Task Force Desperate

by Peter Nealen

  “On top of that, the weapons and training they’ve gotten from the Kalifah Alliance countries have allowed them to go so far as to capture Ethiopian and Kenyan armored vehicles and artillery. Not a lot of them, but enough to make a difference.

  “They’ve pushed the Kenyans away from Kismayo, and the Ethiopians have been reeling so hard that Shabaab has a presence as deep into Ethiopia as Afder and Melka Chireti. Mogadishu fell pretty quickly when Al Masri and Lashkar al-Barbar showed up. Malouf’s band of murderers had just appeared on the scene a few weeks before that, when they massacred a bunch of farmers they accused of being Ahlu Sunna Wal’jama members in Buur Hakaba.

  “In short, gentlemen, you’ve taken a job to rescue hostages from the Kalifah Alliance, not just from a pack of rag-tag East African Islamists who’ve barely been managing to hang on against the militaries of no fewer than three nations, and the UN. They’re almost as well trained and equipped as any of the top-tier Arab countries now, and those have been getting training and equipment from the Russians and Chinese lately. With Lemonier gone, there’s now no drone coverage down here. And you were sent in without any of this information, with…eleven men.”

  Chapter 23

  There was a long silence after that. I suspect all of us were thinking the same thing; was it even feasible to see this job through, or did we need to cut our losses and try to get out? That presented its own problems, especially as I was pretty sure our employers back in the States probably wouldn’t be too keen on helping us extract when we’d just told them to find some other way to get the hostages back.

  Not only that, but, in spite of the odds, I didn’t much care for the idea of leaving those men and women to the mercy of those machete-wielding savages to save our own skins. Call me a romantic.

  “Is that it?” Jim asked, the first to break the silence. There was a wave of dark chuckles as we got it. Baird looked nonplused, so Jim obliged him by explaining, “This entire job has been so clusterfucked already, that I don’t see how this changes anything. It was damned near impossible before. Now it’s really damned near impossible. Big difference.”

  “Joking aside, it’s a valid point,” Hank said thoughtfully, fingering his beard. “The overall mission hasn’t changed, has it? We’re still here for a deep-recon mission; locate the hostages, then call in the cavalry--Delta, DevGru, whoever’s in the chute for it. We need to be a little more careful, certainly, but I don’t see it as being impossible.”

  Danny was looking at the table, his fingers steepled in front of his face, a frown furrowing his brow. After a moment, he looked up. “If you gents will excuse me, I have a couple of calls to make.” He stood up, pulled his sat phone out of his kit, and walked out into the courtyard.

  “Hell,” Tim pointed out, “we’ve already had plenty of reasons and opportunities to take our ball and go home, and we haven’t yet. I think I can safely say that we’re all psycho enough to see this through, no matter how many bad guys Murphy throws at us.”

  “True enough,” I said. “We might have to alter the plan somewhat, but we were already in way over our heads anyway, so what’s this much more?”

  “I’d say it depends on one thing in particular,” Alek said, watching Baird carefully. “That being; do the bad guys know we’re here?”

  “They might,” Baird said. “They suspect something’s up, at any rate. After the breakout in Djibouti City--I presume that was you?” At Alek’s nod, he continued, “--I’m sure you were informed about the execution of the Qardho group. I’ve heard rumors that it was supposed to be the Berbera group, but someone got to them before they could be executed; supposedly the hit went down less than an hour before al-Khalidi showed up with his camera crew.”

  Nick chuckled. “Bet he was pissed.”

  “I imagine he was,” Baird said coolly. “Which is probably why he took his time with the Qardho murders. I don’t know how much of the video you’ve seen--” he glanced around at our shaking heads “--but it was bad. Very, very bad. I’m sure they’ve stepped up security on the remaining hostages in the meantime. And you can bet that any hint of Americans operating in Somalia is going to bring them screaming down as hard as they can. We’ll have to make very thorough reconnaissance, and not make any moves until we’re sure, and can get out fast.”

  “What’s this ‘we’ business all of a sudden?” Imad asked. Imad had generally accepted Danny’s involvement, but he was intensely clannish when it came to our operations, and even less trusting of outsiders than most of us, which was saying something.

  “You didn’t think I’d become involved, and then just sit on the sidelines while you went blundering about in my backyard, did you?” Baird replied levelly. “I’ve got a few assets here, in addition to my contacts, as you already know. I can’t offer much materially, but sometimes just a few more guns at the right time and place can tip the balance. I also know this place far better than any of you. You won‘t have much of a chance without my help.”

  “We’ll think about it,” Alek said, before Imad could say anything more. “I appreciate the offer, but we haven’t worked together, trained together, or even rehearsed together, and you’ll understand if I’m a little reticent to throw new players in the mix this far into the game.”

  “I understand,” Baird said, “but with the situation being what it is, don’t take too long. I think you may find you need all the help you can get.” He paused, eyeing us shrewdly. “Plus, I think you might change your minds when I tell you I can get us a couple of helicopters.”

  A couple of eyebrows went up. “You have our attention,” Alek said.

  Baird settled back in his chair. “They aren’t much, I’ll admit. One’s an old Alouette III that has been kicking around Africa since the ‘80s. I think it might even have been used during the Rhodesian Bush War. The other‘s bigger, a Cougar that we were able to get through various means from Zimbabwe a couple years ago.” There were a few grunts and grumbles at that; while many of us had had to trust our necks to old birds--I knew a Platoon Sergeant when I was with Recon who liked to point out every time we got on a CH-46 that the last of those birds had been built in 1967--but they’d all been maintained by Americans. We were in no way certain about forty-year-old helos that had been kicking around Africa for that whole time. No, we didn’t have a very good opinion of the mechanical skill and conscientiousness of African ground crews. Still don’t.

  But Baird held up his hands. “I know what you’re thinking, but they’re in pretty good shape. Hans has had one of them since 2007, and went over the other one with a fine-toothed comb once we bought it from an NGO upcountry in Ethiopia a couple of years ago.”

  “Okay, who is Hans?” I asked flatly. I’ll admit, something about Baird just kind of irritated me. I didn’t really have a good reason at the time. Maybe I was just being belligerent. Stranger things have happened.

  “Hans Van Der Boek is our resident gear-head and the man responsible for our little aerial contingent,” Baird replied. “He was with the South African Defense Force, flew for the Recces. He got out shortly after Mandela’s people took over, and he’s been private sector ever since. His crew is about half-and-half, Afrikaaner and Russian. He’s been keeping helos flying in African hellholes for almost forty years. I’ve trusted him with my life many times, both before and after I retired.” He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Satisfied?”

  “For the moment.” I didn’t really have a lot of reason not to be at this point, and, as Jim and Hank had pointed out, we had passed the BOHICA threshold a long time ago, so there really wasn’t any reason to be an asshole about it. I guess I was just being tired and ornery.

  “Where are the birds?” Imad asked, pointedly ignoring my crankiness.

  “That’s the problem,” Baird admitted. “They’re about fifty miles west of here, closer to the Kenyan border. We had them at the field south of town, but with Malouf’s killers getting closer, we decided to move them. Of course, we didn’t know you were coming at the time,
or that we’d need them operationally.”

  “We might need to bring them in here,” Alek said, as Danny came back into the room. “Let’s go over the plan first and see which is more feasible, bringing the birds here or going to them.” He glanced over at Danny, who said nothing, but shook his head. So there was nothing new from Langley. More than likely, whoever Danny had talked to was as surprised by the information as we had been.

  “Part of the problem, as I see it, is getting an ID on this Abu Sadiq character,” Baird went on. “I haven’t heard of him, at least not by that name. But since most of these assholes use kunyahs, even here, that isn’t necessarily a game breaker. I probably know who it is, by another name. I take it we don’t have photos?”

  “Not at the moment,” Danny replied. “Just the name. The source said he is a major player with the Al Qaeda cadre attached to Al-Shabaab, and that he hangs out in Kismayo. He didn‘t know too much beyond that; he was mostly involved with the Djibouti side of the operation. It looks like they‘ve compartmentalized this particular op pretty well.”

  Baird nodded, as he retrieved a case from the back corner and started pulling maps and photos out of it. “They’ve gotten good at that, especially as the AMISOM guys have learned more and more from US advisors. Let’s face it; most of the active-stupid jihadists got nailed back when the US was in Iraq and Afghanistan. The ones who survived are now the major commanders, and they are the ones advising and supplying Shabaab now. Even the Iranian high command cut its teeth with Qods Force in Iraq.” He laid out maps of southern Somalia and overhead imagery of Kismayo. “I don’t have many contacts in Kismayo anymore,” he said. “My best one was arrested for drinking alcohol, panicked, and was shot trying to escape.” He sighed. “Can’t get good snitches these days.” His delivery was so deadpan, and we were so damned tired, that it took a minute to realize he was half-joking.

  “That means we’re going to have to develop our target package on the ground,” Jim mused, rubbing his chin. We were all more than a little bristly by that time, even Jim, who generally tried to go clean shaven. The gray in his beard showed more than his temples. “Which means a lay-up point and preliminary recon first and foremost. What are the atmospherics there? Is some kind of partisan link-up even a possibility?”

  Baird was frowning at the map, now joined by another man, a lanky, almost hairless individual in shorts, boots, and a t-shirt. He was darker even than Imad, and looked almost spidery as he spread his long-fingered hands on the tabletop. “I was there only a few weeks ago,” he explained. He had a faint accent, all but undetectable. “Anyone who might have been willing to give the Islamists trouble has either been shot, hanged, stoned, or has fled. Everyone else seems to be keeping their heads down. Any known collaborators with Kenyan forces were beheaded in the first two weeks after Shabaab retook the city.

  “Three months ago, I would have said that the best option for gathering intelligence is going to be posing as khat traders,” he continued, “but Shabaab has taken one of their hardline swings against khat and other drugs lately. Three khat dealers got burned alive in their car just two days ago, near Baidoa. So that’s out.”

  “What about the NGO approach?” Alek asked.

  “You mean come in as some sort of rich, clueless, oh-so-concerned Westerners trying to ease the suffering of the people?” Baird asked sarcastically. He frowned. “Maybe, but it’s a roll of the dice as to whether they accept the propaganda and the possibility of money or just take you hostage for more money. Or kill you on the spot. Especially with Egyptian support now, they don’t have to kiss bleeding-heart ass so much anymore, and they’re more likely to just show their contempt for infidels. Possibly violently.”

  “Then a couple of us show up as new recruits,” Imad said. He looked over at the lanky guy. “I don’t know about you, but I daresay I’ve gotten pretty good at the East African mujaheddin routine.”

  Lanky nodded. “Either that, or arms dealers. We do have the examples available to pull that off, but I think especially with the Egyptian involvement, your idea is probably more workable.”

  My turn to frown. “I’d say go with the gun-runner option.” Imad and Lanky turned to look at me, so I explained. “Look, recruits aren’t going to go straight to the Big Man, they’re going to get shipped to a training camp, or handed either an AK or a suicide vest, and sent north. Arms dealers are more valuable, even with the Egyptians on the ground, and have a better chance of talking to somebody higher up, like Baird was doing in Baidoa.” I scratched my chin. My beard was greasy, salty, and gritty, and it itched. “We’ve just got to think of what you can be trafficking that the Egyptians can’t supply.”

  “Drones,” Larry said suddenly. I cocked an eyebrow at him, and he plunged onward. “Think about it. These guys have been getting pounded by JSOC Reapers for years now. I’m pretty sure the Egyptians don’t have much in the way of UAVs, and probably aren’t giving them to Shabaab. If we can convince them that we can get them armed UAVs, and train them to use them, they’ll probably jump at it. It’s not like the muj have ever been picky about the source of the weapons they use--if they can use an infidel weapon to kill lots of infidels, they’ll do it.”

  “You’re assuming they didn’t already get all or most of the drones out of Lemonier,” Hank pointed out. “There were supposed to be a lot of UAV assets there.”

  “Then we offer subject-matter experts,” Larry replied. “They can’t have too many people who necessarily know how to use the drones to their full potential.”

  “Might be doable,” Alek said. “We’d need a fair amount of information to make these guys sound convincing. And I don’t think either of you have ever actually operated a Reaper or Predator, have you?” Both Imad and the guy I was already starting to think of as Lanky shook their heads in the negative.

  “I think we need to set up a link back to the Colonel, and see if we can’t get some useful information pushed about drone operations,” Rodrigo suggested. “I can have the link up in about ten minutes.”

  Alek nodded, so Rodrigo jerked his head at Tim before leading the way out into the night. Our comm gear was still on the trucks. That brought another concern to mind, and I reminded myself to bring it up to Baird when we got to that point--did he have batteries for the comm gear? It was one thing that we hadn’t been able to load up on nearly enough, and we were unlikely to find much in the way of lithium batteries for SATCOM radios and laptops in Somalia.

  “So who exactly are we sending in?” Hank asked.

  “I will go,” Lanky said. “I have been there before.”

  “I’ll go, too,” Imad said. He held out his hand to Lanky. “Imad,” he said, by way of introduction.

  Lanky clasped his hand firmly. “Harith,” he replied. “Call me Spider.”

  Wonder where he got that nickname, I thought wryly.

  With the general mission determined, namely to get Spider and Imad into Kismayo to find our mysterious target, we got down to the heavy duty planning. Maps and imagery were pored over, our assets were gone over with a fine-toothed comb, and various courses of action started to come together. Through it all, the imminent arrival of Lashkar al-Barbar hovered like a shadow. We hoped we’d get out before they attacked.

  It was a vain hope.

  Chapter 24

  We had decided to catch a few hours’ sleep in the early hours before dawn. We’d been up most of the night hammering out the plan. It was rough, but as good as could be expected with the tiny force we had. Baird had set security with the small number of his people who wouldn’t be coming with us, and the rest of us had crashed. Alek and I briefly discussed the wisdom of this, but Alek finally made the call, based largely on Danny’s say-so. Danny insisted that he had it from somebody he trusted in Special Activities that Baird was good, even though he was considered a bit of a dangerous nut by the seventh floor. So, we went ahead and trusted to his security, especially since all of us had been up for nearly thirty hours by then, anyway.

/>   I awoke suddenly, with faint, pale light leaking through the cracks around the shoddily-fitted metal door. It took me a second to place what had disturbed me, but only a second. The thumping of rockets or mortars impacting to the south was pretty distinctive.

  I rolled out, grabbing my kit and my rifle. Most everybody else was rousting out, too; if you’ve spent time in a war zone, you don’t tend to sleep through that sort of thing. I was the first one with my kit on, so I slammed out the door and went for the first rooftop post I could find that was facing south.

  “You got eyes-on that shelling?” I yelled up.

  “Sure do,” came the reply, in a faintly British accent. “It’s still about a kilometer away, looks like they’re shelling the southern edge of the town.”

  “Any sign of ground forces?”

  “Not yet,” he answered. “Tell Baird if we’re clearing out of here we’d best get moving, though. LaB doesn’t usually start shelling this heavily unless they’re ready to push. If we wait too long, it could be a stone bitch to get out of here.”

  “Roger, I’ll tell him,” I shot back, and started in as Baird came out. “They’ve started shelling the south edge of the town,” I told him.

  “Damn,” he said, as the crump sound grew more intense. “They’re earlier than I expected.” He started to move to yell at the guy on the roof, but I saved him the time.

  “He says the shelling’s still a klick away,” I said. “We need to get moving before it gets this far north.” My statement was punctuated by a long shot hitting less than two hundred yards away with a whistling bang.

  “Right,” he said. “My boys are already packed up, we don’t settle in anywhere without being ready to punch out at short notice.” I was already heading inside, while the rest of the team dragged out what gear they had brought in instead of leaving on the trucks. “I see you follow the same SOP.”