by Don Mann
It was 2347 and CT had moved to another office down the hall, which afforded him a view of the gas burn-off towers. He carried the satellite phone and was followed by Sally. Both were armed with AR-15s.
Crocker spoke calmly over the phone. “What do you see?”
“I see the burn-off flames are still burning. And I can see two armed terrorists standing guard on a concrete wall outside the control room.”
“Only two? Are you sure?”
“Yes, that’s all I can see. Two.”
“Any technicals or other terrorists nearby?”
“The technicals moved north about ten minutes ago.”
“Perfect. Hurry back to your hiding place and call me as soon as you get back.”
Three minutes later, CT called from the office in 50 Main.
Crocker got right to it. “CT, this is a review of what is about to happen…In a few minutes the burn-off flames will go out when the central gas-fed pipeline is turned off. Seconds later, one or more terrorists will leave the control room and two British snipers are going to take them out as well as any guards in the vicinity. Then you and the two Brits will make a mad dash for the control room.”
Crocker didn’t explain that the gas was being turned off by the jihadists according to the terms of the agreement they had reached with Gulf Oil. He was adhering to need-to-know.
CT said, “Got it, boss. The two Brits will know I’m coming?”
“They’ve been briefly about you, yes.”
“I will have a volunteer with me. An Irish woman named Sally. The third person with us has elected to stay here.”
“Sally know what she’s getting herself involved in?”
“I believe so.”
“She know how to handle a gun?”
“She does.”
“Then thank her for me. And make sure you carry the sat phone. The second you reach the control room, call me. Cell phones won’t be working.”
“Will do.”
“Hold the control room and don’t move until we get there. We’re hitting the other end of the plant first, so it might take time.”
“Godspeed, boss.”
“Godspeed.”
Tiny was trying to stay focused in spite of the nervous exhaustion and thirst that were messing with his head. The amalgam of signs the last fifteen minutes had raised set off all kinds of alarms. First the shouts of Alluhu Akbar, and the terrorists high-fiving one another in celebration, then the nauseating smile of triumph on Pinche’s face.
He had wanted to see them as a positive development that would lead to their release. But whatever hope he had was quickly dashed by more kicks, punches, and slaps from the terrorists, who were now dragging the American and European hostages—Zoe, Berit, Mancini, and others—to the front of the room. Some of them appeared barely alive.
He was next.
“Where are you taking us?” he asked Pinche, who stood over him.
“Disneyland…” the terrorist answered, pulling him by the ear.
Outside on the driveway, Pinche held him, while Coñazo removed the C4 collar from around Tiny’s neck.
“You treat your wife this way, too?”
Another punch to the face and more stars circling in his head. And when he saw clearly again, he realized he was being dragged toward one of the trucks where more armed men were waiting. Beyond his right shoulder other terrorists were using hand trucks to move barrels of what he assumed were gasoline or explosives into the building. There were more than a dozen hostages still inside.
Are they going to blow it up and kill the rest of the people inside?
It didn’t make sense.
What about us? Where are they taking us?
Things were happening so fast it was hard for Tiny’s brain to keep up. Saw Mancini, still bare-chested and swollen, being dragged to the back of one of the technicals. Zoe and the little blond woman with the swollen ankle followed. Both looked to be in varying states of shock.
They don’t deserve this…
He so badly wanted to stop one of the terrorists and ask for an explanation. Two jihadists he’d never seen before picked him up from under his arms and carried him past the driveway to a grassy patch in front of the building and before the road that ran along the fence. Another woman and a man with longish blond hair joined him.
The night air caressed his face. Birds cawed in the distance.
Tiny turned to the man on his left, and whispered, “You have any idea why they put us here?”
The man’s eyes never stopped staring at the ground. Tiny got the impression that he was afraid to answer.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“You must act as though it is impossible to fail.”
—African proverb
At 2352, CT watched through the 50 Main windows as the twin burn-off flames shut off. He stood and, squinting through the shadows around Sally’s face, said, “Wait here with Paul.”
“Hell with that…I’m coming with you.”
Outside, everything had turned dark, which caused him concern at first, because he couldn’t locate the Brit snipers. A heartbeat later he heard suppressed sniper shots, and figured the guns were equipped with night-vision scopes. Gave him hope.
We can pull this off…I know we can…Crocker thinks of everything.
He was halfway down the grassy embankment to the fence that separated the gas processing facility from the rest of the compound, when he realized that he hadn’t been on his feet for almost twenty-four hours. A second later, his legs gave out and he fell and tumbled three or four meters until he crashed into the fence. Knocked the air out of him.
Sally helped him up.
Before he could whisper “thanks,” he saw sparks flying out of the barrel of a gun close by and pulled her down with him onto the ground. Prayed the shooters were friendly.
Took a deep breath, and somehow managed his way over the fence and up a set of concrete steps. Stepped around a body, then realized he’d dropped the sat phone near the fence. Six feet from the entrance, he was about to turn back, when he saw a flash directly in front of him, and heard Sally grunt in pain.
Still only partially conscious and with no time to raise his rifle, he flung himself at the dark shape that was shooting. Caught him just below the waist the way his high school coach had taught him. His body moving automatically, he spun, locked his massive right forearm around his neck, and squeezed hard.
Heard the crack of the jihadist’s thorax, pushed the limp body away, and looked for Sally. Saw shapes against an instrument panel in the dark room ahead, and Sally, on her knees, leaning against the right side of the door.
Whispered, “What happened?”
Sally whispered back, “Duck,” and lifted the AR-15 and fired past his ear to someone in the darkest part of the room.
He heard a man groan. Then flashlight beams crisscrossed the floor and lit up the faces of two frightened-looking engineers, their faces covered with several days’ growth of beard.
“Don’t shoot…Please,” he said with a Scandinavian accent.
Heard someone with an East London accent ask, “We okay here?”
“I think so…Yeah.”
Hands helped him up. Saw Sally behind him still leaning against the door. A big man with a sniper rifle was holding her up.
As he caught his breath, CT asked, “You okay?”
“Got hit near the elbow,” answered Sally. “I’ll live.”
“Let me see.”
Saw that it was a pass through just below the joint. Removed his belt and used it as a tourniquet.
Then he remembered and said, “Wait here. I’ve got to get the phone.”
Soon as Akil received the radio call from Crocker, he gunned the yellow school bus the Nigerians had provided down the road to the gate. Stopped inches away, high beams on, motor running. Two surprised terrorists in Nigerian military uniforms hurried to the driver’s-side window, poking their AKs in his face and chest, shouted:
“Puo!” (
Get out!) “Kedu ihe i choro?” (What do you want?) “Aka elu!” (Hands up!)
He did as they said, and spoke back in Arabic. Threw in some Allahu Akbars every so often.
The jihadists seemed confused not only by his speech, but also by the fact that he looked Middle Eastern and was dressed in black and wore a black bandana around his head.
One of them pressed an AK into Akil’s chest, while the other reached for his handheld radio. Neither of them saw the two Brits who had snuck out of the back emergency door of the bus and now took them down with suppressed fire from their MP5s.
Nor did they know that concealed under one of the bus seats was a very high-powered cell and radio jammer with a range of three hundred meters, which was capable of isolating and jamming signals from all countries.
“Well done,” Akil whispered to the Brits, his face and chest spattered with blood and more blood streaming from his nose.
They pumped more rounds in the terrorists to make sure they were dead. Then one of them pointed at the blood and asked, “That yours or theirs?”
“Both.”
Akil used the bottom of his tee to wipe it away, and retrieved an MP5 with suppressor and RPG from the side storage compartment of the bus.
“I’ve got a date later. Let’s do this quick!”
They scanned the area for more terrorists, then took up positions behind a concrete guard pylon. Saw some technicals speeding toward them.
“Here they come, mate!”
“Hoo-yah!”
Crocker was seventy meters away on the other side of the security fence in back of Building A when he saw the headlights at the gate and gave the order.
“Go!”
Reg and Potter held the wire fences open for Kazumi and Eito. Crocker followed them through the same holes they had exited through the night before.
Sensed then that he’d return, and here he was, flying on adrenaline, hurrying up the loose dirt incline, MP5N in his right hand, RPG slung over his shoulder, grenades, rockets, mags, a Glock, and a sheathed SOP knife tucked into his belt and vest.
He led the way to the back of Building A. In his periphery saw three technicals speeding toward the gate. Stopped and went to his knees, waved the other guys past him. Quickly loaded a rocket into the RPG and aimed for the explosives he had previously seen clustered under the ramp to the dining hall, aided now by the headlights of the first technical speeding toward it.
Hands shaking, the first rocket missed.
Focus, fuckhead…
Took a deep breath and steadied himself. Whoosh!
The second rocket hit inches in front of the barrels, and the resulting explosion ignited the gasoline inside and sent a column of fire rocketing thirty meters into the sky. Spectacular and eerie. Lit the entire north side of the compound and tossed two of the technicals against the far fence, their headlights still on. Seconds later one of them erupted in flames.
Akil, you can thank me later…
Before Crocker realized what he was doing, he was already back on his feet and halfway up the steps at the back of Building A. Ran right past Kazumi and Eito, positioned where they were supposed to be on either side of the door, and almost smacked into two terrorists hurrying out of the building.
One of them pulled his trigger, sprayed a volley of bullets in the floor and walls. The flash burned the right side of Crocker’s face and a ricochet grazed his left triceps. He managed to hold on to his MP5 and knock the terrorist back and off his feet with a suppressed blast directly into his chest. Eito nailed the second one in the neck, blood spurting everywhere. Finished the terrorists off with a Mozambique—two center mass, then one to the head.
“You hit?” Eito whispered.
Both of them panting on either side of him.
“Let’s go…”
He signaled forward, leading the way down the hall toward the ground floor lobby.
The blood kept flowing from Akil’s nose, which he figured was broken. Spit the mess out of his mouth and kept firing at the one technical that continued toward them. His face throbbing, thinking he wouldn’t be doing any kissing later, all he saw was dust and headlights. The 12.7x108mm rounds from the heavy DShK machine gun were tearing up the concrete pylon, making it hard to aim or even raise his head.
Reg had already been blinded by concrete dust to the eyes. Was growling, “Can’t see fuck-all!”
“Stop whining…”
“Bugger off.”
The truck kept bearing down on them. Was so close it was running out of room to maneuver with a guardhouse and other structures to the right. It was either going to crash into the barrier they were hiding behind or veer sharply left.
When it was within five meters, the driver did the latter so abruptly that the gunner in the back bed manning the DShK flew out like a projectile and crashed against the fence. The truck itself spun out of control and flipped over.
Akil growled, “Last man to the dorm pays for drinks!”
Tiny didn’t care that he had shit his pants. What he had witnessed so far had to be the greatest spectacle of his life. First, headlights at the gate, then the three technicals that had been parked in the driveway in front of Building A speeding off. Then the bluish-white trail of rockets launched from behind the dorm, followed by a huge explosion. Now two of the technicals disabled, and one of them burning like a torch by the fence.
It was like watching the coolest action movie imaginable and wanting to jump out of your seat and cheer. But in Tiny’s situation he had his ankles wired together and his wrists chained behind his back.
Scooted to his right to get a better vantage. Now facing Building A at three o’clock. Saw another technical speeding south. Manny and the other dozen hostages looking scared and vulnerable huddled together on the concrete driveway where the terrorists had just left them. More jihadists clambered aboard the two remaining technicals parked between Buildings A and B.
Tiny hoped that whatever force had hit the front gate was big and well-armed, because more enemy firepower was coming at them. He had no idea the attackers consisted of Akil and two Brits.
Then Tiny spotted two figures moving in the dark shadows between Buildings A and B. Couldn’t tell who they were at first, even when the reflection of the fire lit up their faces. Saw them drop to their knees, lift RPGs onto their shoulders, and line up the technicals in their sights.
He almost passed out with excitement. Then realized he was almost directly behind the line of fire. Lowered his head and fell right as rockets hit the trucks and exploded in front of him. Was so hyped up on adrenaline that he was hardly bothered when shards of hot shrapnel burned into his shoulders, neck, and chest.
From the ground, Tiny saw the column of flames and heard terrorists’ screams.
Fucking awesome!
Pushed himself up in a sitting position and beheld what to him was a thing of beauty: the two men with camouflage paint on their faces finishing off panicked jihadists. Then bullets ripping into the grass around him. Farther left, he spotted a crazed terrorist with a burning uniform running toward him, AK blazing.
Fuck this…
Eyes shut tight, every part of his body clenched, he expected a bullet to enter him next. Heard a gun discharge nearby, and bid goodbye to Eleena.
Until we meet again…
Nothing happened. When he found the courage to open his eyes again, spotted an Asian man at the door holding an MP5, and a terrorist face-planted three meters away.
Nix that, sweetheart, I’m coming home!
Crocker burst into the big ground floor room like a bolt of lightning. All the pent-up anger and frustration of the last several days poured forth as he picked out targets. A terrorist kneeling in a corner. A terrorist hiding behind a planter. Another holding a hostage by the hair. Down, down, down!
A jihadist aiming an RPG at one of the barrels near the front of the room. Fired and nearly took his head off. He was pissed, and filled with more ferocious energy than his body could contain.
> Needed to let it out. And didn’t need more than a split-second glance and a sniff to measure the degradation the hostages had suffered. One big one with a gray face looked at him wide-eyed and grinned sideways.
Nodded back. Saw that Kazumi and Eito had already exited out the front.
Brave men.
He heard peals of automatic fire. Then spotted someone leaning out of the office and aiming at Kazumi and Eito’s backs. Before his brain warned him not to, Crocker raised the RPG, and fired across the room still half-filled with stunned hostages. The resulting explosion obliterated the office doorway, the terrorist standing in it, and bit out a section of the wall. Also sent flying a little piece of concrete that landed in his mouth.
Temporarily deaf and half blinded by the dust and smoke, he spit out the concrete and crossed to the office. Entered firing his compact MP5N at moving targets.
CT heard the distant battle from the inside of the control room as he searched the drawers for painkillers. The two Brits—Chase and Pete—kept guard out front while he was served as de facto medic to Sally and the two engineers. She had sustained a minor gunshot wound to her forearm and a sprained knee, and both engineers were suffering from blinding headaches.
No ibuprofen, but he did locate bottles of water in a closet near where the terrorists’ bodies were bleeding out.
He was wondering when he would hear from Crocker when Chase leaned in the entrance, and said, “CT, we need your help.”
“Coming…”
Quickly handed out the water, grabbed his AR-15 and hurried outside. Found Chase and Pete standing behind the concrete wall at the top of the steps watching a pair of headlights approach.
“Friendly?”
“No. Looks like we’ve got unwanted company, mate.”
CT saw the outlines of the big gun in back. Whether it was a DShK or a 50mm, he knew they had no way to stop it. No grenades or RPGs. All they had arms-wise were a couple AR-15 automatics, two M2010 sniper rifles, and pistols.
