by Don Mann
“You said this plant is run by the Gulf Oil company?”
“That’s correct, sir.”
“Name?”
“Utorogu. Southeastern Nigeria. I’m hiding in a ventilation duct above the men’s locker room in the expat dorm.”
“Okay…Let me get this down. Vent…Men’s locker room, expat dorm, Utorogu…Okay.”
“Sir, I have no idea where my other teammates are located or if they’re still alive.”
“But you know they were in the plant with you?”
“Yes, we were all here when it was attacked.”
“No cell or radio contact with any of them?”
“No, sir. It’s a very big natural gas compound. They could be anywhere. They could be hiding, or they could have been taken hostage, or…”
“You said natural gas?”
“Yes.”
“In Nigeria?”
“Correct.”
“Is there still active combat?”
“I can’t hear much where I am.”
“Okay. Keep your cell turned on until you hear from me. I assume the desk has your number.”
“They recorded it, yes. Please make it quick.”
Festus Ratty heard Nigerian helicopters continuing to circle the compound, cementing in his mind the idea that they were trapped, and the Nigerians and their western partners were more inclined to fight than negotiate.
He made this observation soon after Umar Amine arrived in a technical with one of his aides Abu Abbas and three armed guards. They huddled in an office inside the main expat dorm. Festus finished with, “I don’t like waiting. I want to act!”
Umar Amine—tall, serious, bearded, with a thick brow and high cheekbones—responded, “Let’s remain calm and not make any assumptions.” Then he pointed to a poster that featured the tennis player Venus Williams in motion and the quotation: “I don’t focus on what I’m up against. I focus on my goals.”
On the floor was a plastic box filled with phones, wallets, watches, and other valuables taken from the expats and found in some of their rooms.
Ratty didn’t care what some rich, spoiled tennis player said. He grabbed a framed photo of a young girl in a soccer uniform off the desk and threw it against the wall so that it shattered. Then he lifted the phone on the same desk out of its cradle and listened. Hearing no busy signal, he concluded that the compound electrical system was still down.
“No power, no phones, helicopters attacking us…What are we waiting for?”
Light-skinned Umar Amine remained the more sanguine of the two, stating, “There’s nothing to worry about, my brother. We are in complete control.”
Ratty didn’t feel the same. “I just lost two men in the helicopter attack. This upsets me. My unit suffered one more casualty last night. You had one killed at the military outpost.”
“I also have two badly injured,” added Amine.
“So we’re down to eighteen fighters, which is not good. Not good at all. This is a very large compound.”
“Eighteen is all we need,” Abbas said. “My men are setting barrels filled with explosives throughout the compound. The next helicopter that shoots at us, I’ll order them to detonate one of them, and the crusaders will get the message.”
“You came with three of your guards. Where are your other men now?”
Umar Amine, wearing a camouflage uniform and combat boots, walked over to the whiteboard on the opposite wall, erased the maintenance scheduled on it, and used a black marker to draw a crude diagram of the site. With left representing south and right north, it read from left to right—gas plant, company town, VIP bungalows, FN canteen and dorm, expat dorms A & B, central plaza with expat dining hall, and front gate.
“You’re correct. I have three fighters with me. The other six are here,” he said, pointing to the gas plant.
“None at Company Town?”
“No. We went through the area earlier and took three important hostages, all engineers. We captured another two foreigners in the VIP area. I brought them with me and left them in the lobby with the others. The engineers in the control room of the gas plant are cooperating. We have already mined the edge of the site and have missiles pointed at the main working facility. Now we’re trying to get the gas turned on and flowing. It went off automatically when the alarm went off. What about you, my brother? What can you report?”
Ratty rose to his feet and pointed to the whiteboard. “Four men and one technical at the front gate. They also occupy the camera and security rooms there. The problem is that the cameras aren’t working because the power is off.”
“What about the other five men?”
“They’re here with me at the main expat dorm guarding the hostages. I have two technicals outside.”
“How many hostages?”
“We’re finding more all the time. The last count was thirty-one.”
“Good. Very good,” Umar Amine responded. “The foreign hostages are important. They’re our best bargaining chips.”
Festus Ratty nodded. Now that Amine spoke about them that way, he felt proud of what he had accomplished. “I have them closely guarded, my brother. I’m using some as human shields to prevent more air attacks.”
“Good, good, this is all very smart…It means we have achieved all our objectives of Phase One—control of both the plant and the base. Now we can begin to execute Phase Two.”
“We only have two commanders and eighteen jihadists,” Ratty reminded him.
“Brother, it only took nineteen of our brothers on 9/11 to destroy the World Trade Center and bring the infidel imperialists to their knees. Imagine what we can do with twenty men and millions of gallons of natural gas.”
While Festus Ratty and Umar Amine were conferring, Amine’s aide Abu Abbas sat in an adjoining office where he used a satellite phone to call Nigerian and Gulf officials. Abu Abbas’s birth name was Abeo Cote, and he’d been born and raised in Toronto, the son of a Nigerian mother and French-Canadian father.
Abu Abbas’s first call was to the Nigerian Federal Ministry of Interior, charged with administering all of the country’s internal security, national police, prisons, and managing all national emergencies.
In perfect English, he read the group’s demands to the assistant deputy minister on duty—a man named Bello Godwin Moro.
“One, the group that we call Written in Blood demands the release of all Boko Haram prisoners, Islamic State, and Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb prisoners held in Nigerian jails. They number 133 Boko Haram, twelve Islamic States, and twenty-four AQIM, according to our records. An associate of ours will email you a complete list of names.
“Two, any attempts to attack us from the land or air, or disable any part or function of the Utorogu facility will result in the immediate death of foreign hostages.
“Three, all hostages will be set free once your government meets the following demands: a) The release off all Boko Haram, Islamic State, and AQIM hostages. b) A promise by Gulf Oil company to immediately close down all operations in Africa. c) The publication of a three-page manifesto from our group Written in Blood on the front page of Nigerian newspapers The Punch, This Day, Nigerian Tribune, Vanguard, and Daily Trust. d) Payment of one hundred million US dollars into a secure, numbered account at Ras Al Khaimah in the UAE. e) The use of two Mi-17 helicopters and a guarantee of safe passage out of Nigeria.
“If these conditions are not met by 0001 on Sunday the twenty-second we will have no other option than to destroy the entire gas plant and kill the hostages. The responsibility for the lives of these people and the plant is now on you.”
Chapter Twenty
“Patience can cook a stone.”
—African proverb
It was 1426 Friday as Crocker crouched behind a second-story loft window in the steaming hot dining hall and watched as three terrorists approached from the expat dorms. Two of them carried AKs and grenades, and the third had an RPG slung over his shoulder.
As they approached
and heat radiated off the pavement around them, Crocker wrestled with the question of how to respond. Part of his brain told him to mow down the savages who had cold-bloodedly killed at least a dozen unarmed foreigners. Another more reasonable aspect argued that by engaging the terrorists they would only invite more attention and violence.
Attention wasn’t what Crocker, Akil, and the nineteen other men and women in the dining hall wanted, armed as they were with only four automatic weapons and a handful of pistols and mags. Another six critically wounded lay on counters in the kitchen, where nurses and medical workers like Saliha were trying to keep them alive.
The bodies of another eleven men and women had been wrapped in curtains and blankets and stacked inside the large walk-in refrigerator off the kitchen.
So far the water hadn’t been shut off. And although the power was out, the pantry was stocked with ample food to keep them alive for days. A collective decision had been made not to run the generator because the sound would indicate to the terrorists that there were people inside.
Crocker used one of the walkie-talkie apps on a phone he’d borrowed from the facility staff to communicate with Akil, who was positioned near the front door.
“Romeo. Deadwood here. You read?”
“I read, Deadwood. Over.”
“I’ve got three tangos in my sights. They’re within ten meters of the front door.”
“Shoot ’em, Deadwood, then send me a picture.”
“The door bolted shut?”
“Check.”
“Hold on, while I check in back…Kazumi and Eito, this is Deadwood here. You read me? Over.”
Kazumi and Eito, two Japanese drivers who had previously served in their country’s military, had volunteered to guard the rear door.
Of the two, Kazumi’s English was better, so he responded. “Yes, Deadwood. We are here at the back door. Over.”
“Instruct everyone in the kitchen to stay hidden, don’t move, and be quiet.”
“Done, Deadwood. They’re still as mice.”
“Hold tight.”
Crocker wasn’t one to get nervous, but he was struggling so hard to hold back his impulse for revenge that sweat poured from his face and neck down the front of his black tee. The terrorists stopped eight meters away, and the one holding the RPG loaded a missile into the tube and went to his knees.
Crocker had him in his sights.
He whispered into the radio, “Romeo, take cover…”
Crocker ducked below the window when he saw the kid squeeze the trigger. A second later, a rocket exploded into the front of the building near the door. Shook the entire structure. Crocker half-expected the loft floor to give, but it held.
Smoke and dust curled up and filled the space, and when Crocker peeked through the little window again, the terrorists had moved out of sight.
He held down the button on the cell and whispered, “Deadwood, here…Romeo, you see where they went? Over.”
“They moved out of my line of sight. I think they’re near the front door.”
Crocker couldn’t see the front from his angle, either. Thought of the defenseless expats cowering in the kitchen. Seconds later, he heard boots kicking the door and hurried down the steps to help Akil defend it.
Found him on the right side of it against the wall. Went to his stomach. Whispered, “Ready.”
Two seconds later, the rebels discharged their automatic weapons and bullets ricocheted off the metal door. Rifles ready and hearts in their throats, Crocker and Akil expected the terrorists to burst through any moment.
Heard one of the jihadists shout, and the firing stopped. When Akil reached up to unbolt the door, Crocker grabbed his arm and stopped him. Heard the men outside talking urgently.
Akil mouthed, “What the fuck?”
The suspense caused Crocker to tighten his neck and shoulders. They were too close to risk even whispering into the radio.
Tense moments passed before Kazumi’s voice came through. Crocker backed away and lowered the volume. “I see them from the side window. A ricocheted bullet hit one of them in the arm! They’re helping him back to the expat dorm now…You copy, Deadwood?”
“I copy, Kazumi,” Crocker answered. “Good for now.”
Mancini’s legs had started cramping and he was feeling dehydrated, so he tracked the silence below. After five minutes passed without a voice or footstep, he whispered to Haru above, “Wait here. I’m going to get some water.”
“Good luck, friend. Be quick.”
Remembering injured Jamison, sleeping above him, he checked to see that he still had a pulse. He did.
Then Mancini carefully moved one of the ceiling tiles aside, and climbed down.
The locker room was silent and dark. He reminded himself of the three things he needed—bottles, water, and clothes. Found a half-empty Rush plastic liter water bottle and a pair of old leather sandals in one of the lockers and flashed back to a discussion he had with his wife ten years ago when she had pointed out how uncool it was of him to wear socks with sandals. He had explained that he was following a very old tradition because a recent archeological discovery had shown that Romans had worn socks with sandals two thousand years ago.
Carmen said then, as she had often done since, “You have an answer for everything.”
A month ago, days before they had deployed to Nigeria, he’d shown her a photograph of Justin Bieber entering a club in Los Angeles wearing sandals over red socks.
His comment, “If he can rock ’em, I can rock ’em, too.”
He gathered four bottles, a half-eaten roll of Tums, a year-old copy of Time with Hillary Clinton on the cover, and his T-shirt and shorts. Pulled the shorts over his naked bottom.
Decided that was a good enough haul for now. Was headed to the bathroom to fill up the bottles and take a leak when he heard footsteps in the hall and froze.
Someone stumbled and fell. Then he heard a woman crying. Waited a few seconds before he went to the door to peek out. The sound of more footsteps and a man grunting stopped him.
Heard the woman plead in what sounded like a Scandinavian language, “La meg være i fred…Jeg er ikke amerikansk.” (Leave me alone…I’m not American.)
Couldn’t resist opening the door a crack. Saw the back of a jihadist leaning over a woman on the tile floor. The desperate look on her face shifted to surprise when she saw Mancini.
The terrorist turned to look, too, and when he did, Mancini sprung, smashing his forearm into the back of the man’s neck, which caused him to drop the automatic rifle.
Mancini lifted the terrorist off his feet with his left arm, and used his right arm to hold the man’s chin up and twist his neck violently right. Heard his spine crack and saw the woman cover her mouth to muffle a scream.
“Shh…”
Dropped the jihadist’s limp body, then quickly retrieved the AK and looked forward into the hallway to see if anyone was coming. Clear. Helped the blond-haired woman up and was about to help her into the locker room, when he heard something move behind him.
Turned and instinctively raised the AK. But wasn’t fast enough to stop the rifle butt that smashed him in the nose and knocked him out.
Tiny sat propped against a wall looking around the room at the other thirty-one hostages, noting that he was one of the privileged few to wear a C4 necklace.
No hay pedo…(No problem…)
The room stunk so bad the terrorists had tied scarves sprayed with stolen perfume over their noses and mouths. Zoe, next to him, with her wrists and ankles chained together, was complaining to him about the lousy hygiene.
“They’re pigs. They’re worse than pigs. They’re inhuman beasts…”
She was the same brunette who had been dragged out with him earlier to serve as a human shield. Now she whispered nonstop, even though the terrorists had ordered them not to talk.
“I’m not afraid to die…There are worse things than death…Like betraying yourself in a fundamental way…I’ll never do that.”
“Lady, you’ve got some stones…Now, be quiet.”
Slightly delirious from his earlier brush with death, Tiny started to amuse himself by remembering some of the crazy shit he and his brother had done as kids, breaking into cars and hot-wiring them, painting graffiti, and playing pranks. Like the time they found a dead dog in an empty lot and tied its leash to the back bumper of the high school principal’s car. They followed him on a motorbike as he drove through town until he was eventually pulled over by the cops.
We laughed our asses off…
“This whole thing is pointless,” Zoe continued. “They kill us…We kill them…This world should be a paradise…That’s the way it’s supposed to be…”
Her whispering attracted the attention of the jihadist Tiny had dubbed Pinche—round, nearly bald with dead eyes. He wandered over, his AK slung over his belly.
“I tell you not to talk. You have fun?” the jihadist asked.
“Fun as shit, Pinche,” Tiny answered, trying to divert his attention from Zoe. “If I ever get out of here, I’m going to look you up. Maybe we can hang. You got a wife? You got kids? You got a son you call Pinche Jr.?”
“You talk a lot of shit…”
A second terrorist, who Tiny referred to as Coñazo (big asshole)—short and lean with a perpetual sneer—passed in front of Zoe, slapped her head to stop her complaining, and then stopped in front of Tiny, and clocked him hard in the jaw.
Stars circled in Tiny’s head and he half-expected the C4 necklace to go off and blow them all to smithereens. When it didn’t, he gritted his teeth against the pain, looked up at the two terrorists and growled, “Chinga tus madres.” (Fuck your mothers.)
“You…stupid, too?” Coñazo asked, poking Tiny with the barrel of his AK-47. “You Marine, yes?”
“No Marine…I’m Mexican,” Tiny responded.
He’d been taught in SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) training in Southern California not to give up any information that could be of value to the enemy.
