African Dragon

by David M. Salkin

  Ripper stood up and extended his hand to help him up.

  “Blew out my knee, man. Not sure what I did. I can’t walk. I told numbnuts over there to leave without me, but he has a man-crush on me or something. He took a couple covering me.” Lance was watching Theresa working on controlling Jake’s bleeding.

  Cascaes got back on the phone. “Jersey fifty-six, this is Voodoo Three actual, request medivac for two wounded, do you copy?”

  “Voodoo Three, we don’t have medivacs. I’m going to try and get a Sea Knight moved up behind us to that grassy field, but you’re going to need to move your wounded, copy?”

  “I copy. Keep these guys off our back and we’ll try and fall back to that rendezvous point.” The loud steady noise of automatic gunfire behind them made them seek cover.

  “Voodoo Three actual, this is Jackal Three Bravo. We are coming up on your location. Enemy has broken off. What’s your sit rep? I have yellow smoke fading in front of me.”

  “That’s us. Smoke is almost gone, but that’s us. We’re falling back with two wounded. Wait one. Mack? Mack, you copy, over.”

  Nothing.

  “Jackal Three Bravo, come to the smoke and help us move our wounded.”

  Within three minutes, a squad of marines appeared down the alleyway. They looked crisp and neat, and very, very young. The oldest of the group, a staff sergeant, jogged to Cascaes when he saw his phone and extended his hand.

  “Voodoo Three?”

  Chris shook his hand and smiled. “Chris Cascaes. I owe you more than one cold beer.”

  “Everett Palmer. Lima three-three. Let’s get your people out of here and see about that beer. It was hairy as hell getting here. PAC troops are all over, although that Cobra wasted plenty. How bad are they?”

  “Neither can walk. One’s worse than the other. Chest wound, lost a lot of blood I think.”

  Palmer whistled and a young marine corporal ran to him. The staff sergeant relayed what he wanted done, and the corporal started barking at the others to help carry the wounded.

  “Spare any ammo? We’re out,” asked Chris. Everett had his men share what they had, and the team took a second to reload and check weapons. Now, almost resembling a fighting force, they were ready to fall back to the field and evacuate their wounded, then find Mack.

  65.

  The shadows were moving around outside and the whispering continued for several minutes. Mack was screwed, plain and simple. He dared not move for fear of the slightest sound giving away his position. He sat against half of a fifty gallon drum that had been the family stove with his .45 in his right hand and a K-Bar knife in the other.

  He had been eyeing the feet moving past the wall when the old wooden door kicked open. It seemed like slow-motion. The PAC soldier stepped inside the small hovel and saw Mackey sitting there as Mackey raised his pistol at him. The gun barrel of the Type-81 Assault Rifle came up a split second slower than Mack’s .45.

  The good news was, Mack fired two shots dead center and killed the soldier immediately. The bad news was, as he fell out of the doorway back into the street, another three guerrillas now knew where the American was. They stormed the doorway as Mackey literally ran through the rear wall. The back of the building collapsed as he came through it, right into two PAC soldiers who had been sneaking around behind him. Mack emptied his magazine into them and sprinted down the alley as fast as his legs would take him. Bullets whizzed around him, but Mackey cut through houses, jumped fences, crashed through wooden walls and continued to race for his life, dropping the magazine as he ran and slamming his last one into the .45.

  Wong Fu-jia had only been a few feet away when Mack crashed through the rear of the house, and joined in the pursuit, screaming in Chinese to kill the American. While Mackey was putting distance between himself and the pursuers, he was headed in the wrong direction.

  The marine rifle squads were running through the narrow streets helping the team carry their wounded. Staff Sergeant Palmer was on his radio directing the Sea Knight to the grassy field, and the Super Cobra continued to provide support. The sounds of fighting all over the city were starting to die down. The PAC had taken such massive casualties that they had started to melt into the countryside to the north, many of them attempting to reach the Congo River and find a way across from the Democratic Republic of Congo into neighboring Congo-Brazzaville.

  Reports of the PAC’s retreat reached the presidential palace, and President Kuwali left the basement to make a television appearance and assure his people that the DRC was winning the battle against foreign fighters. He stopped short of saying the Chinese were responsible, but Dex Murphy and the others back in Langley watched the president and smiled, knowing that somewhere in China, someone was about to have a very bad day.

  The presidential army reorganized and began pressing southwest again. Army units all over the country were moving towards Kinshasa to help, and the only two Congolese helicopters fit for flying had been dispatched from Kinshasa airport to reconnoiter the area. The PAC forces continued to retreat, but there were still over eight hundred of them killing anyone they saw on their way out.

  The team reached the dual rotor Sea Knight and helped Lance and Jake aboard where corpsmen were waiting for them. Hodges walked himself aboard at Cascaes’ orders. He was out of the fight for the day. The staff sergeant yelled to Chris over the sounds of the rotors. “We need to get back to the presidential palace. My orders were to secure that compound and provide security to the president. We came when you called out the Broken Arrow, but we need to get back. We can’t fit your people aboard, but it’s only half a click.”

  “We’re not headed back just yet. I’ve got a man out there somewhere that I need to locate,” shouted Cascaes.

  “Shit. We have to get back, sir.”

  “I understand. Look, you saved our ass. The PAC is definitely falling back. As long as that Cobra can stay on station, we’ll be fine. I can’t leave my guy out there.”

  “Understood, sir. I’m sorry I can’t help. We need to dust off.”

  Chris snapped a salute, shook the man’s hand, and thanked him. The staff sergeant handed Chris another magazine and two frags, and wished him luck. He stepped back into the bird and waved, and the crew chief ordered the ramp lifted.

  Chris looked around at his team. It was mostly his original SEAL team: Ray Jensen, Pete McCoy, Jon Cohen, Ryan O’Connor, Moose, and Ripper, along with Julia and Theresa. There were a lot of faces missing in his huddle. Jones, Ernie P, Cory and Smitty were dead, and Koches, Woods, and Hodges were all wounded and out of the fight. It had been the mostly costly mission he’d ever been a part of.

  “Look, there’s only nine of us left. But Mack is out there somewhere and we need to find him before the PAC does,” said Cascaes.

  “Nine fields a whole team, Skipper,” said Moose.

  Chris nodded. They weren’t playing baseball today, but he understood. They were all on board. “Ammo?”

  They all nodded and said they were “good to go.” The marines had shared what they had before they left. They were exhausted, but ready to find Mack.

  Cascaes tried Mackey on his radio and got no response. It was stressful. Mackey could be dead, in which case he was putting his people in harm’s way for no reason. He might be wounded and unable to speak, which would make finding him nearly impossible. Or, most likely, Mack being Mack, he was just not answering so no one would go looking for him.

  “We head back on the north side of the highway and track northwest. Mack would have had to travel north-northwest when he was separated. We keep trying him on the radio and work our way over there slowly. I don’t think the PAC is looking to fight anymore, but there are presidential troops around now as well. We don’t need to get shot by friendly fire, either. We’ll be moving into Bandalungwa and then Kintambo. These are packed residential areas like the one we just came out of.
Stay together, stay frosty.”

  Cascaes’ radio crackled. “Voodoo Three actual, this is Jersey fifty-six. I am low on fuel and ammunition and breaking contact. Stay safe. Out.”

  The team looked at each. No one said a word, but they all knew their edge had just been lost.

  66.

  Mackey ran until his lungs and legs refused to go another step. He ducked behind what might have been a small bar or restaurant. It had a counter and chairs set up outside, and a small one room cooking area inside. Mack found a case of warm Coke and drank three of them in under two minutes.

  The PAC soldiers were close behind, but were carrying heavier weapons and field packs. Mack was down to the clothes on his back, his .45 and knife. The training and running had definitely saved his life as he sprinted for almost a mile and half before stopping to catch his breath and inhale a few sodas. His ear piece buzzed.

  “Mack? What’s your sitrep? Come in over?”

  It was Cascaes. Mack shook his head. “Stay where you are, Chris! I’m E&E!” he barked, referring to escaping and evading the enemy.

  “We’re not leaving you out there alone. Where are you?”

  “Chris, you’re gonna get our team killed. There’s PAC goons everywhere. I’m fine. I can’t stay and chat. Get your ass back to the palace and I’ll contact you when I can. Do not follow me! I’m very popular right now. I gotta go. Out.”

  “Mack! Stop it! We’re coming for you. We’re north of Highway One. Work your way north east and we’ll link up.”

  Mack was already back up and running. Wong Fu-jia and a few dozen mercenaries were only a moment behind…

  The team ran across the open highway and started moving northwest as fast as they could run. They could see presidential troops way out in front of them, pursuing the retreating PAC forces. Way down the highway, the remnants of the lone tank still smoldered.

  Cascaes looked out at the city in front of him. A few million displaced people moving in panicked masses. Two armies running through the city. Two square miles of residential and commercial neighborhoods connected by hundreds of tiny alleys and narrow roads. He turned to his team.

  “No. Mack’s right. I’d say the same thing. Risking the entire team in this clusterfuck of a mission for one man doesn’t make any sense…”

  “Skipper! We don’t leave our people behind!” barked Moose, visibly angry.

  “Moose, Mack’s a pro. He’ll figure out a way back if it’s possible. But nine of us out there isn’t going to save the day. We barely got out of the last fight. We’ve got dead and wounded enough already. That’s it. I’m callin’ it. We’re done.”

  Julia looked at Chris in shock. “Chris? That’s it? We’re just going to leave Mackey out there in the middle of a thousand enemy soldiers and do nothing?”

  Chris looked at the weary faces of his team. “It’s my call. We’re done.”

  67.

  Cascaes sat on the grass in front of the presidential palace with his team around him. They were too exhausted, mentally, physically and emotionally to speak. They each occasionally glanced down the road, as if Mackey would just come walking up any moment, but that didn’t seem very realistic. United States Marines had set up a defensive perimeter, and stood their ground around the presidential palace.

  Cascaes called into Langley where Dex Murphy picked up. Cascaes reported their killed and wounded, leaving Dex speechless for a few seconds.

  “Look, Chris. Your mission was to help prevent the coupe. You did just that. President Kuwali’s ambassador to the UN made a plea for UN Peacekeepers to come in, but let’s face it—the DRC is surrounded by Angola, South Sudan, Uganda, Rwanda—none of which are in any better shape than the DRC. POTUS authorized more marines to reinforce the palace until this blows over, but in a few weeks, it’ll be like this never happened.”

  “I’ll be sure to tell that to the families of the men I lost,” said Cascaes.

  “Chris, I pushed your team too hard. You had three tough assignments in a row. Your people performed better than anyone could ask for, but it’s time to get them home to decompress for a while. I’ll work out the details and get you back on the first thing that flies.”

  “Dex, I can’t leave until I hear from Mack. Bad enough I had to leave my dead in the field, I’m not leaving a missing team member.”

  “Seventy-two hours, Chris. After that, you and your team are on a bird to the Sixth Fleet until we can arrange for international transport.”

  Cascaes signed off and sat staring at nothing. Julia moved over next to him.

  “Hey. How ya’ doing?” she asked softly.

  Chris rubbed his face and shrugged. “We need to find Mack. I want to retrieve our dead. This whole situation is a mess. We’re a small team of special operators, not a combat unit equipped to take on a whole army. I keep thinking about where we started, at the lake, and how we ended up here. What a disaster.”

  “We stopped the PAC from overthrowing the government. We probably helped stop another African genocide. We didn’t fail, Chris. It was just costly.”

  Chris felt a lump in his throat. Jones’ big smile flashed in front of his face. “Yeah. Way too costly. And what am I supposed to do? Just get on a plane and leave Mack out there with a few hundred guerrillas running after him? If they take him alive it won’t end easy for him.”

  “What would you do if you were Mack?”

  Chris looked at her. Even exhausted and filthy, she was beautiful.

  “Seriously, Chris. What would you do?”

  He tightened his face and thought for a second. “I’d keep moving. Keep trying to work my way back around to us. The PAC is most likely trying to head north to the river. They’ll get across into Congo-Brazzaville and just dump their uniforms. So with them pushing north, Mack will have to keep heading towards us before he gets squeezed between the PAC and the river.”

  “You called in a broken arrow before. Why not call in for air support again? Or a rescue? Maybe the PJs can get him?”

  “It’s not I haven’t thought about air support, but only Mack can call it in. We have no idea where he is.”

  “What if the bird can get back on station and try to reach Mack directly?”

  Chris nodded. “It’s worth a shot. He grabbed his radio.”

  “Jersey fifty-six, this is Voodoo Six Actual, come in over.”

  There was no reply for the first few times, and then finally, “Copy Voodoo Six. Was refueling and rearming. What’s your sitrep, over?”

  “Jersey fifty-six, we have one lost dog approximately one klick west-northwest of the presidential palace. I’ve been unable to reach him, and believe he may be on the run towards this location with enemy forces on his tail. Can you provide air cover and arrange evac? Over.”

  “Wait one, Voodoo Six.” There was a long pause as CWO Cantor spoke to his CO. “Voodoo Six Actual, this is Jersey fifty-six. Can you give me a grid and narrow the search area?”

  Chris broke out his map and he and Julia did their best to guess where Mack would most likely have been. He called back the grid location and listened as CWO Cantor began coordinating other air assets that were arriving on station. The other members of the team gathered around closer and listened to the radio, feeling hopeful for the first time in a while.

  68.

  Mack squatted behind what was considered an elegant house in the Bandalungwa district. There was still sporadic gunfire, but it was less organized. No less than a dozen men had been chasing him for over two hours, shooting whenever they spotted him. The proximity of the houses on such narrow windy streets had been helpful in evading the troops behind him, but Mack was running out of gas. He looked at his electronic GPS. He had been heading north for his entire run and was approaching the Congo River. He needed to start moving east. The GPS unit was shaking in his hand.

  Mack took a few deep breat
hs and climbed over the wrought iron fence to begin the second phase of his marathon. Feeling a little more secure, he decided to check in with his team.

  “Mack to base, come in over.”

  Nothing.

  He tried repeatedly, but it was no good. There were simply too many houses and obstructions in the way. Mack looked around at the neighborhood. They were all basically one-story houses. In the distance, he could see a factory smoke stack, maybe three hundred yards away. If he could get to that, he’d more likely be able to reach Cascaes, who could then call in for an evac.

  Mack began the cautious jog through the neighborhood. Occasional civilians would spot him, but would immediately run the other way. It too fifteen minute to make it to the factory. Once there at the fence, Mack stopped and studied his surroundings. Occasionally, someone would sprint madly down a side street, trying desperately to get to safety. The biggest question was where exactly safety was.

  A chain link fence surrounded the factory, and Mack hated the idea of climbing it out in the open, but he had no choice. He needed the elevation to make radio contact, and the smoke stack was the tallest thing around. After scanning a few more times, Mack made the dash across the street to the fence, climbed it as fast as he could, and half climbed-half fell down the other side. He hit the bottom, hopped back up, took a quick look around and then sprinted to the factory.

  He was halfway across the open lot when the first two shots cracked behind him. A white man in combat fatigues didn’t exactly “blend into the surroundings.” Mack jumped on to a fifty gallon drum and then climbed up the side of a small building to the roof. He raced across the flat roof and started climbing the rungs that lined the side of the smoke stack. There was a small landing about half-way up, where Mack stopped and laid down on his stomach. He turned the radio back on.

  “Mack to base! Mack to base! Come in. over!”