Task Force Desperate

by Peter Nealen

  If you’re wondering why we were being so sneaky going in, well, when you’re effectively invading a foreign country, it helps to not walk in the front door, at least not with your entire armory of high-powered rifles and explosives. We weren’t interested in dealing with the red tape. We didn’t have time. I turned on my radio and called out to the boats. “Coconut, this is Hillbilly. We have linked up with Monkey. All clear, come ahead.”

  “Roger. Oscar Mike.” It took a few minutes, but soon we could just hear the drone of the outboards. The boats themselves showed up quite well, with eight guys and two outboard motors providing plenty of heat. Jim and I helped guide the cargo truck down to the beach, while the rest of Caleb’s reduced team held security. Larry and Rodrigo brought their boats in to smooth landings on the beach, the rest of the guys jumping out as the water got about knee deep. The engines came up, and the lot of us set to getting the boats off the beach and into the back of the truck.

  This was a bit complicated in the dark; we had to dismount the engines and the fuel bladders, and stack them in the front of the truck bed, then pick up the boats and load them in one at a time. It was backbreaking work, but it beat digging holes to cache the boats in on the beach, where somebody might accidentally find them anyway. I’d done that while I was still in the Marine Corps, and was plenty happy not to do it again. Once everything was on the truck and secured, we threw a tarp over it and tied it down, to hopefully conceal the fact that it was carrying two military-grade raiding craft.

  We walked over to the line of three SUVs, facing the road, where Caleb had a kitbag full of dry clothes for us, and we quickly shucked out of our still soaked cammies, and changed into dry khakis and short-sleeved shirts. It looked like Caleb had gotten some pretty good wheels; two Range Rovers and a ’90s Defender. The gear would have to be dried out, but for now was bagged and put in the back of the SUVs, along with our rifles, now cased. Pistols came out of rucks and were strapped on and covered. Comms were shut off before being put away. Finally, everything was loaded, and we got ready to move.

  Caleb walked up to Alek and me, with a map in his hand, and set it on the hood of the Defender. He pulled out a tiny button light and a GPS. “We rented a warehouse, for lack of a better term, here, near the port.” He pointed to a spot on the map, not far from the ocean, and across from what looked like a school. “The cover is an international aid organization on a fact-finding tour for the moment, so that’s going to be part of our support role; going around being obnoxious and patronizing as we ask poor people how poor they are. So far we’ve had surprisingly little trouble with the cops looking for kickbacks--nothing we can’t handle. But there are checkpoints, especially after what just went down, so pick your routes carefully. I’ll be leaving in one of the Range Rovers, with the 3-ton following me.” He looked at Alek, in the dim green glow of the light. “I’d suggest spacing at least ten minutes apart, and taking different routes. The warehouse is here…” He read a map grid off, and we copied it carefully. “Be advised, there are some Foreign Legion troops in the city, cooperating with the army, what’s left of it. Aside from the obvious terrorist activity, there’s been some new unrest among the Afar, especially with all the Issas coming from Somalia. It’s a little touchy around here right now.”

  Alek nodded. “We don’t want to tangle with the Legionnaires; that entire brigade will likely come down around our ears if we do. Plus, they’re not the enemy.”

  “At the moment,” Caleb answered. “The French government is kind of shaky on the whole jihadi thing these days.”

  “The Legion’s ultimate loyalty is to the Legion,” Jim pointed out. “Best to steer clear of them in any case.”

  Caleb checked his watch again. “It’ll be sunup soon. We’ve got to get the boats into the warehouse, so we’ll be leaving here in about two minutes. You guys got good SA on where you’re going?”

  “Affirm,” Alek said. “Get going.” Caleb nodded, then walked to the far Range Rover and got in the passenger seat. A moment later, the engine rumbled to life, and they pulled out, heading for the nearest road, the tires kicking up dust and sand. Thirty seconds later, the 3-ton followed.

  We kept the boat teams in each of the SUVs; I got in the old Defender, Alek and his team got in the Range Rover. We were going to go first--no particular reason, just a metaphorical coin-toss. We were going to go the short way, up the coast, while Alek and his boat team went around to the west, going through most of the city proper. It would be well past daylight by the time they got to the warehouse, but a convoy of big, hard-nosed Americans would probably raise some eyebrows. We didn’t want any eyebrow-raising at this point. Not until we knew a little more, at any rate.

  I let Caleb get about a fifteen minute head start, then put the truck in gear, and rolled out, throwing up a little gravel as we went. It was a short way to the road, which was just a dusty, unimproved dirt track, going northwest to southeast. There weren’t any other vehicles on it at the moment, and I turned on and headed north.

  We passed a few camels wandering on the side of the road, probably from the farm that we went by on the right almost immediately. The sky was starting to turn pale over the ocean, but I didn’t rush, at least not by the standards of the local drivers. While I hadn’t been in Djibouti itself before, I’d been in enough East African and Middle Eastern countries to know that while they might be lackadaisical about a lot of things, driving is not one of them. Most people in the Third World drive like fucking maniacs, and if you don’t, you stand out.

  The road wound through several miles of sandy savannah, dotted with scrub and acacias in the slowly growing dawn light. I took a right at a Y intersection, and we rolled due north, up the coast, toward the airport.

  Camp Lemonier had been a part of Djibouti airport, but not the entirety of it. I saw a plane, looked like a Lear or something like it, take off as I drove, so the hit hadn’t put the airport completely out of commission. I almost kicked myself even as I thought it. Of course the airport wasn’t out of commission, dumbass, I thought. How would Caleb and his boys have gotten here, otherwise?

  As we neared the runway, the fence became visible, and I saw that there was a checkpoint at the gate, manned by two men dressed in old chocolate-chip desert cammies and red berets. One was sitting behind what looked like a PKM, while the other slouched at his post, a FN-FAL slung at his side. I saw that the road split, veering away from the gate to travel along the fence, and took the outside route. I had no desire to deal with anybody from the Djibouti National Army. If what Caleb said was true, the authorities had plenty to worry about, and were likely to try to scoop up a heavily-armed band of American mercs as soon as they knew we were here. That would not end well for anyone involved, and would endanger the mission, so it was best avoided.

  We bounced along the shitty track that ran along the outside of the fence, rounding the end of the runway, barely a hundred meters from the shore. “Never be able to get this close to the flight line back home,” Nick said. “We’d have had fifty security vehicles on us a mile ago.” I grunted agreement.

  The road swung back to the northwest, still skirting the boundary of the airport, and led through close-growing acacias toward the city itself. The sun was full up by now, revealing the trash scattered along the sides of the road in all its glory.

  I saw the first buildings of the city proper through the acacias, as some traffic was starting to pick up, mostly small European cars and pedestrians. Finally we bounced off the dirt road and up onto the hardball, moving north into the city.

  At first glance, it didn’t look much different from any other post-colonial Third World city. It was a blend of Western and Arab architecture, but gone shabby. Peeling stucco, dirt, and trash was the general motif that we saw everywhere. Junk and rubble was piled on the sides of the road, ignored by all and sundry, essentially part of the landscape.

  We rumbled up the road and turned right near a large soccer field. As we came around the corner, I had to swerve w
ildly to avoid a truck that was tearing down the middle of the street. We got honked at, and several of the bystanders yelled, whether at us or the truck, I don’t know. I got us going straight again, and we cruised toward our warehouse.

  It was actually three buildings in a sort of walled complex. The wall was about four feet high, dirty white concrete, with a metal grate along the top. The metal had been painted blue at one time, but it was flaking and rusted. I had to drive around it to the north to try to find a way in, and found that away from the street, the compound was quite open. What I had taken at first to be a large, single-story building was in fact three buildings linked together in a U-shape. It was white with a metal roof, and with the windows I suspected that was going to be where we slept. The warehouse itself was almost two stories tall and built of corrugated metal, and was inside the wall. The 3-ton could be seen already backed up to the large doors in the back, so I pulled the Defender over to it, and shut off the engine.

  I opened the door and stepped out into the early morning heat. I hadn’t really noticed it earlier, having been soaking wet at the time, but it was hot as two rats fucking in a wool sock, and the sun had just come up. I was not looking forward to the middle of the day. Even after all the time that I’ve spent in the tropics and various desert hellholes, I still don’t particularly like sweating my life away.

  The rest of the guys got out of the Defender, and we walked over to help Caleb and his boys unload the boats. As we did so, I was looking around at the setup. I hadn’t seen them at first, but I picked out Jon and Billy on security, inside, watching out the windows. It wasn’t bad, really, except for the part where we were right next to a major thoroughfare. That was a little uncomfortable-making.

  I ducked into the warehouse along the side of the truck, which filled most of the door, to find Caleb on the port gunwale of the second boat, dragging it out of the bed. They already had the first off and stacked to the side. I stepped in to help, and we pulled it off somewhat more easily, doing the same stack, bow against the wall, tits on the ground, to let the boat drain.

  “We got a hose?” I asked. We really needed to rinse the salt water off the boats and engines, but Caleb shook his head.

  “No running water at the moment.” He jerked a thumb toward the house. “We’ve got two fifty-five gallon bladders full of fresh water, and Dave’s working on getting some barrels of non-potable for this sort of thing. Nothing we can do about it right now.” I nodded, shrugged, and climbed up on the truck to start moving the engines. Caleb and Bob followed.

  We had just gotten the first one down to the asphalt floor when we heard the crunch of gravel announcing that Alek and the rest of our team had arrived. Caleb looked at me and said, “We’ve got this, man. Imad’s inside, waiting for you guys. He’s got your team room set up, and some more information. He needs to get moving, so let’s not keep him waiting.”

  “Right.” I looked over at Jim, who nodded, and yelled at Nick and Bob that we had to get in the house. I jumped down from the truck, dusted off my hands, checked that my 1911 was still secure in its holster, and joined Larry and Jim as we walked into the house.

  There was only a screen on the door going in, and it squeaked. Mike was sitting in a rickety chair just inside, and looked up as we walked in. Mike looked just as long-faced and hangdog as he always did, and he just jerked his head to the right. “Howdy, boys,” he drawled. “I’d shoot the shit a little, but Imad’s getting antsy in there.”

  “All right, we’re going, we’re going,” Larry said. “Good to see ya, Mike.”

  Mike waved, and we went down the hall and into the room at the far end.

  It looked like the entire north arm of the U had been stripped out and turned into a big operations center/team room. There was a map table in the center, more maps and photos on the walls, Billy’s comm setup in the corner, and ten bunks against the walls on the far end. Alek, Tim, Colton, Hank, and Rodrigo were already gathered around the map table, facing Imad.

  Imad David Jama was almost as tall as Alek, but skinny as a rail, and black as midnight. He had recognizably East African features, and spoke most of the major dialects fluently. He had, in fact, immigrated to the US with his parents from Eritrea back in the ‘90s. Most of his knowledge and considerable skill had come from sixteen years in the Special Forces. He’d been a Master Sergeant when he got out in disgust, after an op he still didn’t talk about. Now he was Praetorian Security’s East Africa expert, along with being a chameleon who could disappear just about anywhere on the Horn. He was dressed to do just that right now, in a loose, short-sleeved white shirt, shorts, and sandals. If you didn’t know what you were looking for, you wouldn’t have spotted the Glock strapped to his lower abdomen, either.

  “Good to see you guys,” he said as we joined the rest of the team around the table. “We’ve got to make this quick, because the longer I’m here flapping my gums at you, the less time I’m out on the streets trying to find these poor bastards.” He pointed to the map. “The fact is, this particular base of operations is less than ideal, but that’s necessary. We’re quite a ways from the European quarter, where most of the Westerners hang out. That’s up here, on the northwest side of town.

  “This placement helps us to conceal our bigger gear, but you guys are going to be a little out of place. You’re going to have to be careful coming and going. Westerners are running scared after what’s been going on lately. Most of them are holed up in their hotels. After Lemonier getting wiped out, I can’t say I really blame them.” He looked down at the tabletop for a minute, and I took the opportunity to ask a question.

  “If this is the wrong place, how come Caleb said y’all were posing as aid workers?” I inquired.

  Imad chuckled. “It actually does work for aid workers, at least serious ones. It’s closer to the slums. And Dave has actually set up a clinic in the shed out back. That SF training comes in handy for all sorts of things.” He shook his head. “No, aid workers works for maybe one team. Trying to explain another ten knuckle-draggers coming and going at all hours is a little more difficult.” He laughed. “We should have brought along a couple women and at least one fat guy. That’d make it more believable.”

  There was a general chuckle. We did still look rather overtly military, even with the face fur and civvies. It could get dicey, especially after what had just happened. Which was why we were armed to the teeth.

  “What about local authorities?” Alek asked.

  “Mostly on the north end of town,” Imad replied, “protecting the president and the parliament. It sounds like a lot of what got the bad guys their crowd to hit Lemonier was a lot of grumbling going around about Guellah’s fourth term, and that he’s being backed by foreigners. There are a lot of very poor people here, more and more of them Issas getting out of Somalia. It’s been a very fertile recruiting ground for AQ and the Brotherhood.” He nodded, as though remembering something. “The Legion seems to have largely gone to ground in the north as well. Not many of them on the streets these days. The National Army is out, and there are some Legion advisors, but for the most part the troops are staying inside the wire.”

  He pointed to the center of the city on the map. “Most of the slums are here, spreading out to the south. More than likely, the hostages are in there somewhere, so we’re going to have to go in at some point. For now, leave that to me. You guys will stand out too much. There are some wealthier parts of town where the Arabs hang out, however, on the edge of the European quarter, that you might have some luck with. I don’t have to tell you the drill.”

  He didn’t. We had done some similar things in Mexico. It was always dicey, trying to get somebody to talk to you about fanatical murderers who might be a few tables over, for all you know. Sometimes it was the only way, though.

  “Any more questions?” Imad asked. When there were none, he simply said, “Good hunting,” and walked out the door, already adjusting his gait to match the locals.

  Alek looked around at the
team. “We are short on time, but we’re going to take a couple of hours to catch some rack time before we go out. We’ll be in pairs, so everybody needs to be on their toes. Hit the sack.”

  I picked my rack, hauled my gear in, took off my boots, and dropped onto the cot as the call to prayer started to wail outside the window.

  Chapter 3

  The souk was as crowded, dirty, and noisy as any I’d been in. Imad hadn’t been kidding; even a bare two miles from the European quarter, Larry and I stood out. Of course, Larry being six-foot-six, two hundred fifty pounds, white, goateed, and balding, he’d stand out just about anywhere. I am much more medium-sized, but white, black-haired, and blue-eyed still stood out here.

  It didn’t seem to be bothering most of the locals much. I suppose the khat helped. We got shouted at in French or English about every ten yards, rarely anything of any sort of importance or even meaning. A man in a soccer jersey walked up to us and said, “I am a policeman. Show me your passport.”

  Larry tried to just ignore him. As big and crazy as the bald galoot is, he’s really kind of a nice guy. I am not. “Fuck off,” I snarled. I took a step toward him, bunching my fists. I was about to cave his head in, and it showed. A bit of overkill, actually, I could probably have broken him in half by bumping into him, but jackasses trying to be authoritative set me off. His eyes got wide, and he scrambled away.

  “Way to win the hearts and minds, there, buddy,” Larry said, as I glared after the little fuck.

  I tried to shake off the burst of anger. The heat was getting to me, I told myself. Well, that and the fact that he was the third fucker today to try that. Add in the stress of walking around with just Larry, in a city that had slaughtered a couple of thousand US and allied servicemen and women barely a week before, and I was on a bit of a hair trigger. Larry must have sensed what I was thinking, because his huge hand descended on my shoulder.