by Don Mann
“Look,” Crocker said, “it’s past one a.m. now. We’ve basically got another couple of hours to try to sneak out of here, or we remain sitting ducks.”
“We try to leave, and we risk being shot,” Mark Greenway remarked.
“Yes, but that’s a risk we have to take, in my opinion.”
“I’d rather put my faith in whatever negotiations are taking place,” stated Jeremy Leiter.
“I think that would be a big mistake.”
“Why?”
“I’ve been in hostage situations before,” answered Crocker. “Terrorist aims are often what we might consider irrational. If they’re jihadists, which these guys appear to be, they’re willing to die for their cause.”
“We don’t know that for certain.”
“I do.”
“Don’t you think you’re falling into a kind of profiling to characterize jihadists as suicidal? Aren’t they more strategic than that?”
“And what about the Nigerian government?” Greenway interjected. “Isn’t it possible that they’re planning a rescue mission?”
“No, on both counts,” Crocker answered, the tension building in his neck and arms.
“How can you state these things with such certainty?” asked Williams.
“I’m not an expert on the politics of Islamic radicals, but I know that most of them accept martyrdom as a central tenet of jihad,” Crocker answered. “Secondly, I’ve been working closely with the Nigerian military for the last several weeks, and I’ve learned enough about their mindset and readiness that I wouldn’t bet the farm on them in the situation like this.”
“That’s harsh.”
Crocker stood. “Harsh or not, here’s the deal…You gentlemen can sit and discuss this as long as you want. Me and my teammate are going to prepare to leave the plant at 0200. Anyone who wants to come with us is welcome.”
CT was hunkered down in the IMT manager’s office in 50 Main, showing Sally how to clean and reassemble an AK-47, when the Thuraya XT Pro satellite phone rang. The Thuraya was the primary choice of military operators, businessmen, and journalists in remote parts of the world for a reason. Not only did it have a very long battery life, it was also supported by a robust satellite network.
Paul Pagon answered and handed the walkie-talkie-sized receiver to CT. The three of them had been living on water, licorice, and Walkers shortbread biscuits found in the general manager’s closet.
“It’s your commander.”
“Thanks.”
“Crocker?”
“No, this is Captain Sutter. Is this Warrant Officer Charles Tanner Montgomery?”
“Yes, it is, sir. At your service.”
“Were you sleeping?”
“Sleep is the last thing on my mind, sir.”
“Warrant…We’ve had no contact with Crocker, Akil, or Chavez here at headquarters since the takeover. Do you have information on any of them?”
“No, Captain. The only one I’ve seen since the attack was Akil. And he left this location last night.”
“What is that specifically?”
“My location? The IMT manager’s office at 50 Main. I haven’t heard anything from Crocker, Mancini, or Chavez. Have you?”
“Mancini, yes. He’s hiding in the locker room ceiling of one of the expat dorms.”
“That’s excellent news, sir…He’s okay?”
“What’s your situation?”
“I’m in Company Town with one of the plant managers, and the emergency services administrator. Several terrorists entered the building earlier, but left before they reached our hiding place.”
“There are three of you there?”
“That’s correct.”
“You’re armed?”
“Two of us are, yes. Early this afternoon, the terrorists seemed to turn their attention to the gas plant control room, which is close by. We heard some combat from that location. The plant manager I’m with believes the terrorists occupy the gas plant control room now.”
“We’re aware of that. Yes. What are your chances of escaping the plant?” Sutter asked.
“Not good, sir. Not good at all. Since the terrorists are occupying the control room, they’re practically looking down on us. Also the French manager who is with us now spotted snipers stationed at the top of the gas plant towers. Why do you ask?”
Akil remembered a pair of heavy-duty metal cutters in the back of the ambulance and was using them now to cut through the double-wired fence perimeter twenty meters behind the dining hall. He ignored the danger, and focused instead on getting the job done quickly and making sure the holes he cut were large enough to get the wounded through.
It was hard work, and there was no way to dampen the sharp “click” of every cut. He prided himself in being a man of action, and preferred to finally be doing something, instead of sitting around and waiting for the terrorists to act.
A thin sliver of moon hung in the sky. Owls hooted in the distance.
As he cut, he remembered the day he had told his Egyptian parents he was joining the US Marines. He saw horror on his mother’s face and disappointment in his father’s eyes. Two months later, when he returned home wearing his Marine dress uniform, his father had proudly taken him around their neighborhood in Detroit to show him off to relatives and friends.
It was an important turning point in his family’s history, and the Marines had served as both a crucible for dealing with prejudice and a door to new opportunities.
Semper fi…Always do your best…Let the idiots and enemies eat your dust.
Sweat dripped from his chest and his arms and as he cut, he continued thinking about his family and the life they had made for themselves in the US. His father owned a jewelry shop, and his younger sister Dalilah was at the University of Michigan medical school studying to become an obstetrician.
Soon as he cut a five-foot-high, four-foot-wide half oval in the first fence, he pushed it back, and wired it to stay open. The part of this that bothered him was leaving behind their other teammates. It had been drilled into his brain to never leave a teammate behind, alive or dead. But Crocker was right. The more hostages who got out of the compound safely, the better.
Before Akil started cutting through the wire braids on the second fence a meter ahead, he looked over his shoulder to the outlines of the technicals parked in front of the expat dorms and said, “We’ll deal with you fuckers later. One way or another, we’ll be back.”
Inside the dining hall, Crocker had just finished checking with Saliha to make sure that pieces of canvas tarps had been cut and tied to make stretchers for the wounded, and the six of them were ready to be moved. Then he reviewed procedures with Akil and Eito and Kazumi, who would be guarding the column.
“Remember, we walk single file, keep everyone in line. No panic, no confusion. If we’re discovered, me and Eito in back will engage the enemy and try to draw fire, while you and Akil continue ushering the expats out.”
Kazumi nodded.
“Get as many of them out as you can. Keep moving. Don’t worry about us.”
Now he was rechecking the things he was planning to carry on his person, when managers Whiteside and Leiter approached.
“Crocker?”
He didn’t look up. “What?”
“We think it’s better if we leave at sunrise,” Whiteside said.
“Why?”
“If we go now…in total darkness…we’ll have to use flashlights to see where we’re going, which will make us targets.”
Crocker finished taping the one extra mag to his belt. “We’re not using flashlights until we’re at least twenty meters beyond the fence. Everyone needs to know that. Me and my guys will carry the flashlights, no one else. Like I said before, no shiny objects, belt buckles, metal glasses frames…Phones and watches…conceal them in pockets. Hide anything that can reflect light…Wear dark colors. Make sure everyone understands that.”
“What about the Nigerian soldiers?” Leiter asked.
&nbs
p; “What about ’em?”
“They’re out there beyond the fence, correct? They’re surrounding the plant…How do we alert them? I mean, if they hear us approaching, aren’t they going to shoot?”
“Akil and I will walk in front once we get through the fence. We’ll take care of that.”
“How?”
“Leave that to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“However long the night, the dawn will break.”
—African proverb
Akil was the first person through. Paused to look back at the line of expats. The wounded came first in improvised stretchers carried by men with arms strained to the limit. All of them silent, heads down.
He held the second fence back, ears focused on any sound from the expat dorms or beyond the fence, counting each person as they passed, then pointing to the thicket of trees, ten meters from the fence and whispering, “Wait there. Don’t run.”
A few of the expats still inside the compound couldn’t control their legs, either because of fear or physical trauma. One man stumbled and fell. Crocker ran to help him up, terror on the man’s face.
“Sorry…”
“Ssh…”
A wounded man on a pair of crutches called out, “Angie, I’m coming! Angie don’t go.”
Saliha hurried over, held him up, and cupped a hand over his mouth. Tense moments passed as Crocker looked over his shoulder at the expat dorm, waiting for a light to come on or an engine to start up.
He was the last person through. Raised his thumb to Akil.
Reaching the trees beyond the compound, the men and women huddled around him. Some of the expats wept with relief.
“We’re almost there,” Crocker whispered. “Keep silent. I’m going ahead to alert any Nigerian authorities. You follow with Akil twenty meters behind.”
“Why?” someone asked.
“For your safety…No questions.”
Saliha handed him a white towel, which he attached to the end of the RPG. She’d been poised and helpful throughout. He remembered she told him that in her spare time she taught Brazilian dance.
Now he picked his way through the trees and up an embankment, the white towel held over his head. Saw the Nigerian soldiers before they saw him. Two of them up ahead near a large tree. One of them was taking a leak.
Crocker called out, “Americans! We’re Americans! Over here…”
A panicked soldier fired a shot over his head that tore through the improvised white flag. He froze. Calmly dropped the RPG and raised his arms.
“We’re hostages from the plant…Expats, Americans…”
The Nigerian soldiers approached, fear in their eyes, waving their rifles, shouting, “Ala! Ala! Onye o bula ala! Onye a bula n’ime ala!” (Down! Down! Everyone down to the ground!)
As Crocker went to his knees, he pointed behind him and said, “We’re expats from the gas plant…There are more behind me. Peace!”
Tiny sat with his back against the wall of the lobby of expat dorm Building A, counting the minutes and hours in his head, and trying to hold back thoughts of torture and death. Many of the roughly twenty hostages in the space with him were asleep. Some moaned, some wept, some occasionally called out for water or use of the metal pail that served as a toilet.
Tiny was determined to stay alert to every sound, smell, movement, or shift in the mood of the terrorists. They seemed to have grown weary, too. He saw the strain on their faces. The doubt in their eyes.
What are they thinking? What have their leaders planned?
The pace of new hostages being dragged in had lessened to a trickle.
The last had been a tiny blond woman with a badly swollen ankle. She sat at a right angle to him with her back against a planter. Her head was cast down so that her hair covered her face. Couldn’t tell whether she was conscious.
A metal door slammed behind him. Turning, he saw two terrorists dressed as soldiers dragging a very large man. The only thing he had on was a pair of blood-covered shorts.
Poor guy got the shit kicked out of him…
The man’s body was covered with bruises and his chin hung to his chest. The terrorists dragged him to a wall on the left side of the room, and let him go. And when they did, the prisoner’s head snapped up, and Tiny saw that the swollen face belonged to Mancini. He was immediately filled with rage.
Motherfuckers! Savage…fucks!
He had to grit his teeth to keep from shouting. The anger brought such a surge of energy that he imagined he could burst free of the chains. Reason quickly reminded him he couldn’t.
So many emotions clashed inside him—anger, frustration, hopelessness, indignation.
Saw that his teammate’s eyes had rolled back into his head, but his ribs were moving, indicating he was still alive.
Somehow…some way, he said to Mancini in his head, imagining he could communicate with him telepathically. I’m gonna get us out of here. And you and I are gonna liberate everyone and defeat these motherfuckers. So help me God!
It took approximately two hours for the expats who had escaped to be processed and bused to nearby hotels, and the wounded to be treated at clinics and hospitals. Crocker and Akil had turned down the offer of showers, beds, and hot meals. Their minds were still focused on the hostages at Utorogu.
Wearing the same clothes as before and sipping chicken soup out of cardboard cups, they were driven to the Eagle Mobile Military Command Post where they were greeted by an exhausted-looking Colonel Nwosu.
“Welcome back, gentlemen,” he said. “Your escape is a victory for all people across the world who value justice and freedom. It’s a ray of hope in what has been a long, dark, difficult night.”
First thing Crocker wanted to do was touch base with his command. Now he stood outside under an arbor of plants with white and yellow blossoms as the sun started to rise, talking on a sat phone borrowed from the colonel.
After checking in with the duty officer, Captain Sutter came on the line. “Dammit, Crocker. You really had me worried.”
“Akil and I are safe, sir.”
“Good to hear your voice. How many hostages did you get out?” Sutter asked.
“Twenty-five in all. Most of them expat workers and supervisors. Six are being treated at local hospitals.”
“How bad are the injuries?”
“Mostly gunshot wounds, Captain. None are critical. We lost a number of people in the initial attack. We had to leave their bodies behind.”
“You and Akil okay?”
“No worse for wear, sir. Running on fumes, but we’re good.”
“What about the others…You see Chavez, or know his location?”
“No, sir. I haven’t seen him since the raid last night, nor am I aware of his location. I have some clues, but no confirmed sighting.”
“What clues?”
“I did some surveillance before we left, and saw a number of hostages being held in a ground floor room of the main expat dorm. There’s a strong terrorist presence around the two buildings, particularly the one closest to the main gate.”
“That’s north, correct?”
“Yes, sir. It’s called Building A.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but we’ve been in contact with Mancini and CT.”
Crocker took a moment to compose himself. “That’s a huge relief, sir. They’re okay?”
“Mancini is hiding in a ceiling of one of the expat dorms, and CT is holed up in an office in the Company Town.”
He didn’t know his information about Mancini was outdated and incorrect.
“I’m very glad to hear that, sir,” Crocker responded. “Text me the numbers they’re calling from and I’ll check in with them as soon as I can.”
“Consider it done.”
Crocker had a lot on his mind. “Sir…I just learned the terrorists have established a deadline of midnight tonight. What’s going on in terms of negotiations?”
“There’s been no further contact between the terrorists
and the Nigerian government. As far as we know the two sides aren’t talking.”
“That’s bad news, sir. Very bad…”
“We haven’t been briefed by Gulf Oil in terms of talks they’re engaged in…Overall it’s extremely frustrating, and it doesn’t seem as though our government has much influence. The White House and State Department are lobbying Nigerian officials. I know that they’ve sent the deputy director of the NSC to Abuja. He should be there now. Other countries are applying pressure. Japan, France, the UK, Norway…But none of them seem to have made headway, as far as I know.”
“I’m disappointed. Extremely disappointed. Many lives are still at stake.”
“I know that, Crocker. Not to mention a several-hundred-million-dollar natural gas operation. But the terrorists have made their demands, and the Nigerian government has their reasons for not conceding. We’d probably do the same under similar conditions.”
Crocker glanced at his watch. “According to what I just heard we’re looking at a deadline that’s about twelve hours away.”
“That’s correct. Midnight.”
“Something has to be done to save the people inside.”
“That’s not up to us, Crocker. I hope you understand that. The Nigerians are sensitive to any kind of foreign intervention. They’re also one of the top oil and gas producers in the world.”
“You think I give a fuck about that?”
“Crocker!”
He gathered himself. “Sir, I’m with Colonel Nwosu now. I’m gonna debrief him and offer our services. Then I’ll get back to you.”
“I hope we understand each other, Crocker. Let’s be absolutely clear on this…You’re not to take any action on your own. Do you hear?”
“I hear you, sir.”
“You’re not to launch any kind of rescue operation into the plant without Nigerian government and White House approval.”
“Colonel Nwosu is waiting.”
