Assault on Al Shabaab Read online

  Anglana looked puzzled. "Yes, we understand it arrived on time, and our reports suggest there was a massive security lockdown in the White House at the same time. But I don't understand, why did you send it? Surely it will alert them we are planning an attack?"

  "Exactly. An attack, but that is impossible for them to prevent. Do you know the object of terrorism, Anglana?"

  The man shook his head, still mystified. "To kill, my Sheikh?"

  Barre smiled, the man was a skilled fighter but no great thinker. "The object of terrorism is to terrorize. And that is what I plan to do. Already, the United States will have raised their threat level, at great cost and inconvenience to themselves. And what did it cost us? One simple cardboard carton. The next attack, as you know, will be different; a devastating strike at the heart of the infidels. But every attack, large or small, hurts them. It is like shooting bullets at an elephant. A single shot will sting but not inflict mortal damage. But hit that same elephant with scores of bullets and missiles, and it will fall. So shall it be with America."

  He waited for a response.

  "My Sheikh, that is inspired. I cannot wait to see the American elephant fall."

  Privately, he thought Barre had acted like an idiot. If the man wanted to recite maxims, he had one he could offer. 'Forewarned is forearmed.' But wisely, he kept it to himself.

  "Excellent," Barre smiled, "I will go to my quarters and leave you to continue. I am very tired." He glared around the room. "Make sure I am undisturbed."

  "Yes, my Sheikh," every single man replied.

  They all knew how Barre lived in his private rooms, how he spent his time, and with whom he spent it. The last man who had interrupted was now only a distant memory, his body rotting in an unmarked shallow grave.

  He climbed to his feet, and they all followed suit. He walked out of the room slowly, despite his rising excitement. Everything was going well, perhaps too well. Yet there was nothing wrong with that, why shouldn't they have some successes? A guard stood outside the door to his apartments, and the man quickly opened it to allow him to pass.

  He walked inside and immediately the scent of his private living space entered his nostrils, a musky scent, and a mixture of perfumes, spices, and women. They were all waiting to greet him, his wives, five of them and all young. The youngest was his favorite, and he beckoned her forward.

  "Saba, my flower. Prepare my bath, and I require your sisters to prepare food. You may serve my meal in my bedroom. Afterward, I require you to pleasure me."

  She bowed low. "Yes, my master. It shall be as you say."

  "How is my son?"

  "He is well, my master. Sleeping in the crèche."

  "Excellent. Attend to my bath, at once."

  She hurried off to obey his wishes. Her real name wasn't Saba. Neither was she a Somali. She'd been christened Emily Carillo, of American parents. Her home had been New Jersey until four years ago. Somali pirates captured her family's round the world yacht and executed her parents in front of her young eyes. Barre hadn't wanted ransom. He wanted her. She was white, with blonde hair, a healthy smile, and even perfect teeth. Everything about her excited him, especially her youth. Twelve years was the perfect age to take a wife, as every sensible Muslim knew. Breaking her to his wishes hadn't been too difficult. Western girls had such a low tolerance to pain. And she had even blessed him with a son, Mukhtar, born last year just before her fifteenth birthday.

  He looked up as she came back into the room.

  "Your bath is ready, my master."

  He smiled at her. "Good. Follow me. You may undress me."

  Life is good, very good.

  She bowed low, servile and cowed as he walked past her. It was time for this American to submit to Nabil Barre. Soon, the entire nation of infidels would know his name, and it would become a byword for the horror he planned to inflict on them. The Islamic world would take its revenge for the humiliations heaped on it by the Americans.

  * * *

  The drone of the four huge Pratt & Whitney F117 turbofans blended with the shriek of the turbulence outside. They were flying at ten thousand meters in the Boeing C17, breathing oxygen as they waited to jump. The loadmaster had just lowered the ramp. Chief Petty Officer Kyle Nolan watched as his platoon commander, Lieutenant William Boswell carried out his tasks, checking each man's rig and equipment to make sure there were no screw-ups. He grinned to himself. As usual, the officer's camos were that bit smarter than the rest of the unit, his webbing and equipment new, yet carefully 'aged'. Boswell made sure he had the best of everything, provided it had the patina of authenticity. He should have looked every inch the tough, experienced vet, but he didn't.

  He looked every inch the smooth-faced Ivy League professional. He couldn't help it; it was in his genes. Under the helmet, his blonde hair was neatly trimmed, and the officer always sported a small blonde mustache. Even his camos looked tailor made. He was slight in build, like many Special Forces operators who were of less than average height. Their trade required subtlety and stealth, not six foot six inch muscle-bound apes. But it was his smooth and easy confidence that marked him out as a WASP. At least, it had. Lately, he'd changed, and he reminded Nolan of a petulant kid.

  Since he'd joined the unit, Boswell had struggled to make the grade. Not as a Seal, he always managed to score highly in exercises. As a commander, he lacked that certain something that made for a platoon leader in the shadow world of Special Ops. Even with Lucas Grant, a decorated Seal vet to back him up, he waxed and waned. Right now, he was on the wane.

  He'd made it clear a few weeks back that he wanted Nolan transferred out to another platoon. The reason was obvious; he and Grant were as thick as thieves. Probably he'd offered the experienced Seal a position in his father's brokerage house after he left the US Navy. In the meantime, he wanted his buddy to be his second-in-command, which would mean promoting him to Chief Petty Officer. And there was only room for one second-stringer in Bravo.

  So far, he'd managed to sidestep Boswell's efforts and had stayed put. But it was getting difficult, reaching the time when the infighting could become a danger to the men when they were operating behind the lines. When it reached that stage, Nolan would have to make a decision. He didn't want to transfer out, and with the exception of Boswell and Grant, not a single man in Bravo wanted it either. He grinned again. It was not unlike those old Western movies.

  'There's only room for one of us in this town.'

  And the Lieutenant, as senior man, called the shots. Nolan snapped out of it, this was no time for woolgathering. There wouldn't be any screw-ups, Boswell or no Boswell. They were Bravo, a unit of Navy Seals. Men selected by United States Naval Special Warfare Command, NAVSOC, because they were the best in the world at what they did; clandestine insertion and target elimination, as well as hostage rescue.

  Lieutenant Boswell generally did his best to make a good impression, especially with his superiors. Backed up by Seal veteran Lucas Grant, a member of the DEVGRU outfit that took down Osama bin Laden, he was said to be a coming man. In the Navy, as well as the beckoning arms of Washington, where his family had staked out a political future for their war-hero son.

  Nolan kept a careful eye on him. Despite occasional flashes of enthusiasm when he was capable of earning his pay, they knew the wealthy and ambitious officer was going through the motions. Not that there should be any problems, not on this trip. They were almost six miles over Luneberg Heath, the vast region in Lower Saxony, Northern Germany, and for decades NATO's preferred training ground. Even though the Cold War was over, little had changed. For infantry and armored maneuvers, it had no parallel in Europe. It was also perfect for Special Forces, where they could operate in a variety of simulated scenarios with total anonymity.

  Luneberg Heath was famous for another reason. Or perhaps infamous would be more accurate. On May 4th, 1945, Field Marshal Bernard Montgomery accepted the unconditional surrender of German forces at the end of World War II in Europe. It was also the ar
ea where the body of Heinrich Himmler, head of the Nazi SS legions, was secretly buried in an unmarked grave, following his suicide. Not that anyone cared to look.

  "Three minutes."

  The jumpmaster held up three fingers, in case anyone wasn't listening to their commo. They were already standing in the center of the vast cabin, and they moved toward the open ramp, gripping the handholds to avoid being sucked out by the howling slipstream whistling around them.

  "You all set?" Boswell asked him.

  "Roger that," he replied automatically. The question was pointless. Recently, much of what Boswell said came into that category.

  "Two minutes."

  Two fingers held up, to the point. They were all ready, every man in that relaxed and alert posture, waiting to jump out into the night and free fall almost to the ground before they opened their 'chutes. Called a HALO jump, high altitude, low opening, they developed the technique to allow parachutists to jump far from a target zone that could be under fire. It was perfect for Special Forces. The nature of their work invariably meant they wanted their arrival to be a big surprise.

  It was also dangerous, very dangerous, and the Seals were no strangers to fatalities, especially in night HALO drops; hence the constant training.

  "One minute."

  One finger. Nolan smiled; it was almost an insulting gesture. He led his fireteam forward to the ramp. As well as him, there were Dan Moseley, Zeke Murray, and Brad Rose. They were almost shoulder-to-shoulder, waiting to make the giant leap as one. The jumpmaster started to count down with the fingers of both beloved hands. At the same time, they heard him call the count.

  "Nine, eight, seven, six, five, four..."

  It was a sudden movement, as the huge aircraft abruptly banked hard to starboard. They hung on grimly, not sure if it was an in-flight emergency, whether to jump or stay.

  "Abort, abort, abort!"

  The jumpmaster waved them back, and they shuffled away from the open ramp. He pressed the button, and the motors whined as it began to close.

  Brad looked at him and put his mouth next to Nolan's ear.

  "What the fuck! What's going on, Chief?"

  He shrugged, as if to say 'my guess is as good as yours'.

  They saw Boswell racing forward to the cockpit. They waited a couple of minutes for him to return, and it was obvious from his expression that someone, somewhere, was in trouble. Even behind his goggles, they could see his eyes were dilated, and his pale skin was flushed with excitement. He waved them around him in a bunch.

  "Change of plan. A bunch of camel jockeys hijacked a cruise liner somewhere in the Mediterranean, with more than eight hundred passengers held hostage. Most of them elderly and many of them Americans."

  "How many crew?" Nolan asked.

  He turned to stare at his second-in-command. "Crew? I don't know, Chief, three, four hundred maybe. Anyway, we're the nearest, and we've been tasked to fly down there, release the hostages, and deal with these people."

  "Al Qaeda?" Lucas Grant asked him, his face grim.

  Something was bugging Lucas. He'd been angry about something for a couple of weeks. He'd even snapped at Boswell. He resolved to find out and try to help. It was his mob, even though Grant was Boswell's poodle.

  His crutch, more like; brought in to 'put some backbone' into his leadership. He'd sure needed it. When he first joined Bravo, he had as much idea about what made a Seal as the average Girl Guide.

  He smiled at Grant. "No question. Our old friends are up to their tricks. Good news is we're flying direct to the ship and infil with a HALO drop, so we'll rack up some jump hours."

  Lucas gave him a cold glance and turned away.

  Whatever's bugging him, it's something bad. Real bad.

  Nolan forgot about Grant, his mind was buzzing with a thousand questions. There were advantages and disadvantages in rushing straight in. The terrorists wouldn't expect a fast reaction, and there was a chance to catch them with their pants down. On the other hand, lack of preparation was one of the prime reasons for mission failure. He got Boswell's attention.

  "Lt, what's the current position of this cruise liner? Do we know if it's stationary, or underway?"

  "Currently, she's about fifty klicks from the Spanish Mediterranean port of Cartagena and steaming at maximum speed, heading for the coast of North Africa. They reckon it'll be Libya. That place is a nest of vipers since Gaddafi went, and some of the militia are tied to Al Qaeda, so they'd be able to get help from their friends."

  He pulled his tactical tablet out of the case and switched on. Immediately, the screen filled with map data. The northwest Mediterranean, so the mission controllers had up linked it ready for him to brief the unit. His fingers raced across the screen, and images appeared and disappeared.

  "The latest position of the ship is here, off the coast of Southern Spain."

  His fingers moved the map away, and an image of the ship appeared and then disappeared, to be replaced by a schematic.

  Intel has moved fast, very fast. Impressive.

  More images flashed on and off-screen, but he didn't leave them any time to study them. Finally, he returned to the schematic.

  "This is the way I see it. She's one hundred and eighty meters long; that's almost six hundred feet." As if his men didn't have the math to make the conversion, "I'll split us up into three teams. Nolan, you and three men to take the bridge."

  "You mean the bit at the front?"

  Boswell gave him a sour look, and Grant sniggered. "Right. My team with Grant, Weissman and Eisner will land on the Lido deck. Bryce and Merano will land aft, and find a good defensive position close to the stack, to the rear of the sundeck. As soon as we're in position, we'll move in and take down these gomers. Any questions?"

  It had all happened fast, much too fast for Nolan to connect the dots.

  "The name of the ship?"

  "She's the Arosa Star, a Greek flagged vessel."

  He felt a lurch in his guts. Back home, Kyle Nolan had a couple of kids looked after by their grandparents, the Robsons, since their mother was killed in drug-related drive-by shooting. They had a nice place up near Sacramento, and based in San Diego, he was able to make the trip every weekend when he was home. Several weeks ago, they told him they wanted a vacation. It was during school time, so he fixed up for his ex-girlfriend, Carol Summers, to move in with the kids while they were away.

  It was a good arrangement. Carol had almost become a surrogate mother to Daniel and Mary, which meant the Robsons were free to leave, for a Mediterranean cruise on the Arosa Star. His mind wandered over the possible outcomes. They were good folks and had become an important part of his children's lives. The kids were recovering well from the death of their mother, but it had been a long, dark, and hard road. It was a shame things had not worked out between him and Carol, but they had remained friends.

  "Do we know how many terrorists are on board, and what kind of weapons they're carrying?"

  It was Will Bryce who'd spoken, the tough, hard PO1. He was immensely strong, always dependable, the unit rock, and one of the most respected men in the entire Navy. Will was one of the finest soldiers Nolan had served with. The African American was huge, his body clad with slabs of hard muscle, a Seal operative at the very peak of physical fitness and skill. Behind his goggles, he had gray, watchful eyes, undoubtedly a throwback to some long forgotten mixed ancestry. If ever there was a perfect soldier, a man you'd trust more than any other with your life, it was Will.

  "Good question," Boswell acknowledged, "The answer is no. They seized the ship and shut down all communication. At a guess, I'd say at least twenty, with a maximum of about forty. Weapons?" He chuckled. "We all know what these people carry. AK-47s, and they'll likely have RPG7 rocket launchers, as well a good quantity of explosives. The only message they sent out was that the ship is wired to explode. Any attempt at a rescue will result in immediate detonation and the deaths of all on board. Including the rescuers."

  "Best not screw up t
hen," Lucas Grant murmured. Again, he had that faraway look.

  "No. Remember, the ship is ablaze with lights. It's a cruise ship, after all. It means we'll lose the advantage of night the moment we land. So we'll have to be extra careful. Don't give these fuckers a chance. Anyone makes a move; kill them. It shouldn't be too hard to make out the passengers; most will be white. The terrorists, all black, that goes without saying."

  "And the crew?" Bryce asked.

  "A mixture, I guess," the Lieutenant answered after a moment.

  Bryce stared at him and said nothing, but the meaning was clear. Shooting black men indiscriminately could kill plenty of the good guys.

  "Er, right, we'll need to be careful. We should be over the target in a couple of hours, so I suggest we take it easy for a bit. The rest of the night is likely to be busy."

  The briefing broke up, and Nolan settled down on the aluminum floor of the aircraft. He found a bunch of spare parachutes to rest against, and after a few moments, Will Bryce joined him.

  "Chief, something wrong?"

  Nolan was about to deny it, but this was Will, his best friend in the unit. He explained that his kids' grandparents were on board the vessel.

  "They can't afford to lose them, Will. Not after everything they've been through."

  At first, Bryce said nothing. They'd been through too much for him to serve up a few false platitudes. Besides, they knew what kind of odds they were facing. At worst, the terrorists would destroy the ship and everyone aboard. At best, Bravo would kill all the hostiles. But ten men against as many as forty meant there'd be some shooting, and when the bullets started to fly, civilians got hurt.

  "Give me a minute," Bryce said.

  He climbed to his feet and went away. A few moments later, he returned carrying Boswell's tactical tablet. He switched on and scrolled through the menu options. Then he grinned.

  "I thought so. They uploaded a full passenger manifest. You can find the cabin where your family is staying. Maybe it'll help when the shooting starts."

  Nolan stared at the display. The names, Mr. and Mrs. P Robson, were prominent, listed in Cabin 5064 on the Main Deck. Bryce glanced over his shoulder.