Assault on Al Shabaab Read online

  "They're next door to a staircase. It'll make it easier to locate the cabin. You know what'll happen when we go in. The shit will hit the fan, and it'll be chaos on there."

  He took the tablet and looked closer. "Looks like they're in my sector, Chief. I'll keep an eye out for that cabin. First chance I have, I'll go find them."

  "If they're in there."

  His gray eyes darkened for an instant, and he nodded slowly. "Yeah, if they're in there."

  He tried to rest, but his mind was racked with turmoil. Because of his work and his wife's murder, the Robsons offered the stability his kids so desperately needed.

  If they're killed...Christ, it doesn't bear thinking about.

  But he had to look to the future. His kids needed someone at home, someone to welcome them when they returned from school, to make sure they could do the things normal kids did. Carol, his ex-girlfriend was an angel, but she had a career of her own, a plainclothes cop in San Diego.

  If anything happens, I'll have to...

  "We need to get ready, Chief. You okay?"

  He looked up startled. Three men stood next to him. They'd been split into fireteams, and these were the men he'd fight with, Moseley, Murray, and Rose. Brad Rose stared at him, his handsome surfer's face split in a wide grin. He was the unit dandy, slightly below medium height, powerfully built, and no matter what clothes he wore, he always managed to look good; like a playboy or a California beach boy. His long, blonde hair was hidden beneath his Gallet half-helmet, although some stray strands peaked out underneath.

  Nolan checked his watch. "I'm fine. I make it thirty minutes until we jump. Anything changed?"

  "Twenty six minutes, according to Boswell. We've picked up a tailwind. We'll pick up speed on the descent. With any luck, we'll hit the bastards before they see us coming."

  "We need more than luck, Brad."

  "In that case, I'll talk nicely to them."

  "That should do it."

  * * *

  Ten minutes before they reached the target, they started to go through the rituals before the jump. They stood up, checked the harness of the man in front, and bunched near to the ramp. It started to open with a whine of electric motors, and the jumpmaster hooked on his harness and stood ready. Nolan grinned; it always reminded him of a hotel doorman waiting to escort his guests out to a waiting limousine. Except it was unlikely any plush Manhattan establishment would send people on a six-mile plunge into the night. Besides, the guy didn't wear a top hat. He held up his fingers and continued with the ritual.

  "Five minutes."

  He held up five gloved fingers. Nolan continued the last minute checks, tagging on the webbing strap of his rifle as he always did. He was one of two unit snipers, and carried the tool of his trade, an SWS Mk 11. The precision semiautomatic Sniper Weapon System could deliver a lethal 7.62mm round to a range of almost a mile. The Leupold Vari-X Mil-dot riflescope mounted on top meant he rarely missed.

  He moved his hand to his 9mm handgun in the holster strapped to his leg, a Sig Sauer P226, the choice of many Special Forces operatives, and a final check on his helmet. They had no night vision equipment; the cruise liner would be lit up like Times Square, making it useless. Last of all, he checked his harness. Again. It was unnecessary, other men around him had already checked.

  But what the hell, it's my neck. And I have nothing better to do, not for the next few minutes. No, make that, two minutes.

  The jumpmaster was holding up two fingers. His fireteam moved into a bunch nearest to the open ramp, as they were slated to be first out. Despite their thick clothing and equipment, the wind cut through an icy blast that felt like tiny razorblades hacking at the skin.

  "One minute."

  They moved almost to the edge of the ramp, holding onto the safety lines.

  "Ten seconds, nine, eight…"

  Time to go to work.

  "Green light, go, go!"

  They stepped out into the chill dark, the icy blast of the slipstream as cold as the Devil's breath. He adjusted his arms and legs into the classic skydiving position, checked his wrist mounted combined GPS and altimeter, and settled into the descent. At first, they were in cloud, and it was like swimming in a bowl of soup. But after the first few minutes, he was underneath the cloud. There was no sign of their target, although it was possible to make out the lights of small vessels making their way across the Mediterranean.

  Carrying cargoes from North Africa to Spain, perhaps. Some would be smugglers, for the strip of ocean was one of the most popular in the world for drug traffickers, people traffickers, and in the opposite direction even electrical goods. The Spanish enclave of Melilla was situated on the coast of Morocco. It was a source of amusement to Spanish officials that Moroccans would purchase a large appliance in the town, like an icebox, and then float it on a raft to circumvent the steep customs tariffs Morocco charged to its citizens.

  He stared ahead. It had to be near, unless something had changed, like the terrorists detonated the charges and sent the Arosa Star to the bottom.

  Dear God, no! Not that. Over there! A ship lit up like a Californian town.

  He checked his position and shifted his weight to make a slight adjustment to his course. It had to be it; there was nothing else near. He looked around, and twenty meters to his right and slightly behind, he could see one of the team, Will Bryce. It could only be him. No one else was that big. He gave him a wave, and Will sketched a mock salute. He chuckled. It was a good omen, the PO1 looked relaxed. They were nearing the ship, and he made another adjustment. Will did the same, and they separated. He aimed at the bridge while the other man pointed aft.

  He checked his altimeter again. The ship was coming up fast. It was time. He pulled the cord, and the dark night camouflage 'chute snapped open with the familiar and comforting jerk. This was the critical moment. He had to land on the Bridge Deck, Deck 8, unseen by the enemy, but on top of the bridge was Deck 9, the Observatory; a perfect place to land, but also a perfect defensive position. Instead, his fireteam headed for Deck 7 where there was a tiny platform, which should be large enough for them to land. From there, it would be easy to climb up to the bridge. Provided they got down safely on a space barely big enough to accommodate a family car.

  It was closer now, and he could pick out the LZ. Up above, on the Observatory deck, there were four men to each side keeping watch. As expected, they were armed with Kalashnikov AK-47s. The iconic banana shaped clips marked them out immediately. Below, he could make out two heads staring out of the bridge window. Both were black, and he knew from the briefing, the bridge crew was mainly Greek. Below, the platform was empty, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Another adjustment, and he was drifting toward it, making an allowance for the speed of the ship and the wind shear.

  The LZ hurtled toward him, and he was about to touch when he saw a figure standing at the side. It happened in a split second and a blur of movement. A short, thin black man; he was dressed in jeans and a ragged T-shirt. His AK was slung over his shoulder while he smoked a cigarette. Nolan gave a gentle tug on the line, and the other man never stood a chance.

  Instead of a neat landing, he angled his body so that his boots smashed into the terrorist. The man looked up, his eyes wide and terrified at the dark specter that had appeared from nowhere. If he was superstitious, and he probably was, he would have assumed it was an evil spirit summoned from hell. The moment lasted less than a second. Nolan used him to cushion the landing, and as they rolled over, he slammed the edge of his hand into his target's neck. It was a killer blow, and he ignored the man to correct his landing.

  Instead of standing on the platform, he was tumbling over. The need for the attack meant he wasn't able to stow his parachute in the normal way. The lines entangled his legs, and as he tried to free himself, the ship fell victim to wind and sea and plunged over. He began to slide off the edge, as he banged on his harness release and kept working to free himself. One leg went over the edge, but he hooked the other on the
extension of a flimsy post.

  He'd almost made it, and was pulling himself back onto the platform, when the post began to bend. He looked around frantically for another handhold, but there was nothing. He tried to use the bent post as support, but it only bent even more. He was going, sliding over, and there was nothing left to stop him, when the shape of a dark angel glided inches over his head. In a fluid movement, Zeke Murray snapped his harness and clamped a hand on Nolan's webbing. He started pulling him away from the edge.

  "Going for a swim, Chief?" he murmured.

  "Thanks, Zeke. Any sign of…"

  Two more black angels skimmed overhead and dropped to a perfect landing, so close their 'chutes were almost entangled. Dan Moseley with his M249 slung on his back, and Brad Rose, who was already stepping out of his harness and preparing his HK 410. They'd all made it. Just. He wondered about the other two teams, Boswell and Bryce, but it was too early to make contact. He looked at the men.

  "Communications check."

  "Read you, strength five." They all came back the same. It was time to go.

  "We'll take the bridge. You noticed the gomers on top, on the Observatory deck?"

  They all nodded. "Couldn't miss 'em," Brad grimaced, "They could cause trouble if they come down to the bridge."

  "Yeah. We'll hit the bridge, and the second it's secure, you and Zeke can go up there and put them out of their misery. Let's move out, and remember, there'll be friendlies on that bridge. We just have to hope that one of them can give us the heads up on the location of the explosives."

  "Unless it's bullshit," Dan murmured.

  "You ever know a time when people like this missed a chance to blow something up?"

  "Point taken. Maybe we can persuade one of the hostiles to let us in on the secret."

  "These guys are fanatics. It'll take powerful persuasion to get them to talk."

  "Powerful is what I had in mind."

  They checked their loads. Brad shouldered his HK410, the same weapon carried by Zeke. Dan Moseley was a machine gunner, and in addition to his SAW, the M249, he elected to carry a lightweight SCAR, Special operations Combat Assault Rifle.

  The Belgian designed weapon had a folding stock and a ten-inch barrel. Even with the suppressor fitted, it was tiny enough to carry under his coat, and he'd fitted a couple of extras, like the EGLM, a 40mm grenade launching module, as well as a laser sighting mechanism. He carried the M249 on his back and the SCAR in his hands. For close quarter battle, it had few equals.

  Nolan gazed around a final time, shouldered his sniper rifle, took out his handgun, and gave them the nod. It was time to earn their pay.

  "Let's go."

  They crept forward, hugging the shadows, and stopped when the distinctive chatter of a 7.62mm AK-47 ripped through the night.

  They know we're here! Fuck.

  Chapter Two

  "Let's move! Straight up to the bridge, and anything gets in the way, kill it."

  The only thing that would help them now was speed. They had no idea why the shooting had started, but it didn't matter. The show had begun.

  They raced up the ladder to the bridge deck and stopped. In front of them was a small open space with the elevator doors. As they arrived, the doors opened and a man stepped out. He was black and wearing bright Bermuda shorts and a ragged T-shirt. He also carried a pistol in his hand, which sealed his fate. Nolan shot him, and the round tore through his head and splattered part of his brain onto the wall behind him. Even before his body slammed into the soft, luxurious pile of the carpet, they had started to run.

  The door to the bridge was only three meters away, and it was closed. They surrounded it and knelt down, waiting, while he gently tried the handle. Locked. He gave the signal to Brad to prepare a stun grenade. Then he took out a small magnetic demolition charge, set it for five seconds, and signaled them to step back. A last check around, he hit the detonator and dived for cover.

  The explosive roared, completely blasting the bridge door from its hinges, and while the shock waves were still roiling around them, Brad leapt forward and tossed the grenade inside. They flattened against the wall outside the bridge structure as it exploded. A second later, Nolan was through the door, his Sig Sauer leading the way.

  The bridge space was a scene of devastation, with men sprawled on the floor, many clutching their heads to ease the pain of burst eardrums. It was very different from a US Navy warship. The rear area was wood paneled, and the watchmen had comfortable padded chairs on pedestals. The rest was immaculate pristine, smart paintwork and gleaming wood and brass trims. When the passengers did the tour, they'd expect to see nothing less.

  He counted a total of ten men on the bridge, of which eight were hostiles, garish in their ragged, brightly hued clothing, and the other two displayed the uniform of the Merchant Marine.

  One of the hostiles was trying to pull himself to his feet, and he helped him back to the floor with two 9mm rounds. Behind him they were finishing off the others, and within five seconds of the breaching charge detonating, the bridge was theirs. Zeke was helping a man in the uniform of a senior officer to his feet. Nolan went over to speak to him.

  "We're US Navy, Sir, and we need your help. Who are you?"

  He shook his head. "I, er… what happened?"

  Nolan grabbed him by the shoulders. There'd be plenty of time to recover his wits later. "Never mind, we need to know who you are, and how many hostiles came aboard the ship?"

  He seemed to straighten. "I'm the Captain of the Arosa Star, Costas Constantinides. Yes, the numbers. I made a note. I thought it'd be important, but…"

  His voice tailed off, and Nolan did the only thing possible. He slapped his face.

  "Captain, there's no time. How many hostiles?"

  He saw the man's eyes flare in anger, but it brought him to his senses.

  "Hostiles. Forty of them, I'm sure of it." He looked at the eight bodies on the floor. "I'd guess that means thirty-two left. Your work?"

  "Yeah." He swung around to Dan Moseley. "We have to work through the ship. I'll leave you here to take care of the bridge with your M249. Anything happens; you know what to do. The rest of you, follow me."

  "What do you want me to do?" the Captain asked, "I don't know if it's possible to stop the ship."

  Nolan looked around. The ship was still underway, heading south. "No need. Spin her around one hundred and eighty degrees and head north."

  "North? Which port?"

  "You were headed for Cartagena, in Southern Spain. No need to change your itinerary."

  The man looked mystified for a moment, then nodded. He bent down to help his crewman, as Nolan led his men back out to the interior of the cruise liner. Over thirty hostiles left to take down. They stopped at the head of the staircase that led down to Deck Seven, the Lido Deck, where they expected the main attacking force to be concentrated. It was close enough to the bridge, and yet central enough to control the entire vessel, passengers, and crew. It's what he would have done. And where they'd agreed to meet up with Boswell's fireteam.

  They raced down the stairs and along the wide promenade. They reached an open area that spanned the entire width of the boat, where they'd arranged to rendezvous with Boswell's group. It was empty. He keyed his mic.

  "Bravo One, this is Two. Bridge is secure. We just reached the Lido Deck. Where are you?"

  Boswell came back a couple of seconds later. "This is Bravo One, we're below you on the Lounge Deck Six."

  Shit, they were supposed to clear the Lido Deck and report in. Has something gone wrong?

  "Copy that. Did you clear the Lido Deck?"

  "Negative, negative. We ran into a bunch of hostiles, and Lucas thought it would be best to leapfrog them to secure the engine room. Stop the boat heading any further south."

  He worked hard to control his anger. There were times when Boswell came through, but this wasn't one of them.

  "Copy that, where are the hostiles?"

  He got his answer sooner t
han expected. A hail of gunfire swept past them, the distinctive chatter of AK-47s fired on full auto. They were already diving to the deck as another barrage of shots whistled overhead.

  "We're not sure…"

  Nolan ignored Boswell's reply and concentrated on facing the new threat. He emptied the clip in the direction of the enemy, who were hiding behind some of the ship's lifeboats. As he rammed in a new clip, and unslung his rifle, he turned to the nearest man, PO3 Brad Rose.

  "How many?"

  Rose squirted off half a dozen shots and was rewarded with a scream from up ahead.

  "There's a whole bunch of them back there. I'd guess about ten."

  "Roger that. Work around to their right flank, Zeke, and take the other end. I'll try and pick them off from here."

  They scrambled away, and he lay prone on the deck, focusing his Leupold Vari-X Mil-dot riflescope on the targets up ahead. A ragged T-shirt briefly presented itself a couple of inches beneath the lifeboat, and he squeezed the trigger twice. Two rounds spat out the suppressed barrel, two 175-gram chunks of lead, flying at a speed of 2,580 feet per second. The kinetic energy of his burst punched the gaudy T-shirt backward, and the scream of shock and agony echoed around the luxurious Lido Deck. Immediately, two more men leapt up and aimed their weapons at him. It was a gift. He hit them with a single shot apiece, each time he aimed for the head, and each time he hit. Their days of annoying innocent passengers on cruise liners were over. Three down, seven to go. And then he barely heard the 'thunk' of a suppressed shot, as one of the other men began to get on the scoreboard.

  A couple more bursts sounded from the AK-47s as they turned to face the new threat, and he heard more 'thunks' from the Seals' weapons. Three men jumped to their feet, forgetting the sniper that watched them and tried to run down Brad's position. They were firing on full auto, and he ignored the bullets that whistled and ricocheted around the deck to concentrate on taking them down.