Four more SEALs performed exactly the same task on the west side of the courtyard, and the massive blast brought down the building and the wall above it, where the high lookout position had once been. By now the only operational guard post still standing was the one on the northeast corner, where they were struggling to assemble the launch post for the RPGs and desperately trying to knock the Apache out of the sky.
But it was dark with billowing, black smoke everywhere, and many of their colleagues were either dead or wounded. There was an atmosphere of mass confusion. No one knew who had attacked them. Half the compound was on fire, and the Apache was making one last steep turn, incoming again, guns blazing away with the last of Jimmy’s 1,200 rounds, going for the high walls, sustaining fire above the heads of the SEALs.
One final staccato burst finished the last, high guard post. No survivors. They never even got a shot away, so sudden and deadly was the onslaught of the Apache from Delta Platoon. The SEALs watched their helicopter bank away to the left and, as suddenly as it had arrived, head back toward the ocean where the Harry S. Truman awaited.
Mack Bedford now sensed the first resistance since they had entered the compound. He called in to RV-1 and told them he was inside the garrison with his team, but the place was not secured and the second team led by Lieutenant Malone was to stay right on station in case a new force was regrouping in the town.
There was sporadic fire coming down on them from the glass-fronted building in the northwest corner. The SEALs were in a safe position behind the rubble of the guardhouse, and the enemy was behind a twelvefoot wall built across the front of the big house. No one knew it, but they were looking at the first line of defense built for Mohammed Salat’s palace guard.
Armed to the teeth, the tribesmen formed a recognizable line of battle, facing south, staring directly at their unknown assailants, the men from Coronado, the men who wore the Trident. The palace guard had no trouble with their launch post, and through the drifting smoke the tribesmen unleashed two Russian-built rockets, aimed roughly in the direction of the invaders.
One of them lanced across the courtyard and shot through the gateway, down the main street, and ended up on the beach. The next hit the pile of concrete rubble behind which the SEALs were crouching. It blew with a thunderous bang, shook the ground and the SEALs, but injured no one.
Barney immediately suggested he take three guys and attack the house, getting some high explosive to work in there.
But Mack overruled on the basis that anything they wanted out of this exercise, including personnel and material assets to the tune of millions of dollars, was likely to be in that house. The last thing anyone needed was for Barney and his buddies to knock it down and kill everyone.
“There’s no way we can accomplish this mission,” said Mack, “unless we can get some goddamned prisoners and find that cash. And I sure as hell don’t want to blow it all up before we’ve even located it. We need to be a bit more subtle and careful,” he added.
“But isn’t that against our religion?” asked Barney.
“Usually,” replied the boss, “but we gotta be clever here. We must overwhelm the guard and take the house. That’s how we take prisoners. Those are the facts. So let’s not screw it up before we start.”
“Okay, sir, what next?”
“We can’t storm it because we’d be running directly into heavy fire. I’m guessing there’s a half dozen guards behind that wall, and we need to take them out. They can’t see us, but they may realize there’s another group of invaders hidden on the far side of the compound.
“Either way, we need to get two or three grenades behind the wall and take everyone out. Just treat it like an enemy machine-gun nest.”
“Okay, sir,” snapped Barney. “We’ll run in, take cover under the wall, and then hurl the grenades over the top, right?”
“Correct. Cody will provide heavy covering fire and you and I will charge in.”
“Okay, sir, just give me the word.”
“Get the grenades ready. We need two each in case one of us gets hit. I’ll talk to Cody.”
Moments later, Mack was back. “Barney,” he said, “when Cody’s machine gun opens up, we charge straight for the wall, dive in head first, right along the ground.”
“Kinda like second base.”
“You got it, bro. We don’t move until the guns start. Then we go in hard.”
Four minutes later, Cody Sharp, the cattle rancher’s son from North Dakota, hit the trigger on the heavy gun, opening up a withering volume of gunfire, all along the top of the wall, the bullets studding into the plate glass windows of the grand residence behind it.
Four more SEALs joined in firing at the same target. Anyone behind that wall must have thought he was facing one hundred armed warriors as the huge volume of bullets screamed, ricocheted, whined, and spat over their heads.
Mack Bedford and Barney Wilkes rushed forward and pounded across the ground and dived into the base of the wall, covered in dust and sand but unharmed. Cody and his men stopped firing as suddenly as they had started, and that’s when Mack and Cody ripped the pins out of their grenades and tossed them over the wall.
All four of them had landed on the ground when the first two exploded with mind-numbing force, shaking the compound to its foundations, shuddering the wall, and sending raking cracks across the spectacular glass-fronted south elevation of Mohammed Salat’s beautiful home.
“Holy shit,” said Barney. “You could probably hurt someone real bad with one of these things.”
What he meant was, “If anyone happened to be behind that wall right there, those boys are outstandingly dead. Yessir.”
Mack Bedford summoned his SEALs, standing in the courtyard and beckoning them forward. “LET’S GO!” he yelled, “RIGHT NOW!”
Like a swarm of angry wasps, Delta Platoon raced to his side en masse and followed him straight into the Salat residence, fanning out as they went, kicking open doors, machine guns raised, and conducting a routine house search just as if they were back on the side streets of North Baghdad.
They found Salat in the basement with his wife, both unarmed. There were various other “officials,” secretaries, and computer operators, and the Delta team rounded them up in short order.
Commander Bedford had his senior men conduct interviews to try to work out who was who, but he already assumed that Mohammed Salat was the owner of the house and therefore the kingpin of the Somali pirates.
He posted a four-man team outside the house and made contact with the RV guys outside the compound’s main wall. But just as he was attempting to speak, there was an incoming call from Brad Charlton: “There’s an entire fucking army moving through the town, heading right toward the garrison.”
Mack was unsurprised. He’d anticipated an uprising in the town, which was why he’d put Chief Charlton at the head of an eighteen-man SEAL assault team in the first case.
“Drive ’em back, Brad,” he said. “They’ll be well armed. So let ’em get close and then open fire. But shoot to kill only if you’re being overwhelmed. They’ll be civilians mostly, and they scare easily. Keep them under sustained fire until they retreat.
“I’ll send extra men. And I’m calling in the Black Hawks. If you get under pressure I’ll have the Apache back here in ten minutes. Stay in touch.”
“Roger that, sir,” replied Chief Charlton, who was now flat down in the grass, next to Shane Cannel, watching a highly unusual sight. Marching four abreast was a tribal army, possibly 150 people, all carrying a rifle of some kind.
At their head was a uniformed character. They could not know this was the fabled Commodore Patrick Zeppi, the $10,000-a-month Somali warlord who was paid to protect Mohammed Salat if the garrison ever came under a major attack.
When Patrick had started over to the Salat residence a half hour ago, he’d thought he was witnessing World War III. The helicopter had scared him, and the concrete-ripping explosions had unnerved him. But he knew one thing: The
wealth of the entire town was tied up in that compound, and he, Commodore Zeppi, was tasked with saving the cash.
He’d raced from house to house, summoning people and calling on every man who owned a rifle to fall into formation outside his house. They would march to the garrison and fight, if necessary, to the death.
Commodore Zeppi did not believe this would be necessary since he had driven off marauders trying to steal the pirate money many times before. What he did not know was that he was marching directly into the guns of one of the most highly trained platoons of Special Forces the world had ever seen.
Chief Charlton had Shane Cannel pass the word among the eighteenstrong force that he would give the word and then they would open fire, sustained for thirty seconds, to see if the enemy would turn and run. If it didn’t, then shoot to kill and drive them back into the town. Mack plainly did not want them inside the compound.
With all the advantage of surprise, the iron-souled US Navy SEALs remained flat in the dusty scrubland and watched the Haradheere militia advance into what might prove to be certain death.
No one was comfortable gunning down armed civilians. But SEALs were not trained to be comfortable; they were trained to do whatever it took to save their lives and execute their mission. Suddenly there was a strange lull. Commodore Zeppi had turned around and was facing his army, shouting instructions.
“Christ! Have they seen us?” muttered Brad.
“Not possible,” replied Shane, his black cammy-creamed face making him almost invisible from a distance of six feet.
Already the Delta men were preparing to open fire. “Hold it, hold it,” muttered Brad. “They’ve stopped.”
At that moment the game changed. Commodore Zeppi spun around and let out a bloodcurdling war whoop, raised his Kalashnikov, and charged forward straight at the hidden SEALs. There were no more than 150 yards between them and Brad Charlton.
Falling in line behind Zeppi, the chaotic-looking army charged. They all raised their rifles and began firing into the sky, shouting and laughing maniacally, high excitement mingling with mass hysteria, as they came bounding across the ground going for the garrison, determined to reinforce Salat’s guard.
There were bullets flying everywhere, into the dark sky, straight at the garrison walls, into the ground high and low. Two young SEALs in the back line were hit, though not seriously, and then a volley spat into the ground between Brad and Shane, covering them in dust.
“FUCK ME!” bellowed Chief Charlton. “This is it! Open fire right now . . . Drive these crazy bastards back!”
The SEALs let fly with their deadly M-4 machine guns straight at Commodore Zeppi’s front rank, which was now only seventy yards away. Four tribesmen went down, then four more. They shot the commodore dead in his tracks. No one could live in the face of the steel-curtain of machine-gun fire being unleashed by the men from Coronado. It was partly in self-defense but mostly to make these wild men turn around and head back the way they came.
Thirty-two Somalis were down, eight dead, before someone yelled the retreat. And then they all began running, stampeding back down the dusty main street, shouting and wailing, disappearing into houses and side alleys.
Brad Charlton, too, ordered a cease fire, and Shane Cannel went to check on the two walking wounded, both of whom had been hit in the upper arm. Then the chief ordered the entire force to move back into the garrison and report to the boss. He did not expect the tribesmen to bother them again.
The entire force, once commanded by Commodore Zeppi, regrouped outside their soccer field. Once more they began to advance up the central street toward the garrison.
Chief Charlton had his SEAL team inside the battered walls with an eight-man guard patrol taking up position at the gateway. Commander Bedford came out to meet him and they deployed the troops sparingly while the boss spoke again to RV-1, instructing them to hold the helos for fifteen minutes.
He then returned to the house while six men searched the next-door building, the one that held the offices, ops center, and strong room. By this time Mohammed Salat had been handcuffed along with two of his main henchmen. The three women in the house, one of them Salat’s wife, were being held under lock and key in the basement.
Mack Bedford told the pirate financier that he wanted all cash held in the garrison located because it had been taken illegally following numerous acts of piracy. Salat himself was being transferred immediately, with his executives, to the US interrogation camp in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
They had discovered a massive vault inside the strong room, and Mack was perfectly happy to blow the sonofabitch in half. But he hoped for an easier way. And for the third time he asked Salat to open it. Salat just shook his head, and Mack Bedford kicked him sharply in the balls to see if that might change his mind.
Salat’s eyes almost popped out of his head and he fell writhing onto the floor, grasping his wedding equipment, which he plainly would not need for some time. Slowly he struggled to his feet, and with a look of utter loathing on his face, he led the American commander to a total of $78 million dollars in one-hundred-dollar bills, neatly packed and stacked in mailbags.
Salat spun the combination lock, the door swung open, and Mack sent four SEALs in to start bringing them outside so they’d be ready for the helicopters. Then he hit his comms receiver and told the guys out on RV-1 to whistle up all four Black Hawks from the carrier right away.
At which point the rag-tag-and-bobtail civilian rabble, still heavily armed and still numbering well over one hundred, was approaching the rough ground in front of the main entrance to the compound. Again they opened fire, aiming their Kalashnikovs every which way and rushing forward with shouts and taunts.
The SEAL guard patrol ducked back inside and returned fire. The oncoming army hit the ground and then opened up with their heavy machine gun.
“WHAT THE FUCKING HELL’S HAPPENING NOW?!” bellowed Mack, who could see none of the action.
Someone yelled back, “It’s Salat’s second army, about a hundred strong! They got us pinned down at the gateway. But they’re not advancing.”
Mack grabbed the phone and told RV-1 to instruct the Black Hawks to come in to the compound from the south, two at a time, in battle mode.
Roger that, sir.
Meanwhile out at the gate there was heavy gunfire, most of it from the tribesmen. The SEALs steadily aimed and fired, more slowly, but more deadly. Essentially the armed citizens of Haradheere were unable to stand up, never mind move forward.
With both sides pinned down, Mack Bedford spoke again to RV-1, ordering them to contact the Black Hawk pilots once more and to ensure they were in full attack mode when they came in, the first two to fly over the beach and land in the compound. Not firing, just making a ton of noise.
For ten more minutes the stalemate at the gate continued because Commander Bedford did not wish to wipe out half the population of the little town. He had what he came for and now he wanted to leave with his prizes intact, with no one much the wiser about who had smashed the Somali Marines.
Everyone heard the helos coming in over the water, but just before they reached the shore, both pilots switched on the heavy warning gear—searchlights, arc lights, and God knows what else. Then they hit the frighteners on the lead helo—two sirens that howled into the night like four police cruisers.
The second Black Hawk, fitted with two loudspeakers right below the fuselage, unleashed Wagner’s Ride of the Valkyries at top decibel level. The palm trees swayed. The hot sand blew into a swirling cloud. And more than one hundred Haradheere residents nearly died of fright.
The noise was shattering as the Black Hawks came slowly down toward the garrison, sirens and music blaring. It very nearly drowned out the thunderous noise of the rotors. No one could hear anything above the din, except perhaps Mack Bedford’s laughing as people covered their ears.
Outside, lying in the dust, possibly praying to Allah or some lesser tribal idol, the terrified people of Haradheere cut and ran
for their lives, dropping rifles, shoes, and any other encumbrances, and fleeing across the rough ground, running through the fallen warriors for the cover of their homes.
Commander Bedford rushed for the helicopters and signalled for the SEALs to start loading the sacks into the ample space behind the cockpit. The first one took off immediately, stuffed with cash and carrying the two wounded SEALs, and headed straight back to the carrier.
The second one waited for the SEALs to load Salat and his two cohorts, plus two SEAL guards, and then rose into the air and headed back to the Truman.
By this time, the other two Black Hawks were on their way in and, not having been given further instructions, landed in the courtyard.
With the principal captives and all the money on its way out, Commander Bedford ordered twenty more SEALs to embark the helos and head back to base. At which point he began a general cleanup before the first two Black Hawks were back again.
He brought the two RV-1 guys in and thanked them for their efforts. He then toured the compound until he found the armory and ordered the complete destruction of the place and everything in it. Out in the street he found an SUV with the keys in the ignition and ordered a couple of the guys to take him down to the beach and to bring grenades.
There he found several fishing boats, including the Mombassa, which he knew was the name of the mother ship that had attacked the Queen Beatrix. There were two other sizeable crafts, which he guessed had been used in pirate operations, and he blew up all three of them.
“Guess these guys can still go fishing,” he muttered, “but not for expensive oil tankers and US cruise ships.”
They drove him back to the compound just as the two Black Hawks showed up again. Mack counted out the rest of the SEALs to ensure that everyone was present and then he ordered the final evacuation. And leaving behind a scene of impossible destruction and general carnage, he ordered the helos straight back to the carrier.
The Delta Solution Page 39
