The Darker Hours
Page 20
The boat pilots were locals. Even so, they had been on Uncle Sam’s payroll since they were children. In other words, they were trusted by IntelCom and subsequently by the Colonel. They knew the shoreline. They had friends and family throughout the region. None of those, however, knew about their relationship with the United States Government.
They both were skillful and maneuvered their long, narrow open bow boats up against the side of the disguised merchant ship we were on. The sun was going down and there was enough chop to make it difficult, but this wasn’t their first rodeo.
Adam, Blackhawk, Charlie, Echo and me, Jackson were assigned to the lead boat. Dakota, Fabian, Hero, Gumbo and Indigo were in the second one. Everyone had specialties. For instance, Echo and Gumbo were communications and electronics. Hero and I were tactical and were the five-man squad leaders. We were all in full-out night camo gear including the blackened faces and dark watch caps covering our short, short hair.
Since my guys were scheduled to be the first over, they were all standing watching me. I was watching the con tower. The guys up there were watching the radar, looking for surprises. There were none and I saw the double-blink of the infrared light. I turned to the sailors that were awaiting my signal and gave it. They dropped the lines over the side and one by one, my team went down the thick ropes.
As skillful as the pilots were, Charlie almost went into the drink and it was a quick move by Blackhawk that kept him dry. Once on board the pilot moved the boat away so the other boat could maneuver into position. The second team came silently down the ropes like rats coming off the ship.
We were too far out to see the land mass yet. We settled in, trying to find the one position that didn’t compress your spine and jar your teeth every time we lanced a wave. The mission was tricky. One Somalian overlord stood above the rest. Neither the Chinese, the Russians, nor the Americans could get him to play ball and every time any progress was being made, like a small child, he would step in and kick the pieces all to hell. He was arrogant and ruthless. Neither family, friend nor ally was immune to his whim. If you got in his way, you were killed, or at the least, imprisoned. His second in command was a mild-mannered ex-college professor who was easily manipulated. IntelCom wanted the warlord out and the professor in. The trick was, they really wanted the warlord alive. He knew all the players on all the sides. So, it was simple. Black Mamba would go into an impenetrable fortress and kidnap the most guarded guy in the place. Piece of cake.
The overlord’s name was Faduma and his seat of power was Mogadishu where his militia ruled the streets. But, little known, was the seaside villa he could escape to for rest and relaxation. It was stocked with all the forbidden fruits. Booze, women, drugs, whatever he wanted. It was south of Mogadishu near the tiny town of Marka.
It was a moonless night, and lucky for us, the sky was covered in clouds. In other words, it was darker than a bat’s ass. I watched the pilot and he didn’t seem the least bit worried. The plan was to beach the boats five hundred yards apart where the pilots had stashed two trucks. What kind of trucks was unknown. I was betting they would be old, beat to death and barely adequate. This wasn’t up to me. I learned a long time ago not to worry about things I had no control over.
The pilot expertly cut the motor and let a wave and our momentum move us silently onto the sandy beach. As soon as the boat stopped, we went over the side and spread out across the sand. This was the dangerous part of the Op. If, for some reason, they were waiting for us, it would be hell to pay getting out of there.
Once I was sure my team was in place, I reached to my ear and clicked the button twice. We all had headsets and we all heard the two clicks. Moments later my ear clicked again. This time three times. Hero’s team was in place.
We knew there was a beach road ahead of us that paralleled the shoreline of the Indian Ocean. The village was inland to the west. The villa was south of the town by a bit. The overhead satellites had measured the distance to almost exactly a mile.
I pressed the button on my headset and spoke softly. “It’s a go.”
Hero’s voice came back to me, “Roger that,” he said. I snapped the safety off my assault rifle and stood in a crouch, moving forward. The pilot had anchored the boat and was now beside me. I let him lead, he knew where the truck was. It didn’t take long to reach it. I was right, it was a piece of junk.
The plan was for him and his counterpart to drive us to within striking distance of the villa, drop us and the truck, to be used for our escape, and walk back to the boats. We all piled in and he slid in behind the wheel and started the motor. It made such a ruckus I was sure the entire countryside would be up in arms. He put it in gear, and we lurched forward.
This was actually camouflage. Gangs of men in crappy trucks routinely roamed the countryside. Our goal was to look just like them. Especially in the dark. He drove without lights. I snapped down the infrared night goggles, searching the distance for a sign of Hero’s truck. There was nothing to be seen. There was no way to hear it above the din of ours.
In spite of the dark we were moving along at a good clip. Just as I started thinking we were getting close, to my right were sudden flashes of light. There was a pause, then the thudding whup of flashbangs. I shouted, “Pull over!” The driver pulled to the side and came to a sliding stop. We all bailed out. We automatically spread into a perimeter. We waited, but there was nothing but darkness and silence.
I touched my earbud, “Report,” I said. There was nothing.
I touched the button again. “Report,” I said again.
There was silence. There were no other flashes or explosions.
After what seemed to be an eternity, my ear buzzed alive. Hero’s voice was strangled.
“Deep purple,” he whispered. “I repeat, deep purple.”
One of our people had been taken.
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