by Neil Howarth
It should have been simple. Wait another day for night to fall, then head for the border under cover of darkness, as originally planned. Except things didn’t work out that way. By morning Nucia was running a fever. Fagan suspected the wound was infected. He didn’t inspect it. He could do nothing about it. He had done basic field medic training, he knew enough to know how to set her leg. He didn’t know that much about leg fractures, but he knew about wounds. If it was infected, the next step was gangrene. Which meant if she didn’t get immediate treatment, she would lose her leg. If she lived.
So they had no choice. Nucia needed a hospital — now.
He had pulled William aside and told him his plan. He would take her, on his own. He would give her a full shot of morphine, which would put her out. Then he would strap her to his back and head for the border. In his mind, it would be BUD/S training all over again. William would stay behind and wait until dark, then bring the rest of them in.
But William had nixed that one.
‘If they see you, they will know we are up here. It will only be a matter of time before they find us. And we both know what that means. I think we will take our chances with you.’
Of course, he was right.
So they were left with the current plan. Make it down to the road and flag down a car or a truck, get it to take them to the border. And hope it wasn’t a rebel vehicle they flagged down.
They took it slowly down the slope. The kids were holding hands. James led them, with William in the rear. Fagan moved in front, the young girl strapped to his back, checking the way ahead and being extra careful. When they reached the road, he had them line up beside it. William took the young girl, Nucia. He knew he was taking a gamble. He wanted the driver to see them. But if they were rebels, then they were sitting targets. But down here on the plain, they were anyway.
Maybe it would be less painful this way.
He saw the dust cloud first, then a truck emerged. Fagan looked back at the children, and at William and offered up a silent prayer. He stepped out into the road. He held the CAR-15 above his head with one hand, making it clearly visible, and pushed out the other in the universal sign to stop. He looked at the truck. It seemed to be taking no notice. Fagan held his ground. He was about to give him a warning shot when the driver jammed on the brakes and skidded to a halt, feet from where Fagan stood.
James immediately moved forward and spoke to the driver in Somali. He pointed to William, who was holding Nucia in his arms. The driver nodded and waved them on board. It was a battered wreck, a pick-up style truck with an open back. Fagan herded them on, lifting up the smaller children one by one to James. Finally, he took Nucia as William climbed onboard, she was barely conscious and cried out as he handed her up. But the morphine seemed to take her, and she fell silent again.
A stone fragment bit into his face. The scrub growing by the side of the road disintegrated as bullets tore up the earth, and the rattle of gunfire shattered the morning peace. Fagan turned and saw the truck, racing towards them in a cloud of dust. He banged on the side of the pick-up and yelled at the driver to move.
The Somali didn’t need a translation and took off with a shriek of tires. Fagan could hear the cries of the children as he stood in the middle of the road and watched them go, then he turned and started running towards the rebel truck.
He veered to the left then darted back across to the right. The gunner in the back of the rebel truck kept up a continuous stream of fire but was finding it difficult to get his range as the truck hurtled towards him and he towards it. Bullets ripped up the scrub at the side of the road.
Fagan opened fire when he considered them within range. He emptied the magazine at the truck and the windscreen shattered. The truck seemed to wiggle briefly, then kept on coming. Fagan quickly jammed another magazine into the CAR-15 then stood in the middle of the road, and kept on firing. The bullets from the rebel machine gun were honing in now, ripping up the road close to his feet. One round was enough to take off an arm or a leg, or even his head. But Fagan stood his ground.
All he could see was the truck, charging towards him. It was so close. He could see the driver’s face, see the sweat shining on his skin, before the man’s head exploded in a cloud of red. The truck kept on coming.
Fagan jumped aside as it swept past. The men on the flatbed seemed almost surprised to see him still standing. Fagan pulled up the CAR-15 and raked the back of the truck with gunfire as it went by, cutting down the occupants, like dancing puppets. The gunner was desperately trying to bring his much larger gun to bear. Fagan stitched a line of bullets across his chest, and the man disappeared. The truck suddenly veered off to the right into the scrub, then flipped and rolled in a cloud of gathering dust, before sliding to a halt. Fagan jammed in another magazine, but no one moved.
He looked back down the road to where it disappeared in the haze, expecting another truck to emerge at any moment. But nothing stirred. Fagan turned back towards the direction the Somali’s pick-up had gone with William and the children, heading towards the border.
He started to run.
At the border, there was no sign of William or the children. Fagan put his weapons on the floor and his hands above his head, one holding up his American passport. Three armed guards moved in. They didn’t say much. Fagan demanded to speak to the United States Embassy, but they ignored him and put him in a cell. A couple of hours later he had a visitor. There was a rattle of a key in the lock and William appeared in the doorway.
“Thank God, you made it.” William rushed forward and threw his arms around him.
“I’m sure he had a hand in it,” Fagan said, not sure how to take this sudden show of affection.
William appeared not to notice. He sat down on the narrow bunk. He was eager to hear what had happened, but Fagan insisted he told him what had happened to the children, what had happened to Nucia. So William told his story.
At first, they didn't want to let them in, but William had produced his Vatican passport, which gave him diplomatic status. After that, things started moving quickly. The children were taken to a hospital to be checked out, Nucia was rushed into surgery. The procedure had gone well, and it looked like she was not going to lose her leg. James had wanted to come back with him to the border post, but William had insisted he stayed with the children.
When William had finished, Fagan told his story.
“So what happens to you now?” Fagan asked.
“I’m on a flight to Rome first thing in the morning. Back to a somewhat quieter life.”
“And the children?”
“I have contacted the Red Cross, they will see they are cared for. And the Church will keep an eye on them.”
A guard appeared at the door and told William his time was up. William grasped Fagan’s hand in both of his and gave him his handsome smile.
“Thank you for everything. I knew when I saw your face peering over the rim of that well, that you were God’s messenger, sent to show us the way. We owe our lives to you. I hope one day I will be able to help you.”
“If I ever get out of jail.”
“Don’t worry. I will make some calls.”
The calls must have worked because three hours later, Fagan was on an army transport aircraft, heading back for Mogadishu.
11
Naval Amphibious Base, Coronado, California.
As history shows, Mogadishu became a spectacular disaster. They didn’t replace the boat crew which was a sign of what was coming. Fagan rejoined what was left of the platoon. They battled their way through skirmish after skirmish, working alongside the 75th company of Rangers, and guys from Delta, pushing the rebels out of the city wherever they found them. They took some hits, and in the age of instant news, the world got to experience it first hand.
None of them was surprised when the brass in Washington lost their nerve and threw in the towel. They were pulled out just at the point when the commanders on the ground thought they were getting on top. But that
was the way the wind was blowing, and the remnants of the platoon were shipped back to base, where survivors of the latest SEAL intake came in to form the new boat crew. Fagan was an old hand now. He studied their faces, looked into their eyes. He saw himself and silently wished them better luck than he had had.
No one was ever going to replace Master Chief Murphy, but they tried anyway. A six foot six Pole with an unpronounceable name stepped up. They called him Mister C-to-Zee. He was mean as a polecat and knew more swear words than the American Urban Dictionary, and a whole bunch of Polish ones as well, but compared to Master Chief Brendan Murphy, he was a pussycat. Mind you the first time he addressed the platoon, tears ran down his ruddy face as he spoke of the honor of taking Chief Murphy’s place.
The remains of the deceased members of Alpha Boat Crew were buried at sea. They all received posthumous decorations. Chief Murphy received the Navy Distinguished Service Medal. All non-assigned members of SEAL Team 3 attended. There was hardly a dry eye on the deck when their ashes were committed to the deep.
There had been an official inquiry into the disaster Op in Somalia, but no one seemed to be blaming Fagan. It was written off as the unfortunate result of enemy action. That did not make him feel any better. When he closed his eyes, he could see all their faces. He knew he was suffering from survivors guilt.
Why me?
It was a question he would ask himself often. He could have seen the shrink, maybe he should have, but what was the point. They were not coming back.
William had been in touch. He had settled back into the Vatican, and he had good news about James and the children. Nucia was recovering well and back walking again. James was at school in Kenya, and William was trying to get him a scholarship to study in the States. The children were being taken care of by the local orphanage. He was hopeful that they would all find loving homes. He extended an open invitation to visit the Vatican, but it was not one Fagan could see himself taking up.
Things were slow. They were doing training Ops and specialized training courses. Fagan tried to lose himself in the activity, but it didn’t really work.
“Hey, Fagan.”
He turned around to find newly promoted Lieutenant Commander, Beauregard ‘Roy’ Rodgers standing there. He gave him a strange look. “You must be in deep shit.”
“Why?”
“Skipper wants to see you in his office - like yesterday.”
Fagan looked at him, but whatever it was, he wasn’t telling. He had the strangest feeling that maybe the brass had reconsidered the Somalia Op, and were going to blame him after all. He headed for the CO's office, sure that nothing good was going to come from this.
The CO’s secretary looked at him, but she was not giving anything away. She picked up the phone. “Ensign Fagan is here, sir.”
She nodded, put down the phone and waved him in.
The CO was a captain in his early forties. He was losing his hair and what was left was clipped short to his skull. He squinted through a pair of gold reading glasses perched on the end of his long aquiline nose and studied a piece of paper he had on his desk.
“Ensign Fagan, I have some news for you.” He was still staring at the paper as if he didn’t believe it.
Here it came.
He looked up, over the top of his glasses. “You’ve been promoted to O2.”
Fagan was shocked, O2 was Lieutenant Junior Grade. He wasn’t due it for at least another year.
“Congratulations.” The CO held out his hand.
“Thank you, sir.”
Fagan shook his hand, and the CO went back to studying the paper on his desk.
Fagan stood there waiting to be dismissed.
“Oh yes,” the Captain said, almost as an afterthought. “There was one other thing.” A strange smile played across his face. “It seems that after your little picnic walk in the countryside in Somalia, you’ve been awarded the Navy Cross.” The smile turned into a grin. “And for some strange reason, the President wants to pin it on your ass personally.”
12
DEVGRU Headquarters, Dam Neck, Virginia Beach, VA - 2001
Fagan gazed out of the window at the foam topped rollers racing in from the Atlantic. Strength and power charging in, then dissipating to nothing on the long stretch of sandy beach, to be sucked lifelessly away.
Was that me? Was I finally spent? Was it really all over?
The last eight years had been a hell of a rollercoaster ride. Iraq, Afghanistan, Pakistan, and it seemed like every dope dealing nation in South and Central America, and a bunch of covert operations throughout Europe and the Middle East. It had all been crazy, but he had loved every minute of it. There may have been a few shitty ones in there, but sitting here he could not remember them. And now it was all coming to an end.
He had resisted a string of promotions, with their enticing positions in fancy offices in the Pentagon. And all for just one thing, to stay in the field, to be out there with the team. But it seemed the brass could not deal with that. A man had to be promoted. He had to be taken away from what he was good at and put behind a desk, then allowed to fade away to dust. That was the way of the world.
He had a nice little bachelor pad here on the shore, between Virginia Beach and the base. Convenient in either direction. Not that he got to spend too much time in it. But he guessed that was all about to change.
He looked at the letter he had just printed out. It didn’t say a lot. It didn’t need to. It was his resignation, short and sweet. He had left SEAL Team 3 and had spent the last four years in the United States Naval Special Warfare Development Group, referred to as DEVGRU, but more commonly known as SEAL Team 6, the legendary anti-terrorist team, considered the elite of the elite. He had made Naval Commander grade faster than most and headed the Red Squadron, nicknamed the Indians. If he never saw another day, never drew another breath, he would die a man complete, proud of the men he had fought with and commanded. Proud to have served. Except he didn’t want it to end. But the writing was clearly on the wall. It was either up or out. So maybe it was the time to buy that boat after all.
They wanted to make him a Captain, in fact, this time they insisted. But they also wanted him behind a desk in the Pentagon. Admiral Raines’ poodle, as Master Chief Kozlowski had described it. Captain America, smile for the cameras and lunch on the expense account. The Master Chief was probably right. Fagan liked dogs but was never a great fan of poodles, so maybe this was the right time to go.
He picked up a pen and signed the letter, folded it then sealed it in an envelope and wrote the skipper’s name on it. Of course, he was a Captain too, but he was only a couple of years older and damned good at his job, so there was going to be no vacancy there. And besides, he didn’t get out in the field much either.
Fagan drove in to the base and walked into the skipper’s office. His secretary was not around, and the door to the inner office was closed. Fate was finally on his side. He dropped the letter on the secretary’s desk and headed out before he changed his mind. The Old Man would not like it, but he could do nothing to change things up top, and he knew it.
Fagan looked at his watch. It was just after nine.
Was it too early to get drunk?
Whatever, if he was going on a bender, he should start with a good breakfast. He headed into Virginia Beach and had the steak and eggs at a favorite diner just off the beach boardwalk. The food was great as always. He was finishing his coffee and regretting for the umpteenth time that he had quit smoking when the sound level of the diner suddenly increased.
Fagan looked up.
Everyone was staring at the giant TV behind the bar. Burning New York landmarks were plastered across the screen, and the news anchor looked like he did not believe what he was saying.
Terrorists had just flown two airliners into the World Trade Center, twin towers in New York.
Fagan dropped some money on the table and started to run. His beeper began screeching before he reached the car.
They
had all assembled in the mess hall, shock etched on everyone’s face. The skipper had given his speech and his orders, such as they were. Now everyone was heading for their team readiness positions.
“Hey Joe,” he called out as Fagan was on his way out.
Fagan had been hoping that maybe he could get to the old man’s office before he got a chance to read the letter.
“A word.” He held up the envelope Fagan had left on his secretary’s desk.
“Shit,” he muttered under his breath.
“Do you really want this?”
Fagan flashed him his best smile. “If you let me go out there with the guys you can wipe your ass with it.”
The Captain grinned, but he shook his head. “I’m sure we both wish life were that simple. Admiral Raines has already been on the phone. He wants you in his office in the Pentagon by 18:00, today.”
No doubt with my doggie treats already in a jar on his desk.
“There’s a flight leaving the Naval Air Station in two hours. You need to be on it. My secretary has all your papers.”
“But?”
“But nothing, Joe.” He shook his head and gave him a genuine sad smile. “According to the President, we’re now at war. Which means you can’t resign and you’ve got your orders.”
Then he did a very unusual thing for a Navy SEAL. He came to attention and gave a Navy regulation salute. Fagan came up straight and did the same. There was suddenly an itch in his eye.
“I’m gonna miss you, Joe,” he said, then turned and walked away.
13
Washington D.C.
Fagan lasted six months, which he thought was pretty good. He took the promotion, did what they asked. He did his research, made his analysis, formulated his plan and made his recommendations. Then he stood back while a bunch of self-serving politicians, armed with their political correctness and their eye firmly on the trajectory of their career, ignored everything he had said. And the brass let them do it. What was worse, they put his comrades lives at risk with every half-assed decision they made, and to Fagan that was unforgivable.