Assault on Al Shabaab Read online

  He stayed silent and waited. The President continued.

  "I have something of a problem, Chief. Agent Stowe was working undercover because of intelligence chatter we've been picking up for several weeks now. I understand the terrorists who hijacked the Arosa Star were our old friends, Al Qaeda. No surprises there."

  "No, Sir."

  "NSA has analyzed a bunch of recent intercepts, and it's clear they didn't operate on their own. They had help. Al Qaeda's plan was to take the ship to a friendly port in North Africa, and release the surviving passengers in return for a hefty ransom. It would have given them a huge boost for their international profile."

  Where do these people get their information?

  "Mr. President, I'm not sure your information is correct. The guy I spoke to, Mohammed Ibrahim, gave the impression they intended to go for maximum publicity from this stunt. They'd have demanded a huge ransom to be paid into their funds. But afterward, they planned to destroy the ship with everyone on it."

  A silence. "Destroy it?" His voice was shocked, "You mean…"

  "I mean a suicide mission."

  "You're sure?"

  "I'd say there's no doubt. It was a one-way trip for those guys."

  "Jesus Christ. Give me a minute, Chief."

  He muted the sound, and Nolan stood waiting for him to come back. He turned as someone entered the communications room, Boswell with Agent Stowe behind him. The Lieutenant came up to him, his face angry.

  "What's going down, Chief? Is that our boss on the line?"

  "Yeah, Lt. He put me on hold."

  "Next time, remember who's running this platoon. Anyone needs to know anything, it goes through me, clear?"

  Behind him, Amelia Stowe was grinning broadly, and Nolan worked to keep his face neutral.

  "Clear, Lt."

  "Right. Gimme the handset."

  He snatched it out of Nolan's hand and put it to his ear.

  "Admiral? This is Lieutenant Boswell. I just explained to the Chief he should have passed your call to me, as the officer in command. I assume you want a status report?"

  They watched him wait for a reply. The expression on his face was comical, as it moved from shocked incredulity to embarrassment in a couple of seconds.

  "Yessir. Nossir. Understood, Sir. Yes, I get it, Mr. President. He's right here. I'll put him back on."

  He passed the handset back. "He wants you."

  Nolan took it and spoke, "Mr. President, Sir."

  "Chief, I ran that past my National Security Adviser, and it changes everything. Especially in the light of what happened in Kenya. These people have begun a new campaign to attack America."

  "Al Qaeda? I wasn't aware they'd ever stopped. We've just managed to hold them off until now."

  "No, no, not Al Qaeda. You're right. We've uncovered the worst of their plots, and so far I guess we've been lucky to head them off. But this is something different. They've already hit us, just a threat, but it sure kicked sand in our faces and caused a heap of trouble. It looks like a major attack on the US may be on the cards, another 911. Their intention would be to undermine our economy and destroy a hefty chunk of our infrastructure. It's much more serious than we realized."

  He was mystified. If it wasn't Al Qaeda, who was it? He was about to put that question, when the President brought the conversation to an end.

  "I want your team to work with Agent Stowe. You can pass that on to your Lieutenant. It's an order. They caught us with our pants down this time, and a lot of people lost their lives. Chief, your platoon is on the spot. Talk to Amelia Stowe and put something together. I want you to locate and hit these bastards before they hit us. Nice talking to you, Chief Nolan, and you can pass my congratulations on to the men."

  The call ended, he passed the handset to the radio operator, and glanced at Boswell.

  "He says we're to work with Agent Stowe, Lt, and conjure up a plan to hit these terrorists before they hit the Continental US."

  It was obvious she was working hard to keep a straight face. Lieutenant William Boswell almost went ballistic.

  "First you go behind my back and talk to the President of the United States, and now you're telling me to work with this broad. You can forget it. We're the US Navy Seals, not the Fucked-up Bunch of Idiots."

  He glared at her, but Amelia Stowe didn't rise to the bait. She just stood with that relaxed and confident half-smile on her face. He switched his gaze to Nolan.

  "You'd better tell me the rest of it."

  He recited the gist of the conversation. "Just one thing, Lt, the President gave a direct order for us to work with Special Agent Stowe. I mean, if you want to play it differently, I guess you'd need to get back to him. It's way above my pay grade."

  He turned on his heel and without a word stalked out of the room. Nolan looked at the girl.

  "I guess that means we'll be working together. There are a million things I don't know, but the most important is those guys we just killed. Do I understand they weren't Al Qaeda?"

  She shook her head. "It was an Al Qaeda operation. They put the money into it and supplied the weapons and explosives. At least, that's my take on it. But no, I believe that the leader and most of the fighters were a different group."

  "Somalis, I guess."

  "For sure. You know the terrorist attack on the Westgate Shopping Centre in Kenya?" He nodded, "Same group."

  He stared at her. "You're not serious?"

  "There's no doubt. This was a broadside from Al Shabaab. And the next one will hit the US of A."

  Chapter Three

  He lounged in his quarters, listening to the sobbing of the American girl. She was cradling her baby who was crying loudly, upset by his mother's sadness. Should he beat her to make her stop? Perhaps later, when Mukhtar, his baby son, was asleep. In the meantime, he thought about his plans for the Americans, the real enemy, not this weakling girl who he'd taken for a wife. He decided to spare her the beating, enjoying the knowledge of what was to come.

  Revenge was a dish best tasted cold, he was well aware of that maxim. He'd already served the aperitif, a slap in the face for their baseball-loving President. Before the main course was served, he would show them the entree. During the war between Russia and Georgia in 2008, he'd come into possession of a pair of Polish-built Grom shoulder-launched missile systems. It was time to send a message to the Americans, time to introduce them to the hard edge of his wrath. The missile was deployed ready, close to one of their major Middle Eastern air bases. It was just a question of waiting for the right target and deciding whom to give the mission to. It could be a suicide mission. The second the missile launched, all hell would break loose, and it was almost certain the shooter would achieve martyrdom.

  He thought about his number two, Hasan Anglana. Was he becoming a threat to his leadership? It was possible. Something about the man irritated him lately. His commitment didn't seem so genuine. Yes, it was the perfect solution. He'd brief him later today and send him on his way, for good.

  * * *

  He had a lot of questions for the pretty young FBI Agent, but they had to wait. His first job was to enlist the aid of the crew and conduct a thorough search of the ship. It was possible one of the passengers or crew could be lying injured in some hidden space. It was equally possible one of the terrorists had hidden themself, waiting to pop out and inflict more hurt and pain.

  While the ship was steaming steadily northward, heading for the port of Cartagena in Southern Spain, they took two hours to scour the vessel from deck to bilges, stem to stern. They came up with nothing, and he was able to get Boswell together with Amelia Stowe to pick up where they left off. The Lieutenant sat sullenly in the first officer's cabin that they'd borrowed. The first officer wouldn't need it any more. His corpse was lying in the ship's freezer, along with the other victims of the attack. Nolan sat one end of the berth, and Amelia Stowe the other end. She was still relaxed, still with that same half smile on her face.

  "Okay, first of all, you may be asking why I'm involved in this. That's an easy one. My parents came to the US from Somalia, and I'm fluent in Somali and Arabic. As I said earlier, we picked up intelligence on a possible attack on the Arosa Star, and they sent me to join the crew undercover. When I…"

  "Look, forget the life history," Boswell snapped, "The President ordered us to cooperate, and I'll make damn sure my men do just that. Just tell me what it is you want."

  She stared at him in surprise.

  The first thing would be to replace you with someone professional.

  She took a breath. "Okay, I'll cut to the chase. The big player behind Al Shabaab in Somalia is a man called Nabil Barre. Since the Westgate Shopping Mall, we've been working with Homeland Security and CIA to project their likely moves, and we figure they're planning a major attack on the US. Do you know anything about Al Shabaab?"

  "Bunch of savages," Boswell muttered.

  Nolan saw her eyes widened fractionally. It could have been a racial slur on her ancestry, or maybe not. Either way, it was about as unhelpful a remark as he could have made. She rolled with it and took a breath.

  "That's something of an understatement, Lieutenant. Savages sums them up quite neatly, but they're much more. As you know, they're a primarily Somali organization. Al Shabaab means 'the youth' or 'the boys'. They got their start as an Al-Qaeda cell, back in 2012. They control large parts of the southern areas of Somalia, and have even imposed Sharia law. We estimate their numbers to be in excess of twenty thousand, and growing rapidly. You can imagine their appeal to impoverished Somali youth. They offer them support, a home, and a cause."

  "And a fucking AK-47."

  She winced, but once again let it ride. "Sure, that too. They've had their bust-ups with Al Qaeda, but their Kenya operation
put them back in the driving seat, and they're all buddy-buddies once more."

  "How come the President is so closely involved?" Nolan asked.

  She grimaced. "That's a recent development. The White House received a cardboard carton. When they opened it, they found the shrunken heads of five American soldiers, men who'd gone missing in the region. It was a declaration of war, no question. President Taylor took it seriously, and he wants to hit them before they reach American soil."

  "Do we know where to find these guys?"

  "One guy, Nabil Barre, he's the driving force behind the group, the man with the contacts and the means to make it all happen. Remove him from the equation, and the rest of them could collapse like a pack of cards. And no, we don't know where to find him. That's what President Taylor requires, to locate Barre and take him out."

  There was silence in the cabin for almost half a minute. Boswell looked aghast.

  "Let's get this straight. There are more than twenty thousand of these Al Shabaab terrorists running around the leafy lanes of Somalia. He wants Bravo to drop in and look him up, then put a bullet in his head. It's lucky Osama bin Laden is dead. Otherwise, he'd want us to deal with him at the same time."

  Nolan had had enough. "Take it easy, Lt. It's not Agent Stowe's fault if our bosses want us to do this thing." He looked at her, "Although I have to say, it sounds pretty far-fetched. I mean, what's the population? About five million?"

  "Ten million," she corrected him, "and the country occupies an area of a quarter of a million square miles. It's a big place. Fortunately, we won't be going in without help."

  It took both men a second or two before they realized what she'd said.

  "We?"

  "You're joking?" Boswell added.

  "I assure you, Lieutenant, I'm deadly serious. I have the background for this operation, the language skills, and a number of contacts in country. The most valuable is likely to be the UN coordinator for Famine Relief, Ashe Ahmed. He is a distant relation of mine. Ashe will be able to sound out the local UN fieldworkers, and with any luck, we'll get a line on Barre. As soon as we have a location, we can go in and finish the job." She saw Boswell's skeptical glance. "If you think this is just a job for macho Navy Seals, think again. I scored in the top three on my marksmanship course at Quantico, and if necessary, I can take the shot."

  Nolan said nothing, just watched her.

  I wonder has she ever killed a man. Probably not, but she sure is some woman.

  She finished up by giving them a detailed insight into the politics and culture of the target country, and finally Boswell declared he needed some fresh air, so he'd go and see how things were going with the men. He walked out the door, and they both breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to face him.

  "How the hell did an asshole like that ever get to command a platoon of Navy Seals?"

  He shrugged. "He's not so bad, usually. You just learn to roll with it."

  "He doesn't like you," she observed, "Doesn't that make things difficult? I mean, you're in a tough business, and the last thing you need is that kind of internal conflict."

  "It's a tough business," he agreed, "I get paid to deal with the difficult. The impossible too."

  "You said it. Listen, Chief, I need to get cleaned up. I haven't told you the rest of it. They're picking us up from Cartagena in a Spanish Search and Rescue helicopter. Our destination is Torrejon Air Base, near Madrid. The US Air Force has a flight waiting for us to take us onward to Kuwait, Ali Al Salem Air Base. Your boss will be waiting for you when we get there. He'll deliver the briefing, and we'll kit out ready to go into Somalia."

  "My boss? Not the President of the United States again?"

  She chuckled. "No chance. This time it's a more familiar face. Rear Admiral Drew Jacks."

  "He's coming all the way out to the Middle East just to brief us?"

  "No, he's coming to direct the operation in the field. I don't know the details, but he'll probably be based on board a ship in the Indian Ocean, just off the coast of Somalia."

  He stared at her. "Are there any more surprises?"

  Like the ID wallet she pulled from under her skirt.

  She returned his gaze, and there was something in her eyes, a glint perhaps. As if she knew exactly what he was thinking. Which, he considered, was fair. After all, how could a woman as pretty as this one, who would have been the target of advances all her adult life, not know what was in a man's mind?

  "We'll see."

  * * *

  The Spanish Air Force had a helo waiting on the wharf at Cartagena as the ship nosed into harbor. Boswell had vanished, and Lucas Grant made excuses for him. Apparently, the Lieutenant was 'in signals' with the Pentagon. Probably brown-nosing the brass, to make sure credit went where it was due, to him.

  Nolan explained the outline of the mission to the men of Bravo. Agent Stowe watched on, and he was thankful for her. At least she diverted them from asking too many awkward questions. Questions he couldn't answer. But the consensus came down to one word.

  "Somalia! Fuck it. Begging your pardon, Ma'am."

  She took it all well, even smiled at them. It lit up the room. "I've heard worse, a lot worse. You go right ahead and pretend I'm not here."

  As if that is possible.

  "Admiral Jacks is waiting for us in Kuwait, so he'll be able to fill us in on the details. I can tell you this operation is the result of months of intelligence work, and the threat is very real. They've already sent their calling card to the White House."

  She explained about the package of heads, and the room was quiet for a few moments.

  "You should be aware they are rumored to have shoulder launched missile systems. They could be planning on shooting down an American airliner. We need to keep an eye out for those."

  "What's new about that?" Will Bryce rumbled in his deep baritone, "The Somali RPG7s hit us hard during Gothic Serpent."

  "There aren't RPG7s. I'm talking Polish GROM 2s."

  They all stared at her in shock. "GROM 2s. Now that is new," Nolan acknowledged.

  She nodded. "Yes, it is."

  "Chief, what about infil and exfil?" Brad broke the silence, "What do we know?"

  "Haven't a clue. Ask Jacks when we reach Kuwait. My guess would be a night HALO jump, so we'll at least catch up on our training. Then again, if the target is on the coast, we could approach underwater."

  "Did the FBI teach you to swim?" Vince Merano asked Agent Stowe.

  "Yep, I even got the lifeguard gold medal."

  That earned a laugh. They were starting to relax when Lucas Grant growled, "Did they teach you anything about Operation Gothic Serpent, Ma'am?"

  The room went quiet. Gothic Serpent was a 1993 operation conducted by United States Special Operations forces. Their primary mission was to capture Mohamed Farrah Aidid, a vicious warlord. Supervised by the Joint Special Operations Command, JSOC, the operation was a disaster.

  She stared at his grim face for a moment. "They didn't need to. I lost a member of my family during the Battle of Mogadishu. I doubt I'll ever forget. It's not easy to see a relative come home in a coffin."

  Grant nodded, and his gaze softened a little. "No, it is not."

  * * *

  They docked in the crowded port of Cartagena. As ports go, it had little to distinguish it from similar docks the world over, except for its history. Cartagena translated as New Carthage. The North African warlord Hannibal, who almost overturned the mighty Roman Empire, made it his European headquarters. The city was filled with history dating back to the Punic Wars, with an excavated amphitheater, and even a section of the original defensive wall.

  The helicopter waiting on the concrete pad close to the wharf was a Spanish Air Force Sikorski S76, fitted for Search and Rescue. A crewman was waiting for them at the foot of the gangplank. He greeted them briefly and led them across to the aircraft. The rotors were already turning, and as the last man climbed into the cabin, the big helo lifted off into the clear blue sky of Southern Spain.

  The flight was hot and noisy, and it reminded each man of how long it had been since they'd eaten or slept. Nolan glanced across at Boswell, who was sitting with Grant, as usual. They were talking to each other, their heads close together, so they could hear over the roar of the engine and rotor blades.