Task Force Desperate

by Peter Nealen

  I wasn’t sure how well the Toyota SUV was going to handle the river. It didn’t have the fording kit that the HiLux did, and I was more than a little concerned that we’d wind up flooding the engine as well as the exhaust. Jim was similarly concerned, so he floored the engine, driving as hard as he could to get across the river before the water could do too much damage.

  Water flowed in the door, the current and sheer volume of the river forcing it past the battered weatherstripping. Everybody lifted their weapons to chest level to keep them out of the muddy flood, though my pistol was getting a good bath. I’d have to strip and clean it as soon as I could; even with the Slipstream treatment, I didn’t want that crap in my beloved 1911.

  I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding, as we surged up out of the river, fishtailing a little on the muddy bank. The water started flowing out of the cab. We were all soaked to the waist, and it was going to be chilly until the sun came up. Nothing unfamiliar, there wasn’t a one of us hadn’t spent the most part of the last ten years or more either wet, gritty, too cold, too hot, or some combination thereof. Didn’t mean we wouldn’t bitch about it. The grumbling from the back was starting already, until Jim growled, “Shut the fuck up,” and the complaints subsided. For the moment.

  The land began to rise as we came out of the Shabelle River floodplain, though it never turned into highlands. More desert went by in the dark, a little rougher perhaps than to the northeast where we’d started, but we were still able to maintain about a forty kph rate of march. By the time the sun came up, we were fifty miles south of Baidoa. We could be on the outskirts of Baardheere by noon.

  Chapter 21

  We didn’t make it that far before the HiLux slowed and stopped. We were in the middle of nowhere, nothing but flat, scrub-dotted plains as far as the eye could see. We’d seen some camel-driving nomads earlier, but now, with the sun rising higher in the sky and the horizon already starting to shimmer with heat, there was no sign of life.

  Alek got out of the HiLux’ cab, looked back at us, and circled his hand over his head. Assemble. Something was up.

  Except for the two drivers and two on security, we all piled out and huddled around Alek on the ground between the trucks, rifles carefully held muzzle-down across knees, except for Imad, who kept his muzzle-up, I think largely as a fuck-you to the “Rambo” comments that had been made the first time he did it, on one of our border jobs.

  “What’s up?” I asked, as I lowered myself to a knee. Like everyone else, I was still keeping one eye on the horizon.

  Alek jerked a thumb at Danny. “He just got a phone call from Langley. Seems things have potentially gotten more complicated.”

  Danny launched in without much preamble. “The final push to force the Kenyans and the Ethiopians out of the country has apparently started. We have gotten reports from Baird that Malouf Ali Awale’s Lashkar al-Barbar is advancing on Baardheere. They’re moving relatively slowly; they’re a lot like the Janjaweed militias up in Sudan, and are terrorizing villages on the way, particularly any that have helped the African Union or the Kenyans in the last few years, but they are on their way, and in force. Langley sent me some satellite imagery that backs all this up, as well.”

  Hank raised a finger. “Question; who the fuck is Lashkar al-Barbar? I’ve heard of Shabaab, obviously, and AQEA. Who are these fuckers?”

  “Lashkar al-Barbar is a relative newcomer,” Danny explained. “They grew out of the cooperation between Shabaab and AQ, and we have some indicators that Al Masri was closely involved in its founding. It is essentially the Somali version of the Taliban’s old Brigade 055 or Lashkar al-Zil. It’s a semi-autonomous, multinational army of hard-core jihadi shock troops. They only come around when there’s serious resistance to Islamic Emirate forces, or they just want to send a message. Or if there’s some really good booty to be had. They aren’t nearly in the class of Saddam’s old Republican Guard or the IRGC. They are primarily an instrument of terror, but they’ve apparently had enough training and have enough numbers and equipment to be a serious challenge to anybody they’re likely to face in Somalia.

  “Now, the Kenyans would have been able to take them down without even breathing hard a couple years ago, but, largely since Al Masri came on the scene, their stance in Somalia has been deeply eroded, largely because of the increasing AQEA activity in their own country. They already got pushed out of Kismayo, and the Ethiopians have been driven out of Baidoa. If the jihadis manage to push the Kenyans out of Baardheere, it’ll be the end of resistance to Islamist rule in southern Somalia. They’ll be able to turn to Galmudug, Puntland, and Somaliland next.”

  “None of which is our concern,” Alek put in. “We’re not here to liberate Somalia or ensure the stability of however many kleptocracies are crammed into this Godforsaken patch of dirt. We’re here to get those hostages out.”

  “Just setting the stage, brother,” Danny said. “If we’re trying to operate in an area where Awale’s set up shop, it’s going to make things dicey. These guys are known for being sharia enforcers wherever they operate, and anything that looks out of place is likely to attract their attention. And once engaged, they tend to dog pile. We get in it with a squad of ‘em, they’ll probably have a battalion on us in less than an hour.”

  “Which is why we stay clandestine,” Larry pointed out. “Unless I’m missing something, we’re supposed to just be the recon element here.” He looked around. “Did I hear that wrong?”

  “No, you didn’t,” I replied. “But nothing else on this op has gone according to plan, and we haven’t exactly stayed soft the whole time. Makes sense to know what we’re up against if things go to hell again.” I paused a moment, then fulfilled my chosen role of doomsayer. “Which they will.”

  “Now, Langley is telling me that Baird has some undocumented assets of his own,” Danny continued with a frown. “I have no idea what they are, or what he’s doing with them. Like I said, the guy is a little questionable. The seventh floor thinks he’s dangerous, but he’s got enough friends in Operations and provides enough actionable information that he hasn’t been shut down or pulled out.”

  “You said you had some personal experience with him?” Hank asked.

  “Briefly,” was the reply. “We had some contact a few years ago, trying to hunt down some AQEA bad boys, but nothing extended.” Danny shrugged. “He struck me as a little loose in his procedures, and his reputation is pretty shady, but that could be either earned or unearned. Could be he’s just unorthodox, and has made enemies for purely political reasons.” He grinned suddenly. “Which is a possibility that actually makes me somewhat predisposed to like the guy a little, given how things are going.”

  Alek snorted. “If he’s survived as long in this hellhole as you say he has, he’d have to be unorthodox.”

  “Alek,” I said, “any word from Tom as to whether Caleb and his boys can get close enough to support us on this?”

  He sobered. “Not at the moment. Kenya is pretty well locked down, with the increasing AQEA insurgency in the south. They aren’t letting many foreigners in, except some aid workers, but definitely not heavily armed contractors with a helicopter, at least that aren’t there to fight AQ. They‘re trying the Ethiopian route, but it‘s taking time.”

  “So we’re on our own. Again.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yep.”

  We got a look at how bad it was going to get a couple hours later. We were about an hour from Baardheere and could actually see it through the thick vegetation that grew along the banks of the Juba River, and around the farms that crammed into the Juba floodplain. We could also see the billows of black smoke rising from where the Lashkar al-Barbar had already struck.

  “They moved faster than we expected,” Jim said from behind the wheel. Both trucks had come to a stop under one of the biggest acacias I had seen yet.

  “Danny’s trying to make contact with Baird,” Alek called over the radio. “No answer yet.”

 
“Naturally,” I replied. No way was this going to go smoothly. I watched the smoke boil skyward, and could even hear some of the shooting going on. Unfortunately, we didn’t have any way at the time to know what was going on, who was shooting, or anything else about the situation. For all we knew, the Kenyans might have been on the run already. They were strung out pretty thin on this side of the border, since so many of the 2,000 troops who had been in country had been pulled back to deal with the rash of Al Qaeda in East Africa attacks across Kenya proper. Between the loss of Western support, the decapitation of the NFPS by Al Masri’s lightning strikes, and considerable support for Shabaab from other Islamist countries, the operation that had been poised to end the Somali Civil War just a couple of years ago was on the verge of total failure.

  “Vic Two, Vic One,” Alek called. “We’ve got an RP, northeast of the city, on the bank of Juba. Also an update; the smoke is from a Lashkar al-Barbar raid, but the gomers have pulled back for the moment. Main body is still probably most of a day out. They’re having fun with the farmers on the way.” The disgust in Alek’s voice came through loud and clear.

  “Roger,” I replied. “Recommend we go to ground until dark, then move to the RP. I’d expect the Kenyans to be a little trigger-happy about unidentified technicals rolling around right after that.”

  “Affirm,” Alek replied. “Take point, find us a lay-up point.”

  That didn’t take long, as there was quite a bit more vegetation this close to the Juba than there had been up north, and it was thicker. Most of it consisted of thick, low trees that I couldn’t identify, but looked like they were related to the acacias up north. There wasn’t a lot of ground cover, just red clay with the bushes and trees growing out of it, but we found a thick enough grove to drive the trucks into after only a few minutes of looking.

  We shut down the engines, and, after setting up security, which mainly consisted of three two-man teams in the weeds, we set to pulling the foliage back into place to hide where we’d brought the trucks in. Once that was done, it was a matter of watching and waiting to see if we had been spotted entering the grove. There wasn’t any sign that we had, so we relaxed a little, and set in to wait for dark.

  The bank of the Juba was more heavily vegetated than the Shabelle we had crossed a day ago, or at least it was where we were supposed to meet Baird. We approached slowly and cautiously, blacked out. We were barely rolling at a walking pace, and I probably could have gotten out of the Land Cruiser and walked alongside. Instead, I kept my window rolled down and my rifle muzzle resting on the edge, so I could get it out fast, and scanned the riverbank with the thermal imaging on my NVGs turned on.

  The spot Baird had picked as a rendezvous was about two miles north of Baardheere, past where the Juba made a hard turn to the east. It was all farmland or open ground for about a mile in any direction.

  We halted about one hundred meters from the river, and waited. I could see some movement down by the water, but shortly figured out that it was just more crocs. Other than that, and a few other animals out in the weeds nearby, I couldn’t see any sign of life. Of course, there was plenty of brush to hide in.

  Once the trucks were halted, Larry and I got out and headed east, while Hank and Rodrigo went west. We were spreading out to the flanks of the meeting place, getting into position to unleash hell if things went pear-shaped. We knew next to nothing about Baird aside from what Danny had told us about his rep, and that apparently he wasn’t on the best of terms with Langley these days.

  The brush was much greener and softer than the prickly stuff we’d had to thrash through up by Balli Gubat. It was also easily as thick, and grew higher, which made it more of an exercise in frustration to get through it. Branches and leaves snagged on kit, weapons, and arms, and had to be pulled away. It made noise, and it slowed us down, while the entire time I was more worried about stumbling into a croc that I didn’t see because I was wrestling with an oversized bush.

  I looked back toward Larry, who was having even more trouble than I was. I could barely hear his constant stream of swearing under his breath as he forced his way through the twining branches. I scanned around him as he came up next to me.

  “I’ve still got visual on the trucks,” he whispered as he came alongside my shoulder. “We’re good.”

  “All right,” I replied, just as quietly. I pointed ahead. “Looks like the veg extends toward the river right up there; we’ll set in there.” Larry just nodded and tapped my shoulder by way of acknowledgement. I turned back forward and forged toward our chosen position.

  It turned out to be just about perfect, or so it looked in the dark. More than once I’ve gotten into a hide that looked like the ultimate evolution of concealment, until the sun came up. Fortunately, we didn’t plan on being here when the sun came up. It was just short of midnight. I took a knee looking to the northwest, while Larry covered behind me, out toward the hinterland. I scanned toward the west, until I got eyes on either Hank’s or Rodrigo’s IR firefly. The fireflies were small, cheap IR beacons that plugged into a 9-volt battery. They worked almost as well as a full-sized military strobe, while being much smaller and lighter. Every one of us had one in his left shoulder pocket.

  We stayed like that for the better part of a half-hour, while I had to switch knees a couple of times. I was pretty sure Larry had switched to sitting against the tree; a man that big cannot stay on one knee comfortably for any length of time. I was only able to because it was a damn sight better than trying it with seventy-five pounds of kit on. I was rolling with a chest rig, rifle, and bump helmet for my NODs, that was it.

  My radio earpiece crackled to life. “Danny just got off the phone with Baird,” Alek reported. “He’s inbound now, five mikes.” I just tapped my PTT twice to acknowledge.

  It was quiet, or seemed so at first. After a while, the noise of night insects, frogs chirping, crocs grunting, the wind in the branches, and the slow gurgle of the river became almost a cacophony. At least, until the sound of engines and tires crunching on the ground came on the wind, and started drowning out the rest of the night noises.

  The vehicle was running blacked out, and I could only see a silhouette and the faint gleam of NVG-amplified starlight off its windows and dusty paint. At first glance, I thought it was a minibus, but it was an old UAZ Bukhanka. It rolled out into the open ground below the trees, where the river looked to flood relatively frequently, and slowed, then stopped. The passenger door opened, and a man got out, with the telltale tube of a set of PVS-14s in front of his eye. He looked around, then, looking toward us, reached up to his NVGs and flashed the IR illuminator three times.

  I replied with a double flash from my own, and he acknowledged with a single flash. I tapped the PTT on my vest. “This is Hillbilly. I have positive contact with the asset.” Even before I got an acknowledgement, I stood up, tapping Larry on the shoulder to let him know I was moving. I heard him lever himself up off the ground behind me, as I moved forward toward our contact.

  The guy was short, wiry, and cradling an AK in his hands. He had an old Halo mount that held the NVGs in front of his eye, and an AK chest rig over his short-sleeved shirt. I could make out that he was dark, with something of a beard beneath the NVGs, but that was about it. “Baird?” I asked.

  “That’s me,” he replied, with a faint accent that didn’t sound exactly East African. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I already knew the guy was an American, so I let it lie for the moment. He pointed to my shoulder. “You might not want to flash too much IR around,” he said.

  I raised an eyebrow he couldn’t see. “Why not? Are you telling me the skinnies have night vision now?”

  He stared at me for a moment. I couldn’t make out all of his expression, but he seemed surprised and disgusted. “Really?” he asked, confirming the disgusted part. “They sent you in here that unprepared?” He shook his head. “Never mind. Bring your trucks up, and let’s get moving. And really black out.”

  I felt almost a lit
tle embarrassed, which pissed me off. We’d come this far through this shithole country, and this guy was calling us out at first meeting. It also pissed me off that apparently we’d been left out of the loop somewhere, if he was on the level.

  Another tap of the PTT. “Bring it on home. Our guide is here,” I called. “And he’s warned us to douse the IR lights.”

  “Roger,” Alek replied. A moment later I could hear the trucks starting up, and then the HiLux nosed through the bushes, followed by the Land Cruiser. I saw the firefly to the west go dead, then the darkened forms of Hank and Rodrigo came walking up along the treeline, all but invisible except for the thermal imaging until they were right on top of us.

  I turned to Baird. “You lead out, we’ll follow in trace.” He just nodded curtly, and Larry and I trotted over to the Land Cruiser and climbed back in.

  “So,” Jim said from the driver’s seat, “you met our boy? What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, as I adjusted my rifle so I could get it out the window fast if I needed to. “He at least implied that the skinnies down here have night vision, which means either he’s making shit up to make himself seem important and knowledgeable, or we’ve gotten shit intel again. Both seem entirely possible at this point.”

  Jim just grunted. “The way the rest of this op has gone, I’m leaning toward option two,” Imad said from the back seat. There didn’t seem to be much to add after that.

  To his credit, Baird led us away from the direction he’d come, angling out to the southeast, swinging wide into the hinterland before turning back west toward Baardheere. Most of the way we were actually on the rutted, packed tracks that somehow had survived the flooding of the Juba, but several times we were bouncing over open ground. Honestly, if I’d been blindfolded, I never would have been able to tell the difference.