With tacky hands, Yusuf twisted Madoowbe around to face the fifty Rahanweyn. Madoowbe spilled out the smell of copper, of earth. Yusuf raised his own nostrils above the ruby draining out of Bold Boy, soaking in the sand. He reached for the salt air of the ocean at his back. Let me bleed that, he wished, should I die in the next seconds, not this farmer’s smell. I am rer manjo, of the sea people.
Yusuf threw Madoowbe’s rifle down beside the money satchel. He tilted the man’s head left and right, working him like a marionette, to shame him and make him look like a puppet in front of the fifty rifles. The noggin was loose and quiet in Yusuf’s grasp; Bold Boy was dead. Yusuf tossed him on his face into the wine-dark sand.
He bellowed, “Rahanweyn!” He flung a blood-bathed hand at the clan. To a man, they pointed back with their weapons.
“You know me! I am Yusuf Raage of the Darood Harti! I have never cheated a man among you. I have never hidden behind a woman!”
Yusuf took steps closer to the guns, near enough to tower over all the Rahanweyn and Aziza. She covered her mouth, glaring. If alive, Yusuf would ask later if this was hatred he saw, or relief.
Yusuf pointed the onyx-handled knife back to the corpse. His wet and warm blouse clung to him.
“That piece of dung was not worthy to lead you. He’s not worth losing your life for. Listen to me now.”
Across the beach, Suleiman kept the Darood reined in. No guns were raised among them. The threat was in Yusuf’s hands and thundering voice. He whirled on the farmers.
“If you pull one trigger, my men will kill you all. They will hunt down your families and kill them too, no survivors. We will throw your children and your women into the fires of your villages. You know we will do this. And if not the men behind me, other Darood men will come and they will do it.”
Yusuf set his jaw. The buzzard above cawed oddly, sweetly. Was he calling out his brothers? Was he tasting the odor of Bold Boy? Yusuf took his eyes off the Rahanweyn. If he could not die at sea, let it happen with his eyes upward.
He saw only the lone bird, no others anywhere. That was the omen. One buzzard, one death. Madoowbe had fulfilled this.
Yusuf tucked the knife away at his back. He walked off from the Rahanweyn past the body of Bold Boy to retrieve his money sack. He lifted the bag with effort; the weight made him slouch. Wickedness left Yusuf feeling tired.
Suleiman led Yusuf’s men forward. Guleed bowed to the elders and ran to join them.
The Darood formed up in front of Yusuf, still with their guns lowered. Suleiman bore the Rahanweyn’s sack of money, $300,000.
The boy who’d piloted Yusuf’s skiff stayed behind. In the beached boat, the Indian captain Ashwin stood in the bow, and though he could not have understood the Somali shouts back and forth, he clapped slowly for clever Yusuf.
Suleiman dumped the merchants’ money in front of the fifty. They made way for the twenty Darood. Suleiman jabbed a finger at his sister but walked on. Her eyes glistened without telling why. Many Rahanweyn kept their guns up and ready, the path through them staying barbed and tense. The buzzard soared in tighter, lower circles. Yusuf shuffled behind Guleed.
Aziza put out her hand to stop Yusuf. She turned over her brown palm.
Yusuf unclasped his own bag. He dug out two banded packets, $20,000. With his waning energy, he slapped them in her hand.
“Next time,” he growled to Suleiman, “find her a Darood.”
The buzzard lighted in the sand near Madoowbe. It did not approach the corpse but folded and watched.
Chapter 3
On board HC-130 Kingsman 46
Above the Gulf of Aden
Off the coast of Djibouti
The wind made LB’s cheeks rubbery. He brought his goggled face in from the 130-mile-an-hour gust.
With a slicing motion, he signaled the loadmaster to cut the net holding back the pallet. Immediately the four-foot-square package rolled down the lowered ramp, off the edge, and into the air at 3,500 feet.
The wind snatched the package and sped it far behind the chopper. The static line played out, then snapped taut. Two cargo chutes blossomed before the RAMZ plummeted out of sight.
Instantly the loadmaster reeled in the flapping static line. When he turned with a thumbs-up, LB waddled as fast as he could in swim fins down Kingsman 46’s open gate. Reaching the edge, he catapulted spread-eagled into the sunny morning.
Below, the white cargo chutes had opened perfectly, and the RAMZ drifted in fine shape to the turquoise water. LB counted to five in freefall, admiring as always the world from a great height, the wide Gulf of Aden, the tan shore of Djibouti. He pulled his main cord, felt the shudder of silk unfurling from his container, and as always when it filled, lost his breath in sudden and marvelous deceleration. He loved jumping in scuba gear, much lighter than combat tack and armor. Just fins, shorty wetsuit, low-profile mask, small tank, regulator, and fanny pack with signaling devices and survival gear.
Big Quincy, second in the stack, opened his chute above. Next, Doc popped. On top, the new lieutenant, Robey.
Djibouti was the LT’s first deployment, today his first training jump with the PJs. LB didn’t know the kid well. They’d had just ten days together during spin-up training at Nellis, much of that dedicated to mundane tasks, nothing to test or reveal the young combat rescue officer’s makeup. They’d been in Djibouti four days. Robey seemed okay. Black kid, probably had a good life story so far. Confident, fit, standard CRO material, straight out of the Air Force Academy and the Pipeline.
The folded Zodiac package under its twin chutes neared the LZ. The gulf ran choppy today; whitecaps and swells cruised by, whipped by a warm khamsin breeze blowing south off the Sudan. The RAMZ neared the rippling surface. Just as it touched down, one of the larger waves rose up to meet it.
LB muttered, “Uh-oh.”
The package splashed down without much spray. The wave had reached up at exactly the wrong moment, softening the impact. The RAMZ hit the water slower than the twenty-five miles per hour needed to spring the release mechanisms and disconnect the big chutes. The package rolled over in the water as it was supposed to, exposing the wooden pallet and big painted orange triangle to the surface. But the chutes remained attached. Instead of collapsing into the water, they stayed round and full in the wind. Like something not wanting to share, the silks dragged the package through the waves, towing it away from the fast-dropping PJ team.
LB tugged on both toggles to brake his own descent. He needed to land downwind to make sure the package floated past him. This was standard procedure for RAMZ drops, any waterborne cargo ops, in the event this very thing happened. If the team landed upwind, the package would just sail away and leave them behind. Aboard Kingsman 46, the loadmaster had another RAMZ to drop just in case. But that was a backup for a fuckup. Using it would be humiliating.
LB peeked at the other chutes following him down, to be sure they all knew what had happened. Quincy and Doc were well lined up on his lead to land ahead of the moving package. At the top of the stack, Robey glided in too high. The kid had banked into the wind with the rest of them on a final turn but needed to dump air now to get down. LB couldn’t watch Robey long; he had to line up his own descent.
Swooping in low over the seas, LB kept pressure on his toggles to milk the last of the chute’s airfoil lift. He lined up on the RAMZ straight downwind. He picked his spot, estimating the crate’s path through the water, adding fifty yards. Quincy would land another ten yards behind him, then Doc and hopefully Robey, so someone in the line would snare the RAMZ sailing past.
With seconds left above the gulf, LB quick-released his chest strap and belly band; he was attached to the container and chute now only by the pair of crotch straps. Hauling both toggles down to his waist, he braced for the water. As he took one last look at the RAMZ package to make sure he fell in line with it, his fins hit. LB arched his back and flipped the ejectors on his leg straps, freeing himself from the chute.
He kicked
to propel himself away from the tumbling canopy and lines. Just in time, he surfaced to reach up and smack Quincy on his fins floating past. Behind and above Quincy, Doc drifted down right where he ought.
LB groped for the mini-bottle strapped at his side. He spun the valve to turn on his air and popped the regulator in his mouth. Breathing easy, he trod water directly in the way of the oncoming package and rogue chutes. One last time, he looked for Robey and found him coming in too high.
“Get down, get down,” LB growled around the regulator’s mouthpiece.
The young lieutenant made a clumsy turn in an effort to spill altitude. Instead of landing behind Doc in the water, Robey soared past all three PJs and the RAMZ bearing down on them.
LB grumbled a curse. There was nothing he could do for Robey right now. He focused his attention on intercepting the package.
The RAMZ crate came right at him. LB kicked to the side to let the open chutes, struggling gamely, glide by. The pallet was being dragged at four or five knots. LB didn’t want to try to snare it from a standstill in the water; he couldn’t be sure his grip would hold. He broke into a crawl and a robust kick in the same direction. The package sped alongside, LB swimming fast and close enough to heave a gloved hand on top. He snagged a board and held on until he could get his other hand attached. With a two-legged kick of the fins and a hard pull, he hauled himself on top just as the pallet cruised by Quincy.
LB dropped a hand, snaring the PJ’s thick forearm. With a heave, both men knelt on board.
Quincy made short work of the parachutes. He didn’t bother searching for the release mechanisms but snatched his dive knife out of his leg sheath to slash through the left-hand lines. The chute crumpled. Quincy snipped the right-hand lines, and the second chute fainted into the water, done. The momentum of the RAMZ bled away just as the package bobbed up to Doc.
LB yanked out his regulator. “Where the hell is Robey?”
Doc pointed upwind. “That way.”
The gulf’s chop was high enough to block LB’s vision beyond thirty yards, even sitting on top of the pallet. No sign of Robey. LB didn’t bother with profanity. “We’ll deal with that. Let’s unfold this thing.”
The three PJs knew their tasks. Quincy dove back into the water, regulator in his mouth. In seconds, he released the canvas diaper wrapping the RAMZ package. This floated away, a shadow under the surface. The coiled Zodiac began to separate from the pallet. Doc ducked under to find the bow of the inflatable, then swam it outward while Quincy did the same at the stern. LB remained on top of the pallet, popping open all the bands needed to pack a raft and outboard engine tightly enough to drop them from a plane.
Once the boat was free of all restraints, LB slipped into the water. He found the scuba tank attached to the boat’s air intake, opened the tank’s valve a half turn. Compressed air bled into the Zodiac; LB made sure he inflated the craft slowly to avoid crimps as it expanded.
The Zodiac uncurled and swelled enough for Quincy to climb aboard, then grab the bucket the riggers had secured inside and start bailing. LB increased the flow of compressed air, and the Zodiac took shape faster. Doc hoisted himself over the side, taking charge of setting up the outboard engine. LB waited until the air tank had tightened the Zodiac’s skin, then kicked himself over the side. He scanned the rising and falling waters for the young LT, but there was no sign of him. Quincy bailed, while Doc set about dewatering the outboard.
LB despised this part of RAMZ ops—rocking in a raft over choppy seas on a hot day, waiting to get the seawater out of the engine’s carburetor. Add to that the smells of sun-warmed rubber and gasoline, rising heat, and the neoprene wetsuits they all wore. The motor dewatering could take one minute or fifteen. Motion sickness never struck LB first, but if someone puked, he was next.
Doc yanked the starter cord on the outboard motor, keeping the purge valve open to force out the water. He pulled several times, spitting dribbles from the valve.
LB pleaded, “C’mon, Doc.” The raft bobbed over a series of rollers. Quincy looked green.
LB turned his attention back to the shifting horizon of water. If they couldn’t see Robey, he couldn’t see them. The young CRO floated somewhere nearby, surely wondering on this first training day in the Horn of Africa what the hell he’d gotten himself into.
After minutes of swaying on the seas and churning stomachs, Quincy lost patience. He replaced Doc at the motor, took over pulling the cord. The big man put his back into the job, and on the fourth pull closed the dewatering drain. With his next yank, the engine sprang to life. LB spit out the taste of rising gall while the motor coughed its start-up smoke. Quincy worked the choke, revving the rpms, and the Zodiac lurched forward.
LB took up the raft’s painter to stand in the bow. Quincy drove in widening spirals. Ten minutes passed before they found the new lieutenant, waving for them at the crest of a swell. The current had swept him several hundred yards north from the RAMZ’s LZ.
Quincy zoomed to Robey, then cut the engine to drift beside him.
Robey puffed his cheeks. “Really glad to see you guys.”
The morning heat climbed, the gulf water simmering at a tropical temperature. The straw from the freshwater bladder in Robey’s backpack hovered near his lips. In the open ocean, he wouldn’t die of dehydration for another few days, if the sharks let him live that long. Robey could have made the swim to shore, only four miles off. But that wasn’t the point.
Changing the way a man thought could be done by teaching him. Altering the way he reacted without thought meant tampering with his instincts.
LB didn’t know much about the kid floating beside the Zodiac because Robey himself couldn’t know. The most important item had yet to be determined. Limits. The comfort zone. That’s why they were out here training. To find the boundaries in each man and in the team, then shove them back.
Robey looked relieved and expectant. None of the PJs offered him a hand into the raft. Robey lapped a brown arm over the inflated side. With his foot, LB pushed the young lieutenant’s arm back into the water.
Robey gazed up from the bobbing sea. “LB?”
“You’re not here right now.”
Quincy and Doc said nothing.
“Let me into the raft.”
“No. You flew over the RAMZ. You landed upwind, and it left you behind. What if it was nighttime? What if it’s pitch-black and we can’t find you? Now you’re not one of the rescuers, not a CRO or a PJ. You can’t help the team because you’ve become a liability. We can’t do our mission because we’re looking for you. Somebody else, some survivor we were supposed to rescue, might die in the meantime. Rule number one for a PJ: Never become the one who needs rescuing. Ever. So you stay in the water till we locate you. Sir.”
Robey tightened his lips. He floated another yard from the raft.
LB looked away from Robey. “I can’t see you. Blow your whistle.”
The lieutenant glared up. He took a sip from his straw to moisten his mouth, then put the plastic whistle tied to his buoyancy vest to his lips. He blew a shrill tweet.
“Didn’t hear it. Too much wind and waves out here at night. Keep it up.”
The three PJs waited, rolling over the rippling seas while Robey blew on the whistle.
“Hey”—LB addressed Quincy and Doc, behind him—“did you hear something?” They looked away. Both had gotten this business from LB early in their PJ lives.
“Hit your strobe. Maybe we can see you.”
Bobbing, glistening from seawater and sweat, Robey turned on the flashing light attached to his vest. The emitter pulsed meekly in the African sun. His face took on a pinched, determined mien, a laser focus that LB knew well, a young man’s defiance.
LB looked far out to sea beneath a shielding hand. “I think I caught a glimpse of something. Dunno. Pull out your buzz saw.”
Digging below the water to his fanny pack, Robey unraveled a long string attached to a Cyalume glow stick. He bent the stick to activate the ch
emicals inside, then twirled the vivid green light around his head on the string.
“Guys,” LB finally said, pointing at Robey, bobbing five yards away, “there he is.”
Blank-faced, the LT dropped the ChemLight into the water. He cut off his flashing strobe to kick closer to the Zodiac. LB reached down, and Robey grabbed his hand.
LB lowered the lieutenant’s grip to a rubber handhold on the raft’s side.
“Hang on tight, sir. Quincy?”
The big PJ cranked the engine. He gunned it, spinning the Zodiac around.
For fifteen minutes the PJs coursed back and forth across the waves, collecting their spilled chutes and containers. They hauled them in like fishing nets while Robey clung to the handhold, ignored.
When they’d recovered the chutes, Quincy pointed the Zodiac west to the beach, where the riggers waited with Land Rovers and a trailer for the raft.
The Zodiac couldn’t reach top speed because of Robey’s drag. The PJs all sat in hot wetsuits and itchy sweat. LB saw little sense in making himself, Doc, and Quincy pay any longer for Robey’s mistake.
LB let the kid hang on for two more bouncing, tough minutes, then gave Quincy the kill signal. The Zodiac slowed to a few knots. Robey couldn’t heave himself over the side. Doc reeled him in.
Chapter 4
Camp Lemonnier
Djibouti
At the Barn, all the team’s equipment was cleaned first. Doc, Quincy, LB, and Robey sprayed down the Zodiac, flushed and re-oiled the engine. Robey handled his end of the chores in silence. After the raft and chutes were squared away, they went their separate ways to deal with personal gear, then lunch. LB rinsed his wetsuit and scuba stuff, then hung them to dry in his locker. The team was in a surly mood, anticipating the debriefing set for 2:00 p.m., in ninety minutes, after lunch. Everyone, including the PJs and support crew who weren’t on today’s training mission, was required to attend.
The Devil's Waters Page 4
