The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  He understood why the captain had put him ashore. He wanted to make sure that this was a Navy operation, and until that Marine O5 had shown up, it made sense. Frankly, though, Galen thought that the Marine might have been a better choice.

  But the operation had succeeded in finding the hostages. After being stymied at their objective, that unexpected and thoroughly welcomed call had come in. The Marine platoon, one of the supporting forces, had somehow found and rescued them. They had even been put on a helo before all hell broke loose. First, the helo had taken a hit, and Galen didn’t even know yet if they had gone down or were still airborne. Then, while they were loading back up to get the hell out, that same platoon who had found the hostages reported being approached by a mob.

  He had reported back, and his orders had been clear. Get every American off the ground, and immediately.

  Already, the platoon of Marines who had taken the northern blocking position had been picked up, and even if he had the authority, Galen was not about to order them back into harm’s way. The SEALs were loading up as well along with some of the Marines here at the objective. He had relented in allowing Capt Svenson to change the order to keep the mortar platoon to the last bird, but that would only give them a few extra minutes.

  As far as his other platoon, well, between the helos to pick them up and the others to provide support, he hoped that would be enough. That had to be enough.

  He wished the power-that-be would have released the Benjamin Franklin to provide support, but from what he had been told, that would have been too aggressive, an act of war rather than a rescue mission. Maybe so, but a huge aircraft carrier steaming up and down the horizon had a way of quelling aggression.

  “OK, I understand, sir. But request permission to remain back here until the last two Ospreys come in. I want to be able provide any support if it is needed.”

  Galen looked up at the lanky Marine. The man seemed earnest.

  “I guess that’d be OK. Tell my chief to take you off the manifest on this flight.”

  He looked over at the big Osprey, waiting for him.

  “And I’ve got to get going. We need to clear the LZ for the next one.”

  “Aye-aye, sir. Godspeed, sir.”

  Galen pushed the edge of his helmet back up for the hundredth time as he hurried off. He was sure glad to be getting off the ground and looking forward to his familiar berth aboard the Gaffert.

  Chapter 34

  Hobyo

  “I want everybody down and out of sight. No use showing off our position,” the lieutenant’s voice came over the open platoon circuit.

  PFC Jerry Masterson hunched down, but not before catching Terry’s eyes down on the other building and tapping the side of his helmet. That was Terry’s and his secret signal, but he couldn’t really say what it meant. It was more like bumping fists, or something, but only for the two of them.

  He still wasn’t sure why Second Squad was on this mission. They had been trained for working with the Special Boat Team, and even if they had let the pirates go later, that is what they had done on their first mission. But now, they had gone ashore in helos and had to fast-rope in. He had done that back at Lejeune of course, but they hadn’t spent as much time doing that as the other squads.

  At least that got him out on a mission with Terry. This would give them something to talk about after they got back to the States.

  As a middle-class white kid from Milwaukee, he never thought that his best friend would be a short, muscular African-American sweet potato farmer from the deep south. Well, Terry’s family was farmers, at least—Terry joined the Marines to flee that life.

  But they had bonded at boot, and they had even been assigned to the same company and the same platoon. And now they were closer than Jerry was to his real brother, Paul. They had plenty of free time on the Dunham, and the two of them spent hours planning out various business enterprise they could do together that would keep them in girls, cars, and whatever they wanted. LCpl Nguyen told them they reminded him of the two guys, Tom Hanks and that black guy, in that old movie, Forrest Gump, but those two were stupid. Jerry was smart, and Terry worked hard, so they had to succeed.

  First, though, they had to get out of this place. There were hundreds, maybe more ragheads coming to them, and he had seen Black Hawk Down, too. He knew what could happen. He looked over to where the lieutenant and the platoon sergeant were huddled, heads together. The lieutenant was a hero, and the platoon sergeant a combat Ranger, so he figured they would get them out of this OK.

  He shifted to look up at the sky. He couldn’t hear a helo coming yet. But they had to be coming soon, right? Before he had been told to get down, he could see a big Osprey landing in the distance, probably picking up Second or Third Platoon. Their turn had to be next.

  He could hear the rumble of the ragheads approaching. He hoped they might just march on by, but if they wanted trouble, Jerry was more than willing to give it to them. No mob of uneducated, stinking ragheads could take on the Marines.

  There was a crash just on the other side of him. He turned over to see flames on the roof. They were licking JJ’s legs, and he kicked out, sitting up to slap at them.

  “Fire, fire” came the command.

  He spun around and looked over the edge of the roof, pausing for a split second. Hundreds might have been an understatement. The filled the road all the way back to the intersection. A piece of the wall just below him exploded, and it took him a second to realize that they were shooting at him.

  He lowered this M4 and emptied his magazine into the crowd. Screams and shouts echoed up from below as both rooftop squads opened fire.

  Suddenly a friggin’ mule kicked him right in the chest. He fell back, unable to take a breath. He was aware of the firing going on, but most of that was outside of his tunnel vision.

  “Cease fire, cease fire,” came the command, not that he was in any condition to be firing.

  Cpl Winsome grabbed him and turned him over.

  “You OK Jerry? You hit?”

  Jerry nodded, but to being OK or to being hit, well, even he wasn’t sure.

  His fire team leader called out for Doc Supchak, then opened his flak jacket. He probed around, and when his fingers hit the upper right side of his chest, the pain lanced through him and he cried out.

  “Well, shit, you big baby. Look, you ain’t hit,” Winsome told him with a laugh.

  Jerry looked down. Sure enough, there was no blood. He was red, and already, bruising was starting to form, but his reactive armor had stopped the round. Maybe it was in relief, but suddenly, he could breath freely again. He laughed, but that brought back the pain.

  “Yeah, I bet that hurts like a mother fucker, but you’ll live.”

  “Did we win?” he asked his team leader.

  “Win, well, I doubt it. They sure ran though, when we hit their asses. The lieutenant’s on the hook with the company, and maybe we’ll get some more support, but I think they’ll be back.”

  Chapter 35

  Hobyo

  Terrell Svenson watched the Osprey take off. He wished he had thought of a way to keep more of his Marines ashore, but at least that prig of a commander was gone and he was the senior man there. He had a platoon in the shit, and that wasn’t going to happen on his watch.

  He was wondering if he should wait for the inevitable radio call or to just grab the bull by the horns when that call came in.

  “Six, this is One. We are under attack. I say again, we are under attack. We have 200, I say again, two-zero-zero, enemy who have attacked us, over.”

  “One, this is six. What is your situation, over,” he asked eagerly.

  He knew this was his out, his excuse to disobey orders.

  “We have beaten them back, at least temporarily. We have two WIA, zero KIA. Enemy KIA,” there was a pause, and Terrell could picture Lt Niimoto surveying the field of battle. “Enemy KIA, approximately 12, I say again, One-two, over.”

  “Roger, I understand. Hold
your position, and I will try to link up with you. I will call air on station, and the mortars in direct support. Keep this circuit open, and I will get back to you, out.”

  He felt a thrill almost physically rush through him. At last, he could prove the temper of his steel.

  Second Platoon had already lined up in sticks to board the incoming Osprey.

  “Lt Hartigan, fall back. Do not board!” he ordered his platoon commander.

  The Navy chief looked over and asked “What’s up? Why’re you changing the embarkation order?”

  “I’m not changing the order there, chief. I’m changing the mission. We’re going in relief of my First Platoon.”

  “You can’t do that! You heard the commander,” he sputtered.

  “Well, the situation’s changed. First Platoon’s been attacked, so now, we’ll go kick some ass.”

  “But, but . . .”

  Terrell ignored the chief, calling over Lt’s Kremer, Desroches, and Hartigan.

  “Lt Desroaches, I know you don’t have all your men, but I want our 60’s ready for support. Get them locked into Route Denver on either side of First’s position. Lt Kremer, you’re in charge back here. Take the headquarters section and anyone else left and keep the mortars safe. If you receive any opposition, call in that Osprey,” he pointed to the bird just as it came in to land on the soccer field, “or better yet, see if he’ll stay right there with his rotors turning, and get the hell out of here. Lt Hartigan, you’ve got two minutes to get your platoon ready.”

  “How’re we getting there, sir,” Lt Hartigan asked. “Air?”

  “We’re marching!”

  Chapter 36

  Hobyo

  Tony looked down at the street below. There were maybe a dozen obviously dead Somalis on the ground. Others had been helped away from the kill zone, and two poor souls were laboriously crawling back up the road.

  As with New Delhi, Tony didn’t feel a bit of remorse, but rather a sense of excitement. He felt a bit guilty for that. The dead men below him hadn’t woken up that morning and decide to kill a Marine today. They had gotten up, maybe kissed the wife, and gone out to earn their day’s wage. And now they were dead, their blood coagulating in the dust. Well, it had been their choice to attack, and they had paid the price.

  He glassed Elena. The mob hadn’t disbursed. They were still within easy rifle range, but Tony was not going to engage unless being actively attacked. He wasn’t sure if they were up for another attack, given what had just occurred.

  He looked back at his Marines. PFC Masterson had taken a round in the chest, but other than being bruised, he was OK. Over on the other building, PFC Dawkins has taken a round in the arm. Doc Supchak was over there now, and he had reported that Dawkins was OK, too. It could have been worse, for sure.

  He had gotten ammo reports, and they were still well-armed. The firing had been so quick before the Somalis had turned tail that most Marines had fired only a partial magazine, possibly a full one. He thought he could turn back several more attacks before ammo might become an issue.

  “Sir, I’ve got a target on top of a building over there, at your two o’clock,” LCpl Isaac told him.

  Tony looked, taking some time before finding the man. He was hiding behind something that looked like a swamp cooler back in the US, and he was armed. He wasn’t aiming his weapon, but merely observing them.

  “Don’t hit him, but take a shot and hit that thing he’s hiding behind. Let him know we’re watching him.”

  He watched through the binos as the STA sniper aimed and fired. The round hit about 6 inches above the man’s head. The Somali quickly ducked back, sliding on his butt until he reached the edge of the roof and dropped over.

  “Good shot, Isaac,” he told him.

  He looked at his watch. It had been about fifteen minutes since the attack. High overhead, the two Apaches had come on station, circling like birds of prey. He wasn’t sure why there was the delay in getting them out of there, but he knew it couldn’t be long now.

  Something caught his attention back at Elena. He wished the entire intersection was in view, but because of the slight bend in Denver about 150 meters down, much of Elena was hidden. A pick-up truck was slowly being moved into position. In the back, there seemed to be a heavier gun of some sort. Something like that would most likely be able to punch through their body armor.

  “Corporal Steptoe, get those Apaches and tell them we need help, now. They’ve got a technical.”

  He watched as the pickup edged closer. He could have told Isaac to take out the driver, but he wanted the truck down, not just the drivers. Better leave it to the Army Apaches.

  Comm with the Apaches was not great, certainly not as good as when Marines were calling in Cobras. But a frequency had been allotted for air-to-ground calls, and in a moment, the two Apaches arched over and began a run. Somalis saw that, too, and began to scatter. Surprisingly, the truck stayed put—foolish or brave, Tony didn’t know.

  For added security, he brought the mortar section up on the hook and gave them a fire mission for Elena, with rounds to hit after the Apache’s made their passes. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he could hear the thunk of outgoing mortars.

  The Apaches screamed in, one after the other. Just as the lead bird opened up with his 30 mm chain gun, four columns of smoke streaked up, two aimed at each bird. The first Apache took a direct hit on the undercarriage. It nosed over and within seconds, smashed into the buildings below. A huge fireball erupted, to the horror of the watching Marines.

  The second Apache had a split second more time, and the pilot veered his bird hard to the left. There was an explosion, and the steady whup-whup of the bird became rougher, but the pilot managed to keep her aloft. Aloft yes, but out of the fight.

  Tony was in shock. This ragtag mob had managed to bring down one of the fiercest aircraft flying. He could hear cheering, and he looked back at Elena to see Somalis jumping up and down. He was about to order his platoon to open fire when the intersection erupted in explosions.

  The 60 mm mortar is not the most powerful weapon in the American arsenal, but in a confined area like the intersection, the effects of the rounds were devastating. Lt Desroches and SSgt Thierry, the mortar section leader, were pinpoint accurate, dropping at least four rounds right in the intersection. At least one was a direct hit on the technical, completely destroying it.

  The threat to the platoon had been taken out, but at what cost? Two soldiers had just died trying to save them. The smoke was still billowing a scant 400 meters away, marking where they had fallen.

  Tony had been excited, but the deaths of the two soldiers sobered him up quickly. His thoughts drifted to those who fell in New Delhi, friends of his. It was up to him to keep his Marines alive, to let no one else die.

  He wasn’t sure he was up to it. People expected him to lead, to be the super Marine, all because of Delhi, all because he wore the Navy Cross on his chest. But he had just been a sniper like LCpl Isaac, never having to think about much more than windage and elevation. He had not had to lead Marines. But because he could shoot, people now thought he was a hero, the next Chesty Puller. Deep inside, Tony knew he was just a California surfer boy, an X-games kind of guy. The Marines had been an exciting ride, but did he have what it took to lead Marines in combat?

  Chapter 37

  Hobyo

  It was like rats scurrying around. You knew they were there, but you could not get a clear view of them. SSgt Burke Davidson knew the Somalis had not given up. They were massing for something.

  The lieutenant was on the radio, first with the skipper, then on the air freq trying to find out when they could expect to get evacuated. With the platoon commander focused on getting them out of there, Burke was monitoring their tactical situation.

  The thick column of black smoke that marked where the Apache had gone down had dissipated somewhat, but even the diminished plume was a reminder that these Somalis were not without their own capabilities.
The technical in the intersection still smoldered as well, but the trade-off wasn’t worth it.

  There were two two-story buildings about 300 meters to the north, and these gave a pretty decent view of their position. The Somalis realized this as well, as they could catch furtive glimpses of movement on the roofs. Burke had already lain in a fire mission on the buildings, but they couldn’t rain mortars on them unless the Somalis attacked again. This galled Burke, but at the same time, he knew firing might just push angry men into attacking again. He felt in his bones that they would attack again anyway, but there was a small chance that they had had enough.

  Sgt Dailey was moving to each Marine, making sure everyone was OK, mentally ready to repel any further attacks. Burke felt a bit of fatherly pride in that, even if he was only five or six years older than the squad leader. The sergeant was developing into a fine combat leader.

  He caught a few flashes from the two buildings and shouted “Get down!” even before he heard the reports and rounds started splattering on the wall below him. Both roofs had a small, 18-inch tall lip surrounding the edges, and his Marines instinctively hugged the northern edge of the wall as the automatic rifle peppered their building. The house that Second Squad was on was lower and closer to the enemy, but so far, the machine gun was focusing on the Marines around him.

  Within seconds, the Marines were firing back. Three hundred meters might seem a long way off, but when firing over buildings, it was even closer than the 500 meters at each Marine had qualified at the range. Explosions of white dust marked where their return rounds were striking.