Born of War Read online

  “I said, what is your name?” Moncrief put his finger on the man’s chest again.

  The major heard him and joined the two men. Both Moncrief and the major stood there while Warren kept talking on the cell phone, ignoring them both.

  Moncrief took out his .45 automatic and pulled back on the slide. It snapped forward like the crack of a metallic whip. He then put the nose of the barrel up against the other side of Warren’s head.

  “Wait a minute.” Warren looked up as if he were looking into the face of a maniac. He was.

  “What’s going on here, Gunny?” the major asked in an effort to calm the situation.

  “Sir, he is going to tell them that they have a track on Omar. He is probably telling them to have a Tomahawk spun up to take everyone down. And I mean everyone.”

  “Is this true?” the major asked. “I have a Marine out there.”

  “You have two.” Moncrief put his other hand underneath the butt of the pistol to steady the aim. He spread his feet apart and looked down the sight. “Two Marines out there and two innocent hostages.”

  Warren slowly put down the cell phone.

  “I doubt you’d shoot me.”

  “What would the difference be, given how secret this mission is, whether I shot you or didn’t shoot you? Think about it, Warren.”

  The field operative paused.

  “Are they going to claim you, when you were putting in a call to order a missile strike on two hostages? Or will they say this was an accidental discharge of a weapon in combat? Happens all the time.” Moncrief kept the barrel pressed against the side of Warren’s head. He leaned forward into the man’s skull, feeling the pressure of the metal barrel against the scalp.

  “Warren, we are witnesses,” the major interjected. “No one here can order the Tomahawk strike but you.”

  “What if he gets away? What if there is a third cell and a fourth cell? What are you going to do if the next target is Los Angeles or Denver?” Warren made his point. Omar had a cell phone and no matter how quick the NSA and CIA were, the cells could be buried so deep that no one would ever know about them until it was too late.

  “I will tell you what,” Moncrief said. “If we get this guy and there is a chance he is brought back with a heartbeat, we have a better chance of learning the truth than if you just dust him.”

  At that moment it started to rain again. The rain came down in a torrent with sheets of water pouring out like a fire hose.

  The three men did not move. Moncrief held the pistol to Warren’s head without blinking.

  “There is a chance that if you don’t figure this out quick I may blow your brains out without even intending to do so.” Moncrief stood his ground. “This is the land of the mamba. You can die a thousand different deaths out here and no one on that cell phone would even know it.”

  “Okay, you get a chance. But only one.” Warren was playing the odds.

  “No, he gets more than a chance,” the major interrupted. “If a Tomahawk takes our team down without a reasonable chance at survival you won’t have to worry about Langley.”

  “Now tell them.” Moncrief felt the rough grip of the pistol in his hand. It was made that way, so that a person could feel the weapon even through the tactical gloves that most soldiers wore. But Moncrief didn’t wear the gloves. He was like Parker in that way. They both wanted to feel the steel, knowing exactly when the round went off and where it was going. He knew that the trigger had been set to very light poundage, and it required more energy to hold off the squeeze than to pull the trigger.

  “The size of this slug is similar to a small marble.” The major moved backwards and away from the blast.

  The rain started to slow down while Warren still hesitated.

  “Make up your mind, Mr. Warren. The Ospreys have got to take off in this break.” Moncrief didn’t really care for the guy. The rain had kept everyone in the tents or on board the aircraft so the only witness was the major, and it was his man out there as well.

  Warren finally put the cell phone back to his ear.

  “Hello, hold off on that. We have a good chance of getting this guy and finding out what he knows.” Only Warren could help make himself look good.

  “Hey, Major, we got an extra seat on the Osprey, don’t we?”

  “Yeah, I think we do.”

  “You are going to need a helmet.” The major handed Moncrief one he was not used to. It was much lighter than the old Kevlar bucket, as he and others liked to call it. It was made of a carbon-fiber combination with some other Kevlar-type materials that were able to stop a small round on a direct hit.

  “What do you call this?”

  “This is a FAST helmet. It’s not like the old brain buckets.” This one had the NOD mounted on the top front with some straps that helped hold on the night eyes as well.

  “Here you go, Gunny, let me help.” The Marine in the seat next to him helped adjust the strap. It had padding on the inside and openings in the sides for the comm gear. They all were on the same communications link.

  Warren was strapped in to a seat near the cockpit.

  “He doesn’t have a helmet?” the Marine next to Moncrief asked as the engines started to spin up.

  “No.” Moncrief wasn’t worried about Warren. He wasn’t getting off the bird.

  “This should be interesting.” The Marine had a smile on his face as if a rookie was getting up to bat.

  The Ospreys had used the landing zone for several days now. It was the only flat space near the encampment, and with the several landings, all of the small stones and rocks had been blown aside. However, the ground was still wet and the aircraft’s wheels had sunk into the muck from its weight. The turbines spun louder and louder as the aircraft pulled on its sunken feet until finally it released.

  Moncrief had an M416 with a suppressor attached to the barrel. He kept it pointed down, as the others did. The aircraft was dimly lit. He felt himself sink into the canvaslike seat and then the Osprey popped up. Moncrief’s head slammed back against the frame of the aircraft as he held on to his rifle with as tight a grip as he could muster.

  Warren was whipped backwards as well and popped his head against the wall. He looked like he had been knocked out cold.

  Couldn’t have happened to a better guy, Moncrief thought as the tilt-rotor aircraft continued to rise and sway. As it left the earth, the airplane rocked back and forth, up and down, while the pitch of the engines seemed to struggle with the power of the wind. It continued to climb and then the propellers rotated forward. He felt the gravitational force pull him down into his seat and then release him as the aircraft started to move forward.

  The Osprey bounced wildly as it climbed out through the clouds and wind. Moncrief tried to look out the window and saw only a flicker of light on the ground before the aircraft was enclosed in complete darkness. It continued to bounce wildly for several minutes as it climbed out of the weather.

  Finally, the ship broke through to some clear airspace.

  The plan was that the aircraft would not descend unless and until Tola sent the signal. They waited well to the north, and above the first layer of clouds closest to the ground.

  The crew chief came over to the leader of the MarSOC team and yelled something in his ear. He was talking with his hands as well, with one hand looking like a rollercoaster ride.

  “It looks like it is going to be rough going down,” the Marine next to Moncrief yelled into his ear. “We may not make it in.”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  It was near midnight when several men and women gathered in the conference room at the headquarters of Médecins Sans Frontières. They represented both the leadership of the organization and doctors who practiced medicine from around the world. It looked like a meeting of the United Nations.

  “We have two doctors in their hands. The report is that he has malaria that is progressing, and she may have the beginnings of kidney failure.” The international president was chairing the meeting. She
had served time in the field, as they all had. And they all knew the risks involved. Nevertheless, despite their effort to remain neutral, terrorists did not hesitate to pull them into the storm.

  There was one way out.

  “Our donors have agreed to fund the release of the doctors. They are offering two million dollars for each of them.” She passed around a list of donors with their contributions. Both Ebola and the meningitis had strained their budget and the sources of help.

  “It makes it difficult that she is an American,” one of the doctors spoke up from the back of the room.

  “She is the daughter of Paul Stewart. He has worked to stop disease around the world. In fact, he has been instrumental in helping us with Ebola,” the president replied.

  “We have over four thousand field staff fighting Ebola. And now we have another thousand fighting the Neisseria meningitidis, with clinics on the Ethiopian and Kenyan borders,” the same voice called from the back. “What do we do about the clinic at Ferfer?”

  “Good question,” the president responded. “Right now, we have our representative in Said trying to get word to Godane that we’re willing to negotiate for a release of the doctors. His reputation is that he will deal; however, the hostages are very sick and time is running out. We can’t lose more doctors. We need to move the clinic in Ferfer back farther into the interior of Ethiopia.”

  It wasn’t clear whether Godane would learn of the offer before one or both of the kidnapped doctors became too ill for it to matter.

  The circle of trusted followers that surrounded Godane was getting smaller.

  “So what is the status of the Amriiki?” Godane asked his new head of security and intelligence. He had replaced Abo Musa Mombasa, who had become a martyr in Yemen while making a deal for more arms. Godane was referring to the approaching American fleet.

  “Our fishing fleet reports aircraft flying low only fifty miles from the coast.”

  “And the Amriiki? What of him and the doctors?”

  “We have sent reinforcements to find them. The rains have slowed their passage but they should reach them by tonight.”

  “Good.”

  “We think the Americans know where the DF is located.”

  “Can it be moved?”

  “Only with the risk that its location can be confirmed.”

  Godane considered his options.

  “We will move to the hostages. And when we have them in hand, they will serve both as a source of money and as a source of security. Then we will see if the missile serves us well.” Godane would personally take charge of both Omar and the hostages.

  Godane knew that ISIS had been drawing away both support and money from their cause. Omar had helped bring attention back to this war, but he had too much of an ego to be tolerated much longer.

  The sinking of an American aircraft carrier would be such a shift of power that Godane’s name would be burned forever in the minds of the true believers.

  “Before the missile is put at greater risk, we must use it.” He gave his order. It would be a matter of timing. Without the protection of holding the hostages as shields, he knew that the risk was incurring an all-out retaliation by the Americans on him and his army. He needed to reach the hostages and ready the weapon for its use.

  “May Allah be praised!”

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  “We must bury Tarriq now.” It was one of his fighters who spoke the words to Omar.

  “Do it.” Omar didn’t seem to want to be bothered. “Let the doctors dig the hole.”

  The fighter had known Tarriq all his life. They were of the same clan. It bothered him that Omar didn’t seem to care.

  “We will help.” Xasan and his father both started towards the edge of an acacia tree where the grass was not too high and there were no thorn bushes. Another of Tarriq’s fighters had become sick as well. It seemed that one minute he was healthy and joking and the next minute he was curled up on the ground in the mud clutching his head. The progression of the disease caused fear in them all.

  Karen watched as they started to dig. She had no energy left and a pounding headache made her feel both nauseous and dizzy.

  They started to dig as the rain subsided. One of the men had built a fire underneath the tree and it smoldered more than burned. The wood was wet even when they pulled off the bark of the branches to what was once the dry core.

  The old man stopped, stood up, looked up into the sky as if he had seen something, and then collapsed like a sack of potatoes being dropped to the ground.

  “Ah-yaa!” Xasan yelled. He ran to the bed of the truck and pulled on Karen to come help.

  She tried to get up and started to fall as her head pounded inside her skull.

  “I need a fire to see,” she mumbled the words. “Bring him to the fire.”

  Xasan pled with the others to stop while he pulled his father by the shoulders closer to the fire pit. He placed his father up near the trunk of the tree with his head supported by the base. The man’s eyes had rolled to the back of his head.

  The fire started to crackle as Karen pulled herself over to his body. She felt for a pulse but the body was still. It had already begun to cool.

  She laid him flat and put both of her hands on his chest and pushed with what little strength she could muster. She pushed again and again. Her ears were ringing.

  “Xasan, come here.” She pulled his hands together and placed them over the old man’s chest. And then she put her hands on top of his.

  “Push, like this.”

  He didn’t understand the words she was saying, but he did understand what she was doing. He pushed, first lightly, and then as she pushed down on his hands harder, he began to push harder.

  Karen collapsed back onto her side.

  “Keep pushing,” she told Xasan.

  He needs to keep pushing until he is convinced his father is gone. She knew the man was dead but Xasan didn’t.

  “Ah-yaa,” he cried out with tears streaming down his face.

  She felt the cold mud on the side of her face and it felt good.

  This is a good place to die, Karen thought as she lay there next to the fire. The heat was warming her face while she barely noticed her back, which was wet and cold.

  Omar stood in the shadows.

  Xasan kept pushing with his hands until both became numb. He thought he heard a breath and started to yell with joy but then the body remained still and cold.

  He finally collapsed next to his father.

  “We need to get to the others,” Omar finally said. They were down to Xasan and two other fighters who had come with Tarriq and Omar. The third fighter lay in the mud and the rain without moving. He too would be dead by dawn. “They cannot be more than a mile or two away.” He looked out into the dark and the road that was now filling up with water.

  The smoke of the fire rose up to the branches of the tree and then the wind carried it to the southeast, in the same direction as the road, and directly into the faces of the two hiding in the dark.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Every movement by the fire was being watched.

  Parker and Tola slowly crawled up to another acacia tree within distance of an easy pistol shot. They watched the fight for the old man’s life and then saw Karen Stewart collapse to the ground.

  She is hurting. He could see that she barely had the energy to move.

  Her weight is down. Parker knew she was ill and that meant she would not be able to get herself out on her own two feet. And the French physician was nowhere to be seen.

  Is he already gone? Parker stayed there in the damp grass, looking for the French doctor, as another torrent of rain fell down. The mujaahidiin’s olive cloth stuck to his skin. There were two holes in the center where bullets had struck the prior owner.

  Parker continued to watch for movement near the fire.

  There is Omar. That was the one thought that Parker had as the rain came down and he lay in the wet grass. Omar could not run from
him fast enough.

  Parker thought back to his trip to Mobile and the yellow evidence tape that surrounded the school. He thought of the kindergarten schoolteacher who lost her life protecting her children. And he thought of the children.

  Omar moved back and forth in front of the fire with his Kalashnikov over his shoulder. Parker watched his mannerisms and how he moved his hands.

  Right-handed. He made a mental note.

  And then Parker scanned the others sitting close to the fire. One was trying to save a man on the ground. The others were looking on as if it didn’t matter. One of them looked at Omar once. Parker knew that look. Years ago he saw another man stare at him in the same way. It was in the mountains of Pakistan and it was the look of hate. Omar was alone whether he knew it or not.

  He and Tola waited, motionless, in the grass. The skill of staying perfectly still was a basic requirement of being a recon Marine. It took a willingness to be comfortable in the environment. He was soaking wet, yet concentrated not on his discomfort but on the target. He controlled his breathing with slow, easy breaths. The rain was a friend just like the dark. If it made Omar uncomfortable to leave the cover of the acacia tree, then it was to Parker’s advantage.

  Parker felt the presence of Abo Tola near him but did not hear the slightest sound from his right. Tola had been trained well. He was a natural hunter. As Parker learned to hunt in the South, Tola learned on the plains of Africa. It was in the DNA of both of them.

  After some time, the camp became still. They all cowered by the fire. Then Parker saw something interesting.

  A thin man, slightly taller than the rest, who had been trying to help the other, older man by the tree, came over to Karen Stewart. He bent down, said something, and then helped her up. He walked her over to the back of the small vehicle and then lifted her up as she crawled inside the bed of the truck.