Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
FORTY-SIX
FORTY-SEVEN
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-NINE
FIFTY
FIFTY-ONE
FIFTY-TWO
FIFTY-THREE
FIFTY-FOUR
FIFTY-FIVE
FIFTY-SIX
FIFTY-SEVEN
FIFTY-EIGHT
FIFTY-NINE
SIXTY
SIXTY-ONE
SIXTY-TWO
SIXTY-THREE
SIXTY-FOUR
SIXTY-FIVE
SIXTY-SIX
SIXTY-SEVEN
SIXTY-EIGHT
SIXTY-NINE
About the Author
THE PRESSURE OF DARKNESS
A THRILLER
By HARRY SHANNON
This novel is dedicated to three amazing women—the late Devon Doherty, her sister Jaidon, and their mother Jen. Namaste.
"There is such a thing
As the pressure of darkness . . ."
—Victor Hugo
© 2010 Harry Shannon
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Anyone who has ever endeavored to write a novel will cheerfully tell you that it is impossible to accomplish such a daunting task without the support of a great many friends and advisors—too many, in fact, to list here. I asked several different folks from various professions for input along the way, and they were all abundantly helpful. However, in the end, I just flat-out made up a bunch of stuff to suit my nefarious purposes, so please know that any errors contained herein are my own. All of the people and events are products of my overheated imagination.
I feel compelled to publicly appreciate the following folks: author and ex-cop Gina Gallo for sharing some particularly nasty crime-scene memories, Dr. Bruce Ballon for some psychiatric perspective on oral sadism and anthropophagy, editor/authors Kealan Patrick Burke and Patricia Wallace, LAPD Officer J.D. Kasper, author Ray Garton, fellow author (and retired Army soldier) Weston Osches, my good friend Lynwood Spinks, Ms. Alexa Carpena who during a conversation reminded me of the existence of the obscure sect in India called the Aghora, Mr. John Boylan for his proofing and invaluable suggestions, also author/producer Marc Brener, Ms. Leya Booth for the editing help, and (as usual) my brilliant wife, Wendy.
As for the fictional disease Pal created, this tale was obviously written as entertainment, but I hope it also serves as something of a warning. Bird flu is yet another wake up call. The world needs to get its act together. Any day now, a new virus, manufactured or otherwise, will appear like a blip on the radar screen but become a global public health disaster within a matter of weeks.
PROLOGUE
NEAR MOGADISHU, SOMALIA
October, 1993
At first there is silence on the terraced rock face, broken only by the vaguely erotic sigh of evening waves stroking the beach. Then comes a man-made explosion of titanic proportions as the modified UH 60L goes pedal to the metal, the darkened Black Hawk helicopter rattling, whining, and thumping as it lifts off and turns away, flying blind. The well-trained pilot in alien-looking black goggles travels night-vision low, dangerously close to the sandy, rock-freckled ground, hoping to avoid enemy radar. Inside a greenish, shadowy cabin rests the human cargo, four elite "D" boys and one shadowy CIA observer.
The quartet of young soldiers, their faces soot-blackened and sweaty, are stretched out near backpacks which, like their uniforms, have been carefully stripped of all military insignia. Silenced weapons have been cleaned, knives sharpened, explosives wrapped carefully, drop ropes diligently re-wound, medical kits checked and re-checked. So now they chew gum and pretend to snooze with the studied insouciance of bloodied males the world over. They have come up together, from Fort Bragg and its Range 19 to Covert Ops in Somalia, and they are at ease in each other's company.
The observer, a youthful "spook" named Cary Ryan, has almost effeminate features but the lithe, compact toughness of a gymnast. He wears a drab uniform, also devoid of any markings, and lives up to his job description by rarely speaking. The men wait. All around them tiny lights flicker, casting purple-pink fingers of shadows up the riveted metal walls. The tallest soldier, a freckled-faced athlete from Nevada, picks imaginary food from his teeth. "Say, Top?"
"Yeah."
The red-haired boy cocks his head. "Where the fuck is this dump we're roping into again?"
"I told you, it's some tribal armpit maybe a few clicks past Mo, over near Ethiopia," Top says, dryly. "Why, you got a problem with that?"
Burke shrugs. Around him the other soldiers are starting to tune in. They sense that he's on to something. "Yeah. We're going the wrong way."
"That so?"
"We're moving north, across the bay. Hell, this turns out to be a long enough flight we'll be in fucking Djibouti."
Top lowers and shakes his head. Looks up: "Outstanding, genius. That's because the target is in Djibouti."
Their young medic, inevitably nicknamed Doc, is a wiry black man. "So we're going into yet another fucking backwards country, without official permission. You're shitting me, right?"
"Nope."
"Damn, that is harsh. I was hoping you made us lose our ID in case of a paternity suit or something."
"Like you could get laid."
Nervous laughter all around. Their leader stands up, lurches to one side and grabs onto a leather strap to keep his balance. He looks down at them fondly, shakes his head in mock disappointment. "Bunch of clowns . . ."
"So what's the real mission, Top?" The fourth man is Scotty Bowden. He is stocky, muscular, and always seems to have a two-day stubble on his weathered face. "And what the fuck is in Djibouti?"
"A warlord who needs to learn some manners. I guess Clinton can't get that lying sack of shit Hassan Gouled to do anything, so it's our party."
Burke snorts. "So much for the fucking French, huh?"
"Yeah. They won't touch this guy either, although the frogs do know we're coming. They said they'd look the other way, but other than that, we're on our own."
"Mighty white of them," jokes Doc. No one reacts.
"And if you are killed or captured," Scotty intones, "the secretary will disavow all knowledge of your actions." He hums the theme from 'Mission Impossible.' That manages to draw a few chuckles.
"Here's the name of the game," Top says, firmly. "Get killed if you have to and we'll bring you home."
Cary Ryan offers his first words. He speaks in a cool, clear voice. "But now hear this . . . nobody gets caught."
An immediat
e silence follows; all eyes turn away to wander the nearly empty cabin. Death is acceptable, but capture, and the inevitable videotaped confession that would surely follow brutal torture, is strictly forbidden. In short, shoot yourself if you have to; indeed, shoot your friend, but do not leave anyone behind alive. Everyone goes home . . . or else.
Scotty cuts a huge fart and breaks the tension. Burke waves a bush hat in the air and pretends to gag, Cary Ryan holds his nose. Doc Washington sits quietly, dreaming of a future he may not see. Top watches with a believable, yet entirely manufactured grin plastered on his face. He is the oldest warrior, thirty-six and pushing thirty-seven; to him the others, in their late twenties, are a solemn responsibility.
"If you ladies are through polluting the rarified air of our home away from home, I'll give you a sitrep and our exact mission."
All business, now, the group gathers in a tight circle. Top reflexively turns his back to the open ramp, flicks on a small flashlight and jams it between his teeth. He drops some photographs onto the floor, illuminates them. "Look these over and memorize the face and vitals. The target is a prick named Yousef Dahoumed. He's a religious nut, a terrorist who is asshole buddies with another rag head called Osama Bin Laden. In fact, they are supposed to be distant cousins. As you girls know, Bin Laden has a real hard-on for the U.S., and may be backing Adid."
Burke mutters something unintelligible. Top eyeballs him until he speaks. "What kind of religious nut, or doesn't that matter?"
"It matters, but not a lot."
Burke gestures expansively, palms out. "You know I like to read about religions, Top. It's a thing with me, okay? So tell us."
"He's a nut job, plain and simple. From what I heard he's set up his own weird mix of Islamic Fundamentalism and Animism, which I've been told is seeing God everywhere, or something like that. You'd know better than me."
"That's close enough. Damn, that sure would have to be one strange brew to work."
"It's strange, all right. We're talking worshipping Allah via animal sacrifice, rolling your ass around in blood, all kinds of weird shit. Which plays right into running a terrorist organization, I might add. He whips those ignorant fuckers into a real frenzy and sends them into Somalia after the white oppressors. Meaning us."
Doc calls: "What you mean us, white boy?"
"So what the fuck is he doing over in Djibouti, then?" Scotty Bowden is just making conversation. He won't come alive until the fighting starts.
"Intel says he has a training compound there. The French don't want to piss off that asshole Gouled, and he don't want to irritate his Islamic A-rab majority, so they have all been letting Yousef Dahoumed do whatever he wants to us, long as he stays out in the boonies and doesn't fuck with them."
"Not that it matters," Doc offers, "but anybody tell you why we give enough of a shit about this guy to risk an op like this?"
"RPG's."
The group goes silent. That voice belongs to Cary Ryan. The acronym he used is for 'rocket-propelled grenades.' "As you know, they've been turning up all over Mogadishu, and one of these days some of the good guys are going to get killed. Intel says Dahoumed is collecting the grenade rifles and shipping them to Adid."
Burke seems satisfied. "So we fuck with him instead."
"Exactly," Top replies. "Now check out the photograph. Memorize it, because you will only have a few minutes to locate the target."
Doc looks, whistles. "Mamma, he ugly. That there is one bad-skinned, limp-dicked, towel-head fuckin' sorry-assed motherfucker."
More laughter. Burke blows him a fish-mouthed kiss. "I love it when you talk dirty."
"The other photographs are of the terrorist compound. Satellite photos show it nearly empty at the moment, with most of the cadre near the border with Somalia, but there are bound to be some top-notch ragtops there to guard Dahoumed. So keep your shit wired tight at all times, ladies. I don't want anybody hurt."
"How big around is this place?"
"Figures are on the back. Be advised that the compound itself is a couple of football fields long, with a shitload of obstacle courses and some empty buildings used as a firing range, but we're only going in at the southern point, where Dahoumed's quarters are located."
"What about the bird?" Jack Burke.
"He stays airborne the whole time," Top answers. "We haul ass and rope down a little over a mile away. The bird will circle to the west to distract the guards."
"Time in the dirt?"
"Fifteen minutes," Top leans down and uses his foot to indicate a rock face featured in one of the photographs. "We scramble up that face and jog up the back way, across that flat plain."
Burke whistles. "Top, if some asshole turns on a floodlight or something, we're sitting ducks."
"If we rope down fast enough, it will seem like we never stopped."
"Yeah, if the bird does its job."
"It will. You just shut up and do as you're told."
Doc moans in mock terror. "If'n you say so, Boss."
"Now hear me carefully on this, in case you ever have to testify as to your orders." Top comically rolls his eyes and holds up crossed fingers. "We are to enter the compound unseen, using stealth, and then make 'every reasonable effort' to take this man alive. We can, however, fire to defend ourselves if attacked. Are we all clear on that point?"
"Clear."
Burke looks up. "What was that, sir?"
"Huh?"
He locks and loads his modified M-249. "Why, I do believe we just got attacked. Top, did somebody fire upon my sorry ass?"
"You may want to wait until our boots hit the dirt," Top says, dryly. "But, yeah. Consider yourselves attacked. Once we enter that compound, we will all notice small arms fire coming from the village. We will then be forced to defend ourselves."
"And, sadly, Mr. Dahoumed will not survive the extraction effort," says Cary Ryan, the spook. "This despite all of your best efforts to capture him alive. Clear?"
"Clear."
Top checks his watch. "Like I said, memorize that layout and the face of our man. Then make sure every thing that rattles or clanks is taped down. When we run, I want this chalk as quiet as a nun farting in church." He yawns theatrically, then releases the hanging strap and drops to his knees on the metal flooring. "Look, we've only got another hour or so before the shit hits the fan. Smoke 'em if you got 'em. I'm going to get some more snoring done."
Top rolls over onto his left side. He closes his eyes. He is showing his men that he is cool, relaxed. In fact his stomach is shaking, his palms are wet. Top has a bad feeling on this one. He does not trust Intel, he does not like working with such a small team. Something doesn't feel right.
To his surprise, he falls asleep anyway.
Thirty minutes, twenty, ten . . .
The men on their feet, lined up perfectly. Doc, Top, Burke, and Bowden all slam their clenched fists together and call out, "Brothers!"
"Brothers!" Cary Ryan flashes a wry grin. He slaps them each on the back as they go by. The observer sends them off with a throaty: "Go! Go!"
The Black Hawk is hovering, the pilot holding the bird as steady as possible; the massive rotor blades start whipping the sand below into dense clouds. Scotty is out onto the rope and snaking down rapidly; he's twirling in the prop wash, then down on the ground. He trots north to the edge of the dry clearing and goes flat, weapon at the ready, night-vision goggles turning the desert an ominous green. Doc follows him, most ricky tic, his light frame taking him straight down the rope to the sand in one smooth motion. He trots south, flattens with a weapon at the ready. Then comes Burke, whose upper body strength carries him down the rope effortlessly. He drops and hits and heads east. Top follows and takes the west. The bird moves on, as ordered, and the clearing becomes quiet.
The insertion has taken less than fifteen seconds. Top raises a hand and two fingers. He points to the low cliff. In the same order, the men cross the clearing one by one and scale the rock face. Top takes the rear and delays for a bit. He w
ants to be certain that no one has observed the landing from a hiding place. Then he whips up the cliff and jogs silently into the night.
The small team of men crosses the one mile area in a few minutes. As the obstacle course comes into view, they slow and fan out, leaving several yards between men. Their passage is so smooth that a low, whining wind covers it completely. Top is pleased. He locates the building believed to be the terrorist headquarters. He waves for Doc, who is wide-eyed from adrenaline, to trot into the lead position. Burke follows Doc. Top motions to Scotty to "leapfrog" and they begin to trade positions as they move closer. Doc drops to one knee and Burke passes him, searching the area. Burke drops and Scotty passes him.
Moments later, they are within a few yards of the darkened building and Top is now on point. He pauses to catch his breath and checks his watch. Four minutes to get in, kill the target, and get out safely. Then a hurried jog back to the waiting bird and a flight home to Mo.
More hand signals. The men fan out silently, raise their weapons. Top takes a long, deep breath and races up the steps. He tries the door handle and yanks once, then again and it springs open. In the greenish glare of the night-vision goggles he sees something that freezes his blood: an altar. Animal parts are all over the place, feathers and chunks of decaying meat mounted on the walls. There is some kind of wooden icon sitting on a prayer rug. He shakes his head and spots six men in their bunks. They are no longer asleep, but now sitting up and scrambling for their weapons. Top fires, feels Burke right behind him also firing and ratatatatata one by one the dirt bags splatter blood and sag back down again. Now there's human blood mixed with the hoodoo garbage strewn all over the room.
Top snaps his fingers, whirls around and runs to an open window to see if anyone else heard the muffled shots. Obeying the silent instruction, Burke moves from bunk to bunk, face to face. He shakes his head. No Yousef Dahoumed, not yet. Burke moves back to the door and peers out. Scotty crosses behind him, takes his saw-toothed hunting knife and bends over someone who is still breathing. He slices the man's carotid artery and steps back. A dark fountain pulses out onto the flooring. Scotty flashes a grin and leans forward again. Burke winces as his friend slices off an ear, holds it up as a trophy and whispers, "That makes ten!"
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