Born of War Page 25

  Paul Stewart trembled. He was mentioned by name. It meant that they knew they held a hostage who was the daughter of a leading scientist in the field of infectious diseases.

  “Why did I let her go?” He looked down for a moment.

  “Doctor, what is her condition?” Parker needed to know.

  How much time did they have?

  “He is in the early stages of malaria.” The scientist and physician took over. “My guess is that she has a urinary tract infection that may lead to kidney issues.”

  “So they have some time?” Tola asked.

  “No.” Stewart looked at the frozen screen. “As she becomes weaker, she will be more at risk for the meningitis bacteria. He may as well. They both may have hours and, at best, a few days. If they only had some antibiotics, it could buy some time.”

  Parker looked at Moncrief and then towards Tola.

  “Well, gentlemen, it has been a pleasure serving with you.” Tola extended his hand as they stood in front of the tent. The others had gone their separate ways. “You two are out of here. I can tell our JTAC guy to get you two seats on the next bird.” The Joint Terminal Air Controller ran the coordination of men on the ground and aircraft in support.

  “Yeah.” Parker stood there in thought. Then he asked. “Skipper, how is this going to end?”

  The Marine captain hesitated.

  “Oh, we will get him, yes sir, whether it is today or tomorrow or next week.”

  “But what about her?”

  “I don’t know, sir. We will keep sending out patrols, but I get the sense that with every minute she is getting farther away. And if she gets deep into the bowels of Al Shabaab, extracting her will be a problem.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Parker didn’t say more. He shook hands with Tola, and he and Moncrief headed back towards their tent.

  “You know, it is like painting half of a house.” Gunny Moncrief sat on the end of the bunk putting his clothes into his tactical bag. “Hard to do.”

  Parker packed his own gear and listened as Moncrief continued to rattle on. He pulled out his HK automatic and dropped the clip. He pulled back on the action, making sure that the chamber was empty. The pistol’s barrel extended half an inch farther than the slide. The barrel over the last half inch was threaded like a pipe that could be screwed into a joint or coupler.

  “She seemed nice,” Parker heard Moncrief say.

  “You never met her.”

  “Well, her father is a good man. He saved your life once.”

  “He had to.”

  “He did.” Moncrief pushed on.

  “It would help to have another doctor back here.” Parker said.

  “They have plenty.”

  “He’s the son of a bitch that blew up those kids in Mobile.”

  Parker put the clip back in the pistol, pulled back on the action, and let a round go into the chamber. He reached back into his bag and pulled out a round black tube and began to screw the suppressor onto the end of the barrel.

  “Okay, got it.” He stood up. “There is only one way to do this. Let’s go talk to Tola and see if he is as crazy as you are.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  The sensitive message communications bunker or SCIF, on board the U.S.S. Theodore Roosevelt didn’t look anything like the one in the field. It had large flat-screen displays on the end wall with a row of manned workstations around the three other walls. A large chair was in the center. The SCIF was a smaller version of the control center at NASA but contained the same intensity as a rocket launch. It had a buzz going on just like the much smaller field SCIF at Ferfer. It was crammed with both the watch serving at one in the morning, and everyone else who had a pass to get in. And just like the SCIF in the field, this one had an armed guard at the portal. No papers were allowed in and no papers were allowed out.

  “Burn bags” were at every desk for the few documents that were printed and used. The bags would be carried by armed escort, even on the Roosevelt where a noncombatant wasn’t within a hundred miles, to the shredder and burner.

  The admiral came through the hatch. It was his ship and his SCIF. He had both the command and responsibilities for the “Big Stick,” or “TR,” as the Navy had nicknamed his ship. She had some age on her but an overhaul had bought another decade. She hauled more than ninety attack fighters, fixed-winged aircraft, and helicopters. He wasn’t going to put her in harm’s way.

  “Attention on deck!”

  The sailors all started to stand at attention, but before the first one was able to rise, the admiral spoke.

  “Carry on!” He took his seat in the big chair in the center.

  “What do we have, Jenny?”

  She was the duty officer of the day. Or, in this case, of the night.

  “The Zumwalt has picked up some movement with its own dispatched drone just to the northeast of Kismaayo.” The destroyer carried its own unmanned aerial drone that could be launched and recovered from the ship. It gave her another set of eyes.

  The admiral knew that Jenny wouldn’t have had his aide knock on his hatch at midnight for the movement of a company or battalion of troops of Al Shabaab. They had no air force and were no threat to either the ships of Carrier Group 12 or the Roosevelt.

  There was one exception.

  “Show me.”

  She punched some keys on her computer and a thermo-night image appeared on the screen.

  “They would know that the satellite was out of position at this time,” she added to the informal intelligence brief that she was giving. “And they probably have been tracking the MQ-9 traffic out of Djibouti and know that it was in a handover mode.”

  “Was it?” the admiral asked.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry.”

  “No need. You’re doing a great job.”

  The MQ-9 Reapers had to cover a lot of space near the Horn of Africa. The activities in Yemen, Ethiopia, Kenya, and Somalia alone covered thousands of square miles. There was a lot of water from the Gulf of Aden down the coast to the Indian Ocean. It was an illusion for one to think that the unmanned aircraft covered the entire planet at one time. And Faud was not stupid. It only took a man with a cell phone living near the end of the runway in Djibouti to hear the buzz of one Reaper taking off.

  “In fact, sir, the Air Force reported just yesterday that one of their birds was lost on takeoff from Camp Lemonnier. The MQ-9 crashed short of the runway.”

  Lemonnier was created by the French Foreign Legion, and then the Djibouti Armed Forces took control until the United States moved in. It was in poor shape when, after September 11th, America wanted a location near the Gulf. Now, it was CLUville—or rows of containerized living units. It was also home to CJTF-Horn of Africa. Reapers had been based out of the airstrip until several crashed into the local neighborhoods. They were now scheduled to be moved to a place where neighborhoods didn’t exist.

  “I thought they had moved everything.”

  “Not yet. They are still in the process of moving the Reapers to Oman.”

  “So, what do you think?”

  “I think we got something, sir. They look like they are getting ready to move their missile because they think we can’t track them.”

  “What has Al Shabaab been up to otherwise?”

  “Another suicide bomber hit a Djibouti unit in Mogadishu last night, killing six.”

  “Djibouti still has a presence in the city?”

  “Yes, sir, they are helping the AMISOM, as peacekeepers.” The African Union Mission to Somalia was trying to help hold together the fragile union of several governments against Al Shabaab.

  “The bomber?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Where was he from?”

  She was surprised by the question.

  “Norway.”

  “Omar is having his effect. We have Americans in northern Iraq with ISIS, Brits and Swedes in Yemen, and Omar in Somalia. His videos are impacting recruitment. How is the humanitarian effort going on the meningitidis?�
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  “The Ethiopian minister of health and MSF still do not need our help, other than what has been given. MSF and the WHO are on the ground with a small unit from the CDC. The International Red Cross is now set up in Kenya.”

  “Doesn’t need our help? How many were killed by the attack on the MSF clinic?”

  “The MSF refused protection from both the Ethiopian army and our Marine unit on the ground.”

  The admiral shook his head.

  “Okay, so what’s the bottom line?”

  “We think they are moving the DF-21. There has been some truck movement with trucks of the size that it would take to move the components of the missile.”

  “If we use the SEALs, it may be another trap. If we destroy it, then we could have a team go in afterwards to do a battle damage assessment to see if we got it.” The admiral wasn’t going to make that mistake again.

  “Let’s set a mission for our Joint Strike Fighters. They can keep a low profile and be ready.” He was speaking of the F-35 squadron that had just joined the fleet. The aircraft was the new stealth. The Lightning was a flying computer that took technology forward another decade, although it wasn’t a cheap date. The cost per flight hour ran in the thousands of dollars and it was slow in development. But the intelligence from the Lightning was remarkable. It delivered encrypted video directly to the men on the ground. Its sensors saw through buildings and could follow the enemy anywhere. It was the father of a new expression. The Marines in the air and on the ground were a new generation of iPad warriors. The jet could find targets with its sensors that could never have been seen otherwise, and the iPad Marine on the ground could know where any attack was coming from in an instant. The MarSOC team on the ground had a new set of eyes that could see through anything.

  “Let’s watch Faud for his next move.” The admiral gave his order.

  “But if it launches?”

  The room was silent. There were nearly five thousand sailors on board the Roosevelt.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  “Can it be done?” Parker and Moncrief were talking to Tola away from everyone else.

  “With most Marines, no, sir.” Tola didn’t hesitate. “With most special operators, no.”

  The question was whether a light, fast-moving Marine could track and find the kidnapped hostages.

  “Can you do it?” Parker asked.

  “Yes, sir.” Tola’s answer was narrowing down the problem. He wasn’t worried about himself; he could move at a pace over miles and miles that even his other Marines could not keep up with. He wasn’t convinced that Parker could as well. The suggestion was that the two find Peter and Karen Stewart and Omar.

  “Your best time in the three-mile is easily under fifteen minutes?”

  “Yes, sir.” It was well under fifteen minutes. His one-mile time was under four minutes. He ran just behind Alan Webb at the University of Michigan with times for the 1,500 meters below 3:35.

  Parker was older but not too much less capable. His record for the 800 meter at his college still stood with a time of 1:50. One still had his speed and one had endurance. While Parker was slower, he had learned to last longer. His endurance made up for the speed he had lost.

  Both were fast compared to any others and both had running in their blood.

  “A MarSOC team with all of the gear, no matter how ready they are, cannot move over land fast. And tracking their movement by Osprey would only be a guess.” Parker’s plan made sense.

  “So, a two-man mission. I come because of my ability to uplink with a follow-along MarSOC team, and you in case she needs help fast,” Tola outlined the suggested scenario. A field blood transfusion was not out of the question.

  “Pure Apache war party,” Moncrief put in. “Cochise didn’t have all of this gear, didn’t wear Kevlar, and could move a hundred miles in a day following his enemy.” Moncrief knew all the stories of Cochise and his battles with the Kit Carsons of the West.

  The dilemma was that the MarSOC team was too well equipped. A man carried well over fifty pounds even before he decided how much ammunition to bring or how many hand grenades. Radios and water and even a limited amount of food added up. So mobility over distance was made up for by the use of the Osprey. But the MV-22 could be heard. It lost the element of surprise that could only be accomplished by two silent fighters on the warpath.

  “The more we talk about this the more time is lost.” Parker looked at his watch. Stewart was moving away from Ferfer and not towards it.

  “You know this place.” Parker was making his bid to get the captain’s help.

  “What about my major?”

  “Why don’t we let Dr. Stewart take care of that,” Moncrief suggested.

  “She is sick and is getting sicker by the minute. We know the trail, but don’t know where they are,” Parker said.

  “Okay, I am in.”

  “Here is where we found the gum wrapper.” Tola pointed with his Kalashnikov to the rock near the Shebelle River. His weapon and Parker’s had been borrowed from the Ethiopians along with the added feature of a Russian-made suppressor. He wore the olive drab uniform of the mujaahidiin, along with a black turban. Parker was outfitted with the same. Underneath, they carried Camelbaks.

  The Ethiopians had scavenged the uniforms from the raid the night before. Other than one different article of clothing, the two looked like fellow mujaahidiin fighters. It was their intent to buy just a second from the enemy.

  But a closer look would cause a problem. They were traveling fast in a run-jog-run pace across the land. It wasn’t a hard trail to follow, as the truck’s one lopsided tire left a clear footprint. Water from the rain caused the tracks to puddle but the smaller tire left a very visible trace.

  However, the run—and the thorns—caused them to make one concession. Both Parker and Tola were wearing the new, lighter XPRT tactical combat boots that were more like a pair of Nikes than the issued combat boots. MarSOC had access to the high-speed shoes and a trade-around got Parker a pair. They were black and it would take a hard look to realize that they were different, but they were also not sandals like most of the enemy wore.

  “Let’s cross here.” Parker pointed to where the road disappeared into the swirling water. He spoke in little more than a whisper. When they got closer to their target, they would go to the tactical-operations hand signals. Until then, they made no more sound than an Apache war party.

  “Sure.” Tola pulled a tablet computer out from underneath his cotton uniform. He held it and the AK-47 up as they crossed the fast-moving red water.

  On the other side they stopped for a moment to drink from the Camelbaks.

  “What’s the tablet show?”

  “It has a direct feed from an F-35 on top.” Tola showed the screen to Parker. “It picks up a lot, encrypts it, and beams it down. We can see where we are, where our backup MarSOC is, and anything with a heartbeat within ten miles.”

  “As long as it keeps Warren off our back.”

  Warren had been very specific. The Agency would go along with Parker’s efforts to save the two doctors, but if it came down to Omar or the doctors, all they would see would be a flash of light. He suggested that the Hellfire decision was made even easier because the Agency was not going to risk Al Shabaab catching Tola and Parker as well as the others. The tablet served as a homing device should it come to the F-35 doing more than just surveillance.

  “Let’s go.”

  Tola led the way. They exchanged the lead position, moving at a pace that sometimes broke into a run.

  They would run for five miles and then stop. The stops were not very long.

  Once Parker was in the lead and held his hand up. He signaled Tola, who was not far behind, to come up ahead. He pointed to the bush directly in front of him, where there was movement.

  Tola shook his head.

  They waited as a lioness crossed the road with two cubs following behind her.

  “We must wait,” Tola whispered.

  Th
ey had to give her plenty of room. The two men were not game to her, but they could have been a threat to her young. Tola checked his tablet.

  “We are already twenty miles ahead of the MarSOC team.” He pointed to some small red triangles on the pad. “At this rate we are beyond their help.”

  “We knew that.”

  A second team had been boarded on two Ospreys that were to follow in trace. The aircraft were to stay as far away and as high as possible. They were to be on call.

  “How about the Ethiopian raid?”

  The ENDF was directed to attack the outskirts of Beledweyne to the north. The National Defense Force had brought in some Chinese-made, Type 88 howitzers that were laying fire down on the best of the Harakat Shabaab al-Mujaahidiin. The effort was meant to keep Al Shabaab distracted.

  “They are laying into them at this time.”

  The battle would last for several hours and then the Ethiopians would withdraw. It was the withdrawal that was the hard part. The Ethiopian commander didn’t like the idea of pulling away from Al Shabaab if ENDF was, in fact, winning. But it was important that they not be considered a continuing threat. They didn’t want Al Shabaab to move more towards the Ethiopians if they thought ENDF was winning and advancing. It was meant to be a diversion, period.

  The rain began again. They paused under a grove of acacia trees while large droplets fell through the skinny, palmlike leaves above. There was a small clear opening directly under the acacia where there was no savannah grass. It was only mud, dirt and—always—trails of ants. They squatted down, keeping away from the ant trails.

  “What is the longest run you have made?” Tola asked quietly. They ate a PowerBar while waiting for the torrent to subside.

  “A 50K.” Parker had pushed himself before. “Just after my wife was killed, I had to burn off some hate. It helped.”

  It was the first time in a long time that he’d said what was really on his mind.