by Don Mann
Chase said, “We need you and the lady to hold the fort, while we scurry up the right.”
“You cool with that?”
CT saw that the right embankment would give them a better vantage. “Go for it, bros.”
The Brits tore off, running down the steps. Once the big gun was in range it started firing. Tore up the fixtures and wall behind him, showering dust and glass over his head and shoulders. Sally came hobbling out with her rifle.
“Down! Get down, all the way to your belly.”
CT knew that if terrorists regained the control room, the entire mission and compound were in jeopardy. And if they hit the plant with a missile, they’d all be blown to hell.
Through a drainage slit at the base of the wall he made out the silhouettes of the Brits climbing up the embankment on their hands and knees, M2010 sniper rifles slung over their backs.
In his mind, he urged them to move faster. Understanding that they needed cover, he squirmed on his stomach to the first step, lined up the technical between the three dots of his Trijicon night sight, and squeezed the trigger.
Managed to knock out one of the headlights at forty meters. The truck skidded to a thirty-degree angle and stopped. Then the big gun started up again.
Sally shouted, “What do you want me to do?”
“Stay down. Take out anyone approaching the fence.”
He was already halfway through the thirty-round mag, and had one more in his back pocket.
Bam-bam-bam…
The 12.7x108mm rounds were so powerful they were ripping through the wall. CT scurried to the bottom of the steps, saw the Brits prone to his right, then the pft, pft, pft of their sniper guns, followed by shattering of glass. The DShK went silent.
Brilliant!
A small moment of triumph, then a strong light from the technical lit up the incline and the half-dozen terrorists opened up on the Brits.
Run!
The Brits were exposed and dashing for cover. He saw a bullet rip into the back of Pete’s leg. He stopped. Chase turned back to help him. Then the DShK started up again.
CT raised his head above the wall and fired, aiming at the side of the Toyota Hilux, praying one of his bullets would find the gas tank. Ran through the mag in his rifle. Ducked down, removed the spent mag, and slammed in his last. Moved right and came up shooting again.
Didn’t see the two terrorists who had entered the fence to his left. A bullet tore into the skin behind his left hip, and he kept focus, aiming and firing. Hit the jihadist behind the big gun, then saw the first flicker of flame.
“Sally! Left!”
Another round glanced off his AR, and tore a ribbon into his right forearm. The weapon jammed.
Sally was unloading at the terrorists less than ten meters away.
They screamed “Allahu Akbar!” and returned fire. It was hell with terrorists closing in, and CT reaching for his pistol, only to find that his right arm had lost strength because the bullet had torn into his extensor muscles.
Heard Chase shout, “Bloody bastards!”
Then a flash from the truck and a split-second later, the deafening boom of the vehicle’s gas tank exploding.
Rounds from Crocker’s MP5N raked the tallest of the terrorists across the chest. Saw a weird look of satisfaction as he folded to the floor. Was processing dozens of impressions when a second man screamed from the cloud of smoke and dust to his right, and came at him shrouded in white powder, firing a pistol. Two rounds embedded in Crocker’s armored vest and knocked him back.
He stumbled, and held himself up against the wall to keep from falling. His finger had never felt the trigger of the MP5N, and now he squeezed off a salvo at eight hundred rounds a minute, cutting the terrorist’s legs out from under him. Completely shredded his knees so that he collapsed in a heap and writhed in agony.
The room spun off-kilter. Crocker needed a few seconds to steady himself. Heard movement and shattering glass, and saw a third man crash through the window.
Where the fuck did he come from?
Screaming, blood dripping down his arm and chest, Crocker climbed out after him.
Festus Ratty was already halfway up the embankment and a third of the way to the port-o-cabins. Half conscious, his brain in a muddle, he wasn’t thinking about how the infidels had betrayed them or whether Umar Amine and Abu Abbas were dead.
As he ran, he imagined the shock he was about to bring to the world, and remembered the lyrics from his boy Vector: “I’m gonna spray to the end of the game…Kill everything in my way.”
He imagined he was starring in his own music video, gun in hand and every inch the gangster, creating space between himself and the big man behind him.
“Turn a body to a spirit…I’m sick dope enough to go against the world…”
Crocker aimed at the dark shape near Cabin 3 and squeezed the trigger only to realize that he was out of ammo. Threw the MP5 aside and reached for the Glock in his waistband.
Where the fuck did he go?
Acrid smoke from the smoldering technical thirty meters away burned his eyes. Heard the diminutive terrorist laughing like a hyena and hit the ground. Bullets sailed over his head and tore into the side of Building A behind him.
It wasn’t hard to intuit what the jihadist was planning to do next—set off the barrels of explosives Crocker had spotted previously between Cabins 3 and 2. He knew they contained more than enough firepower to obliterate them both and probably level Building A, as well.
No time to call for help, or wait to catch his breath even though he felt his body running out of energy, probably from the loss of blood.
Saw a dark shape move around the back of Cabin 3. Maneuvered with such fluidity that he thought it was a large animal at first. Willed himself up to his feet. Legs wobbling, he moved as fast as his body would take him across the gap between the two prefab structures, pistol in his right, his chest heaving and burning. Couldn’t find the terrorist in the golden glow of the burning technical.
Where is he now?
Rubbed his eyes, blinked, and spotted a figure in a half crouch near the barrels at the side of Cabin 2.
No…
He raised the Glock and squeezed off a volley of shots, but his hand was shaking so hard they sailed over the terrorist’s head. The click of the empty chamber made him realize he was out of rounds again.
Festus Ratty took a moment to look up at the sky and locate the brightest star he could find—Sirius, aka Canis Majoris.
He called out loud, “Allah knows best!” and removed the grenade from his belt.
Crocker saw a strange blue light issue from the jihadist’s hand. Alarmed and fascinated, he watched the jihadist hold up the grenade for him to see, his face and the grenade bathed in blue light as a final, eerie “fuck you.”
Winced when the jihadist, grinning ear to ear, pulled the pin. Knew he could never cross the four-and-a-half-meter gap in time. Not at the rate he was dragging his body, the SOP knife in his right.
He was within three meters when someone fired and hit Festus Ratty from behind. Crocker saw the terrorist drop the grenade and stumble forward. And the oh shit look on his face as he fell on top of it.
Akil shouted, “Boss, hug the ground!”
He used the split second before it exploded to throw himself belly to grass and cover his head with his hands. The blast lifted Crocker three inches off the ground, but the sound wasn’t as sharp and painful as he expected.
Holding his breath, he waited for a bigger explosion from the barrels. Instead, clumps of Festus Ratty’s body spattered his back and pieces of shrapnel punctured his arms.
He sighed “thanks” to the heavens.
And passed out.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“What you give you get ten times over.”
—Yoruba proverb
Crocker came to propped against the front wall of expat dorm Building A, a bandage around his left shoulder, an IV drip in his right forearm, his face wiped clear, but
blood and tissue still clinging to his T-shirt and pants. He peeled off the former and tossed it aside.
It appeared as though he’d missed the mop-up operation, the arrival of Nigerian army troops and ambulances, and the landing of medical helicopters. Made him wonder for a moment if the last several hours had been a nightmare.
He was still coming down from the high of the excitement, questioning what it all meant, how many hostages had been rescued, if any of the jihadists had escaped, and what he had to do now.
Akil’s deep voice nearby was easy to hear. “Wait, Saliha…The thing is…I still want to see you later.”
“After everything that’s happened?”
“Yes.”
“Seriously? You need to get your nose and the rest of your head looked at.”
Crocker located the couple near an ambulance a few meters away. Remembered Saliha leaving the compound with them the night before, and realized that the remarkable woman must have returned with the medical trauma team. Saw her hand him an instant cold pack, and watched Akil squeeze it, popping the water pouch so that it mixed with aluminum nitrate inside.
Holding the cold pack to his swollen nose, Akil asked, “You still dig me, right?”
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
“So you’ll see me later?”
“I’ve got work to do. I’ll text you.”
“Cool, babe. I’ll wait.”
Their conversation brought a smile to Crocker’s face. Some things never changed.
He experienced everything from inside the bubble of his own sense of mission success. They had rescued the hostages, and saved the plant. Didn’t care that the Nigerians were taking all the credit, or that reporters had gotten it wrong, or his left triceps burned, or his chest hurt, or every muscle in his body ached.
Did care that some of his men were hurt, Mancini most notably. Mancini and Tiny had already been medevaced to Ramstein.
He had just called Germany from Yola. Word from the medical staff was that both men were being treated and were out of critical danger.
Now he watched as CT pulled on a clean T-shirt and examined himself in the mirror.
“I thought you got shot in the ass,” Crocker said.
“Technically known as the gluteus medius and gluteus maximus. Yes.”
“How’s that going?”
CT gently patted the bandage over the gunshot wound. “Sore, but functional. I’m probably gonna be spending a lot of time on my feet.”
The room they were in was filled with bouquets and stuffed animals from well-wishers. A big pink bear sat in the corner next to Akil’s bunk.
CT said, “I’m going into town to meet up with some of the folks. You coming?”
“Which folks?”
“Some of the locals and expats we met inside.”
“Sally gonna be there?”
“Sally, Saliha, Greenway, Knutsen, Reg, et cetera.”
“Akil?”
“You know it.”
He wondered if Zoe would be there, too. “Where?”
“The Babz Lounge. It’s on Ahmadu Bello Road. We’ve reserved the entire patio for the afternoon and evening.”
“Sweet.”
Life-and-death situations drew the humanity out of people and brought them together.
“You gonna join us?”
“Later, yes. I’ve got a couple things to take care of first.”
He sat alone staring at his laptop, staving away the emotional void that followed difficult missions, and thinking of who to call via Skype when the secure Iridium Extreme 9575 sat phone rang.
“Crocker, it’s Les at ST-6 HQ. The captain wants to speak to you.”
“I’m secure. Go ahead.”
It was the first time the two men had talked since the raid.
“Crocker?”
“Captain.”
“You in one piece?”
“I’m alive, sir.”
“And mentally?”
“About sixty percent. What’s up?”
“I’ve been hearing all kinds of remarkable reports out of Nigeria. Sounds like someone took some serious risks and saved the hostages and the gas plant.”
“I’m hearing the same, Captain.”
“I’m not even going to ask you what your specific role was. I’m assuming you were supporting Nigerian Special Forces per your rules of engagement.”
“That’s my understanding, sir.”
Sutter guffawed. He still had a sense of humor. “I’m assuming you were inside the wire, and that’s where your men were injured.”
“If you’re referring to Mancini and Chavez, that’s correct. As hostages they were badly abused by the terrorists. They’ve already been medevaced to Ramstein, and the doctors say they’re out of danger.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. So overall would you call the training mission a success?”
“I would, sir. A number of very positive things have come out of it, including increased operational awareness and confidence, and force-to-force cooperation.”
“In other words, Colonel Nwosu is covering your ass?”
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Captain.”
“Whatever role you played, congrats. The command and the White House are pleased, which lets you off the hook.”
“That’s exactly where I prefer to be, sir.”
“I’m assuming you, CT, and Akil are at the Yola base now.”
“That’s an affirmative, sir.”
“Then I’m ordering the three of you to return to home as soon as you get your gear together. Corporal Timmons will arrange your travel.”
“Copy, captain. Mission accomplished.”
“Mission accomplished, and report to my office upon your return.”
First he had the 72 AFSF driver take him to the market where he purchased colorful glass bead necklaces and bracelets, and geles for Jenny, Cyndi, Cyndi’s daughter, Amy, and Manuela, and carved-wood bead-and-ivory bracelets for Jenny’s boyfriend, Bogart, and Manuela’s son, Nash.
Then he directed the driver to the Government Girls’ School in Yola. His left arm in a sling and carrying a large bouquet of lilies, he told the guard that he wanted to see a student named Chichima Okore.
“That’s not possible,” the guard answered, “unless you have the director’s permission.”
Now he stood opposite the school’s assistant director, Mr. Obindu, as the afternoon sun bore down hard on his head and shoulders. Mr. Obindu explained that the Sambisa girls weren’t allowed visitors and were being guarded from the public.
“Maybe you can return in two weeks, when they’ve had time to adjust to their new circumstances.”
“I’m leaving tomorrow.”
“Then I’m sorry, sir.”
Crocker didn’t want to be rude, but he wasn’t going to be deterred, either.
“Can you make an exception? All I want to do is say goodbye before I leave for the States.”
“My apologies. It’s not permitted at this time.”
Crocker took a deep breath. “Do I have to put Colonel Nwosu on the phone, and get him involved in this?”
“The colonel is an acquaintance of yours, sir?”
“We’re colleagues. We work together.”
Mr. Obindu nodded to the guard, who unlocked the gate and let him in.
He sat waiting in the lobby of the modern-looking building studying photographs of Nigerian farmworkers. The faces were amazing, he thought, filled with strength, beauty, and light.
He’d decided he wanted to return to Nigeria someday as a civilian, maybe in the company of Cyndi or Manuela, and explore the rest of the country.
He was imagining what sights he’d like to see, when a woman entered and led him to a small classroom. Chichima sat waiting, wearing a blue and white school uniform. Her face lit up when she recognized him.
They embraced and he handed her the bouquet of orange and white lilies.
“Thank you, Mr. Crocker. They’re
so beautiful, and it’s good to see you again.”
“I wanted to stop by before I leave Nigeria and see how you’re doing.”
“Better,” she nodded. “Every day…gets easier. But they treat me like some kind of delicate object. And I’m not that, you know.”
“No, you’re not.” Crocker compared the bright-eyed teenager to the mud-covered girl he had first encountered. The change was remarkable. “Be patient. Experience is everything. People think they know, but they don’t understand. You’re a strong young woman with a whole life in front of you.”
“Thank you,” she gushed, emotion building up inside her. “I owe you so much.”
“You’ve already repaid me, Chichima. What you did the other night was instrumental in saving those people at the Utorogu gas plant.”
“Me? You mean my blog post and the millions of likes it got?”
He leaned closer under the watchful eye of the teacher at the door.
“What you did on social media convinced the Nigerian authorities to allow us to raid the plant, which led to the freeing of the hostages.”
She gasped. “Really? You did that? You saved those people like you saved me and my friends?”
“I’m not here to talk about myself…It was you, Chichima, and the power of your words that gave us the opportunity in the first place.”
“No.”
“Yes. You spoke and millions of people responded. You did that, Chichima. Your conviction and your voice moved your fellow Nigerians. The reaction to your post had a profound effect.”
Tears gathered in her eyes, and her voice quivered. “Are you sure it convinced the authorities?”
He took her hands in his. “It did. Yes.”
“Mr. Crocker, thank you. Thank you so much. You have restored my faith…in humanity.”
“Chichima, I know you suffered. But you’re strong…and you made it through. Believe in yourself and the lessons you learned. Your strength and wisdom can change the world.”
Acknowledgments
