Tola were nearly on top of the target. It would be a Tomahawk dispatched from the DDG-1000 that would follow the signal to the kill point. The explosive would be set for an aerial burst that would chew up every living thing within a hundred meters.

“I said, what is your name?” Moncrief put his finger on the man's chest again.

The major heard him and joined the two men. Both Moncrief and the major stood there while Warren kept talking on the cell phone, ignoring them both.

Moncrief took out his .45 automatic and pulled back on the slide. It snapped forward like the crack of a metallic whip. He then put the nose of the barrel up against the other side of Warren's head.

“Wait a minute.” Warren looked up as if he were looking into the face of a maniac. He was.

“What's going on here, Gunny?” the major asked in an effort to calm the situation.

“Sir, he is going to tell them that they have a track on Omar. He is probably telling them to have a Tomahawk spun up to take everyone down. And I mean everyone.”

“Is this true?” the major asked. “I have a Marine out there.”

“You have two.” Moncrief put his other hand underneath the butt of the pistol to steady the aim. He spread his feet apart and looked down the sight. “Two Marines out there and two innocent hostages.”

Warren slowly put down the cell phone.

“I doubt you'd shoot me.”

“What would the difference be, given how secret this mission is, whether I shot you or didn't shoot you? Think about it, Warren.”

The field operative paused.

“Are they going to claim you, when you were putting in a call to order a missile strike on two hostages? Or will they say this was an accidental discharge of a weapon in combat? Happens all the time.” Moncrief kept the barrel pressed against the side of Warren's head. He leaned forward into the man's skull, feeling the pressure of the metal barrel against the scalp.

“Warren, we are witnesses,” the major interjected. “No one here can order the Tomahawk strike but you.”

“What if he gets away? What if there is a third cell and a fourth cell? What are you going to do if the next target is Los Angeles or Denver?” Warren made his point. Omar had a cell phone and no matter how quick the NSA and CIA were, the cells could be buried so deep that no one would ever know about them until it was too late.

“I will tell you what,” Moncrief said. “If we get this guy and there is a chance he is brought back with a heartbeat, we have a better chance of learning the truth than if you just dust him.”

At that moment it started to rain again. The rain came down in a torrent with sheets of water pouring out like a fire hose.

The three men did not move. Moncrief held the pistol to Warren's head without blinking.

“There is a chance that if you don't figure this out quick I may blow your brains out without even intending to do so.” Moncrief stood his ground. “This is the land of the mamba. You can die a thousand different deaths out here and no one on that cell phone would even know it.”

“Okay, you get a chance. But only one.” Warren was playing the odds.

“No, he gets more than a chance,” the major interrupted. “If a Tomahawk takes our team down without a reasonable chance at survival you won't have to worry about Langley.”

“Now tell them.” Moncrief felt the rough grip of the pistol in his hand. It was made that way, so that a person could feel the weapon even through the tactical gloves that most soldiers wore. But Moncrief didn't wear the gloves. He was like Parker in that way. They both wanted to feel the steel, knowing exactly when the round went off and where it was going. He knew that the trigger had been set to very light poundage, and it required more energy to hold off the squeeze than to pull the trigger.

“The size of this slug is similar to a small marble.” The major moved backwards and away from the blast.

The rain started to slow down while Warren still hesitated.

“Make up your mind, Mr. Warren. The Ospreys have got to take off in this break.” Moncrief didn't really care for the guy. The rain had kept everyone in the tents or on board the aircraft so the only witness was the major, and it was his man out there as well.

Warren finally put the cell phone back to his ear.

“Hello, hold off on that. We have a good chance of getting this guy and finding out what he knows.” Only Warren could help make himself look good.

“Hey, Major, we got an extra seat on the Osprey, don't we?”

“Yeah, I think we do.”

 

 

“You are going to need a helmet.” The major handed Moncrief one he was not used to. It was much lighter than the old Kevlar bucket, as he and others liked to call it. It was made of a carbon-fiber combination with some other Kevlar-type materials that were able to stop a small round on a direct hit.

“What do you call this?”

“This is a FAST helmet. It's not like the old brain buckets.” This one had the NOD mounted on the top front with some straps that helped hold on the night eyes as well.

“Here you go, Gunny, let me help.” The Marine in the seat next to him helped adjust the strap. It had padding on the inside and openings in the sides for the comm gear. They all were on the same communications link.

Warren was strapped in to a seat near the cockpit.

“He doesn't have a helmet?” the Marine next to Moncrief asked as the engines started to spin up.

“No.” Moncrief wasn't worried about Warren. He wasn't getting off the bird.

“This should be interesting.” The Marine had a smile on his face as if a rookie was getting up to bat.

The Ospreys had used the landing zone for several days now. It was the only flat space near the encampment, and with the several landings, all of the small stones and rocks had been blown aside. However, the ground was still wet and the aircraft's wheels had sunk into the muck from its weight. The turbines spun louder and louder as the aircraft pulled on its sunken feet until finally it released.

Moncrief had an M416 with a suppressor attached to the barrel. He kept it pointed down, as the others did. The aircraft was dimly lit. He felt himself sink into the canvaslike seat and then the Osprey popped up. Moncrief's head slammed back against the frame of the aircraft as he held on to his rifle with as tight a grip as he could muster.

Warren was whipped backwards as well and popped his head against the wall. He looked like he had been knocked out cold.

Couldn't have happened to a better guy,
Moncrief thought as the tilt-rotor aircraft continued to rise and sway. As it left the earth, the airplane rocked back and forth, up and down, while the pitch of the engines seemed to struggle with the power of the wind. It continued to climb and then the propellers rotated forward. He felt the gravitational force pull him down into his seat and then release him as the aircraft started to move forward.

The Osprey bounced wildly as it climbed out through the clouds and wind. Moncrief tried to look out the window and saw only a flicker of light on the ground before the aircraft was enclosed in complete darkness. It continued to bounce wildly for several minutes as it climbed out of the weather.

Finally, the ship broke through to some clear airspace.

The plan was that the aircraft would not descend unless and until Tola sent the signal. They waited well to the north, and above the first layer of clouds closest to the ground.

The crew chief came over to the leader of the MarSOC team and yelled something in his ear. He was talking with his hands as well, with one hand looking like a rollercoaster ride.

“It looks like it is going to be rough going down,” the Marine next to Moncrief yelled into his ear. “We may not make it in.”