by Neil Howarth
Fagan still had not said a word. The Lieutenant did not wait for him to speak.
“We’ve had some reports of rebel activity in the region, but you should be able to get in there in a helo, and pull him out without any problems. The biggest resistance you’re likely to get is from the priest himself. He may not want to leave.” The Lieutenant gave him that serious look again. “It’s your job to persuade him he has no choice. Either that or you can explain to the Pope personally why you didn't bring him back.”
Fagan nodded, trying desperately to think of something smart or intelligent to say. He could come with neither and ended up blurting out “Yes, sir.”
“Drop the formality. You’re a Navy SEAL now. We're a team.” The Lieutenant gave him a look. “You can call me Boss. The boys have taken to calling me, Roy. But I’d thank you to desist on that one. I blame that reprobate, Pee Wee.” He cracked a surprising smile. “Do I look like a fucking singing cowboy?”
Fagan didn’t answer. He went to salute then stopped halfway and headed for the door.
“Hey Fagan,” the boss called after him. “Remember, you're the officer in charge, but the Chief has a lifetime more experience than you. So listen to him and learn, and maybe you’ll stay alive. This is a simple in and out. Keep it that way. I want you back in time for dinner. We’ve got pot-roast. The guys will never forgive you if they miss it.”
Looking back, Fagan would give anything to have been able to serve those boys their pot-roast.
As it was, he stood outside the bosses office, that mix of excitement and fear churning through his gut - and a bladder threatening to burst. This was his first live Op as a SEAL, but he was trained for this. He had led plenty of training Ops to prepare him for this day. He was scared, but the adrenalin was pumping, and he couldn’t wait to get out there.
An amusing thought crossed his mind.
If Master Chief Joe Magellan couldn't kill him, what chance did the rebels have?
He was about to find out. Chief Petty Officer, Brendan Murphy was a grizzly Irishman. The driver Pee Wee had told him all about him on the drive over. He was built like a linebacker with a face you could break concrete over, and according to Pee Wee, mean as the proverbial junkyard dog. The fact that he came from Fagan’s native Boston seemed to cut no ice, and that Fagan had just endured a year’s training that would have killed most men, only seemed to provoke him.
The chief studied him, with one eye closed and a look of disbelief on his face.
“Now look here, Ensign Fagan, sir, I see from your sheet you’re a good Catholic boy, so I’ll hold that in your favor. You’ve finished your Girl Scout training, and I’m sure you’re feeling pretty good about that. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re still a baby in diapers until you show me otherwise.” He waved a huge slab of hand towards the CO’s office. “It’s no good running back to the boss. He’s on my side. Grab something to eat, and I’ll introduce you to the team. You’ll do well to remember, they all fear God, but they fear me even more. These boys out there, they’ll peel off your skin with a sharp knife and boil you in the pot for dinner.” His face broke into a grin. “And that’s just the boat crew. Don’t get me started about the enemy, they’re even meaner. Their boss is a local warlord called Mohamed Farrah Aidid, a psychopathic son of a bitch who’s also sharp as a tack. So stay close to me and keep your eyes wide and your ears open.” He gave Fagan both eyes this time. “Remember when we get out there, if you're not shitting yourself, your mind is not in the right place.”
4
Jubbada Dhexe, Jubaland Region, Somalia.
An hour later they were airborne. Fagan had barely time to grab a bite to eat and introduce himself to the team. He briefed them on what little he had, trying to appear as if he knew what he was doing. He could see the mistrust in their eyes.
The helo was a Sikorsky UH-60, known as the Black Hawk. Fagan sat in the door. The howl of the twin turbine engines and the thump of the rotor blades even louder where he sat, but strangely the judder of the aircraft vibrating up through his body seemed to help him concentrate. He looked back into the cabin. The Chief was sitting up behind the two pilots. He should have been sitting up there too. He was the officer in charge. But as far as the crew was concerned, the Chief was the boss. Fagan knew they were all just looking at him to not fuck up. He might have the officer flashes on his combat jacket, but in their eyes, he was the rookie until he proved otherwise.
Fagan had taken off his combat helmet and put on a headset, plugged into the Black Hawk’s communication system. He looked across at the rest of the boat crew. There were six of them. The roles were loose, everyone was multi-skilled, expected to step up and adapt as the situation developed. But starting out, a couple were assigned.
Delgado, a Cuban American from Miami, was the Comms guy. Doc, unsurprisingly, was the medic. He was a Texan and despite his medical training, looked like a man you didn’t want to meet in a dark alley. Rodriguez was another Latino, this time from Puerto Rico. He was the sniper, a role Fagan saw himself stepping into, given a chance. The rest, Walker, Crawford, and Riley, were ready to be assigned as needed.
Fagan turned his head back to the door, letting the warm airstream batter against his face. They were flying low, less than a hundred feet. The arid, rock strewn landscape whipped past beneath his dangling legs, mile after mile. It wasn’t desert, but season after season of drought meant it was slowly losing the battle as the sand dunes edged in ever closer from the coast. Outcrops of acacia trees and thick thorn bushes were scattered here and there, and the occasional clumps of tall cacti seemed to thrive. He had been given a thick brief on the region back in Coronado and had read it all on the flight over. They crossed the Juba River, and for a moment the vegetation intensified but soon faded again.
It was another thirty minutes before he could see they were losing height. The vegetation had increased, and they were passing over long stretches of hardy green trees. Fagan checked his watch, and as if prompted he heard the pilot in his headset.
“Five minutes to exfil point.”
“Roger that,” Fagan said into his headset microphone. At least the Chief let him do that part.
Fagan began to turn back to the men to give the final orders. The engine pitch turned into a screech, as if crying out in protest as the Black Hawk swerved and juddered in the air. He grabbed hold of the door frame, and his stomach did a double flip.
“Incoming,” a voice called out.
Fagan felt the Black Hawk dive and slide out to his left.
Things happened real fast after that.
A huge flash filled the interior, and a loud bang shook the airframe. The helicopter seemed to almost stop in midair. A massive force kicked Fagan in the back. He scrabbled for a handhold as he went out through the door, but his fingers found nothing. Then he was falling, trees rushing up to him. The wind hot in his face. He was vaguely aware of the Black Hawk as it swept past, a ball of flames. Fagan hit the trees. Branches tore at his body and face as he dropped into their waiting arms. They tugged and pulled at him then let go, and he kept on falling. Somewhere far away there was a massive explosion. Something punched him hard in the head. He had a fleeting memory of leaving his helmet on the Black Hawk. Then everything went black.
Fagan opened his eyes.
He could smell burning. He wasn’t sure if it was him.
Maybe I’m in hell? At last.
But a part of him wouldn’t believe that and was struggling to work out where he was. He should have been on the ground and dead. It took him a moment to realize he was hanging in a tree. A branch had snagged his flack jacket and left him dangling in space.
Fagan pulled out his knife from his boot and cut himself free. He dropped the ten feet to the ground and rolled in a perfect parachute landing, courtesy of four weeks jump training. He quickly checked himself over. He saw blood on his hand from where he had touched his forehead. He gingerly tested with his fingers and found a small gash on his scalp. The bang on th
e head was the last thing he remembered. Apart from that, he seemed to be in one piece. He pulled out a field dressing from his backpack and strapped it on to the wound with a bandage he wrapped around his head.
He did not have to search for the Black Hawk. The heat led him to it. That, and the sweet, acrid blend of burning aviation fuel and roasting flesh. Despite the damage, the pilot had found a clearing in the trees. But there his luck had ended. The helicopter was a blazing wreck.
Surely someone had made it out. But he could see no one. Fagan peered through the thick black smoke that drifted across the clearing, looking around for any other survivors. The reality struck him, like a kick in the gut. All his team were inside. He tried to get into the burning bird, but the heat was too intense. He could not even get close to the door. Eventually, the flames drove him back and he had to give up. Part of him did not want to believe it, but it was clear to see. No one had survived, but him.
Fagan stood back from the wreck and watched it burn, barely believing what he was seeing.
Then his training kicked in. He had to assess his situation. He tried to activate the GPS locator on his flack jacket, but it must have been busted when he landed in the tree and was now completely dead. He had a limited range communicator in his backpack. He pulled it out. Well, he pulled out the pieces. It was a total write off. The main radio was inside the burning helicopter no doubt with the remains of Petty Officer Delgado. Fagan’s situation assessment was complete. He was on his own, and he had no means of communications.
Part of him said he should abort, cut his losses and find his way back to base. But he was a Navy SEAL, and this was his first live Op. He had already lost his entire team, but he was here and still standing. There was no way he was not going to complete this mission.
He knew it was not far to the Church mission. The pilot had been making the approach when they were hit. Another realization crystalized as he stood there, like a dumb fool quietly evaluating his options. Whoever had fired the rocket was probably out there looking for any survivors.
Which meant him.
It was time to be a SEAL. He checked the CAR-15 submachine gun which thankfully had survived the fall strapped to his chest. He pulled out the Sig Sauer P226 MK25 Navy 9mm from the holster at his hip. He ejected the magazine. The 15 round load was complete. He had checked it before he left but this was hours and hours of training kicking in. Check, check, double check. He slapped the magazine back in place and stowed the SIG in his holster. The map of the mission and the local area was imprinted indelibly on his mind. He estimated that it could be no more than a few clicks north, and there was still some daylight left of the day. Fagan climbed on to a rock outcrop and took a bearing using line of sight, then headed out.
5
St. Saviour’s Mission, Jubaland Region, Somalia.
The daylight had gone by the time Fagan reached his destination. But he no longer needed daylight to find his way. The whole Mission and the village surrounding it were ablaze. Flames lit up the timber and straw buildings, and their surroundings like some surreal Roman Polanski movie. The dark shapes scattered across the ground were bodies, in many cases body parts. They seemed to be everywhere - then he found the first nun, and then the kids. They had been hacked to pieces and left there for the wild animals to feed on.
Fagan fell to his knees and threw up.
No amount of training could prepare you for this. He crouched there, the bile still dripping from his lips when he heard it. A low hum, barely distinguishable above the crackle of the flames. But it was more than that, there was a resonance in there, a modulated sound - singing. It seemed far away. Fagan got to his feet and moved towards the Mission. But the Mission was in flames.
The sound became a little clearer, more distinct. Someone was definitely singing. Fagan was sure it was a hymn.
He was hallucinating. It was being sung by a church choir, like the one he had sung in when he was a kid.
A heavenly choir.
I’m dead. I didn’t survive the crash.
He looked up, expecting at any moment a bright light to appear and a figure with a long white beard, who would beckon him into the great beyond or drop him into the fires below. Fagan slapped himself hard on the face. It stung like a bitch, but he knew he was not in hell. At least not Dante’s hell. He might be one step away from the eternal fires, but what he was seeing and hearing was real. He pulled out his water canteen and took a long drink.
The singing stopped.
Fagan stood there willing it to restart. A crazy part of him convinced that if it didn’t, the flames would sweep in and consume him. He began running around the place like a lunatic, searching in every building, desperately wanting it to start again as if it was some kind of sanctuary from all the horror that surrounded him.
Suddenly it did. Again low and far away. Fagan stopped and listened intently, trying to make it out.
All things bright and beautiful.
He could now hear it clearly. Beautiful voices, rising up from the crackle of the flames.
It was crazy. He was crazy. He began running around again. A madman charging about, amidst all the horror. He staggered into a dirt square surrounded by burning huts and stopped. In the center was a squat structure, with low mud-daub walls and a dried leaf roof. He could swear the singing was coming from inside. Fagan cautiously moved towards it, his hand hovering over the butt of the Sig. He pulled out his flashlight as he approached and shone it inside.
The singing stopped.
It was a well. Inside it opened out like a bell. The dirt floor was dry with a dark hole in the middle. Twelve black faces looked up at him. It was like an oasis of heaven in the middle of hell. Fagan closed his eyes and then opened them again. They were still there.
To this day, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen.
“Does anyone speak English?” Fagan called out.
“Yes, I do.” A voice echoed around the well-chamber. “I am Father William. I am the local priest.”
“That would be Father William Tsonga?”
“That is correct.”
“I’m Ensign Joe Fagan of the United States Navy SEALs. I was sent to find you.”
There was a rope tied to the crossbar running over the mouth of the well. Fagan pulled them up, one by one. They were children. They appeared to be aged between about five and ten. He set each one in turn on the ground. Their eyes were wide with fear, and they clung to each other but didn’t try to run away. The last one he pulled up was heavier and older. He was about sixteen or seventeen. He spoke English. He said his name was James. Between them, they hauled up the priest. Fagan helped him climb out of the well.
He was a handsome man. He looked as if he could have been local, tall and slim with ebony skin. Fagan estimated he was about forty. His hair was clipped short and already grey, the top of his head was bald and the light from the fires seemed to dance across his skull. The pain was evident on his face, and in his honey brown eyes. He gave Fagan a sad smile.
“Ensign Fagan.” He took his hand. “Thank you, so much.” His look changed to concern. “Are you okay?”
Fagan touched the bandage on his head. “I’m fine, just a scratch.”
“I’ll get James to take a look at it.”
“Really, there’s no need.”
“James has been working in the infirmary. You should let him see it.”
“I think we should get out of here first.”
The priest looked out across the devastation and slowly shook his head. “The rebels came in a few hours ago. There was nothing we could do. I managed to get what children I could into the well, and we hid there. Even down there we could hear the screams. James and I did what we could to comfort the children. About an hour ago James climbed out and took a look around. It seemed the rebels had cleared out, leaving this behind them.” He swept out a hand, as if not believing the horror that was out there. “I had planned for us to stay in the well until it was light. We were singing to b
ring the children some comfort. And we prayed for God to deliver us. Then your face appeared above us, and it seems our prayers were answered.”
Fagan wished it was that simple.
The priest looked around, a puzzled look on his face. “Where are your men? Can you ask them to help me bury the dead.”
Fagan let him see his eyes. They told him he was getting bad news before he spoke. “I’m sorry Father, our helicopter was hit, probably by a SAM missile as we came in. I’m afraid they’re all dead. I was the only one who got out.”
The priest’s smile disappeared. “I am very sorry.”
“I don’t think we have time to bury any dead. We need to move.”
“We cannot just leave them.”
“Father, unless you want all these children to join them, we have to get them to safety.”
“Can you not contact your headquarters?”
“I’m sorry, I lost my radio in the crash.”
“Won’t your people come looking for you when you do not report in?”
“Yes they will, but I expect by then so will the rebels. I think we should find somewhere safe and deal with it from there.”
6
St. Saviour’s Mission, Jubaland Region, Somalia.
The priest knelt in front of the blazing Mission and mumbled a prayer for the tragically departed souls. Fagan was more interested in earthly things. He had James organize the children to collect what essentials they would need, blankets, water in plastic bottles, food. They could take only as much as they could carry, and looking at the group of young faces, that was not a lot. Food was limited. James found a large cooking pot of maize, corn, and vegetables in the kitchen. He emptied it into a plastic bag. He also discovered a jar of flour in a cupboard which he stowed in the canvas bag he had slung over his shoulder.
