But somebody wanted him back in his ODA. He had never admitted whether that person was him, or someone up the chain of command.
He had finally stopped even keeping track of deployments, instead keeping a tally of the countries he’d served in: forty-three in twenty-one years. Hardly anyone in SF had been operational that long – and nobody had stayed in one team. But there was some kind of feeling among command that taking Jake out of Triple Nickel would cause the wheels to come off – not just of that ODA, but the entire world. Like he was the linchpin of American military dominance, perhaps even of the whole global order.
Multiple tours in the ’Stan (Afghanistan) had given way to multiple tours in the ’Raq (Iraq). He lost his right leg in the brutal fighting in Ramadi. While on overwatch with some SEALs in a house they’d cleared, a guy got badly wounded, and they called for a Bradley fighting vehicle to medevac him. But when they came out of the house fast, trying to improve the casualty’s chances for survival, someone had stuck a mine under the doormat – which blew Jake’s leg off. The mine also had white phosphorus in it, which nothing could be done about – they just had to let the chunks buried in his flesh burn themselves out. And he had too bad an arterial bleed for the medic to risk morphine.
He just had to bull it out.
Forced back onto home soil, he went straight from Walter Reed to physio – where, from the first minute, he had only one goal: getting back to his team. His PT scores had always been outstanding, due to him being a fitness fanatic and gym nut. But they actually went up after his injury, to a perfect 300. Some guys ribbed him that the lighter prosthetic leg made pull-ups easier, and it did. But his five-mile run time also went down – by nearly a minute.
Jake was bruising, ripped, muscular, and obsessive about gym time. He had an amazing physique for a guy five seconds from middle age. He was also a dedicated runner, and clambered through steep mountain trail runs with the best of them. He could out-run, out-press, and out-squat any two-legged member of the team. His fake leg, attached just below the knee, was the end product of a decade of well-funded practical research in prosthetics, courtesy of the IEDs of Afghanistan and Iraq.
He was easygoing but essentially private, careful and skeptical, while maintaining an outward affability. His attitude was that a soldier did whatever it took to get the job done. If your best wasn’t good enough, that wasn’t good enough. He was confident, serious, and dominant in running his team of sergeants.
He was known as a stickler for sound tactics and procedures, who scrutinized everything his sergeants did to ensure there were no lapses. He resonated authority, power, and competence. He never had to yell, as it was agreed he was scarier the quieter he got. He inspired loyalty among his guys by working even harder than they did. On deployment, his people knew they were expected to work seventeen hours a day – and use the other seven for sleep, exercise, and meals.
“What do you need?” was his constant refrain.
He had the even temper of a soldier who had seen it all. He was caustic and skeptical, which tended to balance the energetic optimism of the team captains, who came and went. He didn’t think there was any magic in the world, and hadn’t for a long time. There were only the fearless and skilled acts of the resolute and the willing. He thought that was exactly as true now, after the end of the world, as it had been before. It had always been a deadly biosphere they lived in, even when the veneer of civilization was laid on top of it. Almost all games were zero-sum, in Jake’s view.
And the great thing was to make the other guy pay first.
* * *
Brendan didn’t always see things that way, to say the least. And Brendan was, at least nominally, still in charge of Triple Nickel.
As Jake lay back on his bunk in the dark, he knew the real reason Brendan had compromised, despite the dangers of going back to Camp Lemonnier. It was to maintain his shaky authority. But Jake had compromised for exactly the same reason. He needed to prop Brendan up and keep him making enough of the right calls to keep them all alive.
Because the second-to-last thing he wanted was to have to stage a mutiny in this outfit – which would carry all kinds of costs and risks of its own.
But he also knew – and nobody had better make any mistake about this – ultimately he was going to do whatever it took to keep his guys alive. Right now, that was propping up Brendan. But if it stopped being that and started being something else, Jake would do something else.
At bottom, what he feared most was failing his men and having them get killed on his watch. He’d already seen far too many great soldiers die in front of his face. He was also haunted by the men he hadn’t seen die: those on the split team, including their Fox, the other CST, most of their senior sergeants, as well as their chief warrant officer – who had led the team on that fateful mission into the bush on the day the world ended.
Maybe if Jake had insisted on taking that patrol out himself instead of letting the Chief do it, things might have played out differently.
Right now, in his view, the immediate danger was Brendan – his lack of strength and resolve. And he was afraid those things might get them all killed. With Godane and al-Shabaab out there gunning for them now… playtime was coming to an end.
From here on out, Big Boy Rules were going to apply.
Goat Rodeo
The Stronghold - The Emir’s Chamber
Zack stepped quietly into the big creepy room. There was little light and zero sound. He hadn’t even had to request an audience. Godane had summoned him first.
“Come in, h’jyn.”
H’jyn – the Arabic word meant half-caste. That was the Emir’s charming pet name for Zack, who had been born to an English mother and Kenyan father.
Before Zack could think of an innocent-sounding way to raise the subject of Abo, Godane did it for him. “I am sorry about your friend. You saw him hanging on the walls? He was a hypocrite and an infidel. He was an enemy of God and the people.”
Zack probably really needed to downplay his friendship with Abo at this point. But he didn’t know how much Godane knew – and it was important that he not get caught out in a lie. Speaking very evenly, he said, “How did the Emir learn Abo was ungodly?”
Godane smiled. Zack knew he was susceptible to flattery. Godane probably knew he knew, and also probably didn’t care. “I have many worries, face many threats, h’jyn. I long had my suspicions that Abo was a disbeliever. Yesterday, I had his room searched. We found a Christian Bible, all praise be to Allah and peace and blessings be upon the Prophet.”
Oh, shit, Zack thought.
“Yes – he lived in secret as a Christian. Lured from the truths of the Prophet in his Church of England school no doubt, living with the imperialists and infidels.”
Double shit, Zack thought. That was in fact exactly how he knew Abo – they had been schoolmates in Kenya, many years earlier.
Godane let the menacing silence drag out. “Also, Allahu A’lam, he made notes in the margins and blank pages of his Christian book. Some about what he planned to do, once he moved to… Los Angeles.” Another pause. “Now, why would Abo think he was going to America? As well a duckling should fly to the moon.”
Zack nodded. “I do not know, Emir. It is very strange.”
Of course, Zack knew exactly why Abo thought he was going to the U.S. It was because Zack had promised to send him there – in return for one year’s service spying on al-Shabaab, on behalf of Zack’s employers.
Who used to have a very nice campus in Langley, Virginia.
* * *
“Come,” Godane said. He’d made his point. Now he was waving Zack around the side of his desk. He wanted to show him the drone video – and, Zack had no doubt, pick his brain. Godane was fucking crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew that intel was life and he knew how to use the resources under his control.
Zack leaned in and blinked at the video window, which glowed in the dimness. An image of thick forest moving below quickly resolved into
some kind of well-ordered encampment. As the camera POV looped back and went into an oval pattern around it, he saw the compound’s perimeter wall, a number of huts inside it, and finally men moving around among them.
And then, amazingly, he recognized a unit patch on a shoulder.
Holy shit, he thought. It’s Triple Nickel. They’re still alive.
When he looked up at Godane, he instantly knew the recognition on his face had betrayed him. Godane knew he knew who these people were – and if he didn’t tell him, that was probably the end of the road for him right there. Zack thought frantically – and finally told himself that Godane would get no advantage from knowing their unit designation. And he already knew he was going to have to give Godane something – just to keep breathing.
“It’s Special Forces,” Zack said. “ODA 555, known as Triple Nickel.”
“I knew this,” said Godane. “I knew it.” He spat on his own floor.
Back in the world, al-Shabaab’s intelligence sources had told them that ODA 555 was one of the lead units hunting their fighters – and, worse, that they had a central role in training and mentoring the Somali National Army.
Godane spat again. “These men are very ungodly. They helped drive us out of the cities where, praise and thanks to Allah, we enforced God’s laws for all. They hounded us out into the bush. And they consorted with the SNA lackeys of the kaffir government in Mogadishu. Truly, they are devils.” He pinned Zack with his wide eyes, the whites shining disturbingly in the near darkness. “And you – you knew they were still alive.”
Zack straightened up. “What, me? How the hell would I know that?” He didn’t add that Godane had basically had him and Baxter locked in the basement for a year and a half.
Godane’s countenance settled. He wasn’t the kind of man who ever suffered from doubt. He said, “Your lies will lead you only to the torments of hellfire. You know these devils. Now tell me what they are going to do.”
Zack took a breath. “Bismillah, Emir, I do not know, so cannot say.”
Godane’s face made it clear his patience was being tested. In Zack’s experience, it didn’t take much. “You are going to help me to destroy them.”
Zack took a deeper breath. This was bad.
In the past, his and Baxter’s interests had been at least roughly aligned with Godane’s and al-Shabaab’s – they were all mainly just trying to keep the dead off and stay alive. The dead were everyone’s enemy.
But now… he couldn’t help fucking Godane slaughter a bunch of Special Forces guys. But he also couldn’t appear to be intentionally unhelpful. If he did, he’d pretty quickly find himself nailed to the next tower over from Abo.
Zack knew he was now in a very narrow corner.
“Emir, I don’t think you want to fight these men. We’re in a precarious position already, surrounded by the dead. We don’t need to be shooting and drawing them to us with the noise. Even if you win the fight, you might only get to enjoy the victory for a few minutes. Be smart here.”
Godane actually hit Zack – the back of his hand right to the cheek. Zack straightened up and took a step back. He briefly considered tearing out the son of a bitch’s throat. He’d wanted to forever. There was no one else in the room now and the guards outside couldn’t get in there before he had a foot of open air between Godane and his windpipe.
On the other hand, he’d be dead ten seconds later – and Baxter ten minutes after that. That thought calmed him down. He didn’t do anything. He just waited.
“You will tell me what equipment they have.” Godane swiveled the laptop screen. “Look. That is a generator. Those are solar panels on the rooftops. I am not stupid. What weapons do they have, what supplies!”
Zack steeled himself and tried to focus – and then tried his peacemaker strategy again. “Emir, whatever they have in that compound, I tell you they will extract too heavy a price from you if you go there and try to take it.”
Godane made a dismissive noise. “God’s soldiers are strong. The infidels are weak, and few. But if I cannot take what they have, I will take from them their lives. I will not suffer them to live – they are too dangerous.”
Zack sighed. “The soldiers won’t want to risk a war anymore than we will.”
“No, they are too dangerous. If I must, I will destroy them – with the drone.”
Zack kept breathing. “Emir, we only have the two Hellfire missiles for the Predator. And the day may come when we need them to survive.”
“We will get more.”
Zack leaned in slightly. “You remember how dodgy that scavenging mission to Camp Lemonnier was. We lost half the men you sent.”
When he and Baxter originally brought the UAV in and traded it for their lives – and two spots in this bastion of the living – its two weapons rails had been empty. They had used both the Hellfires blasting their way out of Hargeisa. A few months later, Godane had sent them out to scavenge more. That had not been a fun afternoon.
Zack racked his brain for some way to convince Godane to steer clear of Triple Nickel. “Emir, the war between the mujahideen and the Americans is over. Now there is only the war with the dead. Maybe you can even work with the Americans, like you work with me and Baxter.”
Godane sneered. Rationality wasn’t his strong point at the best of times. And right now it was clear Triple Nickel was making his ass twitch. “They are sons of whores. They hunted us like dogs. They trained the SNA apostates to hunt us. They drove us into the wilderness. There can be no accord with them! There will be only death for them, and hellfire!”
Zack threw in the towel. He could already see it in Godane’s eyes – the implacability of ego. He knew the Emir’s ego was generally caught up with absolutely everything – his reign over the Stronghold, the lackeys he controlled and ordered around, Africa, the dead, the Americans. He was a monster of pure ego. And the worst kind – he professed that it was all in the cause of Allah and the Ummah, the people. But it was really all about him. It was always about him, and the gratification of his ego.
And right now his ego was seriously fucked off by a handful of surviving snake-eaters out in the bush.
* * *
One of those lackeys came in and whispered something in Godane’s ear. He kept on whispering.
After he left, Godane said to Zack: “The kaffirs are on the move.”
“What – the Americans? Where are they going?”
Godane stroked his beard. “Indeed. Where are they going, half-caste?”
Zack’s eyes narrowed. What the hell kind of game was this?
Godane played another card. “They are traveling west. What’s to the west, half-caste?”
“Ethiopia. Djibouti.” But Zack could only play so stupid. “Camp Lemonnier.”
“And what is it they seek at Camp Lemonnier?”
Zack tried to keep his poker face, while cursing inside his head. He actually had an excellent idea of what Triple Nickel might be running there for. He’d known about the heavy weapons locker the Task Force kept there, since well before the fall. And he’d taken some risks to make sure Godane never found out about it. The last thing the post-Apocalypse needed was Islamists running around with mini-guns and artillery.
But that was then. Now, he had to decide:
Was this a test? Did Godane already know – and was just trying to learn the extent to which Zack was fucking with him? If he got caught in an outright lie, his life expectancy there, already not real great, wasn’t going to improve.
Godane didn’t quite reveal his hand. He said, “They are going there for something to fight us with. It is the only explanation. But they will not commit their treachery unmolested. La ilaha illa Allah.”
* * *
Scurrying fast, Zack found Baxter in one of the garden patches inside the walls, struggling with a hoe in the near dark. The big expanse of vegetable garden was lit only with a couple of low lights with red filters over them.
He pulled Baxter in close and whispered: “Godane�
��s turning out the militia.”
“What? Where to?”
“Camp Lemonnier. He’s going to ambush the Special Forces team that’s heading there.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah. And it’s even worse than that. I’m going with them.”
Baxter pulled back slightly and looked Zack in the eye. “I’ll go in your place. I can convince Godane. You’re in no shape for it.”
Zack shook his head sadly, and managed a weak smile. “No. It’s got to be me. You’ll be safe here as long as Godane needs you to pilot the drone—” He cut himself off and suddenly looked baffled. “Wait a second. Is somebody else flying the Predator?”
“No. I’ve been following the plan – putting off Godane’s requests that I train up his guys. But I’m running pretty low on excuses.”
Zack shrugged that off. “Never mind that. My question is, if you’re here, and the Pred is on the ground… how the hell did Godane know Triple Nickel’s on the move? Much less where they’re going?”
Baxter shook his head. “No idea. Maybe he’s got other intel sources. He does often seem to be kind of everywhere all at once.”
Zack squinted off at nothing in the dark. “Could he have another drone we don’t even know about? Some satellite feed that’s still up? What?”
Zack cursed quietly. This was another wrinkle, another damned puzzle, and not something he had the bandwidth to try and solve. It was hard enough to play chess against Godane when they were basically kept blindfolded and not let in the room with the board. It was too much to mentally grapple with at once, and his head hurt.
Baxter started to protest again about Zack going to Lemonnier.
Zack cut him off. “No. Like I said, you’ll be safe here. Whereas if you go out on this goat-fucking rodeo, you’ll probably just end up getting shot by Triple Nickel – when they schwack the shit out of Godane’s raggedy-ass militia.”
Baxter cocked his head. “So you’re calling it for SF in a walkover?”
“I don’t like al-Shabaab’s odds. And all of Godane’s goons don’t actually get slotted, they’ll probably just get infected by the dead. And even if you do survive, you’ll come back here to find me up there on that cross, after he cuts Abo down. No, it’s gotta be me.”
Arisen : Nemesis Page 16