To make matters worse, there was an open café just 20 or 30 meters away, and the place was packed with men. They were drinking tea or coffee or whatever people drank in Somalia, but most of them seemed armed.
Burke knew that just because he could see them clearly didn’t mean they could see the three Marines. They were in the darkness looking out, and the Somalis were in the light. Still, he was far from confident.
“OK, Steptoe. What do they call you, anyway? Surely not Harrington?”
“Uh, just Steptoe’s OK.”
“No nickname? Well, no matter for now. Look, a boat’s out of the question now. We’re just going to have to swim for it.”
“Swim?” came the worried-sounding response.
“No, not fucking swimming to the USA. Just to get out there. Then we have to wait until we get spotted. We’ve got to have the area under surveillance, right?
“Well, yeah, I guess so, but . . .”
“But what?” he interrupted.
“Um, I’m not that strong a swimmer.”
Oh shit, Burke thought. Lord, don’t put this on me, too.
“Well, you’re just going to have to make do. You had survival training. We can make floats out of your trou. Some sailor once did that here in the IO for five days before a Pakistani fishing boat picked him up. Look, as soon as we’re chest deep, just drop your radio in the water. Drop everything except your M4. I’ll help you.”
“How’re we going to get down to the beach?” Cpl Steptoe asked, using his head to indicate the men at the café.
“They can’t see us, so we’re just going to walk. Taking our drunk friend with us. No running, no calling for attention.”
“OK,” he replied, uncertainty evident in his voice.
Burke wanted to move before Steptoe, or he, for that matter, had second thoughts. He started to move, still holding onto the lieutenant’s legs, so Steptoe was force to follow.
As he trudged down the beach, he was waiting for the shouts, for the shots. He was ready to dash. He wanted to dash right then. Every instinct cried out for it. Hearing Cpl Steptoe muttering under his breath what sounded like a prayer didn’t help him.
He let out a huge breath as his feet hit the water. He knew they weren’t safe yet. They had to get out into the deep, out where no one could see them even if it was daylight. The sea was calm, and while that would make it easier to swim, it would also make it easier to spot them.
Once they got to about four feet of water, he had Cpl Steptoe dump his radio. A little further out, he had the Marine remove his trousers and tie off the ends. With the legs closed off, a person could blow into them, inflating them with air until they worked as camouflaged water wings. They didn’t hold air well and had to be re-inflated every few minutes, but what he had told Steptoe about that sailor had been true. It did work.
As the salt water hit the lieutenant’s neck, he moaned in pain, but that was the only sign of life he made. Burke struggled to keep the lieutenant’s face above water as he towed him and Cpl Steptoe out further from shore. Several times, the lieutenant’s face became completely submerged.
Telling Steptoe to hold the lieutenant, he slipped off his own trousers and made a float, but this time to make a pillow to keep the lieutenant’s face out of the water.
Leaning back, he pulled the two other Marines out. Water splashed over his own face, and he swallowed more than a fair share of the Indian Ocean, but he kept kicking. Just as he would get into a rhythm, he would have to stop and re-inflate the lieutenant’s float, or he would have to stop as Steptoe struggled to get air back into his.
He just concentrated on kicking, kicking. He was doing a modified sort of elementary back stroke, using only one arm as the other held the lieutenant’s collar and one leg, but he had to lower his legs some as they would kick the other Marine if he let them rise back up to a more normal, more efficient position.
He had to stop every half an hour or so to rest and drink water. He tried to get some down Lt Niimoto’s throat, but he wasn’t sure that any got down. To be honest, he thought the lieutenant was probably dead. He couldn’t discern any sign of life as they bobbed in the ocean. But he wasn’t about to let him drift away.
Steptoe was having a hard time. As he swallowed sea water, he tended to choke and panic. And panicking was a sure way to drown. Burke kept trying to calm him down.
The effort was getting to Burke as well. He just kept on concentrating on kicking, kept concentrating on moving the three of them further and further away from the shore. He didn’t know to where he was going. Despite what he had told Steptoe back on the beach, he knew any UAV’s or other surveillance means was not going to be searching the ocean. If they were being used, they would be watching the city itself. Their best hope would be to be spotted by some fisherman, hopefully fishermen who were not pirates themselves. But in the big IO, the chances of that were small. The sailor had managed it, to be sure. But Burke knew he couldn’t do the same with the two other Marines. He just didn’t have it in him to stay afloat for five days.
Something bumped against his legs, and he kicked out. It was probably just the lieutenant’s legs, but thoughts of sharks started to fill his mind. All three of them were bleeding, and didn’t blood trails call all sharks from hundreds of miles around? He kept tilting his head, trying to see an approaching fin in the darkness.
When the light hit them, he was taken by surprise. He hadn’t seen an approaching boat. And he was completely deflated. All of this, and for nothing. He tried to unlimber Cpl Steptoe’s M4, but it slipped between his nerveless and waterlogged fingers to sink into the deep.
The boat came up alongside of them, the searchlight blinding them.
“Well, umm, you boys want a ride back, or are you Marines bound and determined to make it on your own.”
BM2 Doug Kaye, the Special Boat Team commander, reached down to offer them an arm up and into the RHIB.
Chapter 43
Hobyo
Three weeks later
Maslax leaned over to tie his shoe. He was just one more citizen out on his daily business, coming home after a hard day’s work, after all. But his attention was focused on a certain nondescript house.
He really didn’t have to be there. His Chinese contact would pay him if things went well, and in this case, the payment would keep him solvent for a long, long time. But his inquisitiveness forced him to be there. It was like an addiction.
There! That donkey cart. It looked normal, but the four men with it did not. Oh, they could be Somali. They could be American, for all he knew. But they had a sense of purpose that the other people still out and about lacked. These were competent men, dangerous men, men you did not want to cross.
As they approached the house, the cart stopped, and two of the men got out to look at one of the wheels.
Nicely done, Maslax thought.
The men seemed to converse for a few moments, then two men went up to knock on the door. Not everyone in Hobyo knocked on doors, and the critic in Maslax’s mind gave them an X in that box, but still, some did, so it seemed to work. The door opened, and the target looked out. One man pointed to the cart, and as Taban looked, all four men rushed him, pushing the surprised man inside before closing the door. A few moments later, two men came out, then took two barrels off the back of the cart and made as if delivering them to the house.
Only two barrels, he noted. Well, that means there are still a few others out there. More opportunity for me.
No one seemed to notice when the four men came out, rolling what were now obviously full barrels instead of empty ones. They heaved the barrels up into the cart, then went along their way.
Maslax was still rather upset at the carnage that the Americans had caused. Some 87 people had been killed, the best he was able to figure. The Americans had answered with too heavy a hand. But business was business. He had no sympathy for Taban and the others, the ones who brought this on top of them.
He had no idea what would happen
to the pirate, nor did he really care. He would watch the internet, but he doubted he would find anything out. Maybe he would ask the Chinese man. Maybe not. But he would certainly keep his eyes and ears open. There was more money to be made.
Chapter 44
Aboard the USS Jason Dunham
November 10
“Happy birthday, Marine!” was called out several times as SSgt Davidson made his way to the mess decks.
He thanked the sailors and waved. The ship was pretty tight now. Even if it was the Marines who had gone ashore, it had been a team effort. And personally, Burke figured he owed his life to a certain Navy boat team.
There was also the fact that someone leaked the word that he was being recommended for a Congressional Medal of Honor. The fact that this very ship was named for a Marine Medal of Honor recipient was not lost on the crew.
Burke didn’t know what he felt about that. He knew he may not even get the medal. Not every, even perhaps not most, medals were approved. And he wasn’t sure how it would affect his life. He had begun to understand how Lt Niimoto must have felt.
He knew how Capt Svenson would have felt though. It would only be the natural progression of what he deserved. The guy certainly had had an ego, but if he talked the talk, he absolutely walked the walk. He had been put in for a Navy Cross, posthumously.
The man might have been ambitious, he might have been egocentric, but Burke had to give him mad props.
He entered the mess decks. The platoon was already there, as was a good portion of the ship’s crew. The Navy cooks had done a great job. The cake was a perfect eagle, globe and anchor. Burke didn’t think that even the chefs on those cooking shows on the Food Channel could match the cooks’ skill.
“Happy birthday, Marine,” Doug Kaye wished him.
BM1 Kaye, he reminded himself. Doug had been promoted ten days before.
“Thanks Doug.”
“What, no snappy comeback?” he asked.
“No, I think today, well, no, no snappy comeback.”
The mess decks were called to attention as the captain, her officers, and Lt Kremer came in. The company commander had just flown in for the birthday ceremony, and Burke knew he had to leave for the Independence right after this for Third Platoon’s birthday celebration.
The ship’s captain put everyone at ease and made the usual remarks about the Navy Marine Corps Team, and the history of the Corps.
Lt Kremer nodded at Burke. Before the reading of the Commandant’s letter, he had asked to read two others, and the company commander agreed.
Burke pulled one out of his pocket, and without preamble, began to read:
To the Marines of First Platoon, Kilo Company, 3d Battalion, Sixth Marines.
First, I want to wish you a Happy 256th Birthday. I now have first-hand experience on why the Marines are what they are, and that is the finest fighting force in the world. Without you, I would not be here to celebrate this birthday with you. But because of you, I am home safe with my wife June, and today, we will open a bottle of champagne and toast to your continued success.
My health is much improved. Recovery will be long, but I’m a fighter, you can count on that. Bong Benedicto e-mails me every day, and he gives his wishes, too. And Asad, our erstwhile captor, he’s living with a Somali family in Minneapolis, taking English as a Second Language courses. We still keep in touch.
To all of you, I want to give you my deepest thanks, especially to those who gave the ultimate sacrifice. I don’t deserve that honor.
With deepest respect,
Craig Murphy
Lieutenant Commander, US Navy Reserve, (Ret)
He folded the letter and put it back in his pocket. He thought back to when he found out that the pilot of the stricken Black Hawk had somehow managed to keep it in the air and back to the Gaffert. Even then, Craig’s survival had been no sure thing. His heart had stopped three times before the infection had been gotten under control.
Losing Craig would have been a blow. Sure, the political statement would have been made. But for the Marines, it would have seemed as if their losses had been for naught.
He took out the second letter, an e-mail he had printed out that morning.
“OK, this is from the lieutenant, so listen up.” There was a stir as attention was focused on him.
To First Platoon,
I wish I could be with you for our birthday. Some of you celebrated it last year, but this would have been my first time with the platoon.
I am doing better. Bethesda is much better than Landstuhl. I had gotten used to living with the squids on the Dunham, so this is more like home. (Joke)
They say I need some more surgeries, but I think I might pass. I think the scars might make me look tougher. Regardless, I think I’ll be discharged soon, so no matter what, I’ll be there at Little Creek when you pull in next month. You can’t get rid of me that easily.
Mike Lambie’s here at Bethesda, too. They’re going to fit him with one of those bionic arms, and he’s pretty psyched.
But really, on a serious note. I can’t begin to write just how proud I am of you, each and every one of you. I know I wouldn’t be here without SSgt Davidson and Cpl Steptoe, but I would never have even gotten that far if it wasn’t for all of you.
I’ve spoken with Terry Miller’s family, and they send their best, too. He was a good Marine, and he’ll be missed.
Well, I don’t want to keep you from your cake, so Happy Birthday!
2dLt Tony Niimoto
There was a round of applause. Burke had been happy to hear that the lieutenant would be coming back. How he had even survived was a miracle. The doctors had said that he had lost too much blood to live, but the guy had fought back and made it.
When Lt Kremer had briefed him after the op, he had told him that he was the new platoon commander. But Burke had declined the title. As long as the lieutenant was fighting, he was the commander. Burke liked his current job just fine.
He nodded to the company commander, then took his place by the cake.
Lt Kremer stepped forward, then called out, “Attention to orders!”
After everyone came to attention, he began:
From the Commandant.
Two hundred and fifty-six years ago, our Marine Corps was formed. Since then, we have fought “in every clime and place,” doing our duty to God and country. From the Revolutionary War to the Barbary Pirates, from The Halls of Montezuma, to Haiti, from the trenches of WWI and islands to WWII, to the Frozen Chosin, from Vietnam to Iraq and Afghanistan, we have always answered the call. Even when we were tasked with reducing our size, we saluted smartly and march off. But you can’t keep the Corps down. As events in New Delhi proved, our nation cannot exist without a robust, capable Marine Corps.
And now we are back at the tip of the spear, as recent our actions in Somalia have proven. Make no doubt about it. The Marines are back.
So to all Marines and Sailors, those deployed overseas, to those training and preparing for their next deployment, and to the warriors who no longer wear our uniform, I honor your selfless service to our country. And to our loved ones, those who endure the many hardships that come with service in the Corps, I want to extend my most sincere thanks for all you have done
Happy 256th Birthday, Marines!
Semper Fidelis,
Jeffrey Lineau
General, United States Marine Corps
Lt Kremer turned to the ship’s CO.
“Commander Stetson, I want to personally thank you for allowing us to celebrate this ceremony and for the lovely cake your cooks baked. This is important to our very being, and I appreciate your support.”
The captain nodded.
“Will the oldest and youngest Marines please step forward.”
“As is our custom, the first piece of cake will be presented to our guest of honor, Commander Cynthia Stetson.”
Sgt Dailey, using Burke’s sword, had cut one piece, which was put on a plate that Sgt Alvarez took to th
e CO. She graciously accepted it. Burke was glad he had thought to bring his sword, given that he would have thought that they would have used Lt Niimoto’s for the birthday ceremony.
“By tradition, the second piece of cake is presented to the oldest Marine present.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the oldest Marine present is Staff Sergeant Burke Davidson. As of our birthday, Staff Sergeant Davidson is 31 years and 141 days old.”
Burke took the piece offered by Sgt Alvarez and took a bite. He was surprised at how good it tasted.
“The third piece of cake is presented to the youngest Marine present.”
“Ladies and Gentlemen, the youngest Marine present is Private First Class Jerry Masterson. As of our birthday, Private First Class Masterson is 19 years and 12 days old.”
PFC Masterson gravely took his piece of cake. Burke glanced over to see a tear form and roll down the young Marine’s cheek. Pvt Miller had been one week younger than Masterson.
It was another miracle that only one Marine in the platoon had been lost. Second Platoon had lost two Marines, and then there had been the company commander and that Army pilot. But even thought they had been in the thick of it, only Miller had been killed. Still, that was an important loss to his family and loved ones.
“Ladies and gentlemen, this concludes our ceremony. Please join us for a piece of cake and a glass of bug juice to help us celebrate. Thank you for your support.”
People milled about, congratulating each other, grabbing pieces of cake. When Burke saw there would be enough, he grabbed another piece. The Marine Corps birthday was about the Corps, not really the cake. It had been celebrated in the past with the old C-Rat pound cake. But damn, the mess specialists had outdone themselves on this one.
The Return of the Marines Trilogy Page 44
