by Carr, Jack
Reece dressed for the field in his boots, shorts, and an olive button-down shirt. He picked up his Glock from the bed and released the magazine to ensure that it was loaded with fifteen rounds. Reinserting the mag, he pulled back the slide far enough to confirm that a 9mm round was in the chamber before stuffing it under his pillow. None of the other PHs wore sidearms, and if he wanted to blend in he was going to have to leave his pistol behind. The remainder of the gear went into his backpack, which he slung over a shoulder as he headed off in search of coffee, his rifle in one hand like a suitcase, binoculars in a harness around his neck.
The dining area was empty in the predawn darkness, but he found fresh coffee and poured himself a cup. The cook had already taken note that Reece liked to add honey to his coffee and had placed a jar beside the cream on the buffet table. Say what you want about the journey to get to this place, at least the service was good.
As if on cue, the cook appeared carrying a plate of toast.
“Good morning, Patrão.” The cook smiled broadly, genuinely happy to see him.
“Good morning.”
“Eggs for you?”
“Sure, eggs would be great. Thank you.”
“Right away, Patrão.” The cook bowed his head slightly and headed back toward the kitchen.
Reece was somewhat embarrassed by being waited on hand and foot but he figured he could get used to it. He took a seat at the table and enjoyed the solitude as he drank his coffee. He was halfway done with his eggs and toast by the time the rest of the camp made their way, one by one, to the table. They all ate in relative silence. The work was hard and the hours long, with few breaks during the season.
Rich Hastings finished his breakfast and addressed Reece.
“James, today you’ll go out with your trackers. They are good men, Solomon and Gona. They came with me from Zimbabwe but they know this place as well as anyone and won’t steer you wrong.”
“Thanks, Rich.”
Reece rose from the table and followed Hastings toward the white Toyota Land Cruiser. The sun was starting to rise and the camp was bathed in the pinkish-gray light of the African dawn. The two men loading the truck stopped when they saw Hastings and Reece approach and stood next to each other alongside the truck with their hands at their sides in a relaxed version of the military position of attention. The taller of the two men was also the youngest. He appeared to be in his twenties, thin and muscular. He wore olive-green coveralls and a British desert camouflage boonie hat with the sides turned up. He was good-looking and carried himself with an air of confidence that set him apart from the other trackers Reece had met.
“Reece, this is Solomon.”
The young man smiled warmly and extended his hand to Reece, who shook it firmly. “Nice to meet you, Solomon.”
“Very nice to meet you, Mr. Reece,” he said in perfect, though accented, English.
“You can just call me Reece.”
Reece wasn’t worried about using his real name among the workers. If anyone was looking for him, he’d be dead and buried from the tumor long before anyone questioned a game tracker in East Africa about a man last seen on an affluent island off the east coast of the United States.
“Yes, sir.”
The second man was smaller and older, probably closer to Reece’s age. His skin was very dark, which contrasted sharply with his tan coveralls and ball cap. A skinning knife hung from the fabric belt around his waist.
“This is Gona.”
“Very nice to meet you as well, Gona.”
Gona’s face remained stoic as Reece shook the man’s hand.
“Gona, Mr. Reece is a good friend of Utilivu.”
Suddenly, the tracker’s eyes brightened.
“Mr. James! You remember me, you remember Gona?”
“Gona! Of course! Great to see you again!” Reece said in the midst of an enthusiastic handshake, remembering the tracker from his trip to Zimbabwe with Raife all those years ago.
“How is Utilivu?”
“Raife is great, Gona. He’s really doing well. I know he misses tracking with you.”
Hastings bid them good luck as they loaded up. Solomon drove, Reece sat in the passenger seat, and Gona rode on the high seat in the bed. They mostly worked the perimeter roads that bordered the concession, looking for signs that poachers had crossed onto the property.
There has to be a more effective and efficient way to do this, Reece thought.
It was past noon when Reece’s stomach began to protest. He’d become accustomed to his hosts dictating the schedule and it struck him that his men were waiting for him to tell them it was time to eat.
“Let’s stop somewhere for lunch, Solomon.”
“Yes, there is a good place just ahead.” Solomon’s mood brightened at the mention of food.
When the truck stopped, Reece climbed into the bed and helped the men unload the chairs, cooler, and other assorted gear that made up the lunchtime spread. He made sure that he was the one setting up the folding camp chairs, setting three of them in a triangle under the shade of the tree that they’d parked under. This drew strange looks from Solomon and Gona as they wondered who else might be joining them. When the food containers were opened on the table, Reece motioned for the men to make their plates.
“No, no. You eat, Mr. Reece.”
“We are changing things up. You guys eat first.”
The two trackers exchanged puzzled looks.
“Go on, make your plates, guys.” Reece motioned toward the food.
The men shrugged and moved toward the table. Solomon went first, making a plate for himself, and then walking toward the base of the tree to sit.
“No, no. Sit in the chair. You guys are eating with me. If we’re going to be a team, we’ll eat together, at least out here.”
Solomon hesitated for a minute and then broke into a smile and took his place in one of the chairs. Reece was building a team, and in the close-knit world of special operations, where officers and enlisted men trained, fought, slept, and bled in the same mud, leaders ate last. Reece thought of his SEAL Teams, the skills developed and honed through the hunting of men as they dismantled and destroyed terrorist networks across the globe. Reece was adapting those skills to a different battlefield against a new adversary. It was time to hunt again.
CHAPTER 25
MacDill Air Force Base
Tampa, Florida
March
GETTING UP FROM HIS office chair was painful for Sergeant Major Jeff Otaktay, thanks to the 7.62mm bullet that had shattered his femur in Sadr City a decade earlier. That bullet had turned the 3rd Special Forces Group’s most promising sniper into a deskbound staff NCO. He could have retired medically thanks to the plates and screws that held his leg together, but he felt a duty to train and mentor the soldiers who came after him, passing along his knowledge to the next generation of Special Forces operators. That path led him to an instructor slot at the Special Forces Sniper Course at Fort Bragg’s Range 37, a job for which he was perfectly suited.
His current position was not so stimulating. As the senior noncommissioned officer of the SOF Warrior Acquisition Office at SOCOM, which was part of the Special Operations Force Acquisition and Logistics office, the once-proud warrior now spent his days going over gear requests instead of teaching snipers to stalk and kill their prey. He’d resigned himself to his fate and dedicated his efforts to putting the best equipment available in the hands of the special operations soldiers, sailors, airmen, and Marines still working downrange. He worked long hours to shuttle requests through the acquisition process as quickly as possible and had learned to navigate this new battlefield nearly as effectively as he’d done in the streets of Iraq. He was still able to contribute at the tactical level by spending much of his free time training SWAT snipers from all over Florida’s Gulf Coast.
It was his overseas battlefield experience that made the current request on his desk seem unusual. Someone was requesting a pair of CheyTac M200 sniper rifle
s with high-end Nightforce optics and a large amount of match ammunition for a joint U.S.-NATO sniper program in Turkey. Relations with Turkey had become increasingly strained as of late, and it struck Otaktay as strange that the United States would be urgently shipping them high-end sniper weapon systems. This wasn’t a rifle that fit into the traditional military arsenal of either the Americans or Turks. As a sniper, he was very familiar with its extreme long-range capability and this wasn’t something he wanted in the hands of the bad guys on his watch. Trusting his instincts had kept his men alive on the battlefield, and those same instincts were now sounding the administrative alarm.
The sergeant major made a few calls to his contacts in the special operations community, and thanks to a friend in the military deputy’s office, he was able to trace the request to a call placed from a Senate staffer a week earlier. It wasn’t totally out of the ordinary for someone on the Hill to carry water for a weapons manufacturer constituent, but it was rarely for something so specific. Having done his due diligence, it was time to go see the boss.
As he pushed himself up from his chair, he took a moment to steady himself before making his way into the glass-paneled hallway that led to the program executive officer’s domain. Otaktay had encountered a few good officers during his military career, but his current boss was not one of them. Major Charlie Serko was a logistician, and not a particularly good one. He had been a mediocre Field Artillery officer before transitioning to the Acquisition Corps, where he did nothing but hone his skill for managing his career up the chain of command. The NCOs on his staff were all convinced that his regulation-length brown mustache was the result of the time he spent crawling up the SOCOM acquisition director’s ass. This, along with his rodentlike face, led to his nickname: Gerbil.
Otaktay’s limp became less noticeable as his leg muscles loosened with each step. Exhaling deeply, he knocked on the Gerbil’s open door frame.
“Sir, do you have a moment?”
Major Serko looked up, surprised to see the hulking and heavily tattooed Native American NCO in his doorway. The man’s camouflage uniform was covered with badges and patches that were a testament to his career in special operations. The major stared at the Combat Infantryman’s badge, Master Rated Parachutist badge, HALO wings, and Special Operations Diver badges that decorated the NCO’s chest, tangible reminders of a life spent running toward the sound of gunfire. The major’s own uniform was almost bare but for his rank, name badges, and single row of administrative ribbons. The Special Forces Group combat patch, Ranger tab, and Presidents Hundred tab on Otaktay’s sleeve only added insult to the major’s injury.
“Umm, sure, yeah, Sergeant Major,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Can you make it quick?”
The walls of the office were covered with photographs and mementos from the major’s single deployment to Afghanistan. There was a traditional Afghan pakol wool hat on the shelf, a decommissioned Chinese hand grenade on his desk, and a seemingly endless array of photos depicting the Gerbil holding various weapons. Otaktay was amused by the fact that all the photos appeared to have been taken inside the walls of the sprawling Forward Operating Base that the major likely never left.
“Sir, I need you to take a look at this.” Otaktay slid the request across the major’s desk. “Something’s not right about it. I checked with some of the guys overseas and they haven’t heard anything about this program. We appear to be exporting weapons to an unknown entity.”
Serko glanced at the form and frowned. “Where did this request come from?”
“That’s why I came to see you, sir. It came from Colonel Fenson’s office. Someone in D.C. asked him for a favor, from what I hear.”
“The deputy? You expect me to question a request that came down from an 0-6?”
“Sir, I don’t really give a shit who it came from. I’m trying to prevent sniper weapons systems from being used against U.S. forces overseas.”
Major Serko paused and chose his next words deliberately. “You think you’re still a sniper, don’t you? Better get used to the fact that you’re not. You are just another staff NCO.”
Otaktay’s hands balled into fists as he suppressed the urge to pull the Gerbil’s spine out through his throat. He took a breath and pressed on in a professional but measured tone: “Sir, this isn’t about me, this is about keeping weapons out of the hands of our enemies. This request is highly abnormal. No one that I’ve spoken to has ever heard of a combined U.S. sniper program with Turkey. At best, these rifles are going to be used by the Turks against the Peshmerga.”
“And what, precisely, do you expect me to do about it, Sergeant Major?”
“Sir, perhaps you could reach out to someone on Colonel Fenson’s staff and dig a bit deeper. Once these weapons ship, there’s no getting them back. Remember all of the weapons we sent to Afghanistan in the eighties?”
“Sergeant Major, have you ever heard the phrase ‘the nail that sticks up gets hammered down?’ The chain of command exists for precisely this reason. We must all do our part to keep the machine moving. These rifles need to ship as expeditiously as possible.”
Serko signed each page of the form and placed it in the outbox on his desk.
“Anything else, Sergeant Major?”
“Negative, sir.” Otaktay turned to leave and then stopped. “Sir, you don’t have to lead men in combat to show courage.”
“What are you talking about, Sergeant Major?”
“It’s a pity you don’t know,” Otaktay replied, leaving the office with no sign of his limp.
CHAPTER 26
Niassa Game Reserve
Mozambique, Africa
March
REECE SET HIS MIND to developing a strategy to better address the poaching problem. He had his mission. Now it was time to gather intel.
Rich Hastings was delighted to have a seasoned combat leader dedicated to antipoaching, and he offered him every resource available. Reece’s first request was a wall-sized map of the area and all the reports of poaching activities they’d collected. Within minutes, Reece was staring at a pile of notes an inch thick. Hastings’s team had been diligent about compiling the raw data from the field but hadn’t had the resources to apply it tactically.
Reece had seen the same thing happen in the early days of the counterinsurgency effort in Iraq. Teams would gather laptops, cell phones, and written materials from raids on high-value targets, only to see those intelligence gold mines go stale without procedures in place to exploit and analyze them effectively. Once they understood the benefits of sensitive site exploitation and coordinated with the intelligence analysts waiting back at base, their effectiveness in dismantling the enemy network increased exponentially.
It was important that the PHs remain in the field scouting and interdicting the poachers, so Rich and Reece remained in camp, compiling the reports and developing a plan. Reece was amazed that many of the targeting techniques employed by the Rhodesian SAS in the 1970s were the same ones developed by him and his contemporaries three decades later; too bad they hadn’t consulted with guys like Hastings back in 2003.
Hastings’s command of the local geography was essential in locating each poaching event, which was marked on the oversize map. As they pinned each poaching site on the map, patterns began to emerge; the poachers used two main travel corridors, the roads and rivers. The hunting blocks themselves were essentially devoid of human population, so the poachers had to come from somewhere. Movement on roads would be risky, especially during the day, but would be faster and safer than overland travel. After the poachers infiltrated the game-rich reserve and bordering hunting blocks, they would have the logistical problem of moving the meat, hides, or ivory back to their point of sale. It is roughly fifteen times more efficient to move goods by water than by land under the best conditions, and the roads in this part of the world were less than ideal. Those same rivers that flowed rapidly during the wet season turned into sand pits in the dry winters. Reece’s theory was that the poac
hers moved by water during the wet months and reverted to land travel only when the rivers ran dry.
“That’s about right,” Hastings agreed. “We’ve always suspected that the local fishermen were in on it. The bulk of the poaching takes place during the wet season. Part of that is the ability to use rivers and the other reason is that we are not in the field as actively during the wet months because many of the roads are impassable. When we’re out there scouting and hunting, we’re a big deterrent. During the wet months, our PHs are usually back in Zim or South Africa visiting their families, which limits our presence. The poachers know this and work around it. Even if we could afford to run antipoaching patrols all year, we couldn’t get around without a helicopter.”
“Too bad you don’t have a UAV.”
“What’s a UAV?”
“Unmanned aerial vehicle. A drone.”
“Hell, we’ve got a bloody drone. None of us know how to fly the thing, but we’ve got it.”
“What?”
“Some Russian client brought it with him last season along with some old Soviet-era night vision that looks like it belongs in a museum. He wanted to use it to find game. We told him it was bloody unethical. He could hunt the way we do or find another outfitter. He got pissed and spent the rest of his trip drinking in camp and shacking up with his twenty-year-old supermodel ‘translator.’ He left the drone and night vision as a tip, kind of a joke, really. We were pissed because none of us had any use for it. We attempted to use the night vision scouting for cats, but the batteries ran out, so it’s sitting in the shed with the drone.”