The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  “So, if I could get you to America, would you be interested?”

  Asad was taken aback. America?

  “Why would I go there? And why would they let me? I just held one of their people captive. I cut him, and he may die.”

  “The Americans are a strange people. They fight like devils, but they don’t hold blood feuds like we do. They forget about the past. To them, you saved their man’s life. If I can get them to understand that you could be killed for doing that, then they will feel an obligation to take you.”

  “But America? What would I do there?” He thought about his sweet Ayaan back in Galinsoor, the girl he had intended to marry.

  “They call America ‘The Land of Opportunity.’ You can do anything you want there. And there are many, many Somali communities there.”

  “I don’t know. How can a man live without his clan?”

  “There are other Hawiya in America, even, what are you, Degodia?”

  He waited until Asad nodded.

  “I thought so, from your accent. Anyway, there will be plenty of your clan there. But in America, other Somalis become your clan. Dir, Ishaak, Darod, Rahawein, all become your clan.”

  Other Hawiya, sure, Asad could believe that. But the Dir, from the very far north? They were so different from his people.

  “But you better make up your mind. I heard the Marine lieutenant. They will be leaving soon, and they plan to let you go. I don’t think your crew will be happy to see you alive and the prisoners gone, so I would suggest you go with them. Go to America, make some money, and come back when time has softened emotions and you can buy your way back into your village’s good graces.”

  Asad thought for another moment before asking, “Do you really think I should?”

  “I think you would be stupid not to.”

  It was all too fast. He couldn’t think. He had resigned himself to dying and had accepted it. But now that he was alive, he didn’t want to let go of life. He didn’t want to die. Ali was looking expectantly at him.

  “All I ask is that once you’re in America, remember me. If I need your help to go there, if I need a sponsor, you owe me that.”

  Ali’s motive became clear, but that helped Asad. If Ali wanted to go that badly, then there had to be a viable future there. Asad did not want to die today. If America was an option, then so be it.

  “OK, I’ll do it.”

  Chapter 31

  Hobyo

  “OK, cut that away. I can hear the bird inbound. We need to get all of this clear,” he shouted out to the Marines helping clear the roof.

  As a young Marine, before he had transferred to the Army, SSgt Davidson had seen a video of a CH-46 carrying a SEAL team trying to land on an amphib. A wheel had caught in the panic net on the sides of the ship, and the helo had tipped over and sunk into the deep Pacific Ocean. He knew it might not take much to cause disaster, so with the precarious roof-top pick-up already beyond the norm, he had to make sure all possible precautions had been taken.

  The last wire was cut and fell to the street below. He looked over the edge and watched it hit the ground. Across the street, the body of a Somali lay still, face-first on the roof, a rifle still clasped in his hand. LCpl Isaac had done his job.

  Cpl McClaren’s fire team emerged from the small roof access, struggling to keep Mr. Murphy from being jostled as they carried him, using the blanket he had been lying on as a make-shift stretcher. They were followed by the lieutenant, Sgt Alvarez, Mr. Benedicto, Cpl Stepchild, Doc Supchak, and Ali, their interpreter.

  “Corporal Bonaventure, I want some security up here, but stay away from this side of the roof. The Black Hawk’s coming down here. Sergeant Alvarez, have your men put Mr. Murphy over in that corner. Wait until I give you the signal, then bring him over. Doc, you go with them.”

  “Hey, Bull,” Sgt Alvarez shouted out to Cpl McClaren, “over here,” as he moved out to follow his orders.

  “Everything set?” Lt Niimoto asked.

  “I think so, sir. I will handle the landing, but if Cpl Stepchild can tell them to land along the northern edge, I think that’ll be best.”

  He could see the platoon radio operator start the call without waiting for the platoon commander to approve. The Squad Tactical Radios were great tools. They could be hands free, a dedicated radio operator was not needed, and they could be tailored for commanders only or for everyone. And if a tablet was hooked up via a simple connection, he could speak privately to individuals simply by touching their icon. But they only went up to the company level, their range was limited, and they could not connect with outside agencies such as air. This limited their use when calling for supporting fire or when trying to bringing a Black Hawk on the edge of a rooftop in a dusty Somali town.

  “Sir,” Ali was saying, trying to get the lieutenant’s attention, as if he had been trying for some time.

  Lt Niimoto turned to the Somali as the incoming Black Hawk began to make a wide turn to get into an approach.

  “OK, what. But make it quick.”

  “It’s about that young man, the man who saved your two hostages.”

  “You mean the one who held them captive, first?”

  “Yes, most of course. But he also saved them. And because he saved them, he will die.”

  Burke looked up at that. The lieutenant looked confused, too.

  “Why would he die,” the platoon commander asked the obvious question.

  “That is because sir, he was ordered to kill them. But his heart is pure, and he could not kill the innocent. So he must pay. He is most sure to be killed dead,” Ali said in a matter-of-fact voice.

  “I’m sorry for that. But what can I do?” he asked.

  “When others help you Americans, you must to take them back to America where they will be safe. This is your own laws. This is your ‘J-1 Fear of Persecution Visa.’”

  What? thought Burke. What is this, an immigration scam?

  “I don’t know anything about that,” the lieutenant told him.

  “Then he will die. After torture. I am not to tell you what you must do. But it is most right thing, and this young boy, he saved your American person’s life. Please, send him to the ship. They can decide there.”

  The helo was flaring, slowly making its way over the street. Burke could not wait to hear the lieutenant’s decision. He had to guide the Black Hawk in. He rushed to the edge of the building, watching the distance close.

  As a Ranger, he had been taught how to guide in a helo, and as the pilots were Army, it went smoother than he expected. In addition the pilot could see the edge of the roof. It was not a blind landing. It didn’t take long before the helo was essentially hovering, one wheel planted firmly on the roof, the other two out over the street. The rotorwash was significant, enough to make ripples in the blood pooling under the dead Somali sniper on the house across the street, but it wasn’t too bad.

  He motioned for Cpl McClaren to bring over Mr. Murphy. Peripherally, he could see Ali still pleading his case with the lieutenant, but Burke was focused on getting Mr. Murphy on board. The merchant crewman was a big guy, and one slip would send him crashing two stories down to the street.

  They paused at the side of the bird, trying to military press the man into it, but the crew chief was having problems grasping the worn blanket and pulling him in. LCpl Gittens jumped up into the helo, and Burke moved over to help. It took several tries, but finally, Mr. Murphy was in the Black Hawk. Gittens jumped out, and Burke signaled Mr. Benedicto to approach.

  As the Filipino came forward, Burke saw the lieutenant nod his head towards the Black Hawk. Ali rushed to the roof access and yelled below. The platoon commander caught his eye. Burke merely shrugged. That was the lieutenant’s call.

  Mr. Benedicto was in much better shape than Mr. Murphy, but he had still been pretty badly used. He had to be assisted up and into the bird. The crewchief held his hand up to the side of his helmet, and nodded, obviously in the horn with the pilot. He looked at Burke, han
ds raised in question. Burke held up one finger. He looked back to see the prisoner being hurried forward, hands still bound.

  He wasn’t a big guy, so Gittens and LCpl Kihlstadius pretty much picked him up and threw the frightened-looking man into the Black Hawk. Burke gave the crew chief a thumbs up, and the helo slowly lifted off the roof. It seemed to hover for a minute, then the nose dipped as it began to pick up speed and altitude. Within moments, it was moving quickly towards the sea.

  “Well, that takes care of that,” he said to no one in particular as they watched the helo fly away.

  When the rocket hit the Black Hawk, it took everyone by surprise. The helo was about 200 feet high, maybe 500 meters away when a trail of grayish smoke raced from the ground and struck it. The helo immediately banked to the right, losing altitude and trailing black smoke.

  “Fuck!” someone said, an emotive thought shared by pretty much everyone on the roof.

  The helo was doomed, plunging down towards the white houses below. It disappeared behind a building, and the stunned Marines waited for the inevitable crash. To their surprise and delight, the Black Hawk limped back into sight, still trailing smoke, but flying cockeyed.

  “Come on you bastard, fly!” someone, maybe Bonaventure, shouted.

  Cpl Steptoe was already on the hook, reporting to higher headquarters what had happened.

  As if by force of will, the pilot kept the Black Hawk aloft. It was low and trailing smoke, obviously in distress. It looked like it made it past the beach and over the water, but that was hard to tell from their position. Burke prayed that it could make it out to the ships.

  As they watched, hoping to catch a sight of the Black Hawk, to confirm it was still in the air, Sgt Stanhope’s calm voice came over the platoon.

  “Six, this is three. We’ve got several hundred hostiles approaching our position. What are our orders?”

  Chapter 32

  Hobyo

  Tony Niimoto spread the map out on the roof of the house, looking over to where Sgt Stanhope had his squad deployed some 150 meters down Route Denver. He could not see the mob approaching from his viewpoint, but there was a small undercurrent of noise just at the threshold of his hearing.

  “OK,” he told SSgt Davidson, Sgts Dailey and Alvarez, and Cpl Steptoe, who were gathered around him. “The skipper says to hang on, and he’ll get the word upstairs for an immediate evacuation. They’ve already started their retrograde, but the mortar platoon is still on deck, so he’s going to redeploy the 60’s for some fire support until he gets some more information. He says not to engage the Somalis unless they attack, but to present a united front to see if they’ll back down. The Ospreys are too big to land anywhere here, so it’ll have to be Black Hawks, just as in our original plan.”

  “Why don’t they just bring in the Apaches and send the ragheads running?” asked Sgt Alvarez.

  “Well, our orders are not to engage. And no one is sure what hit that Black Hawk, so I think caution is the name of the game right now.”

  “Fuck caution, sir. It’s our asses on the line. I don’t want to be part of Black Hawk Down 2.”

  No one wanted to mention it, but it was in each of their minds. It was probably in every Marine in the platoon’s mind as well.

  “This isn’t Mogadishu, Sgt Alvarez. And we don’t know what the mob wants. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

  Tony looked back down at the map, studying the area. He used his chin to activate his face shield display, and each of Third Squad’s Marines as well as the STA team’s icons came to life, showing the squad’s disposition. Sgt Stanhope was in control of the intersection, ideally suited to block two avenues of approach. But could one squad hold back “hundreds” of angry Somalis? On one hand, the position was ideal. On the other hand, it left them hanging out there. He flirted with the thought of rushing the rest of the platoon to join him, but there really wasn’t enough room there to deploy a full platoon.

  He looked about the rooftop. The pirates had picked this building for a reason. It was the only two-story building within a few blocks, so the fields of observation were about as good as for what could be hoped. It was relatively solid, and the window openings were small when compared to other buildings in the area. And as one Black Hawk had already picked up passengers from the roof, others should be able to do so as well. That is what settled it for him.

  “Three, this is Six. I want you to pull back to our position immediately. Do not engage the mob unless they attack. But move back now.”

  “Roger that. We are on our way. Three, out,” came the calm-sounding reply. Tony thought they might as well have been conducting a routine training exercise back at Lejeune for all the stress that was evident in the squad leader’s voice.

  “OK, I don’t want anyone sneaking up on us by hugging the buildings on this side of the street, and I think this house is too small for us to adequately deploy all of us, so Sgt Dailey, I want you to take your squad and clear that building,” he motioned with his hand to the house across the street, the one with the dead sniper on top. “Check to see if there is a back entrance, and cover that if there is. Otherwise, get your squad on top. We’ll cover your front door and you’ll cover ours. Got it?”

  “Yes sir,” came the reply. “And when the birds come to get us? I don’t think they’ll be able to set down there.”

  “No, when they come, be ready to come back. You’ll be flying first, then Third Squad, which I am keeping downstairs here, then First Squad. Sgt Alvarez, you’ve got this roof, so move your teams to have full coverage.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” the Second Squad leader said before moving off the roof to gather his Marines.

  Tony looked at his platoon sergeant before asking, “Anything else?”

  SSgt Davidson looked up for a moment, eyes and forehead scrunched in concentration.

  “No sir. I don’t think so. But our ride out of here better be quick. There’re a million places for bad guys to hide here, and I think we’d be hard-pressed to defend this if push comes to shove.”

  Both men walked over to the roof’s edge and looked back towards Elena. Third Squad was already in view, performing a quick bounding overwatch retrograde. Tony marveled at how precise, how professional they looked.

  Directly below them, Cpl Horton’s team was rushing across the street. Pvt Lambie lifted his size 13 boot and kicked in the door, disappearing inside. Tony’s breath caught for a moment. The private hadn’t cleared the room, just went right in as easy as he pleased. Cpl Horton saw that and rushed his team in as well. There was no shooting, though, so they hadn’t met up with any resistance.

  Sgt Dailey got his entire squad into the small house, and in a few moments, Tony could see a Marine push up through a hatch in the rear of the roof. It wasn’t much longer before the entire squad was up with the squad leader deploying his teams to give them the best observation and coverage.

  PFC McNamara nonchalantly picked up the legs of the dead sniper, pulling him back away from the leading corner of the building and to the roof’s center to give LCpl Bouchard, the team’s automatic rifleman, that preferred firing position.

  Sgt Dailey looked up at Tony and gave him a thumbs up. The two were separated by only 10 meters or so, but the gap looked awfully large. Tony was already second-guessing himself for splitting up his platoon.

  Below him, Third Squad had reached its position and was entering the building. SSgt Davidson touched his arm, and when Tony looked at him, the platoon sergeant merely pointed back towards Elena. There was visible movement. Tony lifted up his binos to get a better look.

  Only the fringe of the mob was in view, but he could count at least 30 or 40 Somali men, most armed with rifles. Some were AK’s and some looked to be antiques. Antiques or not, a round fired from either could ruin a Marine’s entire day.

  “SSgt Davidson, I want you to go below and make sure Stanhope’s in position to block the entry. Take Doc with you, and leave him there. Come back up here when you’re done.�
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  He looked back to the mob. If they milled around there, then this could be a headless mass of people with no set plan. If they immediately set off down Denver, well, things could be getting ugly very soon.

  For a moment, it looked like they might just be that headless mob. But through the binos, Tony could clearly see on man pointing down Denver towards their position.

  Shit, he thought.

  Chapter 33

  Hobyo

  CDR Galen Harrelson looked up at the tall Marine captain looming over him. If he thought he was intimidating him, he was sadly mistaken. No Marine captain was going to be able to do that, but the situation, on the other hand, was doing an admirable job of intimidation.

  “But sir, we need to reinforce First Platoon. They’ve got hundreds of hostile at their position. We’ve got to move now.”

  “’Hostiles’ or just a mob?” he asked.

  “A mob now, but their intent is clear,” came the excited reply.

  “I’m glad you’re privy to their very thoughts, captain,” he said, drawing out the rank until it was almost an insult. “But our orders are clear. We’re to get everyone back on the ships without getting into a firefight. Our air is incoming, and we’ve got the two Apaches on station if the situation gets dangerous.”

  “With all due respect, sir, it is already dangerous. Look, we’ve already got Third Platoon embarked and airborne. Let’s turn them back to reinforce First Platoon.”

  “And throw more fuel into the fire? I’m afraid not.”

  Galen knew how to handle junior officers, but ground operations were something different. He as a boat driver, for goodness sakes, not a grunt. He had won the Commander, Naval Surface Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet Junior Officer Shiphandling Award as a mere JG, something unheard of. He had published articles in Proceedings and could competently discuss crossing the T with a line of 32-gun man-of-wars or anti-submarine warfare in the Gulf. His environment was the dynamic, shifting ocean, not the dusty, static streets of some Godforsaken African town.