Arisen : Nemesis

by Michael Stephen Fuchs

  Brendan looked like he had something else to say and was holding his tongue. But then he wasn’t. “Killing Godane’s entire team wasn’t exactly calculated to make him less likely to come after us. You didn’t have to provoke him.”

  Looking up, his voice flat, Jake said, “Wrong. Nothing we do or don’t do is going to make that son of a bitch any less of a threat. Our existence will be a provocation. You don’t know him like I do. Some people just need killing.”

  Having started down this road, Brendan seemed unable to resist pushing it further. “There was still a chance we could have gotten out of there without a fight, without all the extra risk.” He and Jake were in a staring contest now. “You didn’t have to kill all those guys.”

  Jake wrinkled his nose. “Yeah, I did. And you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because you didn’t.”

  While at or just beyond the border of insubordination, this still silenced Brendan. Maybe it was too close to home, an uncomfortable truth. He was already riddled with doubt about his failure to act in that stand-off.

  But he rallied now, shook this off, and used the prerogative of command to make a decision – while not ratcheting up the confrontation any further. “Okay. Here it is. We mount the heavy weapons in fixed positions – for now. But, Todd, I want both vehicles serviced, tanks topped, and MGs cleaned, lubed, and loaded. We prepare for both contingencies – stand and fight, or displace and fight.”

  “Good enough,” Jake said, his tone saying he also agreed to this temporary climb-down. “But I need Todd working with Kwon to build emplacements for the weapons. I’ll take care of the vehicles. Kate assists.”

  She nodded in assent.

  “Also,” Jake continued, “we need to get those Stingers distributed across all three sangars asap, and we institute a twenty-four-hour watch schedule – starting now. Four hours on, twenty off, for everybody.”

  “I’ll take the first watch,” Brendan said. He looked down the table. “Elijah, I also want you to start running as many air patrols with the Shadow as you can sustain – in all cardinal directions, but principally west and south. We have to watch for Godane now, which doesn’t mean we can stop watching for herds.”

  Jake and Brendan traded looks, seeing if there was anything else, then scanning the table and the team. Jake said, “Okay, you heard the Captain. We make sure we’re prepared. And then we watch and wait.”

  Everyone rose and got moving.

  It was work time again.

  The Gs

  Camp Price - TOC

  Elijah walked himself back to the TOC alone. And that’s how he’d be working again. But he preferred it that way, for several reasons. He hadn’t overly participated in the tomfoolery and screwing around in the team room – just enough to fit in, really.

  He didn’t find it all that funny.

  Entering the dim TOC, he put himself in the chair by the GCS and started doing pre-flight for the Shadow. He could do it all on autopilot at this point.

  He knew Brendan thought he’d changed after the fall, and after Pete died. And he had. But that hadn’t really been it. It hadn’t been the worst of it. What had really hit him hard was… the deaths of the villagers they were supposed to be out there supporting and protecting. The Warsangali.

  Their Gs.

  After al-Shabaab had been pushed out of the cities of Somalia, they had taken to the bush – dominating, intimidating, and enforcing seventh-century Islamic law on many outlying villages and the largely defenseless people who lived in them. Hence Triple Nickel’s bush camp – they were there to mentor, support, and train the Warsangali branch of the Darod, the oldest clan in what used to be British Somaliland. In centuries past they had been a Somali Sultanate powerful enough to sign treaties with the British. But in the twenty-first century, they were just farmers and herders living in a few very remote villages in the forested mountains of the north.

  Running clinics for the Warsangali had been a major tasking for Elijah. And it had given meaning to his life – it was much like the missionary work he had done for years before joining the Army.

  It was God’s work.

  Raised in rural Texas, Elijah held an associates degree in Bible Studies from Dallas Baptist University – and was actually a licensed, but non-practicing, minister. After college, he did two-year missions to South America and then to East Africa. Along the way he’d picked up serviceable Spanish, Portuguese, Swahili, Somali, and Arabic.

  Whenever people would express envy at his knack for languages, he’d always say: “It’s not a knack. It’s a commitment. Anyone can learn a foreign language if they want to.” He knew all it took was a genuine desire to learn – and, mainly, the discipline to practice. He also went out of his way to find and practice with native speakers. It was a great way to build connections with foreign people – and to share with them the truth of Christ. And he found that each language he learned was easier than the last.

  Just as each new convert made his heart sing.

  * * *

  Alone in the TOC, fingers caressing the GCS, Elijah took a look up at the region maps he had originally posted up in there.

  He was a studious guy and had memorized a social science textbook’s worth of information about Somalia, the Sanaag region, the Darod clan – the complete environment the team would be operating in. He was also an extremely devout Christian, who felt he had a duty to preach the word of Christ and share his teachings. Occasionally this had come into conflict with his job as an SF soldier. But never with his medical work – that fit perfectly. He liked ministering to people, especially those who needed help and care.

  And it had made him light up when he was able to give life-improving, and sometimes life-saving, care to the Warsangali. He grew to know and love them. He even went so far as to recruit a young Warsangali boy and train him up to work as his “physician’s assistant.” He’d also started doing twice-weekly Bible study sessions with the boy, who was eight years old and named Dalmar. The Warsangali were Muslim, but Dalmar was an orphan, so had no parents to object. And his relatives in the village who looked after him liked that he was a favorite of the Americans.

  The Warsangali village had been nearly as isolated as Camp Price. And its residents might even have survived the fall, as had half of Triple Nickel. They did survive nearly a month into the ZA, not least because of Triple Nickel’s warnings and instruction. But then a small herd was spotted close by and, as was their way, the men went out to fight them – without telling Eli or the other soldiers first. They were defeated. And when the survivors returned, many of them wounded, the women brought them back in to care for them. Which was also their way. They knew what was likely to happen. They didn’t care.

  And that had been the end of the Warsangali village. The end of the Gs.

  And it was when all of them had died, including little Dalmar…

  Well, after that, Elijah was never the same again.

  Bushmaster

  Camp Price - Outside the Team Room

  “’Sup, B!” This was Todd, along with Kwon, coming out of the team room behind Brendan – and trying on his line again. Brendan hadn’t felt like playing back on the tarmac of Djibouti Airport, when they were still a long way from home or safety. Now he delivered his expected line.

  “Nothin‘. Watchin‘ the game. Havin‘ a Bud.”

  “True, true,” Todd said, closing it out. He pulled up beside Brendan and looked off at Jake and Kate moving side-by-side out the front gate, heading for the garage. He suddenly noticed they were walking pretty close together. He said, “Hey, you don’t think those two…”

  “No,” Brendan said. “Jake would know better than to try it on.”

  “I don’t know,” Todd said. “I say she gets assignments to go off and work with him way more than chance would explain. And he makes most of the assignments.”

  As far as any of them knew, in their first eighteen months of isolation, everyone on the team had been too profess
ional, or too scared, to try anything with Kate. With more women in combat roles, guys had slowly learned to behave.

  Todd cocked his head. “I wonder if anyone in her last unit tried it on.”

  “I heard one did,” Brendan said.

  “What happened?”

  “An episode involving his own K-Bar knife and his dangly bits.”

  “Holy shit,” Todd said. “Are you going to finish that story?”

  “You want me to?”

  “…No.”

  “Don’t worry, I think you’re safe from your own Yarborough knife. You know better.”

  The Yarborough knife was the trademark SF knife – one was given to every graduate of the Q-course, with special engraving and serialization on the blade. It was named for William P. Yarborough, the Special Warfare Center commander who convinced John F. Kennedy to authorize the green beret in the first place.

  Todd turned to Brendan. “Here’s a question I forgot to ask. Why didn’t you shoot that dude?”

  “What dude?”

  “That unarmed guy who stepped out between us and al-Shabaab, to try and stop the fight. The Western-looking dude.”

  Brendan paused. “Because I know him.”

  Todd’s eyes went wide. “You’re kidding. Who the hell is he?”

  Brendan took a breath. “His name’s Zack – Aldridge, or something that sounds like that. He was an Agency analyst. Detailed to the HOA Task Force.”

  Now Kwon raised his eyebrows. “So what the fuck is he doing rolling with al-Shabaab?”

  Brendan shrugged. “I don’t know. But my guess would be, same as everyone else: surviving.”

  Kwon looked like he wasn’t buying that. “If he just showed up at the al-Shabaab Stronghold, why wouldn’t they shoot him on sight?”

  Brendan held his gaze. At thirty, the junior weapons sergeant was actually two years older than him. He said, “I honestly don’t know. Maybe he had an asset inside who vouched for him. Maybe he had something to trade. Or maybe you’ll get to ask him yourself.”

  “How?”

  “I have a feeling we might be hearing from him.”

  Kwon narrowed his eyes. “And if we do hear from him, why should we trust him?”

  Brendan didn’t react. He said, “My father did. He worked with him.”

  Todd looked amazed and amused. “What, at Agency? No shit.”

  “He actually came over for dinner with our family once, in Arlington, when I was sixteen.”

  Todd laughed. “Dude, that’s hilarious.”

  Brendan shrugged. “My father had just done back-to-back tours as assistant station chief in Cairo. I hadn’t lived in the States in years. And I remember this man told me something I never forgot. I said I wanted to join the Agency some day. And he told me not to do it.”

  “Why?”

  “He said… he said they’d just send me back there, to Arlington. Or else to Cairo. Whichever place I hated most.”

  Kwon said, “He’s from HOA, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. Born here. But he got his master’s degree from Princeton, if I recall.”

  Todd straightened up. “Right, enough tales of the bizarre. Gotta hit it.” He looked at Kwon. “You coming, dude?”

  “Yeah. I’ll be there in a minute.”

  “No worries. I gotta draw up some building plans first, anyway.” He loped off in his long-legged rock-star stride.

  * * *

  Kwon was alone with Brendan now. Expressionless, voice super-cool as always, he said: “Hey, Captain. Did you see al-Sîf? On the battlefield?”

  Brendan looked surprised. “What? Godane’s enforcer? He was at Lemonnier?”

  Kwon nodded. “Yeah. I glassed him from my OP, right at the end.”

  “If you glassed him, why didn’t you shoot him?”

  “I actually mainly saw his sword, hacking above the fray. He was moving fast. And at that point I had to jump for it.” He blinked once, slowly. “If you didn’t see him, then you didn’t see what kind of rifle he was carrying.”

  “No. Can’t say I did. Why?”

  Kwon seemed to consider, then decided. “You probably need to know this. Two deployments back, before you rotated in. One of Jake’s close friends, Jim Rierson, was killed. He was in our sister team, 578.”

  Brendan nodded. “I heard about him. Didn’t know he and Jake were tight.”

  “They went way back. Fought together in Syria, Iraqi Kurdistan. Even before that, during the insurgency in Ramadi, it was Jim who helped Jake off the field after his leg got blown off.”

  Brendan nodded. He knew not to say something facile like, I’m sorry Jake’s buddy got killed. Instead he said, “How did Rierson die?”

  Kwon’s expression didn’t change. “Badly. It was an ambush. He was out in the bush mentoring a patrol from Alpha Group.”

  Brendan nodded. He knew Alpha Group was the first element of the U.S.-backed Somali special operations counter-terror force known as Gasshan, or The Shield. He also knew 578 was one of the ODAs given the job of standing that unit up and getting them operational.

  Kwon continued. “We think somebody sold them out. It wasn’t like Jim to just walk into some shit like that.”

  “Mole in the SNA? Or Somali government?”

  “Yeah. Could have been either. Anyway, everyone in the patrol was killed or captured. The two captures turned up later on YouTube.”

  Brendan got it – beheaded. “Jesus. Not Rierson?”

  “No. Jim wasn’t going out like that. When we recovered his body at the site of the ambush, he’d been non-mortally wounded in six different places. He was also completely out of ammo – lying in the middle of a ring of his own rifle and pistol brass. He went down shooting, defending his guys.”

  “So what killed him then? He bled out?”

  Kwon shook his head slowly. “Head shot. Close range. Execution-style.”

  Brendan shook his own head now. “Ever get payback?”

  “We sure as hell tried. Never knew for sure exactly who was behind it. Except that Jim happened to be carrying a Bushmaster ACR when he went down. As far as I know, it was the only one in HOA. And his body had been stripped of it.”

  “Ever see it again?”

  “Yeah. Yesterday.”

  Brendan put all this together. Al-Sîf. His voice dropped lower. “Does Jake know?”

  “Yeah. He knows.”

  Kwon turned and headed out, leaving Brendon standing alone, beneath the moving cloud shadows of the late afternoon. In the near silence and solitude, the pain from the minor wounds in his hand and ear came creeping back. He’d hardly felt them before, with the adrenaline and the stress and the burdens of leadership.

  Now, the pain felt real. And uncomplicated.

  * * *

  Brendan closed his eyes for a second, realizing he had a bigger problem with his command than he’d known. Jake had been implacable and bellicose on the subject of al-Shabaab before this. But now that he knew al-Sîf had killed one of his best friends… well, if there was anyone who might restrain him now, that person probably wasn’t Brendan.

  He exhaled and looked around the clean and well-ordered camp. Everyone was out of sight now, back at work. He was alone with his doubts, and with the weight of command. If he really even was in command. Once again, he was having to face his greatest fear – failing as a leader. And proving to be what he feared his father always thought he was: weak.

  He simply didn’t have the innate strength that Jake did. And he was nothing like as vicious as Jake could be in a fight. It was kind of annoying, actually. In addition to Jake’s other natural advantages and attributes – his decisiveness and resoluteness and natural air of command – he was simply a fearsome fighter. Just lethal, super-skilled, and totally unflappable.

  Most likely, none of them would have even made it out of Camp Lemonnier alive in the first place if it weren’t for Jake.

  So Brendan knew he wasn’t as strong or as skilled a soldier as Jake. He certainly wasn’t as experience
d.

  But he also knew Jake could sometimes be too self-assured, too convinced he had seen it all – and thus very quick to believe he had a situation all figured out. And his certainty could lead to a deficit in restraint – he knew what needed doing, and he was damned well going to do it. In fairness, he usually did have things figured out, and had the right action pegged.

  But one day, Brendan worried, Jake’s confidence was going to overreach itself and was going to turn into hubris.

  And someone, not necessarily Jake, was going to pay a bad price for it.

  Driven to the edge of rage by his hatred of al-Shabaab, of Godane, and now of the man, al-Sîf, who had executed his friend… that day might be coming. And if Brendan couldn’t find the strength and resolve to oppose him, he had a bad feeling Jake was going to get them all killed, in a bloody and pointless war between Triple Nickel and al-Shabaab. The first shots had already been fired. Godane had been bloodied. And he almost certainly had a lot more bodies to throw into the scrap.

  But they weren’t there yet.

  Brendan still had a couple of cards to play.

  * * *

  He found Elijah in the TOC, preparing to launch the Shadow. He stuck his head in.

  “Eli.”

  “Yeah, Cap.”

  “Do me a favor and keep the PSC-5 powered up.”

  “Sure.” Elijah’s brow wrinkled. They normally used the big high-power radio set to communicate with patrols outside the wire – usually far out. But the gang was currently all tucked up at home. “What am I listening for?”

  “Stay on channel 23. You’ll know it when you hear it.”

  “Roger that.”

  Brendan withdrew again and walked half the length of the camp back to the team room, where he found Todd and Kwon. They were poring over Todd’s hasty but skillful drawings of the defensive emplacements they needed to modify or build from scratch. He stuck his head in again. “How’s it going?”

  “Good,” Todd said. “We’re gonna turn the first spade in a few minutes.”