Task Force Desperate

by Peter Nealen

  Finally, Dave leaned back and took a deep breath. “Thanks, guys,” he said, consciously or unconsciously including our visitor. “Just have to sew up the wound now.” He waved us away, and I walked over to the trash bag tied to a cot in the corner, and peeled off my gloves. The nameless visitor followed.

  As we got out of earshot, I turned to face him. “All right, who are you, and why are you here?” I asked.

  He smiled, showing even, white teeth. “I am…a friend. I spent some time in the United States, and had some dealings with a number of the personnel who were stationed here a few years ago. It is possible that some of them were still here when the attack took place.

  “I simply wished to meet these other Americans I’d heard about, and ask if they had heard from their friends in west Balbala?”

  The hackles went up on the back of my neck. He smiled again, shook my hand, and left.

  Dave finished tying off the sutures in the woman’s leg, and stood up as I started out of the room. “What the hell just happened?” he asked, seeing the look on my face.

  “We just got a tip from Ethiopian intelligence,” I said over my shoulder as I went out the door. “I’ve got to find Alek.”

  Chapter 11

  “There. I think that’s it.”

  Danny was pointing to the screen of the pad sitting on his lap, as we cruised back and forth on the roads outside Balbala.

  Balbala wasn’t really a town in and of itself; it was a slum that had started as a squatter community, outside the barbed wire fence erected by the French around Djibouti City itself, during their administration of the country. Almost thirty percent of the country’s population lived in the shanties of Balbala, and most of them were unemployed and dirt poor.

  And, if what our nameless Ethiopian friend had told us was correct, there were American hostages somewhere in there, as well.

  Danny, Jim, and I were running recon. Jim drove the Defender, it being the oldest and most beat-up looking vehicle we had. We really didn’t want to stick out any more than necessary out here. If the whispers that Danny told us had come to JSOC before the attack were anything to go by, there had been a lot of Shabaab and al-Qaeda activity in Balbala for a lot of years now.

  Danny was running two of his miniature drones from the pad on his lap, while I kept my rifle at my feet, and my pistol in my lap, holding security. None of us were all that visible from the outside, through the dirty windows, but we did our best to avoid getting too close to anybody.

  I half-turned to where Danny was sitting in the back seat. “I can’t see it from here, dude.”

  He handed the pad forward to me, while shifting his own HK45C to his lap in its place, and looking out the window. I didn’t know exactly what all Danny’s military experience was, but Alek had implied pretty strongly that he knew his shit, so I didn’t question him. He held security while I looked at the pad.

  He had both drones circling, one with a thermal camera, the other with regular photo imagery. Both were presently focused on a cluster of what looked like planned housing, although gone as dingy as the rest of the slum.

  “The housing complex?” I asked, looking back at him. “This bunch of one-to-two-story apartments on the south edge?”

  He didn’t look at it, but kept his gaze outward, scanning for threats, or signs that we’d been compromised. “Yep.”

  I looked back at the pad. The complex was big, and looked like it could be made up of as many as thirty separate buildings, all kind of walled together. It looked like a fucking nightmare, from a raids perspective.

  “What makes you think that?” I asked, not sure if I wanted to know the answer.

  “Sentries. There are armed men on the roof, and a lot of spotters around on the ground.”

  I looked more closely, zooming in with the photo imagery. There were about a half-dozen men scattered on the roofs of the buildings, mostly in places where they wouldn’t be immediately visible over the short parapets that were standard in Arab architecture. I looked as close as I could, and it did seem as though they had weapons, though the angle and distance made it hard to make out what they were. There seemed to be several groups hanging around near the corners of the complex, as well. No sign of weapons on the ground.

  “This is the Hodan district,” I pointed out. “A lot of rich assholes from Dubai live in these complexes. We could just be looking at their security setup.”

  “It’s possible,” he admitted. “However, there isn’t anyplace else in Balbala with that level of security. Unless our mysterious Ethiopian friend sent us on a wild goose chase, I’m saying that this is the most likely spot that they might be keeping hostages.”

  “Even if it is,” I replied, trying not to think about what would happen if the Ethiopian had put us on the wrong track, “This is going to be a nightmare to clear. At least one three-story, shooters on the roof, multiple buildings with connecting walls…we’d need damned near a company to do this right, and we’ve got ten shooters.”

  Danny was silent. I kept staring at the compound as the drones circled overhead, and Jim swung us around another turn. How the fuck were we supposed to do this?

  “We need more and better intel,” Danny finally said. “I’ve got some ideas. Let’s head back.”

  We got back to our compound to find four HiLuxes parked out front, each with about five hard-nosed looking individuals sitting in them, watching us impassively as we drove into the garage. They were a mix of Westerners, North Africans, and black Africans. I smelled Legion as soon as I saw them.

  “What the hell are these guys doing here?” Danny murmured, as we got out, carefully keeping our weapons out of sight. He was answered when we walked into our team room to find Arno Kohl standing there with Alek and Imad.

  “Ah, my friend Lou!” Kohl exclaimed. “Or is it Jefferson?”

  I looked at Larry, who nodded reassuringly. “It’s Jeff, actually,” I replied warily, looking at Alek. “What’s going on?”

  “It seems we’re getting some unofficial help,” he said.

  “Mon colonel has been made aware of your presence, and has agreed to let several of us quietly…what is the American term? Moonlight, yes?” Kohl grinned.

  “So, what? You want to play aid worker too?” I asked, lifting my eyebrows. Kohl just laughed.

  “For an aid worker, you make a good professional soldier, meine Freund,” he replied. “I did not wish to call you out where others might hear, but I recognized what you were the moment I saw you in that café. Come now, two obvious professionals, concealing semiautomatic pistols and body armor, in-country a mere week after a major terrorist attack on an American military base? You might fool a lot of the locals, but I have been around too long.”

  “You mentioned you had sources,” Larry pointed out. “Have they happened to mention that our cover is blown?”

  “Hardly. They still think that the explosion that killed Khasam and so many of his friends was an accident. Very good work covering your tracks, by the way,” he said approvingly. Alek grinned.

  “So, what have your ‘sources’ told you?” I asked, as I walked over to my cot to deposit my duffel full of weapons, ammo, and optics. “Anything we can use?”

  “I’m still pursuing the two who might have some more information,” he admitted. “They tend to be a bit…close-mouthed when it comes to the possibility of getting their heads cut off if they talk to me. Well, one is,” he amended. “The other is something of a jihadi himself, but I have enough blackmail on him to get him to talk, if I can find him. So now he is avoiding me.” He frowned.

  “However, some whispers have come to my attention. Especially after you gentlemen took care of Khasam. By the way, did you get anything useful out of him?”

  Alek shook his head. “Motherfucker had an IED trigger in his hand. Had to kill him first.”

  “Pity,” Kohl opined. He pointed to the map on the table, which was increasingly more of an enlarged photo mosaic of the city and its environs. “Still, it se
ems Khasam was small-time. He was an engine of chaos, a bomber, torturer and murderer brought in to further the unrest. He tagged along on the attack on the base, but had little if anything to do with its planning.” His finger came to rest on the Hodan district, where we had just come from. “One of my sources, who almost entirely lives on the money I give him to keep his eyes open, has seen several of the major jihadists coming and going from this complex, here. It seems they have some friends in Dubai.”

  Danny had come in a couple of minutes before and was standing next to the door, leaning against the jamb. “Makes sense,” he put in. “We’ve suspected a lot of terror money goes through Dubai.”

  “Unfortunately, he has not seen any hostages,” Kohl continued. “However, he assures me that if they are in the area, they are in Balbala, and they are probably there.”

  “We need a damned sight more than ‘probably,’” Larry said, folding his arms.

  “No kidding,” I said. I turned to Alek. “We got a look at this complex today, and Danny thinks that it’s probably the place, too. Problem is it’s fucking huge, at least for our level of force. A hard hit is out of the question, without solid info on the hostages’ location.”

  “Can I ask a question?” Rodrigo asked suddenly, from his cot.

  “What’s up, Rod?” Alek asked.

  “I thought we were just the recon force,” he said flatly. “Some high-speed SOF motherfuckers were going to come swooping in to rescue the hostages as soon as we found them. So, if we’ve found them, where are our assaulters?”

  All eyes turned to Danny.

  His shoulders slumped. “I don’t have an answer for you, gents. I’ve called in, and no one’s available. All I’m getting is to stand by, and keep the intel coming.”

  “Somebody should have been on standby as soon as we hit the shore,” Hank said. “But from what Danny’s told us, we shouldn’t be surprised that they weren’t.” Hank looked like a biker, with tattoo sleeves, a shaved head, and blond goatee, but he was usually soft-spoken, when he talked at all. As always, his tone was low and reasonable. “So I’d say that what we have to figure out now is this; what are we going to do with the situation as it is?”

  Alek looked around at all of us. “Gentlemen?” One word, but it carried a dozen questions. All of which could be answered with little more than a nod. We weren’t leaving those poor bastards in enemy hands if we could help it. It was a hell of a risk, as we were effectively declaring war on the terrorists who had kidnapped our countrymen. We were putting ourselves, as well as the remaining hostages, at a lot of risk. But, if we just sat on our hands and waited for the military to do something, odds were they’d either all be dead, or buried where we’d never find them.

  It was a Rubicon moment. Once we decided that we were it, there wasn’t going to be any going back or slowing down, until every last imprisoned American was accounted for, or we were all dead. Nobody hesitated, shrank back, or protested. Satisfied, Alek turned to Kohl and asked, “Just how far are you and your fellow Legionnaires ready to go as far as moonlighting?”

  “Far enough,” was Kohl’s response. The humor was gone from his voice. He was dead serious. I admit, I found it a little surprising to hear that kind of commitment to rescuing Americans coming from a Legionnaire, especially a German Legionnaire.

  “All right, we’ve got some planning to do,” Alek said.

  “Five minutes.”

  I eased my head around the corner of the three-story building across the street from the target complex. I could see one guy on the roof, ostensibly holding security, but he did not have a weapon in his hands, and he was smoking. There wasn’t anyone on the street anymore, and the lights were out. A little creative tinkering with the fuel line to the generator that was the sole remaining source of electrical power in this little enclave of Dubai in the middle of shanty central had seen to that.

  It was quiet, and can’t-see-your-hand-in-front-of-your-face dark. Perfect. We were just waiting for the signal to go.

  I was trying not to think about what a long shot this was, and just focus on what we had to do.

  The signal was a series of snaps overhead. The silhouette of the sentry I was watching, who was sitting on the roof of the nearest building in the complex, suddenly jerked, a dark mist exploding out of his back, and he slumped down to the roof, dead. There was a slight slope to that roof, but not enough for him to slide off. Across the complex, the other sentries died, as Hank and Jim hit them from distance, with suppressed RND 2000 and Noreen Bad News rifles.

  As soon as the first shot went by overhead, not silent, but quiet enough not to wake anyone who was still alive on the target site, Bob and I were moving.

  We got to the base of the wall at the north end of the complex in seconds. Neither of us was heavily kitted; we carried suppressed pistols, ammo, smoke grenades, radios, NVGs, and soft armor. The rest of the weapons were in the duffel that we carried between us. We needed to be quick and quiet.

  I turned and put my back against the wall, cupping my hands in front of me. Bob put his boot in my cupped hands, and I hoisted him up onto the wall. He caught the top and levered himself up into a prone position on top of the wall, and then reached down for me. I grabbed his hand, and hauled myself up to where I could grab the top, then he let go and dropped down on the other side. I hefted up the duffel bag, then followed as quickly as I was able, dangling my right hand and leg down like a spider, then swinging down to the ground as quietly as possible, using my knees to cushion the impact.

  We were in a small courtyard. There was some withered, patchy grass on the ground, but it was mostly dirt. I was facing a one-story building to my front, and what looked a lot like a gymnasium to the left. The doors to the gym were closed, but there was a single door and window into the one story. Bob was already at the door, and I padded over to the window, depositing the duffel next to the door.

  Slowly and carefully, I eased my NVGs into the corner of the window, and peered through them, with most of my head and body crouched out of sight. The light intensifier didn’t do much, as it needed ambient light to see, but the thermal showed nothing, either. The house was empty. In fact, as near as I could tell, it looked stripped down to the walls.

  I signaled Bob, giving him the thumbs-down to indicate a dry hole, and pointed to the gym. He nodded, and moved toward the little gatehouse style building that led to it.

  As we moved, I carefully keyed my radio, which was set as quiet as I could get it, and sub-vocalized into my throat mic, “One, clear.”

  Bob and I got to opposite sides of the door leading into the foyer, or whatever it was. Bob reached for the door handle, and I drew my pistol. I leveled it at the crack in the door, and nodded to Bob, who eased the door open with a barely audible click.

  Nothing. The foyer was empty. I moved in, buttonhooking through the doorway to make sure. Dust and a couple of folding chairs. Nothing else. On to the next door.

  There was a gomer just inside the gymnasium. He was sitting in a chair, the front legs off the floor, tipped back against the wall. His AK was leaning against the wall beside him. He was fast asleep. A moment later he was dead, unaware that he would never wake up. A suppressed .45 makes little more noise than the action cycling, especially with a good suppressor, which I had.

  I continued clearing the big room, moving to the right, while Bob took the left. There was a lantern at the far end, but it was too dim to reach us. The crowd in the middle of the room showed up fine on thermal, though.

  There were about twenty people in the middle of the room, sitting in an attitude that suggested they were bound. Probably why there was only one other guard there, whom Bob dispatched with a quick pair of shots.

  There were low sounds from the prisoners, but no questions, or even loud reactions. I could see several of them flinch at the sounds, though. Neither Bob nor I had said a word, and the second guard had been as alert as the first. The prisoners knew something was happening, but not what. I suspected that by
this time they had been brutalized into making as little sound as possible. That could come in handy, or it could be a liability. We’d have to see.

  I switched on the IR flashlight under my pistol. I don’t usually like having extraneous crap hooked to my weapon, but right at the moment, I was glad I’d brought it along, especially as Bob crept over to the lantern and doused it.

  These were our hostages, all right, or at least some of them. They were sitting back to back, with sacks over their heads and their hands and feet tied. They were dressed in their shorts and T-shirts, with no socks or boots. Fuck. That could be a problem getting them out.

  I padded over to one who seemed to be sitting up straighter than the others, and put my hand on his shoulder. To his credit, he didn’t flinch. “Listen to me very carefully,” I whispered. “We are Americans, and we’re here to get you out. Do you understand?”

  He nodded, slowly. He probably suspected it was some kind of trick. Being in captivity can fuck with your sense of reality after a while. “Good,” I whispered. “Do you know where the rest of the hostages are?”

  He shook his head, and from his posture, looked like he was about to say something. I squeezed his shoulder. “Never mind. I’m going to take your hood off. You’re still not going to see shit; there aren’t any lights on in here. When I cut you loose, I need you to start helping me get the rest untied and up. Can you do that?”

  “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely. “What about the guards?”

  “Taken care of for the moment,” I told him. “But we need to keep quiet. We don’t want to wake up the whole neighborhood.” He nodded, as I pulled his hood off.

  He was young, maybe mid-twenties. His haircut suggested regular Army or Marine Corps, though it had gone a little shaggy, along with a couple weeks’ worth of beard. He looked like he’d been beaten, though not so badly that he couldn’t function.

  He had been tied with baling wire, and it was a simple matter to get it unwound from his hands and feet. He rubbed his hands when he brought them in front of him, then went to work on the hostage next to him, whispering that the Americans were here.