Blackjack Messiah

by Ben Bequer

  They each gave a thumbs-up as they finished and Franklin nodded. “Spread and get ready,” Franklin said. “Home, we’re in your hands. Guide us in.”

  “Got it,” Travis said over comms. “What happened to you, Gray?”

  “He punched a coconut tree with his face, Travis,” Edberg said, and laughter suffused the comm channel again as the team spread out and headed after Lagos.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s like you manage to fuck yourself up every time, boy,” Oz said.

  “Goddammit,” Michael said, wiping away more blood with a savage flick. He felt a throbbing at the bridge of his nose, and a slow-growing headache from the blow, but then again, that was par for the course. Nicknames were a funny thing. Some were endearing, others were funny. Not haha funny, but brutally honest funny. Oz was the old wizard, and he had earned that nickname long before Gandalf or Dumbledore had become the gold standard for old wizards. Edberg was named for his love of the Swedish tennis star, Cyanide because her rough nature drove men away. Sometimes the names were just something you were stuck with, like Scratch. Nobody could pin down when she went from being Tara Sharpe to Scratch, it just happened.

  Michael was no different. His had been earned in San Diego during SEAL training. It was always a small thing, misjudging distance, a bad step, sometimes his body flat out refused to obey. The results ranged from bruises to cuts, nothing too destructive, just embarrassing and almost always on his face. The running joke then was that the universe thought he was too pretty. One of the many benefits of owning the company, employing not just the team on this op, but on no fewer than a dozen others ranging the Americas, Middle East, and Africa was that he had been able to quell the nickname that had followed him through multiple deployments, a dishonorable discharge, and the formation of his own company. They all wanted to say it. Oz was the worst because he was the only guy in the company who had ever been Michael’s superior, but as he ran with his team, he saw Edberg’s glee, the smile easing across Drama’s face, even Franklin, all determination, was thinking it.

  Crash.

  Scratch demanded a brief stop while she popped a couple of replacement staples in Grayson’s nose, topping it with an adhesive bandage to stem the bleeding. The mission was five minutes old and already they had one casualty to report.

  “Okay, we split,” Grayson said once they were ready. “Franklin, flank the village towards the rear gate. We’ll come in straight.” A simple pincer maneuver, maximizing their lines of fire should they encounter any trouble. There hadn’t been much prep time for the mission, direct action hadn’t even been on the table, but with negotiations stalling out, an opportunity arose.

  “Boss, you’re doing it,” Edberg said, and again, Michael saw the distressed look on Franklin’s face.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. Old habits.”

  “Right,” Franklin said. “Split and approach.”

  Both teams stood and headed toward the village, but Franklin and his team peeled off and were out of sight in moments, too distant even for Michael and his group to spot with night-vision. With Grayson, Edberg, Funko, Wargacki, and Cyanide formed Bravo team. His group was armed heavier than Franklin’s, Funko had the SAW and Cyanide sported an M203 under-barrel grenade launcher on her M-4 carbine. Bravo was meant to come straight at the Boko Haram village and take on any major opposition while Franklin, Oz, Scratch, Peanuts with Waffles and Drama in Able team rolled in from behind and extracted Brunetti. There was still a little more than a mile to the village, and Michael kept Bravo back for two minutes to give Franklin and his team time to get in position.

  “Ready,” Michael said, and Bravo team broke into a slow trot towards a faint light in the darkness. They crossed the distance in less than ten minutes and were in the shadow of the walled base.

  The Boko compound was a squalid affair – two large brick structures, with a half dozen small huts for housing surrounded by a ten-foot clay and brick wall. The larger of the two buildings served as a command center and common area, while the second, formerly a schoolhouse, housed a dozen or so Boko regulars. Designated “Hotel,” it was built against the westernmost part of the wall beside an empty warehouse that acted as a vehicle shed. Intel suggested that the greatest number of hostiles were located there. It was close to the front gate, and directly in line with Bravo’s approach.

  North of that was a large building made of cobbled bricks and corrugated metal with a thatched roof, call sign “The Barn,” that was used for storage. Across from the Hotel was “Casino,” a wood structure with several rooms where satellites indicated Brunetti was being kept, along with a few others. Six to ten Boko regulars were stationed in Casino, and it was Bravo’s job to draw them outside.

  Michael could almost feel Franklin’s team off in the distance, approaching the rear of the compound and felt the urge to hurry his unit. The team said nothing, matching his harder pace. They were close enough to be visible, with enough space that a single grenade couldn’t take the whole unit out. Edberg trotted to his right, as he usually did with Funko on the wing, and Cyanide was to his left, Wargacki was keeping up alongside Cyanide’s flank.

  “Attitude change, Able,” Travis said over comms.

  “Go ahead, Home,” Franklin responded.

  “Counting ten targets exiting Hotel, heading towards the rear gate. They’re going to be right on top of you, Able.” Travis said amidst a din of noise around him. He was channeling raw information to the teams, editing everything down to what was necessary. “Bravo, still reading seven targets at Hotel.”

  “Home, give me a plot,” Franklin asked. “Bravo, we’re intercepting this new group.”

  “They’re stopping just outside the rear gate, Bravo. It looks like they’re forming a circle with one or two inside.”

  “A fight?” Michael said.

  “At 0300 hours?” Travis said.

  “We’re approaching along the wall to hide our signature, Bravo,” Franklin said. “Going off vox. Key when you’re ready.”

  “Bravo, we’ve got a problem.”

  “What is it Home?”

  “We switched to wide and there’s a new group of targets in The Barn.”

  “Number?”

  “Twenty or more. Most look to be lying down and still, probably sleeping.”

  “Jesus, we’re fucked,” Cyanide whispered beside him. She had the common sense not to key her mike.

  “Okay,” Mike said, raising his fist. The team held position around him. “Able, hold. Home, give me a full area scan.”

  “On it,” Travis said. “I’m sorry, Bravo. Last full scan was at 1800 your time.”

  “No problem,” Michael said. “Able, how close are you?”

  Franklin’s single keyed tone over comms told Michael that Able was close enough to make even whispering a risk.

  “Got it. Anything, Home?”

  “We’re doing a wide scan, Bravo, twenty-six new targets at The Barn, seven still at Hotel, and seven at Casino. Two are at the front gate, assume they’re all hostile.”

  Seven at Casino. Brunetti was there, along with at least one more hostage, with rest being guards. It was less than expected, but the rest of the base was roughly the same as the last satellite scan seven hours previous – save for the twenty-six new arrivals.

  “Also new to report,” Travis said. “Two large trucks are parked in the southwest shed along with the technicals.”

  “No other targets?”

  “Nothing, Bravo. Nothing within range.”

  That was a strong qualifier. A small village was about three miles northwest and Intel showed it was known to harbor at least fifty Boko combatants, along with their families. Three miles was far enough that a fast in and out extraction shouldn’t give them a chance to give chase.

  “Change of plans, Able,” Michael said. “Home, Bravo’s primary now. We’re going to go in the front door, silent. Able, keep an eye on the rear, Home, I need to know if there are any attitude changes from The Barn.”

  “W
e’ve got a wider master view, Bravo. Won’t happen again.”

  Michael waved the team in. They rushed his position and took a knee.

  “Okay, this time you can’t blame me,” he said, eyeing Edberg.

  “Franklin’s gonna have a fit,” Edberg said.

  “Seriously, fuck that guy,” spat Cyanide.

  “Seriously, you two should fuck,” Edberg said.

  Cyanide glared at him across the huddle, her fists bunched tight.

  “You’re an asshole, Ravel,” Funko said.

  Michael shook his head, “With all those new targets at the Barn, I say we go by stealth. Edberg, you and I are moving in to take out the door guards in CQB. Once they’re down, Cyanide and Funko move in to secure the rear entrance to Casino. Wargacki, you’re on overwatch. Find a nice spot near the gate and cover us.”

  “Got it,” Wargacki said. “Anything comes out of The Barn, or Hotel, and I’m going loud.”

  “Loud as fuck,” Edberg said, bumping fists with the other man. Funko’s reply gesture was less enthusiastic.

  “We’re going with knives. Silenced weapons are the last option.” Michael gave his team one final glance, and broke into a run, with Edberg following until the walls of the compound were visible in the distance.

  “Splitting,” he said and ran across the dirt road that led to the front of the base. Using a ditch on the far side as cover, he hid behind a heavy copse of bushes, opening an angle to the front gate. Edberg approached from the east side of the gate while Michael crept from the west. They were close enough that any sound might give them away, and even as Edberg used the long shadow cast by the wall Michael moved fast. The gate was half closed and unlocked, the guards huddled a few yards behind it, talking in whispers.

  There were two of them, both awake and armed. One guy had an AK in his hands, while the other had a WW2 vintage Mauser rifle slung on his left shoulder. The man with the AK chatted softly, while the man with the Mauser was more concerned with the contents of a small bottle. It was a perfect approach for Michael, lateral to the targets, and from a direction they weren’t expecting. Edberg would have to cross the gate, increasing his visibility and giving up too much time for the targets to react.

  Edberg drew a silenced pistol from his kit and found a sight line that gave him cover. Michael approved silently, understanding that Edberg was waiting for him to make the first move. He waited until the drinker took another long swig and struck. Rushing the AK guy, and batting the weapon out of his trigger hand, he clasped an arm around his throat, sliding his combat knife into the nape of the man’s neck, severing the spinal column. He managed to grab the man’s face along his jaw, forcing his mouth closed as he died. Letting him fall, Michael turned on the remaining guard, whose drink had fallen to the ground as he pondered the reality of his dead friend. Lunging at the stunned guard, he caught the man in the throat with a jab of the knife, a hard twist shredding the trachea. Edberg appeared behind the dying man, silencing him with a rough hand over the mouth, slowing his fall to point that it made almost no sound.

  “Bravo is in,” Cyanide said, moving past Michael and Edberg with Funko in tow. The gate was a pair of large metal grates covered with corrugated steel, kept ajar to allow guards in and out of the camp.

  Clearing the narrow opening, the camp had a wide-open courtyard, with Casino the nearest structure along the right wall. Hotel was across the courtyard, and The Barn was on the far side of the main entrance. The rear entrance was behind Hotel, where a dozen Boko fighters sat in their circle with Able team waiting for Michael’s signal.

  Cyanide and Funko were almost at Casino’s rear door and deployed the rolling drone as Michael and Edberg arrived. Funko ripped back the cover of his wrist, revealing a small tablet computer he used to control the two-wheeled drone. It was thicker than a cigar case, with two rolling knobby tires at either end. A gyroscope kept the camera carriage facing forward. The little guy rolled into the structure under the gap beneath the door and was gone from sight without a sound. Funko leaned against the building, minimizing the glare from the computer as he gave the building a once-over. When he was done, he covered the tablet, leaving the rolling drone inside.

  The drone outlined a large central family area, a kitchen, a bathroom, four rooms offset to one side. Each of the rooms was pre-labeled, and the team knew where Brunetti was kept at night. Funko used hand signals to identify each of the seven targets inside. Four, probably guards, were in the central family area. Three were alone in each of the rooms.

  Funko pulled an explosive charge from his kit and moved towards the door then stopped, looking confused. Michael, already two steps ahead in his planning, took a second to register his consternation but gave a thumbs up when he realized why the door was not being blown off its hinges. Now that Bravo was stealth and there were twenty-six new targets to worry about, a new breach tactic was necessary. Cyanide drew her leg up and made a kicking gesture, and Funko nodded, moving in line with the door and raising a boot when Edberg cut them both off with a sharp gesture.

  “Try the fucking door,” he whispered.

  Funko took a moment to register the suggestion, finally reaching out and turning the knob softly. The door slid open to Edberg’s delight. They moved into a short hallway with Edberg on point, Michael just behind him, then Cyanide, and Funko in the rear. There were no windows for the moonlight to peek through, and Edberg pulled his infrared goggles as he moved through the pitch darkness. Light spilled from the family room, casting a heavy shadow as the team stopped at the cusp of an entryway that separated the family room from the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

  Edberg slung his rifle and pulled his knife, looking for Michael to give the word. Funko tapped Michael over Cyanide’s shoulder and shrugged. Michael knew he was looking for clarification, stay and take the fourth hostile in the family room, or head to where they thought Brunetti was being kept. Michael lifted his nose towards the package. Brunetti was more important. Edberg was concealed around a corner, but lights or no, one more step and they would be visible. Keeping an eye on the room, he used hand signals to give them the layout.

  Two men were on opposing couches, asleep. One was awake, sitting at the edge of the doorway on the steps leading out the front door. The fourth was lying on a hammock and based on how he was swaying from side to side, he had to be awake.

  With that, they all looked at Michael, who gave the orders. Michael was going to sneak in first, past the two sleepers and take out the guy at the door. Cyanide was to take out the first guy on the couch, the one nearest their position, and Edberg was on hammock duty. The fourth was the responsibility of the first clear person, most likely Cyanide.

  Edberg stepped aside as Michael slinked out into the open. The only sounds in the room were the snores of sleeping men as he approached his target. The man faced away from him, a thin trail of cigarette smoke being pulled out into the chill night, the rifle lay casually across his lap. He would have to pass the man in the hammock, and it would be a messy couple of seconds if Edberg missed his assignment.

  A small burst of tones keyed over his comms as he reached the hammock. It was Franklin. Something was happening. His target flinched at the shoulders and Michael bolted the final paces and slung his right arm over the guard’s shoulder, pulling him back into the house. Hooking the arm tight around the man’s throat, he jammed his left hand over the guard’s face hard enough to hear the nose crunch in his grip, blood spilling onto his gloved hand.

  The sounds of movement burst behind him, but he dare not look around. The guard fought with the desperation of the near dead; flinging elbows that Michael used his leverage to avoid. A few stray shots caught him, but he worked hand under the man’s jaw, avoiding biting teeth and once he had a grip, jerked the man’s head. He heard a wet pop, felt a spasm, and the man went limp. Michael looked back and saw Cyanide struggling with her second target, the sleeper from the other couch. Neither the man on the first couch, nor the guy in the hammock was getting u
p again, but the last guy ignored the numbers and the guns, concentrating on killing the person in front of him.

  Michael reached for his silenced sidearm but Cyanide dove under the man, grabbing his midsection and brought him down to the ground, her arms wrapping around his throat in a maneuver so fluid, it looked like one extended move instead of a series of actions pieced together. Content with her progress, Michael turned to see Edberg standing next to the hammock, absently cleaning the blade of his knife on a dead man’s shirt as he watched Cyanide dismantle her opponent.

  “I take it back,” Edberg whispered.

  “What?” Michael said pushing himself from beneath the dead man.

  “The whole thing with you and her.”

  Michael stood and pulled the guard all the way into the house. Taking the rifle, he ejected the clip and raked the chamber clean in one swift motion, laying it across the dead man’s chest. Closing the door, he moved past Edberg and Cyanide into the short hallway where the bedrooms were. Bright white halogen flooded the dark hallway from the first open door. Funko flashed the light at his chest to avoid blinding him as he came through the door, then turned the light back on a person’s face. Despite the heavy beard and unkempt hair, Michael could tell it was Brunetti, who spoke in rapid-fire Italian.

  “Silencio!” Michael said, kneeling beside the man and putting his finger to the man’s mouth, but the attorney went on, saying something about the person in the room beside him.