The stranger, an old man whose body is worn with the fatigue of age, proceeds to the door. The guard looks at him suspiciously, then points to his ear. The old man pulls out the hearing aid and shows it to the guard. It is an old device and does not work well. The guard inspects it, then finally hands it back to the man, who shambles in to join the others.
0205, on the ground in Yemen
The old man moves to the back of the small crowd, walking uneasily. His breath failing, he clutches at his chest and stumbles across the open space of the large room toward a row of benches. They are near the entrance to the reception area and a small kitchen and classrooms. If any of the other congregants see him, none make a move to help.
The imam’s voice rises as his denouncement of the Americans continues. This has been a long day for him, but his speech invigorates him. He knows he could speak forever if he wishes. It is very late, however. The local imam hosting him insisted on his meeting some promising students before giving his talk. And then there was a long reception in the outer room before he could begin.
Outside, the stars are shining brightly, their light pushing away the occasional thin wisps of clouds. The air in the low mountains is crisp but not unpleasant.
0209, on the ground in Yemen
Strength restored and no longer wheezing, the old man rises and walks slowly toward the rest of the congregation. A few members of the audience glance in his direction. Some of the younger members suppress giggles; they have seen scores of these old-timers struggling in at odd hours, nodding and mumbling to themselves, more crazy than inspired. A few others look on in admiration, hoping that the one true creator of the universe, praise be his unmentioned name, might grant them similar strength and faith when they reach such an advanced age.
The old man catches the imam’s eye. The gray beard looks very familiar to the teacher. Very, very familiar. Change it to black, take away some of the creases, subtract a decade or two, perhaps three, and the man would look very much like the Italian prisoner the brothers had taken earlier.
A coincidence surely.
The imam turns his gaze elsewhere, his fervor increasing.
0210, on the ground in Yemen
Someone at the side of the audience smells smoke. He turns around just in time to see flames bursting from the door of the kitchen.
“Fire!” yells the man in Arabic.
The others turn and stare. The imam continues speaking for a few moments more. Then he realizes what is going on.
“We must leave quickly,” he tells them all calmly. “My men will deal with it. Everyone else, follow me.”
His words calm the rising sense of panic. The audience rises and begins moving toward the door. The guards, meanwhile, rush toward the fire, even as fresh flares shoot from the doorway. A chemical smell begins to permeate the large hall. Smoke curls out the back. What begins as a light mist of gray quickly mushrooms into something far more sinister—a blanket of black rolls from the rear of the hall as the fire begins to rage.
The imam urges his followers to come with him. He stops at the door and waves them on like a flagger at a NASCAR race. The old man, tottering unsteadily, grabs his arm for balance.
The imam pats it, then helps him to the door. The old man mumbles incoherently, but nods his head fervently, bowed low toward the ground.
0213, on the ground in Yemen
The back room of the mosque explodes, sending flames and smoke cascading outward. The imam, worried now, tries to push off the old man and run ahead. But the old man’s fingers are like pliers, firmly gripping the imam.
“We will get outside the gate,” says the imam, perhaps recognizing that he has little choice—in his panic, the old man has gained energy and is literally dragging him along toward the gate, twenty yards away.
The wrought-iron bars loom on both sides of the walk. The imam reaches for the gate on the left side as they approach, wanting to steady himself as he lets go of the old man.
But the old man doesn’t let go. The imam feels himself being pulled forward, then flying through the air, landing in a tumble on the rock staircase.
The old man collapses on him as he hits the ground. The old man laughs.
“Move, cockbreath, and I’ll have the pleasure of killing you with my bare hands.”
Not particularly poetic, but I’d had a long day.
* * *
At about the time I was pouncing on al-Yasur, four or five flash-bangs exploded at the wall behind me—just outside the mosque precincts.
People started to run. There was confusion. Disorder. Gunshots. I grabbed the imam by the hand and strolled with him down to the road. His hand happened to be behind his back. Very possibly he was screaming at this point, though surely not in pain. It was a very pleasurable stroll.
I would be very happy to report that he suffered an accident, that a bullet fired by one of his guards struck him in the temple and took him down, or that he tripped over an untied shoelace and fell headlong into a very sharp and perfectly placed rock.
Alas, Chief and two other SEAL Team Six members stepped from the shadows and grabbed the imam before any of that could happen. Ten minutes later, we were aboard a helo, en route to the Indian Ocean.
(V)
When SEAL Team Six took out Osama bin Goatfucker, the “prize” was eventually brought aboard an aircraft carrier—at least according to the official story. Al-Yasur didn’t rate a flattop. All he got was a (former) boomer submarine, which surfaced at precisely 0315 to receive the party of SEALs and their prize.33
There was one other critical difference: al-Yasur was alive. He wasn’t talking too much, but given his natural inclinations, I think that was only a matter of time.
Abdi and I were along for the first part of the ride. I have to say, it’s been a while since I was aboard a submarine, and even longer since I ran an operation from one. (You’ll enjoy my book Red Cell; the description of that operation starts around page 229 in the paperback version. You’ll have to use the search function if you have an e-book.)
They didn’t ask me for my ID when I boarded, though given some of my history with submarines when I worked with Red Cell (I stole one), I wouldn’t have been surprised to see my photo, post-office style, pasted inside the conning tower with the words “Don’t Let This Man Aboard.” A petty officer hustled me down to sick bay for a quick medical check, then returned me to the galley, where Abdi was already enjoying the submarine coffee—always stronger than any other coffee known to man.
The SEALs had disappeared into a specially designated space to debrief and rest. Abdi and I were given bunks to share or “hot bunk” with sailors aboard—they hadn’t been expecting us and there wasn’t room for special accommodations with all the SEALs aboard.
Not feeling particularly tired, and knowing we would only be aboard the sub for a few hours, I took advantage of an offer of a tour from the COB, or chief of the boat, the senior enlisted man on the submarine. This included a visit to the forward torpedo room, always a personal highlight, though I must say the chief watched me especially carefully near the “fish”—maybe he thought I was going to try sticking one in my pocket and walking off with it.
There was a lot on the boat to admire. A good deal had changed since the last time I’d played tourist below the waves. The helmsman worked at a station that looked several times more complicated than the average rocket cockpit. I even got a chance to look through the periscope, which is basically a glorified camera these days.
“Nothing up there except a few naked mermaids,” I reported.
* * *
While SEALs have operated off of submarines pretty much since the teams were formed, things have changed quite a bit since the old days when yours truly was trying to figure out whether he was allowed to “flush” while the boat was blowing its sanitaries. (NO!!!) The submarines are larger, or at least seem that way, though I’d admit that’s a relative term and couldn’t blame anyone for feeling claustrophobic once the hatch is secur
ed. The procedure for getting SEALs to shore is a lot easier and less fatiguing—a serious plus. But other things never change—there’s no going aft where the nuclear power plants do their work, for example, and there’s no escaping the knowledge that if things get catastrophic and the sub loses its bubble, the rest of your day is going to be very, very bad.
Since I mentioned Red Cell and my stint as a submarine thief earlier, I should probably mention that security aboard the boats has improved over the years. But again, there are limits to everything—human limits, especially. Here’s a simple one that we can discuss without giving away the family jewels, just so you understand what the navy, and by extension all of us, is up against:
Having two crews—“blue and gold”—to keep the submarines deployed as much as possible makes very good sense. But that means that even though the submarine may get the benefit of a Red Cell–style (or other security) exercise, only one of the crews actually gets the experience.
Worse, we’ve generally found that maybe 10 percent of the sailors (or other humans and close relatives) remember what they were taught during an exercise. So if you’re not constantly, constantly, constantly training, the odds are almost overwhelmingly against you.
One of the good things that I’ve noticed is common among crews with high security ratings: there’s a lot of communication going on. Partly this is because the commander encourages it; he or now she sets up a culture that gets people talking together and comparing notes. And I noticed a lot of contact on the sub I was on.
I worry, though. A lot of elite people—and here I have to include submariners in general, since they are definitely an elite—lack some of the social graces that permit ready verbal exchange. In short, they’re a tribe that includes a lot of brainy geeks … and introverts. Add our current propensity to text and use other nonpersonal forms of communication, and I worry that future generations won’t have trained enough or exchanged enough general knowledge to properly guard our most precious assets. The pressure is really going on the navy leadership to keep communication lines open, and as always to train our people to deal not just with their jobs, but things that will prevent them from their jobs.
Like tangos stealing a sub.
End of lecture. Back to the mayhem.
* * *
The vans I’d spotted in the compound had been tracked by a stealthy UAV and followed as they drove north toward the Saudi border. About a half hour after the team entered the compound, a separate unit of Rangers, which had been deployed as a backup reaction force and came all the way from Kuwait, stopped the trucks on a mountain highway north of the compound. Besides prescription drugs, they found a good amount of pure heroin and hashish.
Trace and Shotgun, meanwhile, had followed the second cargo container to the customs station at the northeastern corner of Yemen. She arranged to keep the driver busy while Shotgun took a look inside.
He probably hoped to find something similar to what we’d found aboard the ship—a day’s supply of dried fruit and nuts. Instead, the trailer turned out to include an even bigger load of prescription drugs than we’d grabbed. Besides enough Viagra to increase Europe’s birth rate by 200 percent, there were cartons of synthetic morphine and a few crates of an Oxycodone knockoff as well.
All were listed as “ceramics” on the shipping papers. It’s amazing what they’re doing with cups and saucers these days.
* * *
Shortly after my tour ended, the chief came to fetch me. “Lieutenant wants a word.”
He didn’t appear happy. Neither did the lieutenant.
“You have to get your story straight,” he told me when I entered the wardroom where he was waiting. He said this the way most people say things of that sort—pointing his finger at me and jabbing it repeatedly.
“I don’t have a story.”
“Which is what?”
“I found al-Yasur on the ground outside the mosque. I jumped on him. You jumped on me.”
“You were rescued,” Chief prompted.
“Definitely rescued,” I agreed.
The lieutenant nodded tentatively.
“And you knew nothing of the operation at the camp?”
“Which camp?” I said innocently. “I’m supposed to put in an appearance at a Boy Scout camp this month. Is that what you’re talking about? I love doing that—there’s nothing like corrupting kids at an impressionable age.”
The lieutenant smirked, clearly more relaxed.
“Thirsty?” asked Chief, walking over to the sideboard near the coffee machine.
“I’ve had my share of coffee,” I told him.
“I wasn’t talking about coffee,” he said, opening the cabinet. “I understand this stuff cures all sorts of ailments.”
He held up a bottle of Bombay Sapphire.
“Doctor, pour me some medicine.”
I was on my second glass when Chief told me Magoo wanted to talk.
“That’s nice. I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Don’t be an asshole, Marcinko,” said the lieutenant. I think that was the first time he pronounced my name correctly since we’d met. Maybe he had a guy crush.
“If I thought I could carry on a conversation with that part of my anatomy,” I told him, “I would gladly talk to him.”
“He wants to go over a few things,” said Chief. “Just to make sure we’re all on the same page.”
“You and I already did that.”
“We don’t need the media making this into a big bullshit thing,” said the lieutenant.
“Who says the media is going to find out?” I asked. “This is a DEVGRU operation—it’s classified. No one talks about it.”
“Man, you are old-fashioned,” said Chief, escorting me back to the wardroom.
* * *
I found Abdi there, wide awake. He’d been given a tour as well, though slightly modified to avoid revealing sensitive information.
“Mr. Dick. Coffee?” he asked, getting up to go over to the coffee machine.
“No thanks. I have my own.” I had brought a mug with the doc’s elixir from my meeting.
Abdi began telling me about his tour, which had obviously impressed him greatly. Every fourth or fifth word that left his mouth was an adjective that meant “incredible.” I don’t think I’ve heard anyone wax that poetic without using four-letter words in quite some time.
“Maybe you should do a submarine theme,” I told him. “They don’t have many of those in Brooklyn. If you could get a location near the old Navy Yard—”
“I am not going to Brooklyn,” he said. “I have decided to stay in Mogadishu. My family needs me.”
Maybe it was just the light, but Abdi seemed to have aged about a decade in the few short days we’d been together. And the age fit him well.
“I see what you were telling me,” he continued. “If I want to honor my uncle, I should try to do what he would have told me to do.”
I’m not sure that was exactly my message, but I can’t say that I disagreed with it.
Westerners often feel an impulse to rush into places like Somalia—or Yemen for that matter—and straighten out their screwed-up crap. It’s very American to want to fix things. It’s part of the Christian spirit, Help thy neighbor and all that. But the real solutions come from the people who live there.
What’s that old saying? Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day—teach him to fish, and he’ll eat forever?
To that I would add: you can’t teach the bastard anything if he doesn’t want to learn. And if he does want to learn, then you can’t hold him back.
Abdi’s country was and remains a hellhole. It’s still a place none of us would want to live. But the kid has the balls to try to make it better, and for that, I salute him. It was, in fact, a very American thing to do.
We talked for a while about his uncle, and about his plans for improving the restaurant. I guess I’m getting soft in my old age, because I promised to visit the place the next time I’m in Mogadis
hu. As long as he doesn’t offer me meatloaf.
* * *
I amused myself for the next few hours by getting workout pointers from some of the young bucks in Six. They say you can’t teach an old dog new tricks, but you sure can make him sweat his butt off.
There’s a common misunderstanding about SEALs and special operations troops in general. A lot of the public thinks these guys are seven feet tall and built like gorillas. That’s simply not true, and even among the small group I was with there was a wide variety of physical types.
They were all in great shape, however. Frankly, I think the new generation knows so much more about nutrition, health, working out, etc., that they’re better physically than we were when I started Six. Of course, I think some of us graybeards could use our heads in a way that would even things out, but then you probably expect me to say that. I’m just glad I managed to stay on the right side of these boys throughout the op.
I was recovering from my workout back in the wardroom, consulting with the good Dr. Bombay, when Chief appeared and gave me the “come hither” sign. I followed him topside, discovering to my surprise that the sun had just popped over the horizon. I thought we’d been under the water much longer.
The sea air was crisp, the water calm. A small party of sailors were on the deck of the submarine below the fin. Most prominent were two safety divers, who were standing by in case anyone slipped.
Including al-Yasur, who was surrounded by SEALs. A pair of sailors stood a short distance away, holding M16s. For a moment, I thought I’d been brought up to watch a makeshift firing squad, and considered how much I might bid to take one of the gunmen’s places.
Then I heard the sound of approaching helicopters.
“You’re letting this scumbag go?” I asked Chief.
“Not exactly.”
“Can’t he just slip into the water?”
Chief’s frown told me he thought that would be an excellent idea.
“Orders,” said the lieutenant, coming up from below.
“Where is he going?”
The lieutenant shook his head. He didn’t know precisely, only that he had been ordered to transfer custody.
[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel Page 25
