Saber Down

by Harrison Kone

  “Nothing’s changed. Why?” Wyatt inhaled and adjusted his cheek against the rifle stock.

  “I just can’t shake this feeling I’ve got,” the sniper answered. Shaw glanced at him.

  “What feeling?” he probed.

  “Like we shouldn’t be here.”

  A sharp clatter behind them drew both men’s attention, and a blinding, disorienting blast followed, stealing their senses. Their ears throbbed and vision pulsed flashes of bright white, and both men were unable to make sense of their surroundings. They both knew immediately that they’d been hit by a flashbang grenade, and there was no way they could respond responsibly or accurately.

  “Ozark,” Shaw groaned, “we’re compromised!” If Natalie replied, Shaw couldn’t hear her. He felt hands jerk him to his feet, and fingers probed into his ear to dislodge his communication earpiece. Hands searched around his waistline and removed his Glock 19 and holster from his belt. He stumbled as multiple assailants pushed and pulled him forward.

  “Philo Two?” Shaw called out.

  “Here,” came Wyatt’s reply from behind.

  “Shut up!” came an accented voice followed by a quick slap to the back of the head. Shaw tried to place the accent, but his ears deceived him amidst their trauma. Shaw’s mind quickly raced through his SERE training, an acronym referring to survival, evasion, resistance, and escape, and he knew immediately Maloof had betrayed them.

  Shaw fell inward for a moment preparing himself for whatever might come next, and as his vision slowly returned, he took note of everything he could about their attackers. Something, some detail, might provide a clue to his advantage, but they quickly pulled a dark sack over his head.

  • • •

  Kibrit Air Base, Suez, Egypt

  “Philo?” Natalie called into her headset. “Do you read me?” No answer came. His previous words sent dread coursing through her body. “Philo?” she called again. She waited a moment longer than she should. If he were there, he would have replied. She hoped he wasn’t dead. She inhaled deeply to steady herself before contacting the upper command. “Sage, this is Ozark.”

  “Go ahead, Ozark,” came General Weber’s voice through the comms.

  “Philo is compromised,” she stated, attempting to strengthen her voice. Silence streamed through her headset as she awaited Weber’s reply.

  General Weber dragged his hand down his face as all eyes fell on him. The young Marines waited anxiously for his command. Weber removed his headset and muted the microphone.

  “How far out are our Marines?” he asked Lieutenant Reynolds, who led the team arrayed around him. Reynolds could tell by the general’s tone that he was trying to keep his emotions in check. Everyone present knew his close connection with Captain Shaw and couldn’t imagine the position in which he now found himself.

  “They’re currently refueling over the Red Sea just off the coast of Yanbu,” Reynolds answered. Weber rubbed his eyes.

  “They know we are coming,” he stated, his tone bore the full gravity of the situation. The silent Marines waited impatiently for his next words. “Shut it down,” he ordered solemnly.

  “Sir?” came the confused reply of his subordinate officer.

  “You heard me, Lieutenant,” Weber said calmly. “Shut it down.”

  “But what about Philo?” he asked.

  “If they’re not dead now, they will be soon. Alpha and Bravo won’t be able to reach them in time, and I’m not endangering any more Marines. If they knew about Philo then they surely know about the following teams and will be prepared for them. Shut it down.”

  “Yes, sir,” the Marine officer replied soberly. Weber replaced the headset around his ears.

  “Ozark, we’re pulling the plug. I’m ordering you to leave the country as soon as you can. This will be the last communication you have from me. Good luck,” Weber said. Before Natalie could reply the connection ended.

  “Sage,” she stammered. “Sage!” She threw her headset across the cabin and sank her head into her hands. She waited for a moment contemplating all her options. Barry Moses, the flight attendant, approached slowly.

  “Ms. Hale,” he said softly. She glanced up at him, her eyes red. “We’ve received orders to take off.”

  “No,” she retorted, but Moses shook his head.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Hale, but we will be leaving as soon as we are cleared for takeoff.” He reached out to offer her a comforting touch on the shoulder, but she recoiled. Helpless and fearing for Shaw and Wyatt, she sank into her chair and fought off fresh tears.

  • • •

  Over the Red Sea

  Barone shot Hogan a concerned look as he felt their VTOL bank right. Hogan’s expression relayed the same troubled thoughts. They both shot Heckman questioning stares.

  “Captain!” Hogan called. “What’s going on?” Heckman appeared to ignore them until Hogan realized he was communicating through his radio on a private channel.

  “Understood, sir,” they all heard Heckman say. Seated toward the cockpit, Captain Heckman lifted his eyes to face them. “Brass has called off the op. Philo’s been compromised,” he stated.

  “What?” Barone stated in disbelief, voicing what the entire team was thinking.

  “I don’t know any more than that, but the pilots are taking us back,” Heckman explained.

  “Sir, we’ve got to press on. Captain Shaw and Staff Sergeant Wyatt, they need us,” Hogan argued.

  “We have our new orders, Corporal. I’m not happy about this either, but all we can do is roll with the punches and hope Philo Team makes it out of there.” He wanted to tell them that he was going to force the pilots to continue onward and disregard General Weber’s orders, but he knew aviators wouldn’t listen. Perhaps he should put on the display just to save face. He decided against it, rested his head against the hull, and sighed.

  Hogan cursed loudly and shook himself against his harness, and Barone sat still, struggling with the reality of leaving Shaw and Wyatt to face a likely death. How does one work through those emotions? He didn’t know and felt terrible.

  • • •

  Port Tawfiq

  Ghassan Farrah spun around quickly as the sharp crack reached his ears. The sound echoed from the top story of the building behind them.

  “Relax, my friend,” Silva stated. “I’m just taking care of a few uninvited guests. Come; let me show you the product. Your men will need to remain here.” Farrah nodded, regaining his confidence and attempting to appear more collected for the sake of his father’s reputation.

  “Of course,” he said. He nodded his approval to his lead security, and the team remained behind as Farrah followed Silva up the gangplank. Once on board, Silva led Farrah toward the ship’s accommodations. He held a special arrangement with the captain who had allowed his entire crew a night’s leave in the city, thereby leaving the ship empty for Silva’s deal.

  “Right in here,” Silva said as he ushered Farrah inside a large room. It appeared to be the ship’s mess hall. A tall blonde man greeted them both.

  “If you’ll wait here, sir,” Mather-Pike stated, stopping Farrah in his tracks. More than understanding, the young Palestinian did as instructed. Silva moved to Farrah’s side and watched as Mather-Pike entered the unlock code on the keypad of the unopened crate in the center of the room. Farrah’s eyes gleamed as he beheld the weapons arrayed within the large, deep case.

  “The contents of this case hold an example of each weapon ordered.”

  “May I?” Farrah asked. Silva smiled, nodded, and extended his hand. The Palestinian moved forward and hoisted an M249 Squad Automatic Weapon. It was an older model, but Farrah ran his hands over the heavy weapon and grinned. “It is belt fed, yes?” He turned to look at the arms dealer. Silva nodded, and Farrah’s smile widened. “And this!” Farrah exclaimed as he scooped up the M32A1 Multi-shot Grenade Launcher. “Six shots of forty millimeter, yes?” Silva again nodded.

  “You’ll find everything is in order.” />
  “I am very impressed, Mr. Silva,” Farrah replied. He glanced down at the remaining weapons in the crate: an FGM-148 Javelin missile launcher, an M16A4 rifle, and an M9 pistol. “I am ready to conclude our business on my father’s behalf,” Farrah stated.

  Silva nodded toward Mather-Pike, and the South African opened the briefcase and linked to a satellite signal. The case contained a computer with which to transfer funds from one account to another.

  “If you will, Mr. Farrah, input your account information,” Mather-Pike instructed as he positioned the case before the man. Farrah leaned forward and with one finger, punched in his account information. As he leaned back, the South African drew the case back into his lap. Silva’s pleasant gaze remained on Farrah while Mather-Pike worked.

  Rian Mather-Pike suppressed the desire to exhale heavily as he prepared. As he pressed the keys in the correct order, he felt his perspiration hasten. The exhilaration overwhelmed his insides as he punched in a different account number than Silva’s. The account provided would buy his and Ella’s freedom.

  Only one thing remained.

  Get back to her alive.

  35

  Gulf of Suez,

  Aboard Scarlett’s Bosom

  Johan de Jager stood at the edge of the helipad as he awaited his payment. The dark sea foamed beneath him as he gazed northward. It hadn’t been easy to smuggle his strike force in from Sudan unnoticed, but he had done it. Now, all that remained was his payment. The Afrikaner mercenary usually didn’t accept jobs without some type of payment upfront, but Rian Mather-Pike was a good kid and, as far as de Jager knew, never backed down from his word. In truth though, the payout was simply too good to ignore. He might not retire, but he would surely have more than enough to put his children through university, perhaps even in Germany or the Netherlands. Yes, that would be nice.

  The grizzled man, dressed in tan and brown tiger stripe camo, held his R4 rifle vertically as he gazed westward. Port Tawfiq lay nestled at the mouth of the Suez Canal, and his mission was to destroy the Vittoria Fortuna, an Italian shipping vessel docked at the port. When Mather-Pike had first contacted him about the operation, de Jager vehemently opposed. He stated that his career thrived because he kept his operations under the radar, doing jobs for warlords and even at times intelligence organizations from a variety of nations, including the United States and the United Kingdom. Attacking an Italian vessel in an Egyptian port was far from under the radar, but his tune had changed when Mather-Pike revealed the payout. De Jager had done his research. They would be in and out before the Egyptians could respond. His advance team had already planted the charges to sink the ship. All that remained was to receive payment from Mather-Pike.

  “Can we trust this Englishman, Colonel?” came the fluent Afrikaans behind him. De Jager hadn’t officially held the title of colonel in nearly thirty years, not since the South African Border War, but the title had stuck. After Nelson Mandela came into power, he and his troop were tossed aside as the South African government decreased and disbanded most of its military. As former members of the South African Special Forces Brigade, or Recces as they were casually known, de Jager and his men, with no other skills or trades, had turned soldiers of fortune, taking jobs where and when they could.

  He thought about the word his companion had used to describe Rian Mather-Pike: Englishman. It was accurate but antiquated. Although both men were South African, Mather-Pike’s ancestors came from England, while de Jager’s migrated from the Netherlands, but the former colonel never considered that to be a negative factor.

  “I know Rian. He’ll come through for us,” de Jager replied in the same language. Marick Haarhoff, a former lieutenant in the Recces, wasn’t so sure.

  “You know him?” Haarhoff asked.

  “I got him into the business. His father died in Angola; saved my life and only God knows how many more.” Haarhoff remained silent but observed de Jager’s solemn expression. “Now it seems the Mather-Pikes are coming through for me again.”

  “Colonel!” came a shout from behind the two men. They turned to regard the soldier waving them in. The two mercenaries trotted over, and the rest of the strike team mustered around them.

  “What is it, Flick?” de Jager asked.

  “The account transfer has successfully been completed.” He laughed halfway through his sentence. “We’re rich.” He handed de Jager the tablet and the old colonel grinned as he witnessed the twenty million displayed in the account.

  “Well done, Rian,” he said to himself. De Jager had stood firm on one condition: he had to receive payment before he attacked Egyptian soil. Mather-Pike, although he had protested at first, had apparently found a way. De Jager turned his attention to his men. “Alright, boys,” he stated, even though most were well over thirty. Each man wore grim expressions and nodded their heads at the words. The words appeared to flip a switch in each man. Even Flick, who a moment ago was laughing, had hardened his expression. They moved with deliberate purpose to the two small helicopters on the bow and aft helipads.

  The rotors on the two MH-6 Little Bird helicopters began their slow rotations before quickly picking up speed and becoming invisible to the human eye. They were older models built in the 1990’s, but they were too expensive to replace, and their capabilities still too valuable. With enough room for six, including the pilot and co-pilot, the two helicopters each carried four men, two gunners and two aviators, which left more than enough room to extract Mather-Pike and the three other men whose identities remained unknown.

  De Jager, serving as a co-pilot in the first helicopter, unfolded the mission in his mind as he envisioned each step of the operation, and he hoped no surprises lay in store for him and his men. He also hoped his man would find this Ella in Cairo and extract her without any problems. There were many pieces to the operation, and at any point, the mission could spin out of control.

  • • •

  Shaw, blinded by the black sack draped snugly over his head, complied with his captors’ orders and proceeded forward. He felt the texture of the ground shift under his shoes and incline upward. He realigned his balance and continued forward. Wyatt again issued a timed grunt to inform Shaw he was still with him, and Shaw responded with a fake cough.

  Their captors ushered them onto what Shaw could only surmise was the ship when the texture beneath his shoes shifted again. They prodded him along for several minutes before old door hinges squeaked and Shaw felt cool, interior air on his neck and arms. He forced himself to remain calm, but it was difficult. He had never before found himself in such a circumstance, but the Marines under Heckman and Lopez would be arriving soon. He placed his hope in their capable hands.

  “Sit,” one of his captors sternly ordered. Shaw hesitated, and hands on each shoulder shoved him downward. He braced himself, anticipating hitting the floor, but a chair stopped his descent. Both his legs and hands were then zip tied to the frame.

  “Ah, my distinguished guests,” a dignified voice stated. The black sack soared off Shaw’s head, and the bright, florescent light irritated his tender eyes. He tossed his head to clear his hair from his face and quickly surveyed the room. The buyer, Ghassan Farrah, watched on with concern, and two other men, who Natalie had identified as Silva’s bodyguards, stood a short distance away. Both his and Wyatt’s weapons lay arrayed on a table near the entry.

  The Egyptian intelligence officer, Osman Maloof, picked his teeth with his pinky as he observed the two Marines. Disgusted, Shaw glanced to his left and met Wyatt’s hardened expression. Then, both men turned their attention to the man wearing a blue blazer and white pants.

  Francisco Silva looked upon them, and Shaw now understood what Natalie had shared with him on the plane. Behind the man’s eyes prowled a primal hunger that desired nothing more than to devour both Marines, but his eyes suddenly changed. A smile donned his face before he turned to address Maloof.

  “Well done, Mr. Maloof,” Silva congratulated. He strode over to the man and wra
pped one arm around Maloof’s shoulders.

  “I am glad to be of service,” Maloof replied. “About my payment?”

  “Ah, yes, of course,” Silva said offering Maloof a smile the Egyptian gladly returned. The sum alone would set him up for the rest of his life. Silva saw the greed in the Egyptians eyes, and Shaw watched as Silva’s hand slowly crept to the small of his back then explode into motion.

  The knife slammed into the man’s midsection, and, working like a jackhammer, the blade opened up the man’s belly, spilling his entrails onto the floor. Maloof, eyes wide in horror, shrieked and slapped at Silva’s hand. Satisfied, Silva backed away, and Maloof dropped to his knees, scooping up his intestines as his primal instincts directed. The fire that ripped through his stomach was too much to bear. Tears flowed freely from his eyes, and his shrieking only increased in intensity.

  Silva watched the display and scratched an itch on his neck with his clean hand. Maloof’s blood covered his knife hand and darkened his blazer’s sleeve.

  “You understand, dear Maloof, the less who know about my dealings the better,” Silva explained. He turned toward two of the men who had captured Shaw and Wyatt. “Throw him into the sea.” Maloof screamed in protest as the two men seized him by his arms and dragged him from the room. The fall alone might kill him, but if it didn’t, the shock of the saltwater on his wounds would paralyze him. Silva figured he’d drown before the sharks got to him.

  “Now,” Silva said as he returned his attention to the two Marines before him. He approached Shaw, dropped into a crouch, and patted Shaw’s thigh with the bloody weapon. Shaw fought to maintain his composure, but his eyes remained a bit wider than usual and his heart quickened. “Let’s find out how you knew where to find me.” Shaw remained silent, and Silva drifted his gaze toward Wyatt. He smirked before turning back to Shaw. “You hide your hate well,” he complimented as he bounced the blade in front of Shaw’s face. “But your friend here,” Silva continued, “not so much.” Silva looked up at his men who stood behind both Wyatt and Shaw. “You can go. Please escort Mr. Farrah to his merchandise and make sure it is loaded up to his specifications. I’m sure Mr. Morgan will appreciate your assistance.”