The Return of the Marines Trilogy

by Jonathan P. Brazee

  So Asad had done as ordered. He had gone into the hold with Hanad. He had tried to breathe shallowly, but still, he had to fight from vomiting. He tried to pull his t-shirt over his nose, but that didn’t do any good, either.

  It took a bit of searching, but he found the hatch into the vile, poisonous bilge. With a degree of fortitude he hadn’t known he possessed, he got down into the bilge, made even more noxious when the white guy vomited into it. His own stomach rebelled, but he managed to control it, to keep it from shaming him.

  Then came the wait. He could feel the water creep into his pores. But it was heavier, more viscous than real water. He could imagine all sorts of disease-carrying organisms invading his body.

  When he heard the voices, he tensed up.

  Please don’t make a sound, he silently implored the two foreigners.

  He had never killed anything larger than a goat, and he didn’t want to start now. But the men were quiet. And when the all clear was given, he hurriedly tried to push up on the hatch, not waiting for Hanad. He couldn’t get the leverage, so he tried to shift and push up with his back. When he moved, he accidently cut the white man.

  He was aghast at himself. He hadn’t meant to do that; the man had been cooperating. He had reflexively apologized to the man several times, but the man surprisingly seemed OK about it.

  Asad couldn’t get out of the hold fast enough. And despite buckets and buckets of seawater, he had still felt contaminated. It wasn’t until they had gotten to Hobyo and he had access to a bath that he had finally begun to feel normal.

  He looked over at his two prisoners. They had both been chained around an ankle and to a metal ring on the floor, but they had a bit of movement. They had been given a bucket of water apiece with which to wash, and while the water had turned almost black with filth, they were only nominally cleaner.

  The brown man was still suffering from his beating. He slept a lot, as he was doing at the moment. Asad still didn’t know why he had been beaten so badly. He hadn’t been resisting. And if he died, well, that was less ransom for them to split, right?

  His gaze shifted to the white man. He seemed old, like a grandfather. What was he doing out at sea? Shouldn’t he be home with his wife, with his children, with his grandchildren? Asad realized didn’t even know his name. He wasn’t that familiar with American names to begin with, but maybe Tom or Jerry? Ronald? George? Osama? Michael? Mickey? Starbucks? That was about the extent of his knowledge of American names.

  The man was sitting down, leaning against the wall, head back. The cut Asad had given him was more evident now that he had been partially cleaned up. The expanding area of redness was also evident. Asad recognized the first signs of infection.

  He felt pretty bad about that. If he hadn’t been in such a panic to get out, he would not have cut the man. And unless the Americans paid the ransom soon, Asad knew the man might die. He wondered if he should have insisted on getting the man some medical care when they arrived in port, but quite frankly, he hadn’t want to draw any attention to the gash. He hadn’t told anyone what had happened. Besides, it was not as if the others could not see it. They had more experience in this kind of thing. They would get the guy medicine if he needed it.

  He began to wonder about the man. Where was his home? How many goats did he have there? How many sheep? Was his wife a good cook? It would be easier to think of the man, of both men, as enemies, as people trying to steal Somali resources as foreigners had been doing for centuries, but as both were chained captives, well, they didn’t look like enemies. They certainly were not dangerous.

  He shook his head. Such a train of thought was dangerous, even if the two men were not. They were his enemy, and they had come into Somali waters. They took a chance, and now had to pay the price. And as soon as the rich Americans paid the ransom, they would be going back home to their families.

  He settled back. He had only an hour or more until Ghedi would come to relieve him, and then he could get back out of this stinking room and away from these stinking, unclean foreigners.

  Chapter 18

  Aboard the USS Gaffert

  Four days later

  Captain Terrell Svenson strode down the passage towards his stateroom in a foul mood. He was royally pissed off. He felt cast aside, a little kid being told to run along now while the adults took care of things

  He had heard that the two missing crewmen from the Wilmington had been located even before the brief. When the captain had begun the brief with the comment that the US government would not allow citizens to be held for ransom, a thrill had run through him. At last, he was going to see some action. He was going to get some vindication. So when he found out that they were bringing in a SEAL team to be the point of main effort, well, this was just one more case of wasted potential, of close, but no cigar.

  All his life, Terrell had dreams of being somebody. Growing up in Chicago, of course, he had Barrack Obama’s example as a local African-American who made good. But it was his uncle who had more of an effect on the young man. His uncle was first elected as Chicago’s Cook County District Attorney and then a few years later appointed as the district’s U. S. Attorney. He was a man whose reputation was stellar.

  His uncle had gone to school under the ROTC program, then let the Army pay for his law school as well. He had gotten in his fighting chops as both an Army defense counsel and prosecutor, and when his obligation was up, he resigned and joined the office of the DA, quickly becoming a rising star. He was elected as the DA at a relatively young age, and after he was appointed as the U. S. District Attorney, there were rumors of higher political aspirations.

  If it worked for Uncle Doug, Terrell figured it could work for him, too. So he applied for ROTC, got a scholarship, and was commissioned as a second lieutenant in the Army. But he was not going into law. He was going infantry, airborne specifically. He wanted to become a general.

  But while he seemed to fit the mold, from his appearance, carriage, and on-paper abilities, Terrell never seemed to excel. He was an also-ran. And despite being in the 82nd Airborne’s alert battalion more times than he could count, he never went anywhere. He had never heard a shot fired in anger.

  Then there was Jenny. Jennifer Lorenz. Jenny was a civilian working for the base adjutant, and he had met her at the gym. Tall, almost as tall as he was, she was a big, strong girl, just what Terrell liked. They started working out together, and one thing led to another. Soon, they were in the full throes of a passionate affair.

  The only problem was Captain Henry Lorenz of the 2nd Battalion, 505th Parachute Infantry Regiment, her husband. Oh, the two had problems and were not even living together. But they were technically still married, and he was drawing married BAH. In the Army, their affair was a no-no.

  Terrell had been called in before his battalion commander and read the riot act. He had been shown a letter of reprimand, already signed. He knew his career was over. But the CO had thrown him a lifeline. The Marines were being stood back up, and they needed junior and mid-level officers to fill the ranks. If Terrell would put in for an inter-service transfer, well, that letter might just make it into the “circular file.”

  Terrell didn’t hesitate. He accepted. The Army had been merely an instrument to a goal. The Marines could serve the same purpose. He put in the paperwork, got accepted, and left for Camp Lejeune. Amazingly, he got a rifle company, one slated for deployment. He worked tirelessly to excel, to impress his new CO. He was ready to jump into the fire.

  Consequently, he had been devastated when they were called forward for action only to find out it was a false alarm. To make matters worse, 2ndLt Niimoto and his platoon had conducted a successful rescue of a merchant ship. Niimoto! It wasn’t as if that guy needed any more publicity. He had gotten lucky once before, and then lightening had struck a second time. As Niimoto’s company commander, some of that glory would rub off on him, but still, that was reflected glory, not earned glory.

  Then, word came down that they had loc
ated the two crewmen. Surely this would be his chance at last. But the powers that be decided no. This was evidently too sensitive to be given to the raw Marines. This would go to the SEALs. These were the same SEALs that were all too happy to pass over anti-piracy duty to the Marines so they could do their “real” missions. But now they were being rushed back when there was actually something to do.

  If the Marines weren’t ready, then why were they deployed in the first place? And what better proving ground than a baptism of fire? Terrell knew if given the mission, they would succeed.

  It didn’t help that the SEAL lieutenant for the team they flew in was understanding and even a bit sympathetic. It might have been easier had he been an asshole. Then Terrell could hate him and his team.

  It also didn’t help that the Marines would be involved, albeit in a supporting role. The fact was that they had been examined and been found wanting. The real warriors, the ones who would get the glory, would be the SEALs.

  After the brief, he had gotten on the secure comm back to LtCol Pavoni. The CO was well aware of the situation, and Terrell got the feeling that he was pissed, too. But he told him that this was a Navy-commanded operation and to march on. He was going to try to send Major Conrad, the XO, down to meet them, but he stressed this was not to take away any of Terrell’s authority or to take command, but merely to give Terrell a bit more horsepower in dealing with the Navy staff.

  Terrell did appreciate the vote of confidence. In his last battalion, at least, he knew that LTC Harbaugh would have probably sent his XO or OpsO to actually take command over a mere company commander.

  They still had a full day’s steam to get into the AO, and they needed to hook up with the Dunham and the BRP Ramon Alcarez, a Filipino frigate on anti-piracy patrol. When the Chinese government had passed on the intel on the hostages, the Philippines had demanded to be a part of the rescue as one of them was a Filipino citizen. Terrell wasn’t sure how they could contribute, and given the initial discussion, no one on the ship’s staff was sure either. But orders were evidently orders, and contribute they would.

  In the back of his mind, though, was a thought that made Terrell feel guilty. Somalia was the home of Black Hawk Down, the Battle of Mogadishu. The Somalis had proved that a simple operation could go awry. And if it happened again, maybe Kilo Company could serve in a little more glorified position than as a simple security element? He couldn’t bring himself to out-and-out wish for trouble. But still . . .

  Chapter 19

  Aboard the USS Gaffert

  The next day

  “I thought the skipper was going to bust a gut, he was so jealous,” Stan told him.

  Tony had been flown to the Gaffert for the ops order. First Platoon was almost an afterthought in the operation, ordered to hold a blocking position to the south of the objective. He had taken his orders and was ready to fly back to the Dunham, but like any good Marine with a few free minutes, he had gone into the wardroom where the mess attendants had rustled him up some food. Chow was a commodity you took when and as often as you could.

  The other lieutenants had come along, Rob to get some chow, too, but all to get a first-hand perspective of the re-taking of the Wilmington. In between mouthfuls of veal cutlets, velvet cake, and bug juice, Tony gave a pretty unvarnished account of things. He knew he already had a rep, and he didn’t want to embellish anything but rather keep it low-key. He shouldn’t have worried. None of the others seemed jealous in the least, and all were hanging on every word, even going so far as to give the occasional high-five as Tony went over a particular event.

  “Well, now it’s your turn. You’re the security force for the rescue, and that’ll be in the thick of things.”

  “Speak for yourself, Kemosabe. I’m the XO, which means I’m stuck on this tub while you guys get all the fun. Gil here, he’s the one on the security force, even if the skipper is taking command of it.”

  Gil made a fist with his right hand and slammed it into his chest over his heart twice, nodding.

  “And I’m just like you, a blocking force,” added Rob, a bit of cream frosting sticking to the corner of his mouth.

  “Well, whatever. At least we’re all involved. Not like the rest of the battalion, up in the Med right now. I bet they’re jealous, at least,” Tony told them.

  “Yeah, I bet. But payback’s a bitch. I got an e-mail from Mason last week with a pic of him and Jayden on the beach in Benidorm. Not only did they have a brew in hand, but also two topless British girls in just their teeny weeny bikini bottoms,” Stan responded.

  “Mason? Jayden?”

  “Ah, forgot you were a new join. Mason is the XO and Jayden’s a platoon commander in Golf Company. And the Pearl Harbor had three days of libo in Benidorm. I’ve never been on the coast of Spain, I mean at the resorts, not Rota, but from what they tell, me, it’s pretty intense.”

  “Stan, Stan, Stan,” put in Gil. “You’re a married man, my man. I haven’t been to Benidorm, but I’ve been to Marbella, and believe, me, that’s not the place for married men. Too much temptation. But for single men, especially single, good-looking men like yours truly, well, ‘heaven’ is a pretty good description.”

  “Good looking? Have you had your eyes checked lately?” Stan asked with a laugh.

  “My man, the proof is in the pudding. Have you ever seen the master strike out?”

  “Well, yeah. How about in Oceana, what, two weeks before we shipped out?”

  “Ah, those girls only want pilots. And none were even good-looking enough for me. Besides, if you remember . . .”

  Tony took a swig of bug juice as he listened in to the banter. He smiled as the two tried to outdo each other. This camaraderie was something he missed, something he really hadn’t had since Delhi. It made him feel part of something bigger, something important.

  On the Dunham, he really didn’t have that. A wall had been built between his Marines and him. There was respect, for sure. There was a degree of affection, even. But he was now an officer, and even with Stepchild, a Marine with whom permanent bonds had been formed, there was now a gap. Tony often wondered if he had made the right choice in accepting his commission.

  He could joke around with the junior Navy officers on the Dunham, to be sure, but it wasn’t quite the same. He was a temporary guest on the ship, and they had different backgrounds and different futures. This, though, this was part of the brotherhood. He imagined the Roman legions, as they marched into northern Europe or the British Isles, joking and teasing the same way, laughing about their prowess with Egyptian or Spanish women, putting down their companions, their brothers-in-arms. It gave him a feeling of belonging.

  “Hey, I hate to interrupt this love affair you two have got going, but Tony and me, we’ve got to get moving. We’ve got about five minutes to get up to the flight deck,” Rob interjected.

  “Don’t get your panties in a bind, my man. They’re not going to take off without you,” Gil told him.

  “Time and tide wait for no man. And neither does Navy Air. So with that, we need to get going. Come on Tony. And to you three, we bid you a fond adieu!” he said with a Three Musketeers flourish, sweeping his imaginary hat to the floor as he bowed low.

  Rob stood up, grabbing one last piece of velvet cake. Tony dutifully got up as well. He looked at the others. It would have been nice if they could all have been on the same ship. The Gaffert was designed to carry many more Marines than just one company (-). She could handle them all easily. But the powers that be had decided that they needed more platforms, and each platform needed a FAST.

  He shrugged as he followed Rob out of the wardroom. He had already sent the op order forward to SSgt Davidson, but he had a lot of work to do and not really that much time to do it. He had to get back to his platoon.

  Chapter 20

  Aboard the USS Jason Dunham

  “Take a seat on that rack, there,” Burke Davidson told the three squad leaders.

  The three Marines dutifully sat down on Petty Offi
cer Saxby’s bottom rack while Burke sat down across from them on Doug Kaye’s rack. Places for meetings were scarce aboard the Dunham, and he had to grab what he could when he could.

  He took a moment to look at each one. Sgt Jerry Alvarez was a serious, somewhat quiet Marine, but from all reports, and some of those reports were from Doug Kaye, he had his squad working well with the Special Boat Team. He was pretty squared away, which was probably to be expected from a Marine who had spent his entire career on embassy duty.

  Sgt Pat Dailey was also squared away, having served on embassy duty and at Camp David. He had performed well on the Wilmington, reacting instinctively and keeping on control of his squad. He had questioned the shooting of the unarmed pirate, but Burke took that as a sense of honor and justice. Combat could get dirty, and lines of morality could shift a bit, but Pat had acted when he had to act and left the moralizing until after. Burke could live with that, even respect that.

  Dailey and Alvarez had always been Marines. Even if they had no combat experience, even if the Marines had been out of the warfighting business for the last 11 years or so, Burke still expected them, as Marines, so be able to fight and to lead. So far, neither had disappointed him.

  He shifted his gaze to Sgt Aiden Stanhope. His first impression of Sgt Stanhope had not been favorable. He was a wiseass, to be frank. Getting a laugh seemed to be his prime purpose in life. To top it off, he was a transfer from the Oregon National Guard. Burke had worked with Guardsmen in Iraq and Afghanistan, and they had driven their trucks, built their installations, and even fought well. But Burke was a Ranger, and Rangers knew they were the best. Guardsmen were, well, they didn’t call them weekend warriors for nothing. They were teachers, cops, truckers, farmers, stockboys at WalMart first, soldiers second. To most active duty soldiers, if the Guardsmen were any good, they would be regular Army, right?