by Brent Towns
“Yes, Ma’am. Will do my best to see through the curtain of dust.”
He shifted his aim and centered his crosshairs on the dust-laden window of the bouncing bus. He adjusted marginally and then fired. Axe saw the star pattern appear in the bus’ windshield then it swerved violently to the right. It left the road and bounced through a ditch before coming to a stop in another cloud of thick orange dust.
Almost instantly, the bus doors flew open and armed men spilled outside. “Fuck,” Axe snarled. “Get a look at these bastards. They’re like fleas on a hound dog’s ass.”
Cara didn’t respond because she had her own issue. Having already fired at the second technical’s front tire, she’d missed, and the bullet had punched into the front guard instead. She took a second shot and cursed herself for rushing it and missing again. Then the SUV disappeared behind a shanty. She said into her comms, “Reaper One? Reaper Two. One technical is down but the second is on its way to you. Over.”
“Copy.”
Cara ducked her head as a burst of fire from an AK-47 blew rust chips from the edge of the bow no further than six feet from her face. Beside her, she heard Axe say something about an asshole before he fired two fast shots. Then he said into his mic, “Reaper, you’ve got company inbound. I would say at least fifteen jihadis from the bus. I stopped a couple of them, but they’re swarming like flies on shit. They’re amongst the shanties.”
“Copy, Reaper Four. Just keep thinning them out.”
“Roger that.”
Kane shouted at Brick and Arenas, “Make sure the 416s are on single shot. Conserve ammunition and make them count.”
Suddenly the second technical appeared. A man dressed in black was balanced behind the .50 caliber and no sooner had the vehicle stopped, he opened fire.
The Land Rover seemed to disintegrate around them as large caliber bullets passed through it like molten lances. What glass remained blew out, and Brick huddled in behind the engine block, figuring to use its solidity as extra protection.
Kane dived to his right while Arenas tried to make himself as flat as possible. The booming sound of the fifty seemed impossibly loud, and Kane shuddered from the concussive blast each time the weapon fired.
The 416 in his hands came up, and he fired three fast shots. Only one hit its target, but it was enough to do the job. The man fell back, and the fifty-caliber went quiet.
“Thank God for that,” Brick cursed.
Kane nodded. “Reaper Two and Three. Keep an eye on that damned gun. Don’t let them get it back up and running.”
“Copy, Reaper.”
“Reaper One? Bravo Three. We’ve got eyes on the rest of those jihadis coming your way. They are loaded in seven trucks. The good news is that there are no technicals. The bad news is that they’ll be there before the Hornets.”
“You’re just full of good news.”
Kane was about to say more when Cara’s voice shouted over the comms, “RPG! Reaper get out!”
The three team members scrambled to get out of the immediate area. They hadn’t gone far when the tell-tale smoke trail of the Rocket Propelled Grenade streaked through the air. The battered Land Rover exploded in an orange ball of flame, the heat wave washing over them all.
They were thrown to the ground by the concussive blast, and in the process, Kane received a mouthful of sand. His ears rang, and his vision blurred. Somewhere in the distance, the staccato sound of gunfire rang out. Then a voice which seemed miles away kept shouting at him.
“Reaper! Are you OK? Reaper, talk to me!”
He moaned and felt a tug at his clothing. “Come on, Reaper. Get the fuck up.”
Kane coughed and spat sand from his mouth, the grains crunching between his teeth. He looked up and saw a figure swimming before his eyes. Slowly his focus returned. Brick took shape before him, a thin line of blood running from his hairline, and a bloody wound low down on his side beneath his tactical vest.
“Are you OK?” he managed.
“No worse off than you or Carlos,” Brick told him. Then Kane realized that the burning pain in his thigh wasn’t going away. He looked down and saw the bloody gash and the material around it covered in blood and sand.
“Where’s Carlos?”
“I’m here, amigo,” the Mexican said, and Kane saw that he too was wounded. On his upper left arm.
“Are you OK?”
Bullets hammered the ground around them. “How about we get out of here before we start taking inventory,” Brick snapped.
Kane came to his feet and limped towards an old shed made from corrugated iron. The other two followed Brick covering their retreat. Bullets kicked up sand all around them, but Kane was hurting too much to care. They took shelter in the flimsy structure, rounds hammering into it sounding like a massive hailstorm.
“We have to get out of here,” Kane shouted to the others.
The normally unflappable Arenas said, “No shit.”
Kane coughed and winced. “That hurt.”
Brick started to check him over. As he did, he said, “Carlos, look out the back. We need to get out of here before we get surrounded.”
“Roger.”
Arenas disappeared for a short time, and when he came back, said, “It is all clear.”
Brick said to Kane, “I reckon you might have a cracked rib or two. And you might need a few stitches in that leg.”
“Then I’ll live?”
“I’d say so.”
Kane said, “We need to get the hell out of here. Bravo Three? Reaper One. I need you to tell me what you see to our six, over.”
“That’s Indian country, Reaper One.”
“I know that, damn it. But if we stay here any longer, we’re all dead.”
“Wait one.”
“Cara, can you hear me?”
“Copy, Reaper.”
“You and Axe rally on us. We’re falling back.”
“Into the slum?”
The slum he referred to was the corrugated iron dwellings which the pirates lived in while they were operational.
“Yes.”
“Roger, coming to you.”
“Everyone, check ammo,” Kane ordered over his comms.
“Reaper One, your six is clear, over,” Teller’s voice came to him.
“Roger. Tell Zero we’re falling back. How far out is that air support?”
“Hornets are still five mikes out. Listen Reaper; if you go into the slum, there is no guarantee you’re coming back out of there alive. It’s like a maze, and with those truckloads of jihadis closing in on your position, it could all turn to shit.”
“It already has. Reaper One out.”
Cara and Axe appeared. “If we’re doing this, Reaper, I suggest we go now. Those trucks are a minute or so out, and that fifty will be up –”
He never finished the words because the thump-thump-thump of the fifty-caliber machine gun beat him to it and large holes began to appear in the shed as though it was made of tin foil.
“Move!” Kane shouted. “Now!”
Chapter 2
U.S.S. George H. W. Bush
Gulf of Aden
Teller looked up at Ferrero in the makeshift operations room and said, “Did you get all that, sir?”
Ferrero nodded. “We need to get them some help, or it’s all gone to hell, and we’ll never get them back. I can’t believe that we weren’t told about the al-Qa’ida camp. Christ.”
The watertight door opened, and Thurston appeared. “Sitrep, Luis.”
“Kane is pulling them out, and they’re withdrawing back into the slum,” he told her. “I just hope they can hold out until air support gets there.”
“I just talked to the admiral. He’s having the marines spun up as a QRF. The problem is, they won’t be on the ground for about forty minutes. What about the jihadis?”
Teller said, “They’re almost on top of them, Ma’am.”
“Shit.”
Suddenly, Swift appeared beside them. “I might have s
omething, Ma’am.”
“What is it?”
“I’ve just been in contact with an Australian naval vessel, the H.M.A.S. Adelaide. She’s up here on pirate patrol. She’s been monitoring our radio transmissions, and they have a helicopter on standby with a SAS team on board. They informed me that they can have them on the ground within fifteen minutes.”
Thurston glanced at Ferrero. “They’re a lot closer than we are.”
“I say do it. They’re the team’s only hope.”
The general nodded. “Slick, tell them that all help would be received with our undying gratitude.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Ferrero said as he stared at the jihadis dismounting from their trucks, “I just hope they can get there quick enough.”
Team Reaper
Somalia
“Reaper One, this is Rattler One-One. We are a flight of two, inbound your position, over.”
Kane brought his team to a halt amongst the shanties and had them set up a small perimeter. He pressed his talk button and said, “Copy, Rattler One-One.”
There was a loud boom as the afterburners on the two Super Hornets kicked in as they passed overhead. Reflexively the team ducked low. The lead pilot came back over the radio. “Both myself and Rattler Two-Two are armed with a pair of AGM-65 Mavericks. Where do you want us to put them? Over.”
“Wait one, Rattler. Just stand off a moment, and we’ll give you an aim point.”
“Copy, Reaper One.”
Kane turned to Brick. “Blow the damned drugs.”
“Copy that.”
Within seconds there was a roar, and the corrugated iron structures around them reverberated violently, threatening to fall on them from the blast wave as it funneled through the narrow alleys. An orange fireball rose above the small community and disappeared into a black pall of smoke. “You get that, Rattler One-One?”
“Yeah, roger. Can hardly miss it.”
“Good. Anything within two-hundred yards of that damned explosion is fair game.”
“Copy. Rattler One-One is inbound and cleared hot.”
Cara said to Kane, “Just in case you missed it, we’re inside that target area.”
“Well, I guess we’d better move then,” he said, pointing along an alley. “That way.”
Cara took the lead and moved as fast as she dared. Suddenly a man appeared in front of her. This one, however, wasn’t a pirate, but a jihadi. The thick beard, the lighter-colored skin, and better dressed. She snapped off a shot with her M110A1, and the 7.62 round slammed into his chest before he could fire his AK.
“Keep moving,” Kane shouted at her and Cara did just that, stepping over the body and moving forward.
“Reaper One? Rattler One-One. Keep your heads down, missiles inbound.”
Within a matter of moments, the first missile struck off to their right and rear. The impact was much bigger than that of the triggered explosion. The team dived to the ground where they remained for a handful of seconds before they were up and moving again.
But they’d progressed no further than another twenty meters when the second Hornet came in and delivered its payload. This time the two missiles landed closer than the others, and Kane’s team was thrown to the ground rather than diving of their own accord.
Sand and debris rained down around them, pieces of corrugated iron forming deadly hail, and through the haze of it all, Kane heard the lead pilot say something about good luck, and then they were gone.
Slowly, painfully, the team dragged themselves to their feet, and battered and bruised, Kane got them moving again.
“Reaper One? Zero. Copy?”
“What?” he snapped, disregarding any kind of protocol.
Ferrero let it go and said, “How are you folks doing?”
“That last one was a bit close, but we’re all still alive.”
“Move to your west. Once you get out of the slum, you’ll find a patch of broken ground with what looks to be a wash running through it. You need to get there in the next ten minutes.”
“What’s so time critical?”
“There’s a chopper on the way in with a team of Australian SAS on it. They’ll exfil you.”
“Copy. We’re moving. Out.”
Team Reaper spent the next five minutes fighting their way through the slum against seemingly insurmountable odds, the tide of humanity multiplying the further they went. Suddenly the claustrophobic alleys opened before them in what resembled a town square. There were old boxes, a bathtub, and other various items strewn around. Kane cursed, and from behind him, he heard Brick say, “It’s a fucking kill zone.”
“Bravo Three, copy?”
“Roger.”
“We’ve reached an open area in the middle of the slum which I’d rather not cross. Is there a way around?”
“Negative, Reaper.”
“Shit. OK, Move out. The sooner we get across this, the better.”
Arenas led the way with Cara behind him. Kane began to move out, followed by Axe, and Brick provided rear security. They were halfway across when the first jihadi appeared. He opened fire with his AK, spraying the clearing with a deadly hail of lead. The team scattered, trying to find cover. Kane dove behind a pile of crates which splintered under the impact of the incoming rounds.
Then, before that one could be dealt with, another appeared. And another, and another. Before long they were pinned down by a tremendous rate of incoming fire.
Kane leaned around the crates and rattled off a couple of shots, killing a jihadi. To his left, down behind the metal bathtub, Cara steadily fired at targets as they appeared. The others took up cover wherever they could, however meager it was. Cursing under his breath, Kane said into his comms, “Bravo Three, Reaper One. We’re pinned down. I say again, we’re pinned down and just about out of ammo.”
“Copy, Reaper One. You’re pinned down.”
Aboard Dingo Four-One
Somalia
Warrant Officer Bluey Clarke looked over at his four team-mates, held up two fingers, and shouted, “Two minutes!”
Each man was armed with an M4A1 and had loaded up with extra ammo when the call came for them to deploy. Each man’s vest had armor plate both back and front. Bluey had made sure of that before they’d climbed aboard the UH-60 Black Hawk helicopter. The information he’d been given before leaving the Adelaide wasn’t much. All he knew was that a team of Yanks were in trouble and needed rescuing. His commanding officer had also told them that there would be plenty of rag heads to kill.
The team was very experienced and had been together for a while. Apart from himself, there was, Ringa, Jacko, Red, and Lofty; each man proficient at his job. They had to be. One slip could lead to death. Or worse, you could let your mates down.
Bluey pressed the talk button on the radio to speak with the pilot. “Can you take us in over the target first so I can get the lay of the land, Skipper?”
“Roger, Bluey. We’re a minute and a half out.”
“Can you give me an outside line, too?”
“Changing channel now. She’s all yours.”
“Bushranger One to American commander, come in, over.”
Nothing.
“Bushranger One to American commander, come in, over.”
There was another moment of silence before the radio crackled, and a voice could be heard to say, “Bushranger One, this is Reaper One, reading you Lima Charlie, over.”
“Copy, Reaper One. We’re inbound about a minute out. The helo is going to do a sweep over the target before we land, over.”
“Roger, Bushranger One. We’re pinned down in the center of the slum and taking heavy fire, over.”
“Hang in there, Reaper One. We’ll be on the ground shortly. We’ll come to you and exfil together. Bushranger One out.”
The Black Hawk swept in over the slum, taking several incoming rounds from the ground as it did. Bluey leaned out the door to get a better picture of what was happening below. As they passed over the battle
area where Team Reaper was pinned down, he saw the overwhelming number of jihadis pushing hard to close the circle and finish the infidels off.
Bluey said into the comms. “Skipper, when you drop us off, you might need to do a gun run or two over the target area.”
The pilot said, “Leave it with me. We’ll sort the bastards out.”
The Black Hawk dropped close to the ground and flared before landing. Bluey and the others disembarked and crouched down, waiting for it to lift off and stop blowing the sand and shit in their faces.
Once it had cleared, Bluey signaled for his team to move out. Red took point and was followed by Jacko. Within moments, they were inside the alleys of the slum and moving toward the sound of gunfire.
Suddenly, the sky overhead seemed to be ripped apart as the minigun on the Black Hawk opened up. Invisible lances reached out, destroying all they touched. Bluey’s team pushed forward and had only gone a few more meters when Red’s voice came over the comms. “Contact front!”
The rattle of gunfire sounded as the point man opened fire. The rest of the team became backed up at a small crossroads within the slum and Bluey swore. A jihadi appeared to his right, and he swung his M4 around and fired. Squeezing his trigger, he called out, “Contact right!”
The shooter jerked violently under the impact of the rounds. Then Jacko called in contact left, and the SAS team were well and truly hip-deep in shit. “Motherfuckers,” Bluey cursed. “Push forward, Red.”
“Roger!” Red shouted and kept moving.
The battle raged as more attackers appeared, but the SAS team kept moving like a battering ram knocking down a stubborn door. Overhead the Black Hawk did another sweep, and the minigun rained devastation once more.
Bluey changed out a magazine and slapped another one home, chambered a round and brought the M4 back up into the firing position. “We’re here, Bluey,” Red’s voice came over the comms.
“OK, hold your position,” Bluey said and moved forward to Red.
When he reached him, he found his point-man sheltering behind a corrugated iron structure, with a dead jihadi at his feet. “What have we got?”