Assault on Al Shabaab

  SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS – ASSAULT ON AL SHABAAB

  By Eric Meyer

  2nd Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2013 by Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Prologue

  A knifelike pain seared through her body as realization came to her. Her worst nightmare had just come true. She hung up the call from her lawyer and slumped in a chair, trying to recall the conversation. Analyzing every word, in case there was some mistake.

  "I'm real sorry, Ma'am." His voice had been sympathetic, but how could he know what she was going through? "We've tried everything, but they won't budge."

  "But he's my son. His place is with his mother."

  "We know that, Ma'am. We explained it all, but they're not interested. Most Muslim countries aren't big on the rights of women."

  "What about the rights of children? I'm his mother. Surely I can at least go over there and visit him?"

  "No. They won't even issue a visa for you to get into the country. Not in cases like this, where the custody is in dispute."

  "You're telling me he'll never know me."

  A pause. "Maybe when he's an adult, he'll visit you. I believe their age for adulthood is twenty-one. Yeah, it's possible."

  They both knew he was lying, trying to soften the blow.

  Luke is only a year old. In twenty years time, they'll indoctrinate him. I doubt he'll even speak English.

  "Is there any appeal, anything I can do?"

  "Nothing, we've explored everything."

  "I see."

  I've lost my son.

  She ended the call and sat unmoving as she considered the future. There was no future. How could she be a mother, when she had no son? Damn her Arab ex-husband, who'd taken him on vacation in Saudi Arabia and refused to allow him to return home. Even though the US courts had given her custody, he's over there now, with Luke, if that was still his name. The documents from the court stated he'd applied to register a name change, an Islamic name. So if she went looking for him, she wouldn't even know his name.

  She sat for hour after hour in a trance. Finally, she came to her senses. There was only one way out of this. If she wasn't a mother, she was nothing. Dead. She walked up the stairs to the bathroom and found a new blade for the razor in the medicine cabinet, Sharp, surgical steel, pristine, and perfect. She regarded the blade for long minutes, thinking her last thoughts of Luke.

  Goodbye, baby. I'll love you for eternity, but not in this life. They won't allow me to.

  She climbed into the bathtub and lay back. It wouldn't do to make a mess on the clean tiles. She was always proud of her clean house. Then she ran the blade along one wrist and then the other. Bright red blood oozed out, pooling beneath her. She cut again, and the flow increased. She started to feel weak and knew it wouldn't be long. Her last thought was how useless and insignificant her life had been. Her death would also go unremarked. She was wrong.

  In chaos theory, it was known as the butterfly effect. Theoretically, a butterfly could flap its wings, and years later a hurricane could form.

  The butterfly had just flapped its wings.

  Chapter One

  "Hey, Ed, would you take a look at this one."

  The White House mail supervisor, Ed Levins, glanced across at Betty Dukakis. She wasn't an alarmist, wasn't given to constant false alarms. He heaved himself from behind his desk and walked over to look for himself.

  "Where did it originate?"

  "Africa. The franking is a bit smeared. It says Som, something or other on the customs declaration. Sporting goods, baseball equipment. The President is a keen baseball fan, so I guess it may be okay."

  It seemed innocent enough. However, he still felt a tremor of alarm.

  Somalia, Jesus!

  "How the hell did it get in here? USPS is supposed to intercept uncertain packages before they get this far."

  She shrugged. "No idea, Ed. Maybe they were having a bad day."

  She wasn't smiling. Neither was he.

  "Let's run it through the explosives scanner before we look inside. Just in case."

  He was tempted to press the big button, the alarm system that would cause all hell to break loose, but not yet. He wasn't given to unnecessary panic either. But the results were unequivocal. Nothing. She looked at him uncertainly.

  "Whose gonna open it?"

  A sigh. "I guess that's what I get paid for. I'll probe it first."

  He made a tiny hole in the cardboard carton about two feet square and inserted a tiny probe. He used the joystick to control the camera as is peered at the contents of the packaging. Five objects, wrapped in paper. Could be baseballs, but could also be anything. He directed the probe inside the paper and sent its tiny nose deep inside, searching for the hidden object inside the packaging - brown, leathery baseballs. He switched off the probe.

  "It looks okay. Let's get it open and take a look."

  Between them they ripped open the carton and looked inside. The five innocent brown paper wrapped items lay at the bottom. Levins picked up the first and carefully peeled back the wrapping, smiling at Betty.

  "Sure looks okay. Wait, they're not...holy shit!"

  It was instinct that made him race for the big red button. A split second later, the White House was a chaos of alarm sirens, and Special Agents racing along corridors shouting orders. Doors slamming shut, security shutters lowering to lock in place. An agent raced into the mailroom, earpiece connected to his walkie-talkie, and automatic pistol in his hand.

  "What kind of a threat do we have?" he shouted.

  Levins waved him toward the box. "In there."

  The man approached cautiously and looked inside from a distance.

  "Holy shit!"

  * * *

  "I want those sons of bitches," President of the United States Maxwell Taylor shouted. His normally smooth, pale face was blotched red with anger.

  His Chief of Staff, Joe Phoenix, nodded. "Sir, you need to..."

  "Don't tell me what I need, Joe!"

  Phoenix had rarely seen him so shaken up, so angry.

  I thou
ght it was we Latinos who were supposed to be temperamental.

  "Of course not, Sir."

  "I want someone to chase this one down. Starting right now. We're gonna nail those mothers."

  "And, what about raising the alert level?"

  "Yeah, do it. That package got through, who knows what else is on the way. We're under attack, and when I served in the military, they always taught us the best defense was to hit back hard."

  "Chairman Mao."

  "What?"

  "The Chinese leader, Sir."

  "I know who the fuck he was, what's he got to do with it? Don't tell me he didn't die?"

  "No, Sir. I mean, yes, Sir, he did die. It was his saying. 'The only real defense is active defense'. Or maybe it was Confucius."

  Taylor fixed him with a savage glare. "I don't care if it was the White House switchboard operator. Find out who sent it, and fast."

  "And when we have that information, Mr. President?"

  "Put them out of business. Permanently."

  "I understand, Sir. First, I'll put your order in place to raise the alert level."

  Taylor nodded, but his mind was already elsewhere.

  America has long been the world's policeman, defending peace and freedom across the globe. Now it's personal. They sent 'that' into the home of the President of the United States. The message is clear. They issued a declaration of war. Did they think I'd stand by and do nothing? They're wrong.

  * * *

  He paused outside the imposing building, waiting. His nostrils filled with the familiar odors, the smell of the sea, or to be more accurate the smell of the land. Rotting seaweed, with the distinct tang of iodine, combined with the underlying freshness of salt air blowing from offshore. The faint breeze came from the east, although sometimes it varied, at times sucking in the sour smell of the land. A mixture of deserts and swamps out in the countryside, intermingled with the omnipresent city odors, sewage running raw in the streets. Garbage was strewn everywhere, as well as rotting carcasses. Not all were dead animals, for this area until recently had been a battle zone. No one bothered to clear the bloated corpses that lay where they fell. No one cared.

  The man was waiting to enter the mansion that had once belonged to the governor of the Somali port city of Kismayo. The previous owner wouldn't need it now. They'd killed him after their successful attack to retake the city. Nabil Barre remained motionless for a moment more and then walked forward. A man rushed to open the door for him. It was important to make a grand entrance. He'd learned that in the past, along with other skills, like persuading other men to do his killing.

  He was a strange figure, often underestimated by his enemies. His figure was spare, his body almost wasted after a lifetime of denial, poor diet, and sporadic health care. His head was hairless, and inside his sunken cheeks, his mouth was empty of teeth. He wore round glasses over his eyes, and his trademark robe, shabby and patched. Because of the broken glass still not cleared, he wore simple peasant sandals on his feet. Most of the time he went barefoot. As a result, people often compared him to Mahatma Gandhi, the revered architect of Indian independence. It was a comparison he was careful to encourage. Not that he believed any of Gandhi's nonsense about non-violent confrontation. Nabil Barre was a devout Muslim, and Allah required him to put enemies of the faith to death. It was a command he followed with the greatest of enthusiasm.

  The men stood up and clapped as he walked into the big room, his sandals crunching on the broken glass. He went forward to the vacant seat at the head of the bloodstained table and gestured for them to be seated. He remained standing, surveying them with a gaze that people said was his most powerful weapon. His eyes were jet black, glowing with the inner belief of an absolute fanatic. Not one man present doubted his commitment, or his ferocity. The table at which they sat was still covered and bore the marks of its most recent use. The dried blood belonged to one of Barre's lieutenants, a man accused of treachery.

  He'd made them hold the man down on the table while he disemboweled him with his dagger. The screams had echoed around the city, and every man present vowed never to give the Sheikh any reason to doubt their loyalty. This was his objective. After they removed the body, he'd stopped one of the women who came to clean the surface of the table.

  "Let it be a reminder of our cause. Blood is what binds us together, and blood is what we shall spill when we finally defeat the Western infidels. Anyone who considers treachery will see his own blood spill out on this table, to mingle with the blood of the other traitor.

  No one argued. None dared.

  He sat down and indicated they could begin. The windows were bare of any glass, and the stench he'd noticed from outside wafted into the room. It was familiar and comforting, the smell of Africa, his Africa.

  "First, tell me of our operation to aid our friends in Al Qaeda. Was it successful?"

  His second-in-command, Hasan Anglana hastened to reply. He was taller than Barre, with the lean, hard body of a fighter. His features were heavily scarred, after an American UAV launched a missile that wiped out his unit. At the time, he'd been returning from a local village where he had a woman. He was fifty meters away when the missile hit, a jet of flame and shards of hot metal did the damage to his face. Nevertheless, he lived. Soon, he'd replace the men; there was no shortage of volunteers to join the struggle, when it meant the priceless gift of food and an automatic weapon.

  "Our reports tell us they boarded the ship without problem. They changed course toward the African coast, and if all goes well, our Northern brothers will assist them when they dock. As for the demands, we have no knowledge. I doubt they have made any, not yet. Let the infidels sweat over the fate of the unbelievers. My Sheikh, do you wish me to contact them for an update?"

  Barre waved irritably. "We will know everything in due course, if Allah wishes it. Praise be to his holy name."

  They enthusiastically echoed the salutation. Then Barre nodded them to silence.

  "The success or failure of that mission is of little importance to us. The Al Qaeda attacks on the West are very worthy, but we have our own agenda; a far more important operation than killing a few white people on a floating toy. What is important is for them to return the aid we have given them, to help us carry out our own operation. Are the young shaheeds here?"

  Hassan Anglana nodded. "They are waiting outside, my Sheikh. Shall I bring them in?"

  "Of course. Let us greet them, and give them words of praise for the holy mission for which they have committed their deaths."

  Anglana stood up and left the room. Seconds later, he returned leading a group of men, although they were hardly men. The group was comprised of eight teenagers, some of them looked no older than fifteen years. They made the correct Islamic greetings to Barre and then to the other men. Barre raked them with his laser gaze.

  "You are ready? You have dedicated your lives to Allah?"

  "Yes, Sheikh Barre!" they replied as one.

  "I am not a Sheikh," he admonished them, in an attempt to appear modest. He smiled to himself.

  It is a worthy title; one that I've earned many times over. One day, all men will call me Sheikh.

  "Have you also dedicated your deaths to Allah?"

  "Yes, Sheikh Barre!" they replied again in unison. They ignored his admonition not to use the honorific 'Sheikh'. With Nabil Barre, it was best to err on the side of caution.

  "That is good." He climbed to his feet, "Your mission will represent the ultimate expression of the power of our movement. I promise you, the world will tremble when they know what you have achieved. Afterward, you will take your places in Paradise, surrounded by the rewards the Prophet has promised. Musse Daud, has any member of your group expressed any doubts?"

  The young man almost leapt to attention. "No, Sheikh. We are as one, and we look forward to our glorious martyrdom."

  Inside, he quaked. He'd overheard two of the boys talking, terrified by what lay ahead. Yet more terrified to step back. He should have admoni
shed them, but he'd had the exact same thoughts. He glanced at the bloodstained table.

  Yes, I need to be careful in this place. True, my fate is to die, but not now. That will come later, as a martyr.

  "You have done well, Musse. You young men carry a heavy responsibility on your shoulders. Nothing less than the future of our Caliphate lies at stake, and history will remember your sacrifice. Your names will never be forgotten."

  The teenager swallowed his misgivings and beamed at the praise. He was slim, tall for a Somali, at about six feet. Like the rest of his teenage companions, he was beardless, with short hair cut in a Western style. In that moment, he knew he'd go through with it even though it meant his death. Martyrdom was a glorious path to Paradise. He knew that for certain, hadn't their Imam told them that exact same thing?

  Barre rested his gaze on each of them for a couple of seconds and finally waved for them to leave. Musse lagged behind to speak to Barre.

  "My Sheikh, might I be permitted to say goodbye to my mother? This will be the last time."

  He thought for a few moments and then nodded. "Go, but be quick."

  He gave him a slight bow and trooped out. Barre slumped back in his chair, exhausted after the labors of the past few days. As well as preparing for the operation, and giving aid to Al Qaeda, it had been necessary to comb the city for anyone not sympathetic to their cause. They'd found plenty, and he now realized he was getting too old for the business of mass executions.

  He glanced at his number two. "I am satisfied with the progress so far. Continue to make the arrangements, and let me know if you hit any problems. I trust we have no difficulties with finance?"

  "Al Qaeda has been generous, my Sheikh. We have sufficient money, more than enough."

  "The package, the one we sent to the American President. Did it arrive?"