The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  But Aiden Stanhope was good. By his actions, he had changed Burke’s impression of him. Of the three squad leaders, Burke perhaps trusted Stanhope the most to accomplish a difficult mission. He had forged Third Squad into a tight, efficient unit. The lieutenant had been very impressed with him on the Wilmington, and while Stanhope didn’t know it yet, the platoon commander had confided in him that he was recommending the squad leader for a Navy and Marine Corps Commendation Medal with Combat V.

  Burke also had to re-think his position on the Guard and Reserves a bit. While waiting for the movie to start one evening in the mess decks, Sgt Stanhope had recounted to them about his two deployments to the ‘Stan with the Guard, how that had cost him two jobs, two well-paying construction jobs that his active duty pay could not match. He had gone through his savings keeping up his mortgage during his first deployment, but when he went back only 18 months later, he couldn’t manage it, and he had to sell his house. His wife and three kids moved back in with his mother-in-law.

  If Burke had thought about it before, he probably thought that Guardsmen used their service for a few extra bucks without having to be a full-time soldier. He never considered that serving could be a financial hardship. And even having experienced that financial hardship, Sgt Stanhope’s volunteering to get back into the active forces was pretty admirable.

  All three squad leaders sat there, waiting for him to speak. Burke still felt the Rangers were the elite to the US military, but he had to admit that he had a pretty good set of NCO’s under him. They could do the job.

  But while they had performed well accomplishing their first two missions, both of those missions had been pretty cut-and-dried. There were obvious good guys and bad guys, and obvious course of action. Their upcoming mission might be a bit dirtier.

  “You all got the lieutenant’s Five Paragraph Order. We know our mission, and frankly, it could be just as easy as that. We go in. We get out after the hostages are rescued. We are back in time for lunch. And all of you have already been bloodied. You are not rank newbies in the game of war. So no problem, right?”

  None of the three said anything. They knew there was more to this.

  “But let me tell you something. Somalia is the land of Black Hawk Down. If one thing the Battle of Mogadishu taught us is that nothing there is as easy as it might seem. The people here will just as likely pick up a rifle and shoot you as help you, even if you’re there to help them. And in this case, we’re not going to help anyone. We are going to impose our will on them, to take back what is ours.”

  He paused. Although he had gotten scrolled long after the battle, the Battle of Mogadishu was now as part of Ranger history as was Iwo Jima for the Marines or Camerone was for the French Foreign Legion, where soldiers fought against huge odds. And he had served with Rangers who had been with the 3rd Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment during the battle. He had gotten first-hand accounts of the crazy mayhem that occurred, how hordes of Somalis had taken to the streets to fight.

  “We may not have anything to do with the rescue itself. In fact, we probably won’t. We’re just an insurance policy. But that won’t keep the locals from staying away. They might just decide to make things hot for us, either just by mob mentality or because the local warlord thinks he has to show everyone he’s the top dog. So, what I am trying to tell you is to keep alert, keep on your toes. Don’t let anyone get separated from the rest. We may not be the point of main effort, but the Somalis don’t care about that.

  “We are part of a rescue force to rescue one American and one Filipino. I don’t want to lose anyone from our platoon over them. Not one Marine, capisce?”

  All three squad leaders nodded their understanding.

  “We’re not going to have Black Hawk Down 2 here,” he told them. “OK, then. All three of you’ve got a lot to do, so let’s get cracking. “

  He got a chorus of “Aye-aye, staff sergeants” as the three Marines stood up and filed out of the berthing space. Doug came in after they left, evidently standing outside the hatch, giving Burke the time he needed.

  “They all set?” the Special Boat Team detachment commander asked.

  “Yeah, they’re going to be fine.”

  “Well, kick some ass for me, OK? I wish we were going in, too, but that’s a little far for us, I guess. So I’ll just sit back here and wait for you to come back covered in glory,” he said, sounding a bit wistful.

  “Ah, you’re not going to be missing much. It’ll all be routine, and we’ll be back before you know it.”

  Burke wondered to himself if that would be true.

  Chapter 21

  Ten minutes out of Hobyo, Somalia

  The next dawn

  Capt Terrell Svenson was excited, no doubt about it. Not scared, not concerned, but excited. Finally, after almost 13 years in the military, he was going to see some action. The Osprey flew low over the waves, closing the distance with the approaching shoreline.

  He looked around at the Marines, his Marines, alert and ready. He was still disappointed that he was not going to be the point of main effort, but he had to admit, LT Starlinger was a good guy, and he couldn’t bring himself to resent him. The entire SEAL team, in fact, exuded confidence and a sense of lethality.

  So what if the SEALs were going to be the actual ones to enter the building where the hostages were being held? He was going to be the one to take care of security, to fight off anyone who came up to stop them. And since Col Saunders, the MEU CO had sent down the three Ospreys from the Pearl Harbor, he had more than enough seats to take every Marine ashore. And since that also freed up the Gaffert’s own Army Black Hawk detachment to supplement the Navy Sea Hawks, he could get his other two platoons ashore, too.

  Not even the infighting within the command could get him down. Normally, the Amphibious Group commander, a Navy officer, would be in command during the sea stage of an operation, while the MEU commander, a Marine, would take over as they crossed the beachline, but with both of them in port in Italy, they were sort of out of the loop. Col Saunders had sent down LtCol Pavoni, the battalion (more specifically, the ground element) commander down with the Ospreys, but CAPT Dregg had put his foot down and insisted that CDR Harrelson had overall command as it was the Navy SEALs who were the point of main effort. So LtCol Pavoni was back in the CIC monitoring the operation, probably chomping at his bits.

  As an Army man, he was used to Black Hawks, and in fact, there was an Army detachment of Black Hawks aboard the Gaffert as the Marine Corps had yet to really re-establish their air wing. But the Ospreys, while they kind of made him a bit nervous, were a fine ride. They were booking it. The scuttlebutt was that General Lineau had insisted that there was Marine Air presence, so three of the Ospreys that had been transferred to the Navy when the Marines were gutted were transferred back to the Marines. The three birds were paid for by blue dollars rather than green, and the supply chain was still blue, but emblazoned on the fuselages of each was a proud “U. S. MARINES.”

  He glanced once more at his Google Maps printout of Hobyo. While it had grown quite a bit over the last 10 years after the construction of the docks (paid for by USAID, he was surprised to find out) and after drought had continued to devastate the country’s interior, it was still barely 3 km long. And it still had only two major routes of egress into and out of the city. One route took off to the north, and Third Platoon would be the blocking force there. One left the town towards the southwest, and First Platoon would be the blocking force there. But neither should get any action. Whatever was going to happen would happen around the building just north of the center of town. Terrell would deploy his Marines around the building, protecting the SEALs who would be forcing entry into it and rescuing the hostages.

  He had to be quick, though. The Ospreys were fairly large birds, and luckily, there was a soccer field right next to the building. But they had to get out and deploy while the SEALs fast-roped into the building and took the pirates down before they could harm the hostages. They ha
d rehearsed on the deck of the Gaffert, but that was a far cry from real life in a built-up area. Terrell was concerned about the timing. Well, they would just have to do it.

  He glanced at CDR Harrelson. The man was trying to look calm and in control, but Terrell knew he had to be about shitting bricks. He may be a great boat driver, but this was a bit out of his element. Terrell doubted the man was scared about life and limb, but more likely scared about failure. He wanted to tell the commander to just sit back, let the Marines and SEALs do their jobs. Then he could get the credit and a nice ribbon to adorn his chest.

  The big Osprey banked hard to the left. They were getting close. Of the three-bird formation, two would take the Marines to the soccer field as the third would fast-rope the SEALs onto the target building’s roof before dropping off Kilo’s mortar section and two squads of the machine gun section to provide LZ security. The rest of the Weapons Platoon and Third Platoon’s wayward squad that couldn’t embark aboard the Independence would provide security to the west of the target while Second Platoon and Terrell’s headquarters element would provide security to the north, east, and south of the objective.

  If they were more robust to the west, well, that gave more security to their aircraft and would help to speed up their egress. Terrell didn’t figure them to be there for more than 10 minutes, 15 minutes top, and he needed to get everyone back on board quickly.

  The Osprey’s crew chief gave them the one-minute signal. It was almost go time!

  The roar of the rotors and big engines shifted. Terrell knew that the rotors were shifting from horizontal to vertical flight. As the Osprey came down, he surreptitiously reached down to unbuckle his seatbelt. He knew he was supposed to wait until the bird was actually on the ground, but he wanted to be able to move immediately.

  And then, with a thump, they landed. He jumped up and followed his Marines down the cargo hold and ramp. This was just like rehearsal!

  Or not!

  As soon as his feet hit the dirt, he was blinded by dust. The Gaffert’s nice clean deck had nothing to push into the air. The Osprey threw up a lot of heat, much more than a Black Hawk did, but it also threw up much more of a rotorwash. And when landing in a dusty soccer field, it seemed to pick up half of Somalia. More on instinct than anything else, Terrell simply ran, trusting his feet to keep him upright. It probably only took a few moments, but it seemed longer before he broke out of the dust and could see again. He glanced up and saw SEALs fast-roping down a hovering Osprey. He was on track, and only 30 or 40 meters from the objective.

  He motioned to Sgt Black, his radio operator.

  “Tell LtCol Pavoni we are on the deck,” he ordered before moving out, trusting the sergeant to keep up. With the new personal communications system, he had easier and more direct coms with his platoon commanders and with the SEAL team, but he still needed the longer-range radios to communicate with higher headquarters, and he planned on keeping those higher headquarters well-informed of all action they had to take. Terrell wanted to succeed, to show the world he was capable. But an indication of that acceptance by others would be with a medal. He didn’t want to admit to himself that he could be medal hunting, but there it was. He also knew that the Corps had a reputation on being much more parsimonious with medals than the other services, but if this all went down right, certainly there would be a Bronze Star in the making?

  He glanced back. He could see Lt Desroches organizing his Marines. The man was good, he had to admit. His weakest platoon commander was probably Lt Hartigan, and he had played with the thought of replacing him with the XO for the mission, but that might indicate to the CO that he could not train his lieutenants. It was better that he rode the young officer and corrected him on the ground, if it was needed.

  He had relented, though, with the XO. With the increased boat spaces due to the unexpected arrival of the Ospreys, he had let Lt Kremer go with Desroches to manage the LZ security.

  The Osprey hovering over the objective took off and swung around to land on the LZ. The SEALs were in! He had to move it.

  He looked around, ready to kick Lt Hartigan in the ass, but to his surprise, the young second lieutenant was moving ahead, and with SSgt Pierce, his platoon sergeant, he was already beginning to encircle the objective.

  “Don’t hold me back, Sgt Black,” he yelled. “Keep up with me!”

  If the radio operator rolled his eyes at that, Capt Svenson didn’t notice. He rushed forward.

  There was a brief staccato of fire. Was that inside the objective or outside? He looked around. It was morning, but not too early. There should be people around, going about their daily routine, but he couldn’t see anyone except Marines.

  “Two, this is Six. Are you under fire, over?” he keyed into his company circuit.

  As the comm was secure, he didn’t feel the need to use call signs, and he had told his lieutenants to use plain language to ensure there were no misunderstandings. This might be breaking the SOP, but Terrell wasn’t above that if he thought he had a better way of doing things.

  “That’s a negative, Six. The fire is coming from inside the objective, over,” came the response from Lt Hartigan.

  “Roger that. Keep your eyes open, though. We may have some rats bailing ship right ricky tick. Out.”

  He arrived at the south side of the objective. This would give him control of both the east side of the security force and over the LZ security force at the same time.

  He backed up against the stucco wall of a shop or something, across the dusty street from the objective, motioning for Sgt Black to join him.

  “You got your SITREP format?” he asked the young Marine. He had spent a lot of time before and during the deployment drilling the radio operator on the various reports sent to higher headquarters. He didn’t want to stop his flow of leadership to sit down and write a report, so trained his radio operator to do them instead.

  “Yes, sir,” came the expected reply.

  “OK, go ahead and send it. Make sure you let them know there has been hostile fire.”

  He wondered a bit about the last. Had it really been hostile fire? Or had that merely been a trigger-happy SEAL?

  He could monitor the platoon frequencies, so when several messages were sent about approaching “possible hostiles,” he leaned forward to peer down the road leading to the beach. A man was in the middle of the road, leading a donkey cart.

  A frigging donkey cart? Was that what these people used?

  The man had stopped, and one of the Marines stood up, motioning with his M4 to move back. He may not have understood the English, but he certainly understood the M4. He hurriedly turned his donkey around and moved back as fast as the little animal would pull the cart.

  Idiot, he thought. Surely he heard the Ospreys come in. He was lucky he wasn’t shot.

  “Some ‘hostile,’” he said to Sgt Black, not expecting a reply.

  There was another round of automatic fire, then an increased volume, obviously coming from several weapons. Terrell jumped, despite himself. He wondered what was going on. The SEALs could communicate with him, of course, but he didn’t feel he should initiate a query.

  The fire ceased. He looked at Sgt Black, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged his own lack of understanding. Black was a good kid, he realized. He rode him hard and expected a lot out of him, but that was OK. He was going to have to take care of him after all of this was over.

  The sun had begun to warm up the streets and buildings. A fly buzzed around, looking for someplace to land. It seemed a little surreal to Terrell, to be sitting here in the sun in a deathly quiet town on the coast of Africa. Whatever he expected combat to be, this wasn’t it.

  He settled down to wait, wondering what he should be doing. The XO reported in that the LZ was secure and the mortars set up. With a town as small as Hobyo, even his 60’s could cover the entire area of operations.

  He looked at his watch. He thought that surely the hostages had to have been rescued by now. Despite his expec
ting something, anything to happen, he jumped a bit when Sgt Black touched him with his radio handset.

  “Sir, it’s battalion. He wants to speak to you.”

  He looked at his wrist to where he had written his assigned call sign.

  “This is Foxtrot-Niner-Romeo Actual, over.”

  “Foxtrot-Nine-Romeo, this is Whiskey-Four-Delta Actual, over. The assault element reports there are no friendlies at the objective. I repeat, no friendlies. They will continue to search, but they do not expect to find anyone. Consolidate your position and await further orders. Do you copy, over?”

  No friendlies? The hostages were not in there? How could that be? They had received good confirmation, even a satellite photo.

  “Roger, Whiskey-Four-Delta. I copy that, over.”

  “This is Whiskey-Four-Delta, out.”

  He leaned back against the wall of the shop. What now?

  Chapter 22

  Hobyo, Somalia

  Asad heard the clatter of the aircraft up to the north. He tried to look out the small window, but he couldn’t see anything. He knew that sometimes a government official would fly in to take payments or to meet with the town leadership, but this didn’t sound like the same thing. This sounded like a number of aircraft.

  He looked over at his charges. The white man, Craig, the translator said his name was, was getting worse. His neck was red and swollen, and it seemed his breathing was being affected. Asad had managed to bring in a blanket, and it was on this that the man was laying down. Asad was not a doctor, but he didn’t think Craig would last much longer. He felt guilty about that, and not only for the loss of a ransom.

  The other man, Bong, wasn’t even an American. He was from the Philippines. Asad knew that was somewhere in Asia, but just where or why someone from there was working on an American ship, he really didn’t know. At least Bong seemed to be getting better. He was more alert, and he was trying to take care of Craig.