They also both knew that talking about who they were going to miss most was just putting a happy face on things. Neither really believed they were going to get out of there without being shot trying to escape. The walls that surrounded them on all sides were twenty feet high – and, as of the past two days, had been extended up to twenty-five, with some sections already complete. Twenty feet was perhaps not too tall to jump from, though with severe risk of a broken ankle. But they were also topped with razor wire and there was noise-making shit strung around below to alert the guards to random Zulus who wandered up to the walls.
“It’s time,” Baxter said.
“Yeah,” Zack said. “It’s time. We’ve had something like a home here, albeit with a severely abusive father. But now we’ve got to go.”
Baxter laughed. “No. I mean it’s time for me to go – I’ve got to go launch the Pred.”
Zack stood up. “I’ll come with you.”
Baxter stood and looked concerned. “You sure you want to stick your head out?”
“I’m not under house arrest. Not yet, anyway. And I could do with some fresh air.” Neither of them said what both were thinking: that it might be his last fresh air – ever.
* * *
Ten minutes later, they were climbing the nearly-dark inside stairs to the south-east guard tower. This one wasn’t reachable by the outside parapets – and the thick door at the top of the stairs was secured with a heavy combination lock. Baxter paused at the top and worked the dials by touch. He knew the combination for the same reason the tower was secured: because it was where the Predator GCS was stored, and it was where he flew his missions from.
Stepping out into the light of the setting sun and the fresh open air, the first thing they saw was two of Godane’s guys, both English-speaking – and both actually Western-educated, if Zack remembered correctly. They already had the GCS out of its storage bin and set up on its folding legs, with the top of the case flipped open.
The laptop inside was already booting.
Out over the wall and down below, alongside the dirt airstrip, they could see two other guys pulling the Predator out of its shed and wheeling it into its launch position at the foot of the airstrip.
And as they waited for the GCS to come up, the third thing they saw, when they looked inside and down into the courtyard, was the assault force gearing up. It consisted of more men and trucks than either Zack or Baxter had ever seen go out at one time before. AKs and RPGs bristled everywhere. There was even a light mortar in a truck bed.
And at the head of the whole parade was the Sword himself: al-Sîf.
The giant logs of the front gates began to groan as pulleys, ropes, and strong human arms hauled them open.
Zack exchanged an alarmed look with Baxter, then looked out of the corner of his eye at the two trainee drone pilots. Not only did both speak English – but Zack was pretty sure he and Baxter had no language in common that wasn’t shared by these guys as well. But it didn’t matter – their look said it all.
We’ve got to tell Triple Nickel about the size of this war party – that Saladin’s army is coming for them.
Moving slowly and looking nonchalant, Zack turned and reached for the door handle. It opened violently and he had to pull his hand back to keep it from being smacked. Behind it were two Praetorians.
“Zakwani. Amiirka ayaa ku doonayo – HADDA.”
The Emir was summoning him – again.
So much for warning Triple Nickel about the size of the attack. They would just have to hope the SF guys were loaded for bear – and that the advance warning they’d gotten would be enough to help them survive.
As he stepped back into the dark, Zack’s last look to Baxter said:
See you when I see you.
General Kwon
Western Edge of the Cal Madow Forest
Kwon reflected that combat was a team sport.
This meant it required drill, practice, and rehearsal. And because it was a sport where people died, it called for a lot.
Then again, sometimes there was no time. And then combat had to be like jazz – largely improvised. But when an SF ODA was on their game in a tactical environment, they were like world-class jazz musicians. Each was completely proficient on his instrument. They all knew the fundamentals backward and forward, they’d been playing for many years, and they also knew and trusted each other completely.
This meant they could perform an emergency assault, or throw themselves into a hasty defensive position, and still be extremely effective and deadly. It also meant they could change up or modify tactics to deal with a shifting mission objective. And they could do so quickly, often without any conversation – with hand signals only, or even a nod of the head.
This ambush was somewhere in between. Planned – but not rehearsed.
Scarcely an hour after their meeting in the team room, the four-person patrol had rolled out the gates, over to the garage – and then down the road. They’d done it toting one shit-ton of ammo and ordnance, plus a couple extra machine guns.
Kwon lay behind one of these now, an M240L medium machine gun – universally referred to in SF as “the gun.” It was usually the biggest weapon one man could carry on a patrol, and thus was the big dog in small-unit actions. SF guys, particularly weapons sergeants, were taught that tactical success – survival, even – often came down to getting the 240 in the most effective and advantageous position.
And Kwon had positioned this one very carefully indeed.
Then he’d dug a hole for it, and him, and gotten the whole hide site covered with dense foliage. This sat on a low ridge, overlooking a forest path. Twenty meters to his right, Jake was in a nearly identical fighting hole. He was also invisible to the path, as well as to Kwon.
And he would be invisible even if there were daylight.
As it was, it was full-on night. The sun was long gone by the time they decided on this spot for the ambush. All four wore four-barrel NVGs, which turned the small amount of moonlight and starlight into near full-on daytime. But even through those, nothing of their positions was visible.
It turned out an ambush was a lot like an assault on a fixed position. The difference was that in an assault you recce’d the defenses and in an ambush you recce’d for the perfect ambush spot. And they had found theirs. All the fighting holes had excellent visibility down into their kill box, with perfectly interlocking fields of fire. It was a slaughter waiting to happen. All they needed was the victims.
Fifty meters ahead and to the right of Kwon’s hole was another small ridge line, perpendicular to their own. From Kwon’s position, there was absolutely nothing visible on it. But it concealed not just another fighting hole, with Kate tucked up in it – but also the back of a gun truck, anchoring that line, with just the tips of three fat barrels of a GAU-19 minigun protruding. Every one of those barrels fired .50-caliber rounds – and together they put out 2,000 per minute.
Todd was hidden behind this gun, wearing proper woodland camouflage now. Even his face was done up with brown and green face paint.
This was proper snake-eater shit.
Kwon had architected the whole thing. He’d also picked the spot – roughly two miles from the nearest approach of the closest thing to a road in Sanaag District, which snaked up from the south out of the town of Ceerigaabo. These two ridges overlooked the only path into the Cal Madow forest coming in from the road to the west. Farther along, behind the ambushers, the path led up on to the slopes surrounding Mount Shimbiris.
The two perpendicular ridges made for a classic L-shaped ambush. When the al-Shabaab patrol was funneled into their kill box… well, there was no way out. The only question was whether they would come this way, and Kwon liked their odds. So far, according to surveillance with the Shadow, it looked certain they would. But unless they got updated intel from Brendan and Elijah, there was nothing for any of them to do now, except lie there motionless and silent. And wait for the prey to scurry into their trap.
Kwon breathed smoothly and let his mind range back.
* * *
In Korean, family names come first, and Kwon was his. But that wasn’t why his teammates called him that. It was because his given name was Lucas, or Luke. Lucas was one more syllable than necessary – particularly in the fury and violence of combat, where one syllable could be the margin of survival. And Luke just sounded way too much like Jake – particularly in the noise and chaos of a firefight.
He was also proud of the name.
It had once belonged to General Kwon Yul, a sixteenth-century military commander who successfully led Korean forces against an early Japanese invasion. General Kwon’s legend and immortality were cemented in the Battle of Haengju, near Seoul, when he led 2,800 defenders – some soldiers, many just farm boys – in resisting an attack of 30,000 Japanese solders armed with muskets.
Using the newest technology, Kwon’s forces fired gunpowder rockets at the attackers – and when those ran out, launched rocks, arrows, iron pellets, burning oil, molten iron, and rolling logs from the fortress walls. The Japanese suffered over ten thousand casualties – including all three commanding generals – and were forced to retreat, and to withdraw from the entire region. It was one of the greatest Korean military victories of all time.
And the military genius who executed it was a forebear of Luke Kwon.
This had always seemed to hold some special significance for him, and his lineage had never been far from his mind – despite the fact that he was born in Bridgeport, Connecticut and utterly Westernized since birth. But he was a second-generation immigrant and was raised speaking both English and Korean. He still spoke Korean – just not very well.
Like a lot of Asian families in America, his pushed him hard to succeed – to assimilate, to climb the ladder, to do better than his parents had done. He earned a degree in international studies from Cornell and was accepted to Georgetown Law School – but instead took a job as a legislative assistant for a Congressman in Washington. From there he rose to full-time staffer on the Senate Foreign Relations Committee.
But it was never what he wanted to do. It was just what his family wanted him to do. Deferring law school was his tiny rebellion – a way of dodging lock-in to a certain kind of life, at least for a while. But at a certain point, he had to make a choice. And he found the courage to make it. He enlisted in the Army and was promoted to specialist because of his college degree. But he was also the honor graduate of his Basic Training class at Fort Benning, after which he was given a position in the Civil Affairs and Psychological Operations Command (Airborne).
It was special operations – but it was spec-ops light.
And Kwon wanted to be a shooter. The real deal.
His way in was SFAS and the Q Course, where he was super-disciplined, impervious to mental stress, and a high achiever. And they definitely turned him into a shooter. The Q Course instructors said the Bravo was the most important role – his job was to get rounds on the bad guys before they got rounds on his team.
He was trained relentlessly with a wide range of pistols, assault rifles, machine guns, sub-machine guns, sniper rifles, grenade launchers, anti-armor rockets, anti-aircraft rockets, plus indirect fire weapons such as mortars and artillery. He learned to load, clear, disassemble, reassemble, bore sight, and zero all commonly used light-infantry weapons in every military in the world. An SF soldier has to be able to fight with his weapon, his ally’s weapon, or his enemy’s weapon.
Kwon also had to keep the team’s own arsenal in perfect condition, as well as overhaul and repair those not functioning properly. He was responsible for planning and ordering ammo for all deployments and storage and security of weapons when they got there. He had to be able to set up and manage firing ranges and train foreign troops on them – in their own language.
When he earned his Green Beret and went out on Team, he knew he was finally where he belonged.
Later, as part of the ongoing and never-ending training, Kwon also completed the Special Operations Target Interdiction Course, or SOTIC, which was conducted at Range 37 – a 130-acre dedicated training facility at Fort Bragg. This was actually the primary basic training course for all Delta snipers, as well as a handful of very lucky long-gunners from other units.
Easygoing, cool, methodical, and logical, Kwon transmitted both strength and strength of purpose. Also, as Jake discovered early on, he was a natural-born killer. He had the sort of lethal instincts that couldn’t be taught. Jake could always count on him to dial the violence all the way up the instant it became necessary, or to modulate it as required. He never flinched – not out of squeamishness, and certainly not from fear. He was quiet, observant, and extremely intelligent.
Physically, he was big for a Korean-American, a solidly built 6’1” – tall, lanky, and muscular, with dramatic features, and a smile that didn’t appear much, but creased the corners of his eyes when it did. He was very cagey, sometimes to the point of being borderline creepy. Not psycho. Just knowing. He wore his straight dark hair short, neatly trimmed and combed. He had a mild, youthful air about him. His voice was soft, confident, almost conversational.
And he was heart-attack serious about all operational matters.
Like Jake, he knew that doing the necessary wasn’t always nice. But it was vitally important that somebody be willing to do it.
And Kwon had raised his hand to volunteer three times: once for the Army, again for the Airborne, and finally for Special Forces.
He soldiered like he was doing it on purpose.
* * *
In the still and silent black of the nighttime forest, his radio earpiece went. The voice on the other end was barely a whisper.
“Kwon, Jake.”
He touched his PTT button one time, a single squelch going out over the squad net. He almost never talked more than necessary. And definitely not on ambush.
“Five mikes out.”
He squelched once again in acknowledgement.
He curled a little further around the 240, leaning his NVGs a little closer to the tritium-illuminated reticle of the MG optic on top of the weapon.
And he hoped Todd wouldn’t clear the field with that minigun before he could run even a single belt through his.
Kill Box
The Stronghold - Near the Emir’s Chamber
On the long walk from “the air traffic control tower,” all the way down to Godane’s dank chamber, Zack gained some information about why the Emir wanted him.
“He wants you to watch and listen,” the guard behind him said in jovial Somali. “You will listen as he kills all your friends. And takes everything they have.”
And Zack thought: I don’t THINK so, motherfuckers.
But he also shook his head. This thing about murdering and pillaging Triple Nickel was a meme that was gaining local currency – as was the idea that Zack was buddies with them. But he figured that ship had sailed, and he’d never talk anyone here out of it. He only hoped he could stay alive long enough to meet the SF guys in person. But if not, he’d at least performed a noble act – he’d tipped them off. Maybe it would be something for his epitaph. Though he knew he’d be lucky to get even an unmarked grave.
Godane would probably toss his body to the dogs, or the dead.
Entering the inner chamber once more, Zack found it more or less in its usual configuration – Godane behind his desk with his laptop, but also a big radio set, and a few more lackeys than usual. It had the air of a Super Bowl party. One of the lackeys held a hand mic. Zack guessed he was quarterbacking al-Shabaab’s mission – or what passed for tactical control for these asshats.
Zack figured the drone video was being piped straight to Godane’s laptop, even as Baxter flew the mission up above their heads.
It wasn’t clear what was expected of him, so he just stood and monitored the mild bustle. Godane certainly wasn’t inviting him onto the couch to watch the big screen. He had to make way as another lackey came in the door behind him, scurri
ed up to Godane, leaned over, and whispered urgently in his ear.
Godane listened, his expression turning to alarm. He started to speak to the man at the radio in Somali – but then looked at Zack, cut himself off, and continued in Arabic. Zack eyed a patch of floor and willed his face to stay impassive.
But his heart was leaping in his chest.
And when Godane finished speaking, he knew he somehow had to get back to their room – and to the radio – now. As to how to effect this, he only had one idea – and no time to think of another one. He walked toward Godane’s desk, talking at him urgently in Somali: “Amiirka, waxaan idiin sheegi karaa in ka badan oo ku saabsan devels habeenkii—”
To his fantastic relief, one of the Praetorians shoved him from behind, hard, and Zack used the momentum to lurch into Godane’s desk, catching the edge with his left hand – and making sure to knock the bandage off his middle finger. Blood poured from it. Zack only lamented that none of it got on Godane. As the Emir cursed him, the guard grabbed him roughly, pulled him to his feet, and shoved him back against a wall.
Zack looked around. Apparently that was it.
He waited until the eyes fell off of him then stuck one of his good fingers down his throat – and evacuated the contents of his stomach on Godane’s floor.
Godane made the sort of look of disgust that only the very pure can muster.
“Take this vile dog from my sight.”
That’s more like it, thought Zack, holding his bleeding finger and trying not to smile, as he was hauled from the chamber.
And back down to his room.
* * *
Brendan grimaced as he listened. He really didn’t like being off the command channel for a live op – in this case, the ambush that was kicking off pretty much any second. Then again, he needed to hear this.
“Say all again after ‘Get your people’.”
The transmission quality wasn’t brilliant.
Arisen : Nemesis Page 23