Task Force Desperate (3 page)

“What civilian jobs?” Jim growled. “Ain’t much of that action going around these days.” Jim was the oldest member of Praetorian Security, except for maybe the Colonel. Like the Colonel, he was retired, having left Special Forces after twenty-one years. He and Alek knew each other from crossing paths a couple of times in Afghanistan and Libya. When he had found himself unable to support his wife and daughter in the civilian world, and on a meager military pension, he had come to Alek, and joined our little mercenary start-up.

“And on that little point of light and happiness, I’m going to go hope for a few pirates to shoot in the face,” Matt said, as he left the compartment.

I was already finished packing, so I slung my ruck over my shoulders, grabbed my kit and rifle, and followed Alek down to the deck. We worked our way around to the stern, where we had somewhat disrupted the regulated safety features of the ship.

The
Lynch
was a bulk carrier, and subject to the laundry list of safety regulations (that seemed to get longer every year) for such ships under the US flag. Many of these regulations concerned the stowage, readiness, and deployment of the lifeboats. Most of them carried hefty fines for violating them, i.e., doing anything with the lifeboats aside from getting in them and launching them (by the federally-approved launching checklist, of course).

That being said, there weren’t any federal inspectors out here in the Gulf of Aden. We had in fact taken the lifeboats out of their cradles, and stacked them on the fantail. The cradles were now taken up with some of our special cargo.

The military calls the Zodiac F470 the Combat Rubber Raiding Craft. We always just called it the Zodiac, or Zode. We had two of them, with compact outboards, now loaded on the lifeboat cradles. I looked at them skeptically. The cradles were designed to effectively drop the boats straight off the fantail and into the water. I did not want to make that ride, especially not with weapon and ruck, and I said as much.

“We’ll drop the boats first, then follow by ladder,” Alek explained, as he snap-linked his ruck to the lines on the inside of the boat. “Believe me, I have no more interest than you in dropping twenty feet in a Zode.”

Together, we continued to prep the boats, checking broaching lines, deck plates, sked tubes, and inflation valves. We made sure the fuel bladders were secured, the fuel lines unhindered, and the safety lines on the engines themselves were secured. Then we added extra safeties for the engines. None of us wanted to get dropped twenty, twenty-five nautical miles out at sea, just to have to paddle in. Add to that the fact that a lost engine was going to come out of the responsible boat team’s pay, and there was plenty of incentive to make damned good and sure that the outboards stayed attached when the boats hit the water.

The rest of the team gathered on the fantail with their gear as we worked, staging their stuff and setting to work to help out. Soon enough all the rucks were loaded and secured, the engines had been checked, and we were getting our on-person gear set and checked. Cammies, flotation, weapons, ammo, comm, fins, and survival kits all had to be double-checked.

Everyone was quiet. It wasn’t nervousness, not really. We had all been through some scary shit, lived to tell about it, and buried more than a few who hadn’t. We were past nervousness, at least mostly. No, this was simply a time of mental preparation for whatever shitstorm we were about to wade into. Some called it “getting your game-face on.” I never called it much of anything. I just went through it, and went to work.

Alek brought everybody together after final checks; we had a time hack, and got set. We swung the lifeboat cradles out over the water, and dropped the boats, Larry and Rodrigo going in right after them. In a lot of ways, it was pretty much the same as a helocast, just jumping off a ship’s deck that was twenty feet above the water, rather than a helicopter’s ramp.

The rest of the team followed, two-by-two. I was in the third pair, and stepped to the edge, holding on to the muzzle of my rifle with one hand, and my fins with the other. Taking a long step, I plummeted off the deck and into the darkness.

I hit the water feet-first and reasonably vertical. I arrowed down into the warm brine, slowed, and kicked to the surface. I didn’t waste any time getting my fins on and kicking out for the boat. Sure, the water was nice and warm, but the Gulf of Aden is home to quite a population of sharks. I’d seen plenty from the ship while on watch, and now I couldn’t see anything underwater, which did make me a little anxious to get out. Yeah, I know, not nervous about going into enemy territory, but nervous about sharks. Go figure.

It was an easy thirty-meter swim to the boat, where Larry already had the engine in the water, and was yanking on the pull cord. It caught and rumbled to life as I caught hold of the handholds on the side of the gunwale, and pulled myself aboard. Jim was already on the starboard gunwale, pulling his fins off and clipping them to his UDT vest. Once I got a leg slung over, I pulled myself the rest of the way in and followed suit.

If any of this is sounding familiar to you current and former amphibious types, that’s because, well, it should. We deliberately got the same model Zodiac as the CRRC, and used all the same procedures, for one reason: it was easy. Most of us had already trained on the Zodes while we were in, so it made it simpler to just use as close to the same equipment and procedures. Why fix what ain’t broke?

It took only a few minutes for the rest of the team to board the boats, and get situated. I moved up to the bow, along with Jim. I don’t know if Jim was bothered by having to be a one-man, but I was. I didn’t bother to bitch about it, but I settled in for an uncomfortable ride, as Nick settled himself behind me, half on my back.

I adjusted my NVGs, pushing them a little higher so that I could look up past the rim of my FAST helmet, and see. There wasn’t much to see, granted. The coast was still over the horizon, and there wasn’t much shipping around here, a sign of how far things had fallen. Before what the pundits were calling the Greater Depression had started, there would have been a steady stream of ships coming and going through the Gulf of Aden, going to and from the Suez Canal. Now there was only a trickle.

We skimmed the swells, while Jim and I bounced off the gunwale with every jolt. That’s why being the one-man in a Zode sucks. Unless the water is glass-calm, you just get hammered. Stomach, ribs, nuts, everything. When it’s an over-the-horizon run, you can count on plenty of pain for a long time.

After what felt like an eternity, though, I started to be able to see the coast. It took me a second to clear my head of the fuzz brought on by over three hours of darkness and thumping, and I took a better look. We were closer than I’d thought, maybe two thousand meters. There wasn’t a lot of high ground on the Djibouti coast, apparently. There were some lights to the east; that would be Loyada, the town built around the border crossing between Djibouti and Somaliland, if town you could call it. The imagery looked pretty sparse. We could see the glow over the horizon to the west from Djibouti City itself, but we weren’t going there just yet.

Larry throttled back, and we slowed further, the bow of the boat sinking down to water-level. Just off the port side, Rodrigo’s boat did the same. We started re-situating ourselves on the gunwales, as Jim and I sat up and started putting our fins back on.

As much as I did not relish getting back in the dark water full of tiger and bull sharks, I was one of if not the best swimmer on the team. Jim was also up there, which some found surprising, since he’d been a Green Beanie rather than Recon or SEAL. He’s also built like a brick shithouse, and at first glance everybody figures he’d sink like a rock. All that notwithstanding, he beats me on timed fins half the time.

Once we were set, we both gave Larry the OK, and rolled backward into the water. Larry had put the engine into reverse, so that we weren’t in danger of getting run over while we got our shit together in the water.

Jim and I swam to within an arm’s length of each other, then lined up with the shore and started kicking out. We weren’t as stealthy as we might like; we were kicking up quite a bit of bioluminescence. I tried not to think about being a glow-in-the-dark shark lure for pretty much the whole seven hundred meter swim to the shore.

There was no surf zone; the beach was just there. Jim and I drifted in until we could crouch on the bottom, with our heads just above the surface, and scan the beach. I pulled the waterproof bag from around my neck and pulled out my NVGs.

We were just to the southeast of an inlet, or maybe the mouth of an intermittent river. The beach itself appeared sandy and empty. The hinterland looked to be peppered with acacia trees and leafy scrub bushes. And there was something else. As I scanned, I saw several vehicles under one particularly tall and wide acacia, glowing with heat but showing no lights. It looked like three SUVs and what I thought was probably a 3-ton cargo truck. I tapped Jim, and pointed, barely pulling my hand above the surface of the water. Even as I did, a light glimmered from the bed of the cargo truck.

It was IR; I couldn’t see it with my unaided eye. It flashed three times. That would be Caleb. I reached up and triggered the illuminator on the NVGs twice, and got a single flash in reply. The support team was on site, and had the beach secure. The two of us came up out of the water and moved toward the trucks. Jim slid his Mk 17 out of a waterproof sleeve as he cleared the water, while I just drained the water from the barrel of my M1A. I had treated my rifle to hold off rust for a long, long time.

We walked in a low crouch, weapons at the low ready, staying close together, as we moved up the beach to the trucks. The recognition signal had been correct, but none of us were alive from a lack of paranoia. I relaxed a little when I saw Caleb’s unmistakable huge head next to the 3-ton.

“How’s the water?” he whispered, as we came up and took a knee next to the front driver’s side tire.

“Nice and warm,” I replied. “We good here?”

“Yeah, nobody around, and the Foreign Legion guys are concentrating on the area around the airport right now. We need to get moving, though.” He checked his watch, sheltering the Indiglo between his body and the truck. “Sun’s up in about two hours, and we’ve got to get those boats hidden.”

If you’re wondering why we were being so sneaky going in, well, when you’re effectively invading a foreign country, it helps to not walk in the front door, at least not with your entire armory of high-powered rifles and explosives. We weren’t interested in dealing with the red tape. We didn’t have time. I turned on my radio and called out to the boats. “Coconut, this is Hillbilly. We have linked up with Monkey. All clear, come ahead.”

“
Roger. Oscar Mike.
” It took a few minutes, but soon we could just hear the drone of the outboards. The boats themselves showed up quite well, with eight guys and two outboard motors providing plenty of heat. Jim and I helped guide the cargo truck down to the beach, while the rest of Caleb’s reduced team held security. Larry and Rodrigo brought their boats in to smooth landings on the beach, the rest of the guys jumping out as the water got about knee deep. The engines came up, and the lot of us set to getting the boats off the beach and into the back of the truck.

This was a bit complicated in the dark; we had to dismount the engines and the fuel bladders, and stack them in the front of the truck bed, then pick up the boats and load them in one at a time. It was backbreaking work, but it beat digging holes to cache the boats in on the beach, where somebody might accidentally find them anyway. I’d done that while I was still in the Marine Corps, and was plenty happy not to do it again. Once everything was on the truck and secured, we threw a tarp over it and tied it down, to hopefully conceal the fact that it was carrying two military-grade raiding craft.

We walked over to the line of three SUVs, facing the road, where Caleb had a kitbag full of dry clothes for us, and we quickly shucked out of our still soaked cammies, and changed into dry khakis and short-sleeved shirts. It looked like Caleb had gotten some pretty good wheels; two Range Rovers and a ’90s Defender. The gear would have to be dried out, but for now was bagged and put in the back of the SUVs, along with our rifles, now cased. Pistols came out of rucks and were strapped on and covered. Comms were shut off before being put away. Finally, everything was loaded, and we got ready to move.

Caleb walked up to Alek and me, with a map in his hand, and set it on the hood of the Defender. He pulled out a tiny button light and a GPS. “We rented a warehouse, for lack of a better term, here, near the port.” He pointed to a spot on the map, not far from the ocean, and across from what looked like a school. “The cover is an international aid organization on a fact-finding tour for the moment, so that’s going to be part of our support role; going around being obnoxious and patronizing as we ask poor people how poor they are. So far we’ve had surprisingly little trouble with the cops looking for kickbacks--nothing we can’t handle. But there are checkpoints, especially after what just went down, so pick your routes carefully. I’ll be leaving in one of the Range Rovers, with the 3-ton following me.” He looked at Alek, in the dim green glow of the light. “I’d suggest spacing at least ten minutes apart, and taking different routes. The warehouse is here…” He read a map grid off, and we copied it carefully. “Be advised, there are some Foreign Legion troops in the city, cooperating with the army, what’s left of it. Aside from the obvious terrorist activity, there’s been some new unrest among the Afar, especially with all the Issas coming from Somalia. It’s a little touchy around here right now.”

Alek nodded. “We don’t want to tangle with the Legionnaires; that entire brigade will likely come down around our ears if we do. Plus, they’re not the enemy.”

“At the moment,” Caleb answered. “The French government is kind of shaky on the whole jihadi thing these days.”

“The Legion’s ultimate loyalty is to the Legion,” Jim pointed out. “Best to steer clear of them in any case.”