Night of the Cobra

by Jack Coughlin

  “I am going to get me a SAW like that, General. More than one hundred rounds a minute and up to eight hundred on sustained fire. I can kill a lot of Americans with that.” The Cobra stepped back to his boss.

  “Good,” Aidid said. “Kill a lot of them. Just make certain that one of them is the Swanson marine. He’s in that crowd somewhere.”

  “We will find him, sir. He cannot continue hiding from us for long, not in our own city.”

  * * *

  THE FOUR SNIPERS WATCHED the incoming column from the press box atop the stadium, ready to give covering fire, but none was needed. Their position was within an almost solid concrete box with three windows, a large one in the middle and two on each side. All of the glass had been blown out long ago. There was only one door. It was not until daylight arrived that they saw the potential.

  “This is a pretty sweet place,” said Corporal Smith. “It’s ours, right? I mean, we got here first.”

  “Home is where my helmet is,” agreed Corporal Delshay.

  They all knew an intramural skirmish was in store once the regiment’s rear echelon interlopers started nosing around for the best spaces. Sergeant Kyle Swanson planned to secure ownership immediately. “Let me think about that,” he said.

  Smitty and Delshay were left in the overlook while Swanson and Mike Mancuso jogged down the bleachers to mingle with the new arrivals. The interior of the stadium was a maze of sunless tunnels, and the two snipers took some time to explore areas they had not had a chance to look over in detail when they had come sneaking in the night before. The wide, flat apron out front was already turning into a parking lot for marine vehicles.

  Boom! The bark of a shotgun broke the quiet. Boom! A yelp. Swanson and Mancuso walked back toward the soccer field. Boom again, followed by the clacks of a shotgun racking in a new round. A reedy staff sergeant wearing glasses was killing the dogs with a Remington 870P. Kyle knew the type: a desk jockey who had volunteered for the dirty little mission and was walking around like king of the jungle, slaughtering animals that had nowhere to run. Just opening a door and chasing them out would have been a lot easier, but less satisfying for this guy.

  “Fuckin’ pogue,” Mancuso sneered. Swanson agreed. They moved on.

  The personal gear that the team had left behind was aboard one of the incoming trucks, and it took some hunting to find it. Fellow snipers had made sure that the gear had not been touched, although it was worth its weight in gold: personal cots and cases of ready-to-eat meals (MREs) and crates of bottled water. Those cases would become building blocks for little walls to partition the press box and create the luxury of individual personal spaces. Also buried among the standard supplies was Swanson’s personal kit: boxes of Canadian Army rations that were better than the dreaded MREs. It was no contest between the Canadians’ chicken carbonara with tortillas and hot sauce versus MRE menu no. 8: ham slice with accessory packet A. Even better was the stash of Johnnie Walker Black Label whiskey and a special bottle of Rémy Martin cognac that Kyle had liberated from the Foreign Legion during the long road trip.

  Hauling it all up the stadium stairs was going to be a job, which was why he had chosen Mancuso for the first trip. Big Mike would stand guard at the truck with that dark scowl on his hard face to deter any scavenging jarhead from robbing it, while the other three snipers would work in relays to move into their hideaway.

  Within a few hours, it was squared away. They had been awake yesterday, throughout the night, and now well into this new day and were about ready to keel over. Smitty scrounged some paint and posted a SNIPERS IN ACTION sign on the closed door of their private condo. A rotation was set so that two would rest while the other two stayed on watch. Swanson fell asleep as the sun rose in the empty sky, and the sweltering heat beat down.

  * * *

  “WE SHOULD GO BACK now, General. It is too dangerous for you to remain out here in the open.” The Cobra had brought along only three fighters, not enough to repel a determined attack. “Ali Mahdi probably knows by now that you are out here and vulnerable.”

  Omar was right. Ali Mahdi, the warlord north of the Green Line, was always looking to assassinate him, just as Aidid would someday like to bury his rival in a red-dirt desert grave. The general clapped a hand on his bodyguard’s hefty shoulder. The stadium was in the grasp of the marines now, so that show was over. It was time to do some serious thinking about what would happen next. “Let’s go,” he agreed, and they climbed into the Toyota.

  “Did you happen to see him, the Swanson marine, among all of those others?” Aidid looked back at the vanishing stadium as the Cobra drove into the city. The warlord had made a point of having his spies identify the insulting marine as being one Sergeant Kyle Swanson, a veteran sniper with a reputation for toughness.

  “No, General. But he’s there. I know that. I know it!” Omar Jama drove through a crowd without slowing down, and people jumped out of the way.

  “I can feel it, too.” The general had determined that Swanson must never leave Somalia alive.

  There were thousands of marines in his country now, and they had spread like a camouflage cancer. The airport and the port were working, and now they had taken over the stadium. Aidid had decided it would be a losing battle to fight for any of those places, which was why the walled soccer pitch had remained empty. As a result of their presence, the feeding stations, clinics, and refugee camps had gained security, and even the open-air Bakara Market was doing a better business. But the general was a patient man, and he knew all those gains by the crusaders were temporary.

  In his opinion, the marines could stay at the stadium as long as they wanted, for entrenched troops hunkered down with machine guns behind sandbags and walls crowned with razor-sharp concertina wire were going to be useless for anything other than protecting a logistics point. The time was near when the Americans would find themselves entangled in the close streets of Mogadishu and their firepower and mobility would be limited. They would not be able to tell friend from foe among tens of thousands of people.

  Aidid had studied tactics and strategy in his rise to becoming a major general in the Somali army before war, drought, and famine collapsed the nation. He had come out this morning to personally take the measure of his enemy. Sufficient foreign muscle could reopen and protect the humanitarian missions, but, even numbering in the thousands, the Americans could not stop this war, much less win it. He felt the time was right to move the crisis into a new stage.

  * * *

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON, SWANSON AWOKE, rested after a few hours of sleep. The stadium had turned into a marine anthill. Hundreds of sandbags were being filled and stacked, big metal Conex containers were parked to be part of the barrier, wire was strung atop the walls, and men had sighted their weapons. Helicopters whacked through the sky. Throughout the cavernous structure, sergeants barked commands. Setting up a fort in one day was a noisy business. He looked around. Delshay was still asleep, a paperback mystery open across his chest. Smitty and Mancuso were watching the outskirts of Mogadishu through their scopes.

  “By God, there are a lot of people downtown today,” Smitty declared.

  Kyle looked over the parapet. In the daylight, Mogadishu appeared almost alive, squirming with so much life all jammed into one place.

  Smith said, “Since I did my bit last night capturing this place, can I go home now, Sar’nt Swanson?”

  Swanson stripped and used bottled water for a quick, improvised shower, then put on a clean uniform. He picked up his M-16 and a small box, then clapped the shapeless boonie on his head. “I’m going to take a walk. I’ll pass along your request to leave to the commandant. I’m sure he will authorize it.”

  “Where you going?” Smitty had not removed his eye from the scope while they bantered.

  Swanson pointed. “Out there. I’ll be back soon. Big Mike is in charge while I’m gone.”

  4

  THE PATROLS

  TUESDAY,

  DECEMBER 29, 1992

 
; BY NOON, SWANSON WAS once again at the Irish Aid Society clinic, rested, clean, and as nervous as a boy on a date. He arrived in a CAAT with a .50 caliber machine gun on top and four marines and found Molly Egan in the hospital, carrying a kid under each arm.

  She put the children down as soon as she saw him and came closer. Their eyes met, and they politely shook hands again. “Hello, Sergeant Swanson. Welcome back. Did you bring another exploding pistol?” Her clothes were rumpled, but the deep red hair flashed in the sunlight coming through the window, and her smile made his day.

  “Even better. I come bearing gifts. Step outside.” He laughed. God, she is something else.

  The marines were unloading four fifty-pound burlap sacks from the CAAT. “Two hundred pounds of rice for you guys, and something special that no Irish Aid Society center should be without.” He reached into the cab and brought out a bottle containing a liquid that had the look of burnished copper. “Rémy Martin cognac, six years old. Consider it a belated Christmas present.”

  Molly put her fist to her mouth in surprise, and patted Kyle on the arm with her other hand. “Oh, you are a good man, Sergeant Swanson. Where did you get all of this?”

  “The French can be a generous people, particularly when they don’t know they are being generous. It’s for you, Dr. Sharif, and the staff.”

  “They are Muslim and don’t drink alcohol,” she said.

  “Are you Muslim?”

  “No, I am not. I can use this. You, too. Come on inside.” She walked in, and Swanson followed, after telling his marines to stay sharp. No climbing-the-water-tower bullshit this time.

  There was a distinct change of atmosphere in the building, a lessening of the fear and hopelessness that Swanson had seen on the earlier visit. A middle-aged man sat at a small, square table, talking to a woman in a colorful wraparound, and Egan made the introductions. “Do you remember Dr. Lon Sharif, Sergeant Swanson? And his wife, Deqo. This little guy over here is their grandson, Cawelle.”

  Swanson smiled at the little boy, who stared back with big eyes. He looked to be about eight and was as skinny as a railroad track. Kyle squatted down to be more on the kid’s level and extended his hand. “Hello, Cawelle.” The kid shied away, then changed his mind and shook.

  Molly explained. “His name is the Somali word for ‘lucky,’ although he hasn’t had much of that. His parents died in the fighting about five months ago, so he lives here with his grandparents.”

  Kyle had a yellow package of chewing gum in his tunic pocket and gave it to the boy. “Can I call you Lucky? It’s easier for me to say.”

  The boy understood English, and nodded his permission as he stripped a stick of gum and put it in his mouth. He chewed a few times and, without warning, jumped into Swanson’s arms. The marine stood, holding him easily, and turned to the grandparents. “How did the operation on that girl turn out, Doctor?”

  “Which one?” The surgeon had a blank look and a furrowed brow, puzzled by the question. “There have been so many.”

  “From the last time I was here. She had a terrible stomach wound, and I was told that she had been raped and beaten.”

  “That one died,” Deqo Sharif remembered with her confident, but soft, voice. “We save those we can, Sergeant, but we fail too often. Please, sit and join us.”

  Molly said, “He brought rice for you, and whiskey for me.”

  “Christmas presents, just a little late. I’ve been out of town. Next time, I will load up on soft drinks and some other supplies.” He accepted the two fingers of cognac that Egan poured into a glass and held it up. “A salute to all of you, for being here and making such a difference.”

  The Sharifs had just finished their rounds in the hospital and, for a change, had no emergencies demanding their attention. They had cups of tea, but Molly knocked back her own cognac with a practiced ease. Kyle noticed flecks of amber in her eyes.

  Kyle gathered his words carefully. “I really came by today to apologize for the last time. I was careless and allowed a bad thing to happen right under my nose. For that, I’m sorry. That’s not the way marines do things.”

  “Nonsense,” replied Lon Sharif, brushing aside the apology. “All of those warlord gunmen are unpredictable. You drove them away, Sergeant, and they have not been back since then. That’s the point to remember. Without your presence, it might have gotten bad.”

  Kyle put his empty glass aside. “Nevertheless, it gave me a needed dose of reality. This isn’t the Africa of elephants and lions.”

  The doctor smiled. “It’s good that you realize that.” His voice was gentle. He smiled at his wife, who nodded approval.

  Molly laughed. “I’ll always remember you charging out toward them, shooting your big pistol, fighting the war on your own, standing out in the open and then flinging it at them when you ran out of bullets. You were so mad! Want another drink?”

  Swanson declined. “And I remember you tackling me. I’ll pass on another drink right now because I have to go on a patrol in a few hours. I just wanted to come by and check on you all.”

  The doctor spoke, almost as if on the edge of sleep. “We are better today than yesterday, which was better than the day before. The supply lines have opened up, and the violence is way down because security has improved. It shows what we might be able to do in this country if we can just have peace. I understand you marines now occupy the stadium?”

  “Yes, sir. It gives us a better forward base. And you’re right, Doctor Sharif. The logistics are really flowing. I would like for you to make a list of whatever you need here at the clinic—medicine or food or whatever. I can make sure that it finds you.”

  “That is very kind, Sergeant Swanson. But we get by.”

  “Sir, mountains of supplies are being off-loaded, and the docks and airports are stacked with crates. The world is pouring in contributions at every port in Somalia. Don’t wait for the bureaucrats to assign you a share or for thieves to steal it, Doctor Sharif. Just tell me, and I’ll get it.”

  “Why?” asked Deqo. Her eyes were on him, always wary of any offer that sounded too good to be true.

  “I am a sniper, ma’am. I kill our enemies, and I am very good at it. But after seeing what you’re doing to keep innocent people alive and feed them, I would like to be a little part of that, too. The only way I can think of, without jeopardizing my mission, is to bring you some of the good stuff, which is already being stolen and sold on the black market. Penicillin? Bandages? Coca-Cola? A portable generator? I can find it all.”

  Molly pulled out a cigarette, lit, and leaned back. A little trail of smoke weaved toward the door. She studied him. “You’re serious.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Very well. Dr. Lon and Deqo may be hesitant, but I will have a list ready for you by tomorrow, if you can get by to see us again.” She looked directly at him. It was an invitation.

  “Good. I’ll see you then,” he said, putting Lucky back on his feet. “And please, all of you, call me Kyle.”

  “Then I am Molly.”

  * * *

  SWANSON DUCKED INTO THE new command post of C Company, where the commander was using an old door as a desk. “Request permission to enter, sir.”

  Captain Harmon Flint said, “Come in, Sar’nt Swanson.”

  “Your messenger says that you would like for me to join your foot patrol this afternoon, sir.”

  “Only if you think you’re good enough to run with Suicide Charlie.” Flint had known Kyle long enough to give him a sharp jab.

  “I’ll try to keep up, sir.” The sniper looked at a flag tacked to the wall, the unique black-and-white skull-and-crossbones emblem that traced its lineage back to a night in 1942 when the company blunted a murderous Japanese attack on Guadalcanal. The survivors painted the image on a white parachute and lifted it high at dawn.

  It had bred generations of tough war fighters who took shit from no one. Got a serious mission? Dial up Suicide Charlie. They would take on anything. Flint r
ubbed his palm across his stubble of hair. In the late afternoon, his shirt was soaked in sweat. “Good. But take a seat first. You want some coffee?”

  Swanson shook his head but picked up a bottle of water.

  “That was a good job you guys did with the stadium last night, Kyle.” He pushed a cross-hatched paper over the desk. “Look at this. We have to make our own maps because an accurate layout of the Mog doesn’t exist. A couple of main roads and thousands of little ones.” Flint settled back in his chair.

  “Sar’nt, I have the statistics from higher up, and my G-2 is on top of things in our area, but I want your opinion, too. You’ve had your nose in the dirt more than almost anyone. How do you read it?”

  Kyle sucked on the water. “Operation Restore Hope has been a walkover so far.”

  “Yep. Now we hold this stadium on the city’s northern flank, we have the airport in the southeast, got the port, and are patrolling deeper into Mogadishu every day. I can’t believe this General Aidid character is just giving up.”

  “That’s exactly my estimate, sir. He’s not going to quit. I think that’s about to change really soon.”

  Flint squinted. “Why?”

  “The warlords decided to avoid any major confrontation when we first came in because they knew we had the firepower to crush them.” Then Kyle told the captain about how the situations at both the arms cache and later at the Irish clinic had flopped from nothing happening to deep trouble in a flash. “The Skinnies are losing their fear of us, Captain. Our rules of engagement are pretty benign.”

  “I read this about the same. Bad news is that battalion got word today that a couple of thousand new troops are not going to be coming to Somalia after all. Also, some are saying we may start to withdraw by the end of January.”

  “Ouch. That’s only a month from now.” The sniper finished the water and set it aside. “I don’t see the logic in declaring victory when we only really just got here. Probably because I’m just a sergeant.”