Task Force Desperate (20 page)

“Maybe, maybe not,” Danny replied. “Point is, if we’re going to go after Abu Sadiq, we’re going to have to move fast.”

I glanced back at the Ethiopians. “That may be easier said than done,” I muttered.

“I wouldn’t worry about them,” Danny said. “They want us out of the way, the sooner the better. I’m actually more worried that Langley is now going to decide to stick their oar in, and fuck everything up a month into the op.”

“Why now?” Jim asked, his face impassive. I think he suspected the answer, but wanted Danny’s take.

Danny laughed humorlessly. “Because it just dawned on them how far out in the wind we are, with no ass. My report on the Balbala raid sent up some red flags, so now they’re scrambling to try to catch up, while simultaneously trying to make it look to the seventh floor that they didn’t completely screw the pooch from the get-go. We can expect some more support, but it might not be what we want or need.”

“Who is the lead on this op, Danny?” Alek asked quietly. “You or me? Or some Fobbit paper-pusher at Langley?”

“Technically, I am,” Danny replied. “Operationally, you are. I’m here to support, and to try to keep Langley from fucking too much up.”

“And does Langley accept that?”

Danny grimaced. “With very poor grace, but yes. For the moment.”

“Then they’ll stay out of the way if I say so?”

Danny paused, as if reluctant to answer. “Well?” Alek asked, watching him closely.

Danny took a deep breath. “They’ll stay clear if I tell them. I am reasonably certain of that.” He rubbed his beard. “They do want us to make contact with a guy down south, in Kenyan-occupied territory. They’re insisting he can be a valuable asset.”

“You don’t sound convinced,” I pointed out.

He shook his head. “I know the guy from a few years back. He’s…well, I don’t think he’s screwed together all that tightly, if you know what I mean. I think he’s a loon, but he’s got people at Langley who think he’s one of the best Africa hands they’ve got. Not sure if that’s saying something about their judgment, or the state of the Africa desk, but there you go.”

Jim and I cussed, but Alek just smiled tightly as he glanced down at the ground. “And how far from Kismayo is this guy?”

“He’s in Baardheere. About two hundred miles north.”

“So technically, he’s on the way there?”

“Technically, yes.” Danny didn’t look too happy at the admission.

“Fine,” Alek said, his hands on his hips. “We’ll try to make contact with him. But our priority is this Abu Sadiq, and finding the rest of the hostages.”

“Actually,” I pointed out, as some more sporadic gunfire went by overhead, “I’d say right now our priority is getting out of this compound, with all our gear, in one piece. I doubt the gomers are going to let us waltz out of here.” I looked at Danny. “Do you think we can get that ACV to come in closer? Like at the shoreline about a hundred yards from here?”

“It’s possible, provided I can get the pilot to come that close to the shooting,” Danny replied wryly. “These guys aren’t planning on being combatants; they aren’t like Van Husten.”

“Well, what are they getting paid for? Support, right?” Larry demanded.

“They’re getting paid to transport Company cargo quietly and discreetly,” Danny said. “That doesn’t necessarily include coming in to a hot landing site, in their book.”

The snap of bullets passing by overhead started to increase. “Well, call them up and tell them,” Alek said. “I think we have the second wave to deal with.” Danny nodded, and we headed for the west side of the compound, where most of the shooting seemed to be coming from.

I ducked into our clinic/team room building, and moved to a window that was high enough to see over the outer wall. The wall itself was only a couple of feet from the building on the west side, so it would be pretty easy to shoot over. I kept back from the window to keep from silhouetting myself, and peeked out.

There wasn’t much to see; the gomers were generally staying out of sight, popping out to fire a few shots wildly in our direction, then ducking back down below the low wall around the school across the street. I couldn’t see how many of them there were, but it wasn’t enough, or they weren’t coordinated enough, to put out much in the way of overwhelming fire.

As I peered out, movement on the other side of the window caught the corner of my eye, and I glanced over to see Imad doing the same, his Mk 17 cradled easily in his hands. He squinted against the glare from outside, and asked, “Do you see what I see? Right, just on the near corner of the soccer field?”

I looked, and my blood ran cold, as I saw what he was talking about immediately. “That looks like a mortar team setting up to me,” I said. “That what it looks like to you?”

“Yep,” he replied, bringing his rifle to his shoulder. I followed suit, and settled my crosshairs on the gomer holding the tube. Imad’s rifle
boomed
a fraction of a second before mine did. My target dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, red splashing from his chest. I didn’t see which one Imad had shot at, but I didn’t worry about it. The guy had been a competitor at the International Sniper Competition at Fort Benning a year before he joined us. You didn’t worry about Imad hitting what he aimed at.

I caught another gomer running for the dropped tube, bent over to try to get below our fire, and shot him. The shot was a little wide, and took him in the neck instead of the torso. He fell, anyway, and I went to looking for more targets.

“We need to make sure they can’t get that mortar back up,” Imad said, just after his rifle hammered the air in the room again.

I cracked off a snap shot at a running gomer who started toward the tube, then changed his mind. His sudden change of direction saved his life, and he dropped to the dust and out of sight as my bullet went past his head, close enough he had to feel the shockwave of its passage. “We’re going to have to get the Ethiopians to push out, instead of turtling,” I replied.

Imad reached for his PTT; we all had radios on now. “Coconut, Spearchucker. The gomers are setting up a mortar tube on the soccer field across the street. Hillbilly and I have them pretty well suppressed for the moment, but I’d like to get some shooters across there and take out the tube itself, before they can get to it and reposition it where we can’t shoot them while they set it up.”

“I’ll see what we can do, but our new friends aren’t too keen,” Alek replied. I almost lost the last word as I snapped another shot at a head that popped over the roof, and missed by a hair.

Bullets were smacking into the wall in front of us, and a few ripped through the walls of the building itself, fortunately mostly overhead. I didn’t know what the building was made of, but apparently, it wasn’t all that solid. They hadn’t quite figured out where the fire that was keeping their mortar out of action was coming from, but they were increasing their volume of fire to make up for it. I ducked back as a bullet smashed into the window frame, blasting dust and plaster into my face.

“What I wouldn’t give for an RPG right about now,” I remarked to Imad, as he pumped three quick shots out in response.

“Hey, that’s a good idea,” he said. “You think any of the Ethiopians might have one?”

“Why the hell didn’t I think of that?” I snarled. I wanted to smack myself in the head. I keyed my radio. “Coconut, Hillbilly.”

“Hillbilly, Coconut,” Alek came back. “No go on advancing, their captain doesn’t want to risk it. He insists that armor is coming, and will clear the streets.”

“Roger,” I replied. No big surprise there. “Option Two: do any of the Ethiopians have RPGs? We can talk them on from here; hopefully they can do enough damage to put that tube out of action permanently.”

“I’ll check,” Alek said.

A moment later, Larry came over the net. “Hillbilly, Monster. I’ve got an RPG gunner, and we’re heading for the outer wall at the south end of the CP building. I’ll let you know when we’re in position and ready to fire.”

“Roger, Monster,” I answered. “Make sure you’ve got a shot at the soccer field.”

“Affirm,” he replied. He was breathing a little hard. Larry is a very large man. He doesn’t like running around much. “Give us a minute, we might have to relocate.”

A storm of AK fire hammered against our position, and Imad and I were forced to drop to the floor, getting below the top of the outer wall. The air was filled with dust and chips of concrete and plaster. “Might have to hurry that up, buddy,” I called to Larry. “It’s getting a mite hot here.” I was able to pop up and rip off a couple shots as the fire slackened, doubtless as most of them went dry at once and had to reload. But I was answered with another ferocious fusillade that chewed away more of the window frame, and had to duck back under cover.

There was an explosive
whoosh
from off to our left, outside, and a PG round slammed into the wall across the street. It barely had time to arm, and while there was a lot of dust and splash, I wasn’t sure it did much on the other side. My hunch was borne out when, a few moments later, the firing resumed, although it was a little less enthusiastic. As the dust settled, I could see the huge dark splash mark on the wall, with a hole the size of my head in the middle of it. Anybody on the other side of that wasn’t happy, to say the least.

Larry’s new buddy fired again, the backblast rattling the windows again. This one went over the wall, and caromed into a tree. The trunk shattered in a cloud of dust, smoke, and splinters, and the tree fell with a crash. I couldn’t tell if it had taken out any of the bad guys. I hoped it had.

The gomers were getting a lot less interested in sticking their heads up, however inaccurate our friend with the RPG was, and Imad and I were able to get back to work. “Monster, Hillbilly. Can he get any closer to that tube?”

“He seems to be aiming as best he can, Hillbilly,” came the reply. “I’m not sure we’re going to get sniper accuracy out of this guy.”

“We don’t need to,” I retorted. “The RPG isn’t a sniper rifle, and it’s two hundred yards away.”

“I don’t think this guy’s been shot at before,” Larry said. “He’s not all that steady, and I’m not going to try to take the launcher away from him, either.”

Yeah, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea, especially surrounded by his buddies, who all were armed, and had a BTR at the gate.

With the slackening of enemy fire, Imad and I were able to start playing catch-up. Bracing rifles against the pitted, shattered window frame, we started carefully picking off anyone who stuck their head up to shoot. It actually didn’t take all that long before the combination of our shooting and Larry’s buddy’s random RPG fire broke them. The remainder fled, only sporadically visible between the buildings and bushes of the school, leaving the mortar tube lying abandoned on the soccer field.

Of course, it was only then that the BTR’s gunner decided to open up on the school, blasting huge holes in concrete and plaster with the 14.5mm slugs. I still doubt he actually hit anyone.

The rest of the day saw only sporadic attacks and potshots. Apparently, the rebels had decided that they didn’t really want to fuck around with us. I guess we played too rough for them.

Finally, as the sun started to go down, the captain confirmed that the makeshift armored column was on its way. We started getting ready to move again.

Chapter 15

T
he column approached slowly, heralded by the growl of engines and the squeal and rattle of tank tracks. They were coming from the west, along the Avenue Gamal Abdel Nasser. More sporadic gunfire was answered by heavy machine guns. The Ethiopians got on their trucks and the one BTR still in action, having stripped the hulk of the other one once the shooting died down. Most of us mounted back up in our own trucks, but Imad, Alek, and I stayed out on the ground to talk to the captain.

“We can get the craft to come in on the beach here,” Alek was explaining, pointing to a map spread on the hood of the captain’s Humvee. “At least then we can get the hostages out of harm’s way faster.”

The captain was nodding. “Yes, yes. We will escort you there, easily. Can the craft take your vehicles?”

Imad and I traded a look. “We won’t be going on the hovercraft,” Alek said. “We’ll be staying here with the vehicles.”

The captain frowned. “I have told you, we cannot allow you to remain in Djibouti.”

Alek put up a gigantic hand placatingly. “And we won’t. We’ll be leaving just as soon as we are assured that the hostages are safely out to sea. We are just going somewhere else.”

The captain shook his head again, raising his voice over the increasing noise of the tank tracks now just outside the walls. “I am sorry, but my instructions are clear. You are to leave the country as soon as possible. Getting on the hovercraft is as soon as possible. If it will not carry your vehicles, then you will have to leave them behind.”

I folded my arms in front of me and glowered. “Are you going to reimburse us for them, then? We’re not in a position to put aside the loss of these kinds of assets lightly.” Of course, Caleb hadn’t paid all that much for any of them, relatively speaking, but the less of a paper trail we left, the better.

“Again, I am sorry, but I do not have instructions to that effect,” he said stubbornly. “My instructions are to escort you out of the country, and I will do that.” He jerked his head to indicate the T-62 that was heaving into view through the gate. “And you do not have the wherewithal to resist, so I suggest you do not try.”

Unfortunately, he had a point. We weren’t in a position to argue with tanks and APCs. Which just pissed me off even more, and from the expressions on Imad’s and Alek’s faces, I wasn’t alone. But Alek finally shrugged, and walked away, back to his truck. I guess we were going out to the ship.

With the column holding security, the first truck of Ethiopian soldiers started moving, and we were waved at to follow it. As we rolled through the gate, I was able to get a look at the armored column that had come for us.

They looked like hell. There were two T-62s, a T-72, and three BTR-60s, along with three Ural trucks. The armored vehicles looked scarred and battered, with signs of several glancing hits from explosives on their hulls. One of the BTRs was actually smoking pretty bad, choking black fumes wafting from its exhaust. Most of the soldiers watching us from the beds of the trucks were wounded, with hasty bandages peeking through torn cammies. A lot of them looked pretty shell-shocked, too, and just stared around with wide, vacant eyes.