Task Force Desperate

by Peter Nealen

  “We need to make sure they can’t get that mortar back up,” Imad said, just after his rifle hammered the air in the room again.

  I cracked off a snap shot at a running gomer who started toward the tube, then changed his mind. His sudden change of direction saved his life, and he dropped to the dust and out of sight as my bullet went past his head, close enough he had to feel the shockwave of its passage. “We’re going to have to get the Ethiopians to push out, instead of turtling,” I replied.

  Imad reached for his PTT; we all had radios on now. “Coconut, Spearchucker. The gomers are setting up a mortar tube on the soccer field across the street. Hillbilly and I have them pretty well suppressed for the moment, but I’d like to get some shooters across there and take out the tube itself, before they can get to it and reposition it where we can’t shoot them while they set it up.”

  “I’ll see what we can do, but our new friends aren’t too keen,” Alek replied. I almost lost the last word as I snapped another shot at a head that popped over the roof, and missed by a hair.

  Bullets were smacking into the wall in front of us, and a few ripped through the walls of the building itself, fortunately mostly overhead. I didn’t know what the building was made of, but apparently, it wasn’t all that solid. They hadn’t quite figured out where the fire that was keeping their mortar out of action was coming from, but they were increasing their volume of fire to make up for it. I ducked back as a bullet smashed into the window frame, blasting dust and plaster into my face.

  “What I wouldn’t give for an RPG right about now,” I remarked to Imad, as he pumped three quick shots out in response.

  “Hey, that’s a good idea,” he said. “You think any of the Ethiopians might have one?”

  “Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” I snarled. I wanted to smack myself in the head. I keyed my radio. “Coconut, Hillbilly.”

  “Hillbilly, Coconut,” Alek came back. “No go on advancing, their captain doesn’t want to risk it. He insists that armor is coming, and will clear the streets.”

  “Roger,” I replied. No big surprise there. “Option Two: do any of the Ethiopians have RPGs? We can talk them on from here; hopefully they can do enough damage to put that tube out of action permanently.”

  “I’ll check,” Alek said.

  A moment later, Larry came over the net. “Hillbilly, Monster. I’ve got an RPG gunner, and we’re heading for the outer wall at the south end of the CP building. I’ll let you know when we’re in position and ready to fire.”

  “Roger, Monster,” I answered. “Make sure you’ve got a shot at the soccer field.”

  “Affirm,” he replied. He was breathing a little hard. Larry is a very large man. He doesn’t like running around much. “Give us a minute, we might have to relocate.”

  A storm of AK fire hammered against our position, and Imad and I were forced to drop to the floor, getting below the top of the outer wall. The air was filled with dust and chips of concrete and plaster. “Might have to hurry that up, buddy,” I called to Larry. “It’s getting a mite hot here.” I was able to pop up and rip off a couple shots as the fire slackened, doubtless as most of them went dry at once and had to reload. But I was answered with another ferocious fusillade that chewed away more of the window frame, and had to duck back under cover.

  There was an explosive whoosh from off to our left, outside, and a PG round slammed into the wall across the street. It barely had time to arm, and while there was a lot of dust and splash, I wasn’t sure it did much on the other side. My hunch was borne out when, a few moments later, the firing resumed, although it was a little less enthusiastic. As the dust settled, I could see the huge dark splash mark on the wall, with a hole the size of my head in the middle of it. Anybody on the other side of that wasn’t happy, to say the least.

  Larry’s new buddy fired again, the backblast rattling the windows again. This one went over the wall, and caromed into a tree. The trunk shattered in a cloud of dust, smoke, and splinters, and the tree fell with a crash. I couldn’t tell if it had taken out any of the bad guys. I hoped it had.

  The gomers were getting a lot less interested in sticking their heads up, however inaccurate our friend with the RPG was, and Imad and I were able to get back to work. “Monster, Hillbilly. Can he get any closer to that tube?”

  “He seems to be aiming as best he can, Hillbilly,” came the reply. “I’m not sure we’re going to get sniper accuracy out of this guy.”

  “We don’t need to,” I retorted. “The RPG isn’t a sniper rifle, and it’s two hundred yards away.”

  “I don’t think this guy’s been shot at before,” Larry said. “He’s not all that steady, and I’m not going to try to take the launcher away from him, either.”

  Yeah, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea, especially surrounded by his buddies, who all were armed, and had a BTR at the gate.

  With the slackening of enemy fire, Imad and I were able to start playing catch-up. Bracing rifles against the pitted, shattered window frame, we started carefully picking off anyone who stuck their head up to shoot. It actually didn’t take all that long before the combination of our shooting and Larry’s buddy’s random RPG fire broke them. The remainder fled, only sporadically visible between the buildings and bushes of the school, leaving the mortar tube lying abandoned on the soccer field.

  Of course, it was only then that the BTR’s gunner decided to open up on the school, blasting huge holes in concrete and plaster with the 14.5mm slugs. I still doubt he actually hit anyone.

  The rest of the day saw only sporadic attacks and potshots. Apparently, the rebels had decided that they didn’t really want to fuck around with us. I guess we played too rough for them.

  Finally, as the sun started to go down, the captain confirmed that the makeshift armored column was on its way. We started getting ready to move again.

  Chapter 15

  The column approached slowly, heralded by the growl of engines and the squeal and rattle of tank tracks. They were coming from the west, along the Avenue Gamal Abdel Nasser. More sporadic gunfire was answered by heavy machine guns. The Ethiopians got on their trucks and the one BTR still in action, having stripped the hulk of the other one once the shooting died down. Most of us mounted back up in our own trucks, but Imad, Alek, and I stayed out on the ground to talk to the captain.

  “We can get the craft to come in on the beach here,” Alek was explaining, pointing to a map spread on the hood of the captain’s Humvee. “At least then we can get the hostages out of harm’s way faster.”

  The captain was nodding. “Yes, yes. We will escort you there, easily. Can the craft take your vehicles?”

  Imad and I traded a look. “We won’t be going on the hovercraft,” Alek said. “We’ll be staying here with the vehicles.”

  The captain frowned. “I have told you, we cannot allow you to remain in Djibouti.”

  Alek put up a gigantic hand placatingly. “And we won’t. We’ll be leaving just as soon as we are assured that the hostages are safely out to sea. We are just going somewhere else.”

  The captain shook his head again, raising his voice over the increasing noise of the tank tracks now just outside the walls. “I am sorry, but my instructions are clear. You are to leave the country as soon as possible. Getting on the hovercraft is as soon as possible. If it will not carry your vehicles, then you will have to leave them behind.”

  I folded my arms in front of me and glowered. “Are you going to reimburse us for them, then? We’re not in a position to put aside the loss of these kinds of assets lightly.” Of course, Caleb hadn’t paid all that much for any of them, relatively speaking, but the less of a paper trail we left, the better.

  “Again, I am sorry, but I do not have instructions to that effect,” he said stubbornly. “My instructions are to escort you out of the country, and I will do that.” He jerked his head to indicate the T-62 that was heaving into view through the gate. “And you do not have the wherewithal to resist, so I su
ggest you do not try.”

  Unfortunately, he had a point. We weren’t in a position to argue with tanks and APCs. Which just pissed me off even more, and from the expressions on Imad’s and Alek’s faces, I wasn’t alone. But Alek finally shrugged, and walked away, back to his truck. I guess we were going out to the ship.

  With the column holding security, the first truck of Ethiopian soldiers started moving, and we were waved at to follow it. As we rolled through the gate, I was able to get a look at the armored column that had come for us.

  They looked like hell. There were two T-62s, a T-72, and three BTR-60s, along with three Ural trucks. The armored vehicles looked scarred and battered, with signs of several glancing hits from explosives on their hulls. One of the BTRs was actually smoking pretty bad, choking black fumes wafting from its exhaust. Most of the soldiers watching us from the beds of the trucks were wounded, with hasty bandages peeking through torn cammies. A lot of them looked pretty shell-shocked, too, and just stared around with wide, vacant eyes.

  Fortunately, the drive was short; around the corner, head south a hundred yards, turn again, and drive three hundred yards to the ocean. Danny was in Jim’s truck, already on his sat phone, and I could already see the plume of spray in the dying light as the hovercraft came in toward the beach.

  The tanks took the main points of the perimeter. One of the T-62s rumbled past us toward the south, its squeaking treads throwing up small rooster-tails of sand as it went by. The commander was up out of the hatch, without a helmet, his hands on the spade grips of the DShK mounted on the cupola. We stopped our trucks high on the beach, and started unloading gear from the 3-ton. Getting the boats onto the hovercraft was going to be a bitch. I just hoped there was room.

  The AP.1-88 hove into view, spray jetting out from underneath its black skirts. The hull was painted a standard white and red, and from a distance, it might be mistaken for a US Coast Guard craft. It drove up onto the beach easily, the saltwater spray being briefly replaced by sand before it grounded, the fans turning just enough to keep the skirt inflated without bringing the vehicle off the ground.

  By the time it stopped moving, we already had most of the gear staged within a few yards. We first escorted, or in some cases carried, the hostages on board. Danny frog-marched Ali Mustapha up the ramp and aft. Mustapha was flex-cuffed, blindfolded, and gagged. We got a few looks from the Ethiopians about that, but I didn’t care, and I was pretty sure Danny didn’t, either. The kid had been hobnobbing with assholes who murdered Americans and took hostages. Fuck him. Once most of the hostages and our “guest” were aboard, we started hoisting the gear aboard. Several of the hostages came back down to the beach to help. When we tried to wave them off, they insisted, so we finally let them carry some of the lighter stuff.

  The boats, as expected, were the hardest part. The AP.1-88 is a passenger craft, and wasn’t designed to carry a lot of cargo. It’s primarily a ferry. There wasn’t a hold or well deck to secure the boats and engines, so we wound up having to hoist them up onto the roof, and lash them down.

  By the time we finished, it was full dark, and the Ethiopians were getting very nervous. I saw a couple pairs of ancient AN/PVS 7B night vision goggles, and the tanks had night sights, but for the most part, they had no night vision capability. They would have to rely on the tanks’ searchlights, and those were vulnerable to small arms fire. They were at a disadvantage at night, and they knew it. I thought about pointing out to the captain that he could let his men know that the rebels didn’t have any NVGs, either, but given how they’d just fucked our plans up, I wasn’t inclined to throw them a bone. Apparently, neither was anyone else.

  Of course, I realized I was assuming the rebels didn’t have night vision. Certainly we hadn’t seen any sign of any, but we hadn’t seen any sign of the number of Type 63s they had, either.

  Alek was the last man on. He stared at the Ethiopian captain, who was standing at the front of his Humvee, illuminated by the headlights, for a moment, then turned and stalked up the ramp. Two of the crew dragged the ramp back up and secured it. Then the deck started to vibrate harder, and the fans increased their turns until there was a howling scream coming from below us. I felt the whole craft wobble slightly, as the air pressure pushed the skirts up above the sand. Wind started to whip around us as the propellers mounted on the back went into reverse, pulling the vehicle off the beach.

  I turned and ducked into the passenger compartment, to get out of the wind and spray. The place had been pretty well split, with the hostages forward, and the Praetorian operators aft with their gear. Most of the hostages looked quite a bit better, as the coast of Djibouti receded behind us. They were still in shorts and T-shirts; we hadn’t had extra clothing for them. Fortunately, it was hot enough not to matter all that much.

  It was a quiet trip. Most of us either slept, tried to, or just sat on our gear, staring out the windows at the Gulf of Aden. It was too noisy to talk much, even if we’d been inclined to. I know I wasn’t.

  I kept thinking of that Ethiopian captain, and wanting to punch him in the face. Sure, he’d tipped us off about Balbala, but then he’d turned right around and screwed us. Taking our trucks was going to put a serious damper on the operation, especially if we had to go inland to Baardheere. He had to know that, but didn’t care. He just wanted us out of his hair. Which begged the question in my mind, why had he even helped us in the first place?

  I never did find out the answer to that question.

  Turning from my reverie, I looked out the port, and saw the running lights of the Baxley getting closer. The sea state wasn’t bad; it usually was relatively calm on the Gulf, especially as compared to the nearby Indian Ocean. The Baxley actually looked like an island, hardly moving with the swell at all.

  The hovercraft slowed as we came alongside the ship. I wondered exactly how we were going to get on; bulk carriers aren’t exactly like amphibious assault ships, they don’t have loading ramps or well decks like alligator navy ships do. My answer came a few moments later, as two of the ship’s onboard cranes swung out over the side, extending out until the cargo hooks were directly over the hovercraft. As one, they started lowering the hooks, while crewmen scrambled up onto the roof of the hovercraft, to where what looked like attachment points had been bolted or welded, I couldn’t tell which.

  I watched, fascinated. There wasn’t any sign that they were going to disembark us or the hostages before hooking up. Were they just going to lift the hovercraft, cargo, passengers, and all, into the hold?

  A moment later my question was answered as the crew secured the hooks to their attachment points, then climbed down off the spray-slick roof. One of them lifted a small radio to his mouth, and the cables started to pull taut. Below me, I felt, and heard, the fans slow and stop. Then we were rising up, out of the water, swaying slightly with the now-noticeable motion of the ship.

  The cranes lifted us more or less straight up, until we were above the level of the gunwale, then started to retract their arms, pulling the hovercraft in, over the deck. The more I watched, the more obvious it became that the cranes weren’t going to be able to get us into one of the holds; they weren’t built with the range of motion to get two cranes lowering cargo into a single hold. But instead, they just retracted until the craft was all the way over the edge, and then let it, and us, down gently to the deck, next to the second cargo hatch back from the bow.

  We stopped moving, and one of the crew came back from the pilothouse, and announced, “We’re going to unload now, gentlemen. Once we’ve got everybody off, we can readjust and stow the hovercraft in the hold.” There was a general bustle, as we started grabbing our gear and manhandling it toward the ramp, which was now being extended to the cargo hatch next to us.

  There was still some hurried organizing to do, but none of us were planning on staying aboard all that long, so we found a corner of the hold, piled our gear, sat down against it, and went to sleep.

  I woke up with a stiff back, a serious
crick in my neck, and a sore buttock from lying on the steel deck. I levered myself up to a sitting position with a groan, and several pops from protesting muscles and joints. I’d put my body through a lot, between eight years in Recon and Special Operations, followed by this job. You’d think I’d get enough, eventually, but for some of us, it just doesn’t work that way.

  I hauled my protesting carcass to my feet, looking around the dimly lit hold. The cargo hatch was closed, and dim green lights provided the only illumination. The hold was only about half full, and most of that cargo was in crates. Usually bulk carriers hauled grain, or some similar bulk cargo, that was poured into the holds and needed a bulldozer to load and unload.

  Our corner was a jumble of gear, kitbags, weapons, and sleeping men. Imad was lying flat on the deck, his head barely pillowed by a jacket. Bob was on his side, his legs tucked up under him, his head on his kit, and Jim was semi-sprawled in almost a sitting position against the mound of his gear, his head lolling back, his mouth open and snoring.

  My stomach growled, and I stretched before looking for the way out of the hold. I found it around the back of a shipping container, marked with a big green glowing “EXIT” sign. The hatch opened onto a ladder well, which led up to, conveniently enough, the galley.

  I didn’t know exactly what time it was, but the galley was pretty empty. A couple of crewmen, or guys I assumed were crewmen, were sitting at a table in the far corner, but aside from Danny sitting at a closer table hunched over his laptop, there wasn’t anyone else there.

  Danny looked up as I came in, and tiredly waved me over. I grabbed a couple of pastries from the open counter next to the hatch and complied.

  “Dude,” I said, as I sat down, taking a bite out of what I thought was supposed to be a bear claw. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

  He shook his head wearily. “Only when I can afford to.” I started to see why the guy was going gray. He squinted at me, his eyes bloodshot. “Is Alek up?”