Six

by Charles W. Sasser

  Michael nodded approval. The tea vendor set steaming cups of liquid on the table and wiped his hands on his apron. Michael waved him away.

  A military-style Humvee loaded with armed Boko Haram fighters skidded to a dusty stop outside. It was right on time, as though the men in it must have been right down the road keeping an eye on the rendezvous point. Boko Haram didn’t trust anyone either, whether fellow Islamic or not.

  A giant of a man armed with a sidearm and a crossbow barged his way into the café and stopped to look over the territory. Quayum wore khakis. His face and nose were long and broad and his head shorn close to his scalp. He crossed to Michael and Akmal, eyeing each of them suspiciously.

  Michael pushed a cup to the African and invited him to sit down. “I ordered tea.”

  Quayum remained on his feet with no change of expression. “The price is ten million dollars,” he said.

  Chapter Sixty-Nine

  Nigeria

  The CIA and its assets, along with an advance SEAL support and tech element, had turned a secluded and abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Lagos into an improvised staging area. Senior Chief Bear Graves’s Delta Team along with Foxtrot were flown into a Nigerian military airfield under cover of night and whisked to the warehouse by a variety of inconspicuous civilian transports, including a garbage truck. The lives of Rip Taggart and the other hostages depended upon the mission remaining clandestine.

  Footfalls and voices echoed in the cavernous warehouse. Crates and boxes and rusty farm equipment cluttered the interior, which was illuminated by a scattering of bare lightbulbs. It smelled musty and sour from long disuse other than by colonies of rodents.

  As soon as the teams arrived, they got busy with pre-mission rituals of unpacking equipment, maintaining weapons, going over maps, and collecting up-to-date intel. Bear Graves spread a map on a field table underneath a light and with his team hit the high points of the mission plan a last time before kickoff. All six operators wore jungle-pattern cammies and ballistic helmets. Their packs, weapons, armor, NVGs, and radios lay sidelined, ready to go.

  “An indigenous vehicle gets our team to the ORP,” Graves narrated, tapping his forefinger on a grid coordinate near an abandoned Boko Haram village where CIA assets had pinpointed the hostages’ location.

  Caulder affected a plaintive groan. “Please tell me we’re not looking at more garbage trucks.”

  “Cargo truck,” Graves clarified. “We ride in the back. Local driver up front with one of our Agency handlers riding shotgun.”

  The local CIA asset-driver wrapped in an old blanket snoozed nearby on the hard concrete floor. He was a diminutive Nigerian in his late forties. His Agency handler sat rocked back in a metal chair reading a paperback book, a tall African American from Chicago with eyes that constantly strayed from his book to scan the warehouse. Graves doubted little if anything escaped his scrutiny.

  “Local driver, huh?” Fishbait snorted with a sly look at Chase. “Why don’t we use Ghetto? He’d blend right in.”

  Buckley laughed. “You kidding? He’s the least black guy I know.”

  “Good one,” Chase admitted, shaking his head. They never let up dealing him shit about Harvard.

  That led to a round of rough grabass to relieve tension, part of a team’s camaraderie and cohesiveness.

  “Buddha, on the other hand—” Buck pursued with a grin.

  “Nah,” Ortiz said, going along with the fun. “I’m only confused for a black man in the shower.”

  Caulder slapped Ortiz on the back. “You too?”

  “Knock it off,” Bear interrupted, all business. “Okay, we patrol in the rest of the way from the ORP. About three klicks to the target.”

  Graves spread a schematic of the abandoned village over the terrain map. Ortiz massaged his game knee, concerned about how it would hold up to a forced march.

  “This,” Graves explained, “is how the village looked when it was housing for the refinery workers, before it was abandoned. Assuming not much has changed, this building—here—is our primary target. Foxtrot will clear and search for the hostages. Delta Team will take the Two Series building and clear clockwise until the compound is secure.”

  The hardest part of any op was the waiting. Following the short briefback, Ortiz slipped off and squatted behind a stack of old crates where he pulled up his cammie trouser leg and injected a syringe of cortisone into his knee. Caulder caught him emerging from hiding with his rucksack on his back and stretching his leg, testing it.

  “How’s the knee?” he asked.

  Ortiz shrugged it off as no big deal. “Fine.”

  He squatted and rummaged out a yerba maté tea kit from his ruck and began preparation to brew a cup. Caulder spread his poncho liner on the floor and sprawled out on it. After watching the tea making for a minute, he brought up Bear’s intense preoccupation with rescuing Rip.

  “This is some deep shit for Bear,” he commented.

  “Some deep shit for all of us. It’s Rip we’re talking about.”

  “That’s what I mean. You think Bear’s got his head on straight?”

  Ortiz lit a flame to his canned fuel and placed a canteen of water over it to boil. He looked at Caulder. “If you don’t think Bear will do the right thing,” he said, “you shouldn’t be here.”

  “Hey, Buddha,” Caulder protested. “Rip was my team leader too. I want to bring him back, same as you.”

  “Then let’s go get him.”

  Elsewhere in the warehouse, Senior Chief Graves, looking harried and distracted, secluded himself from the other SEALs and fished out his cell phone. He clicked onto the little screen a photo of Lena and him and their baby girl Sarah—Dad and Mom laughing and cooing with Baby and happy like Lena and he had not been since.

  He tapped the screen and started to dial Lena’s number, providing he had coverage and could make connection. He sat for a long time just staring at the screen before he abruptly closed the cover and stuck it back into his cargo pocket.

  Chapter Seventy

  Abandoned Village, Nigeria

  How long had it been? Hours? Days? Rip Taggart had lost all sense of time as he hung near naked on the cross with the brutal tropical sun beating down on him and sucking moisture through his scorched skin. Head dangling, he seemed to lose more of his desire to live with each shallow breath. His mind drifted, shuttering in and out of reality.

  He heard singing. His eyelids fluttered. He didn’t believe in angels. His head slowly twisted toward the source of the sweet voice lifted in song. Through the blur of semiconsciousness he sighted in on Na’omi’s lovely brown face framed behind the window bars of the holding cell. She was belting out a traditional old Christian hymn, “How Great Thou Art,” in an effort to will him not to give up.

  O Lord my God, when I in awesome wonder

  Consider all the worlds Thy hands have made,

  I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder.

  Thy power throughout the universe displayed …

  Felix ran at the window, brandishing his rifle and yelling, “Shut up, you stupid whore! Enough!”

  He sounded more and more like Aabid.

  Na’omi hushed, but she remained at the window where Rip could see her, reaching out to him with misty, sorrow-filled eyes. Uplifted for that brief moment by her singing, Rip began to mumble the hymn in what would perhaps be his final act of defiance.

  I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder.

  Thy power throughout the universe displayed …

  Chapter Seventy-One

  Warehouse Staging Area

  SEALs and their support elements at the isolated warehouse designated as a staging area made final adjustment to weapons, gear, and plans as kickoff drew near. Everyone fully expected a firefight if Boko Haram occupied the village as suspected. Buck Buckley cleaned and oiled his MK48 7.62 heavy machine gun for the second or third time. Then he went from team member to team member making the same demand.

  “Boys, show me the
m extra rounds.”

  The machine gun was a critical weapon of both offense and defense should a fight ensue. It burned up ammunition at an astounding rate. The weight of sufficient ammo was too heavy for the gunner alone to carry. Therefore, extra belts were distributed to the other team members.

  Caulder ripped open the Velcro on an outside pouch of his ruck to reveal an ammo belt neatly folded within. Buck nodded approval. “Caulder, you put my anal retentive homo cousin to shame.”

  “You’re welcome, Buck.”

  Buddha Ortiz opened the top of his pack to display a belt stuffed in on top of his breaching gear. Buckley grinned. “Buddha, no one can stuff a car, a burrito, or a bag like your people.”

  “It’s our national tradition.”

  Caulder indicated the belt in Ortiz’s gear. “I got room. I can carry those rounds.”

  Buddha went all defensive, suspecting Caulder’s offer had to do with his having discovered Buddha shooting up his knee with cortisone. “You wanna tell me something, Alex?”

  “Nah, Buddha. You’re just carrying a lot of breaching shit too is all.”

  “Well, I can carry my own shit and a few extra rounds. Okay?”

  “No problemo.”

  Caulder zipped up his pack. Buddha walked away, taking effort to conceal his limp.

  Buck’s voice rose in annoyance from another sector of the warehouse where he stood over Chase and Fishbait after making the same demand of them: Show me them extra rounds.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me!” Buck exclaimed.

  Ghetto fumbled inside his pack. “It’s in here. Give me a sec.”

  Buck pointed his finger at him like it was a gun. “Bang! We’re all dead. Fish, wanna explain the point of carrying extra rounds for Professor Harvard?”

  “Heavy weapons eat up a lot of ammo—” Fishbait began.

  Chase cut him off. “So we each carry extra. I got it.”

  Buck was still pissed. “If you knew, you’d stick those rounds someplace where you or I could get to ’em quick. Because while we’re unpacking your picnic basket, everyone else is wondering why the hell there’s no cover fire.”

  Chase had had enough. He got in Buckley’s face. “I got your rounds right here, motherfucker.”

  He thrust the ammo belt above his head and rattled it. Buck grinned, shook his Miami Vice head of wavy hair, and moved on.

  Caulder joined Chase and Fishbait. “He’s testing you,” he said to Ghetto.

  Chase was hot. “No shit.”

  “It’s not about the rounds, Ghetto. It’s about this …” He tapped his forehead. “It’s about … whether you can keep it together. You’re in the pros now, bro.”

  Chase got it. Every man’s life in the team depended upon every other man, and all that other business about there being no room for error. Ghetto was working on it, he really was. The last thing he wanted to do was fuck up. Chase hadn’t known Taggart, but he knew Taggart didn’t tolerate fuck-ups. Neither would Bear.

  “A little advice,” Caulder offered diplomatically. “Just fold the belt up and stick it in your outside pouch. That’s how we do it here.”

  The SEALs were ready to rumble by the time a dingy cargo truck pulled up and stopped outside the warehouse. The morning sun shined on SEALs in full battle rattle, including weapons, as they streamed out the warehouse doors and packed onto the truck like puppies. Support and add-ons boosted their numbers to over two dozen. Caulder climbed up the back of the vehicle and turned to offer Ortiz a hand up. Buddha looked him up and down, bemused and again somewhat annoyed. Like Caulder thought he was a cripple or something?

  “Thanks. I can manage.”

  Ortiz boarded and scooted in beside Caulder on the side bench. Buck and Fishbait, followed by Chase, jumped in and found seats among their team and the other team.

  “Hey, what’s Harvard pussy like?” Buckley needled Chase in an effort to lighten up things and make amends for his earlier attitude.

  Chase was learning to go along with the bullshit by dishing it out himself. “Not bad. Speaks three or four languages, does advanced calculus.”

  “Yeah? Well, you’ll have to fill us in over tea and biscuits.”

  “Sure. I make a damn fine Earl Grey.”

  “Bet you do.” Buckley turned to Fishbait to explain. “That’s fancy tea, Fish, in case you’re wondering.”

  “Tea I know. It comes with this,” he said and gave Buck the finger

  All the bullshit and banter relaxed them for what lay ahead. Soon, the truck was boarded and loaded. Bear Graves activated movement by speaking into his radio. “Foxtrot Delta is en route to ORP.”

  Cargo doors slammed, shutting out daylight and encasing the now-silent SEALs in the dark. It was a go. They were on the move.

  Chapter Seventy-Two

  Nigeria

  Akmal had remarked on the flight from Qatar that he believed reason was anathema to the average Boko Haram fighter, who understood only force and violence and the raping and kidnapping and peddling of young girls and women on the slave market. The United Nations and the United States in listing Boko Haram a terrorist organization declared it the world’s most violent and unpredictable. In Michael Nasry’s opinion, all these negative traits were well represented in the ugly giant Quayum, who had been sent to barter the price for the hostage Richard Taggart.

  The tea vendor at the roadside fruit and vegetable stand café refilled cups of tea three or four times at the table of the two foreigners and the scary-looking African, who had finally seated himself as the dickering continued. Akmal and Michael seethed at Quayum’s intransigence. Michael, however, was better equipped temperamentally to handle him. He attempted to reason with the hardheaded BH representative.

  “I understand your desire to maximize the purchase price,” he remonstrated. “But your organization swore allegiance to mine. And we had an agreement. Five million dollars.”

  “Ten,” Quayum stubbornly insisted.

  Akmal, his patience burning thin, pointed out to Quayum that, “You proclaim to follow the Quran. It says we do not outbid each other, or turn away from each other, or outsell each other. We are to be servants of Allah as brothers. We should act like it.”

  “The Quran? Allah?” Quayum retorted. “What do they have to do with this? This is business.”

  To Akmal’s surprise, Michael unexpectedly changed strategies and gave in to Quayum’s demands. “I will agree to your price.”

  Akmal frowned at him. What the hell was Michael thinking? Michael gave him a sly look up through his brow. Never mind, the look said.

  Quayum grinned broadly in triumph. The grin vanished when Michael dropped the other shoe onto the bargain. “If I see the SEAL first,” he said.

  Quayum glared. “Impossible.”

  “Nothing is impossible. I see the SEAL or no deal.”

  The giant thought about it. Sensing a big payday, he pulled out his cell phone to dial Aabid for instructions. Michael laid a hand across the phone’s screen.

  “No calls,” he cautioned, rolling his eyes toward the sky. “The Americans will pick it up. Take me to him.”

  Michael Nasry, Akmal, and their four Chechen gunmen in their blue rented SUV trailed the Humvee carrying Quayum and his contingent along narrow dusty roads deep in the Nigerian forest. Michael had assumed a smug, self-satisfied smile that played around the edges of his mouth, like a Cheshire cat keeping a secret. He leaned forward from the backseat to peer out the dusty windshield past the driver and his front seat passengers to the plume of dust ahead. He chuckled to himself.

  Such cheerfulness in the deal Michael had struck with the BH savage puzzled Akmal. Emir al-Muttaqi would scarcely be pleased.

  “The emir didn’t authorize ten million dollars,” he carped.

  “Those assholes up there don’t know that.”

  Michael twisted his head to look out the back window, an invitation for Akmal to do likewise. Akmal’s eyes widened when he spotted two other SUVs trailing them in dista
nt dust. Presumably, judging by the smile on Michael’s face, they were full up with other Chechen fighters. Michael had never intended to pay ten million for the SEAL. Nor even five. Apparently, he had made his own Chechen deal.

  “What are you doing, Michael?” Akmal cried.

  “What you did with your commanding officer. What needs to be done.”

  The impact of what Michael planned struck Akmal numb. “The emir—?” he finally stammered.

  “Let me worry about the emir. I have his blessing. Are you with me?”

  Akmal hesitated. The faint hint of a smile lingered on Michael’s narrow face. “The correct answer,” he said, “is, ‘Yes, Michael, I’m with you.’”

  The American’s smile spread into low, growling laughter. “No turning back now,” he exclaimed with barely contained excitement.

  Chapter Seventy-Three

  Nigeria

  Three groups of vehicles traveling two different jungle roads were on an intersecting destination that could only end in a clash. Quayum’s Humvee with his fighters spearheaded directly toward Aabid’s headquarters in the abandoned village south of the refinery, whose officials and workers were so intimidated that they provided cheap fuel for Boko Haram vehicles and kept their mouths shut about what went on in the region. Or so Aabid thought. The refinery had never really been a practical sanctuary option for the escaping hostages in Aabid’s custody.

  Michael Nasry commanded the second convoy of three SUVs—the lead vehicle occupied by Nasry, Akmal, and four Chechen gunmen and, a mile back, two other SUVs loaded with Chechen fighters. Quayum’s Humvee and Nasry’s SUV kicked up such clouds of dust on the road that the trailing Chechen vehicles went completely unnoticed by the Boko Haram contingent.

  On a different jungle road bound for the same destination, the cargo truck packed with heavily armed SEALs eased up to a roving Nigerian police checkpoint. Two officers in green uniforms and armed with Chinese-manufactured AK-47 assault rifles piled out of their marked Range Rover and stepped cautiously out onto the road to block the truck. Their caution was not without justification. Just two weeks ago, Boko Haram Islamic extremists attacked and overran a remote military/police base near Maiduguri in the northeast, killing and wounding at least thirteen before the surviving soldiers and cops fled from the superior firepower.