Assault on Al Shabaab Read online

  Talking about what?

  He knew for sure that Boswell wanted his pal Lucas Grant to replace him. He'd almost said as much on more than one occasion. Sly hints, like 'Isn't it time you thought about a move, Chief? I could maybe get your promotion to Master Chief. I'd like to think the senior men in Bravo rotated, so keep it in mind'. It was more than hints. The man's attitude had changed, a one hundred and eighty degree turn. When he first joined the unit, he had only one priority. Lieutenant William Boswell.

  After a couple of missions, he'd settled down and seemed to have the makings of a good officer. Everything changed about the time he brought Grant into the platoon. It wasn't hard to figure. His wealthy family connections mapped out his future for him, and they'd have been concerned to make certain he pointed his feet in the right direction. A stint in the Navy Seals, and then he'd retire a hero. Aided by Lucas Grant, who'd already found celebrity, at least within military and government after the bin Laden raid. And Boswell now had an even greater incentive to push him to the top. His older brother was due to inherit the family fortune. However, he was recently diagnosed as terminally ill, which meant Lieutenant Boswell was in line to take the lot.

  Then it was a sure step into politics, probably Congress, followed by the Senate and maybe even a run at the top job. He shuddered.

  President William Boswell, God help us all.

  The Lieutenant would see Nolan as an obstacle to his immediate success. He wanted the glow of the hero of the bin Laden raid at his side when he claimed credit for successful operations. Not an anonymous Navy man like Nolan.

  It wasn't that simple. What Boswell did in his own time and on his own dollar was up to him. When it involved the safety and security of the men of Seal Team Bravo, it was something different. His push for glory was a problem, no question. The men were worried, and worried men were at less than a hundred percent efficiency. They got killed. Lately they'd hit more than their fair share of trouble because of the Lieutenant's poor decision-making. Men had been wounded. Men had been killed.

  Fuck him! I'm staying, no matter how Boswell tries to sideline me.

  He'd have to be careful. The man was ruthless, but he was no fool. Thankfully, Lucas Grant was a straight shooter. He'd have little choice but to support his platoon commander, especially if he intended to hang on to the man's coattails after he left the Service, so he'd back up the Lt, but not if it risked the security of the unit. Boswell, on the other hand, had no such scruples.

  He made an effort to shove it out of his mind and drifted into a light doze.

  "Chief Nolan."

  A woman's voice, it was Special Agent Amelia Stowe. He checked the time. He'd had all of twelve minutes.

  "Yeah?"

  "You weren't trying to sleep or anything?"

  "Nope. What is it?"

  "I, uh, well, I guess… I wanted to say thanks." She saw his puzzlement, "For supporting me. That Lieutenant of yours, I get the impression he would have done anything to make things difficult for me."

  He shrugged. "I wouldn't know about him. But whatever, you're welcome."

  "He doesn't like women."

  Nolan had already drifted away into his thoughts. It was this girl; something about her seemed to distract him. Not the ideal person to take on an operation. Except the problem was his problem. He'd have to deal with it himself.

  Her words jolted him.

  Boswell doesn't like women? Is it possible the officer is gay? Moreover, if he is, how does it change things? It shouldn't change anything, but...

  There was always the but. Not every gay man was comfortable with others knowing his secret, even though things had changed, in and out of the military. Then again, Amelia Stowe could be wrong. And there was another possibility. Boswell was one of those vile sons of bitches who didn't like anyone, male of female. It was something else to watch for.

  She let him drift back into a doze until the flight crew alerted them they were approaching Torrejon. He looked out the window with interest. Torrejon was a major Spanish Air Force base, as well as a secondary civilian airport for Madrid. Situated twenty kilometers outside Spain's capital city, the strip had been home to the United States Strategic Air Command, SAC, during the Cold War. Now, the nuclear-armed B-52s were long gone, and the stands were littered with fighter and support planes. The helo touched down close to a squadron of familiar aircraft, McDonnell Douglas F/A 18 Hornets, capable of flying supersonic at speeds of Mach 1.8. These guys had good taste in their chosen fighter jets.

  As he watched, a pair of the Hornets began taxiing toward the strip, and as they were disembarking from the Sikorski, they took off with a roar. He noted that two pairs of General Electric F404-GE-402 turbofans could make one hell of a racket. The warm Spanish air was heavy with the stink of kerosene, as the fighters leapt into the sky and climbed almost vertically.

  A couple of hotshot pilots, no doubt. Then again, what fighter pilot isn't?

  They had a gleaming white bus waiting for them close to the helipad. A Spanish Air Force officer approached Boswell.

  "Sir, I am Capitano Luis Moreno. If you care to board the bus, your transport is waiting."

  Boswell fixed him with a sour look. "I thought we'd have a chance for some chow. What's the hurry?"

  The Spaniard stared at him in surprise. "I was told to transfer you for the onward journey as quickly as possible. As for the need to hurry, I have no idea. Those were my orders. Do you wish me to ask if it is possible to change the arrangement?"

  He gave a loud theatrical sigh. "Okay, no need to sweat." He turned to Nolan. "Get 'em aboard, Chief."

  "Roger that."

  They were already drifting toward the white bus. It was the same as used in civilian airports when the aircraft stand was some distance from the terminal; room for eighty people, with seating for ten. The doors closed, and the driver stamped on the gas to make the vehicle lurch forward.

  Yep, exactly like the way they do it in civilian airports.

  They threaded between rows of parked aircraft, even a big Airbus, just like the civilian passenger jet, but this one was painted in the livery of the Spanish Air Force. The bus halted as a generator truck passed in front of them, another jerk and they were on the move again. They approached their destination, a familiar sight.

  "Déjà vu," Brad grinned.

  "That it is," Nolan acknowledged.

  They slowed next to a big Boeing C 17, and a glance at the tail number showed it was the same aircraft they'd used for training over Luneberg Heath in Germany. The driver stamped on the brake pedal, another lurch, and the bus stopped right next to the ramp. They filed out of the bus, up the ramp, and once again they were inside the vast aluminum cavern of the Globemaster. The crewman who greeted them did a double take.

  "Christ, you again. Doesn't the US Navy have any other Seals they can use?"

  "It sure feels that way," Will replied.

  "There is another explanation, PO Bryce," Boswell interjected, "When they want the best, we're the ones they call."

  Lucas Grant was right behind him. The Seal Team 6 DEVGRU vet grimaced but kept quiet.

  They pulled down the jump seats and made themselves as comfortable as possible for the journey. The engines were already spooling up, and the interior began to darken as the ramp closed. Once again, they were treated to the ear-shattering roar of the four mighty Pratt and Whitney turboprops as they warmed up for takeoff. It was the start of a journey of four thousand kilometers, all the way down the Mediterranean and across Iraq to the Persian Gulf state of Kuwait.

  And then what? A journey into Somalia to kill warlord planning an attack on the United States mainland.

  Nolan knew it would be more difficult than that, a lot more difficult. Their boss, Rear Admiral Drew Jacks, would be waiting for them at Ali Al Salem Air Base, Kuwait, and doubtless they'd get answers to many questions. If the attack were in an advanced stage, killing Barre wouldn't put a stop to it. It meant a vital part of the mission would be intelligence
gathering. And then he thought about Amelia Stowe.

  It explained a lot. Without doubt, she was one of the Fed's Somali specialists, given her ancestry. The Somali community in the US was a source of recruitment for Islamic extremists. It was no surprise they'd want someone who was comfortable with the language and culture to monitor them. Her presence on the cruise liner as an undercover agent to investigate an Al Qaeda attack suggested she'd done her homework. If they uncovered intel during the coming operation, there'd be no one better able to assess its value than she would.

  Once again, he tried to doze and take up on some rest. The operation was gathering momentum, and he had little doubt when they reached the Middle East, there'd be few opportunities for shuteye. He managed to shut out the din of the vibrating, echoing aluminum cavern they were flying in, and the excruciating discomfort of the hard jump seat. Within minutes, he was asleep.

  His subconscious was lit up by scenes of battle, missiles, automatic fire, and helicopter gunships racing across the sky in support of ground troops. But it wasn't anything he'd experienced first-hand. He was recalling the movie, Black Hawk Down. The epic depiction of Operation Gothic Serpent, when US forces, including Rangers and Delta Force, went into Somalia to capture the infamous warlord Aidid.

  * * *

  In his nightmare he was part of the battle, looking down at the devastation from the vantage point of a Hughes Defender MH-6 'Little Bird'. Maybe it was the talk of Al Shabaab having ground-to-air missiles, but they were passing an apartment block, and a kid stood on the roof with an RPG7 missile pointed straight at them. They were so close, he could see the holes in the kid's jeans and the white trainers he wore on his feet. If he fired, the chances were the Little Bird would go down.

  He angled his long rifle, the Mk 11 SWS, and aimed. The boy was in his sights, and Nolan hesitated, his finger already taking up pressure on the trigger. The target couldn't have been more than ten years old. Was this what war had become, killing children to save yourself? Yet he had no choice. It wasn't just him. There was a pilot, a crewman, and four Seals on board the helo. He took up the final pressure, and the heavy slug left the barrel to travel the short distance to its target.

  He saw the boy fall one way, and his missile tube rolled away from him. He kept watching through the Leupold Vari-X riflescope, and he could see where his bullet had entered. The range had been so short, he'd been able to go for the headshot, and now the ruined face filled the optics. Strangely, although his heavy bullet had taken out the nose and mouth, the boy's eyes still stared back at him, filled with condemnation. And then another man stood next to the boy's body, and in his hands he held a second RPG7 launcher. Nolan reeled back in shock. It wasn't a Somali. The man had a white face, blonde hair, and a small, blonde mustache. Boswell. No, no...!

  * * *

  "Chief."

  He struggled for a moment. Someone had hold of his arms. Then he opened his eyes, and he was looking at the face of Will Bryce. Amelia Stowe was standing next to him, her face anxious.

  "You okay?" she asked, her voice pitched just loud enough to be heard above the cacophony of the C-17 interior.

  "I'm fine."

  She looked relieved. "Do you normally talk in your sleep? Shout in your sleep would be more like it. I could hear you even over this racket."

  "It's nothing."

  She raised her eyebrows. "We're coming up on Kuwait. We should be landing in about fifteen minutes."

  "Thanks."

  She gave him a tight smile. They both knew she understood he was thanking her for easing him down from the tumult of a vicious nightmare. It was already hot inside the cabin, which told him they were flying low above the desert sands of Kuwait. He got to his feet and began to get the circulation moving.

  "I'll take stroll up to the flight deck. I need to loosen up."

  "Sounds like a good idea."

  He left her, walked through the cargo hold, up the steps, and through the narrow door into the cockpit. The pilot, a USAF Captain, was swigging a can of Coke, ice cold, with beads of condensation formed around the tin. He looked at Nolan.

  "You want one?"

  "Like you wouldn't believe."

  The man reached down to an insulated box and fished him one out. Nolan pulled the tab, glugged it down, and looked at the Captain.

  "Thanks, it tasted like champagne."

  "No sweat, you fly around these parts and you learn keep a few in stock."

  He glanced ahead at the instruments and dials, and made a couple of adjustments.

  "Autopilot is off, I have the controls."

  The co-pilot looked around. "You have the controls," he confirmed, "We should be over the field in nine minutes."

  "Copy that."

  The pilot chatted to Nolan while he kept staring ahead, steering the giant aircraft as if he had his own human autopilot switched on.

  "I take it you boys are headed to some hairy corner of the Middle East?"

  "Something like that."

  He smiled. "It's okay. We're used to flying guys like you around the world. We never know where you are headed, but it doesn't stop us speculating." He glanced aside at his co-pilot. "Larry, what's your best guess for this bunch of US government licensed assassins?"

  The man chuckled. "Now let me think. Yemen, that's my guess. Plenty of nasties running around that place, am I right?"

  "Spot-on," Nolan confirmed.

  The pilot let out a belly laugh. "Spot-on my ass. Larry, if this guy says they're going to Yemen, they're going nowhere near the place."

  The other man grimaced. "Spooks, same the world over, but I have to hand it to you guys, you took down Osama. That was one helluva job. Any of your guys take part in that one?"

  "Not one."

  "Yeah, right."

  They flew on, and Nolan sipped the last of his Coke. Even in a few minutes, it was lukewarm. Something about this part of the world, fly at ten thousand meters, and it's cold enough to freeze off your balls. Or come down to a few hundred meters above the ground, and it's hot enough to fry your ass. He could see the airfield a couple of clicks ahead.

  Not long now. With any luck, we'll have time for some chow and a long cold shower.

  He was looking forward to meeting up with Jacks. No matter what his troubles with Boswell, he'd be able to have a serious talk with the Admiral about the coming operation. He knew Jacks wouldn't like what he had to say. They were stepping into a hornets' nest, and although he hadn't seen the mission brief, it had the stink of something dreamed up by the President. He recalled Taylor's anger when he'd spoken to him. It was the wrong emotion entirely when you were planning a military operation. Especially when you're going to kick sand in the face of the Somalis. They had a reputation of kicking back. Hard.

  He turned as someone came through to the flight deck. Lucas Grant.

  "Chief, there's something…"

  "Missile launch ahead of us! Evasive action! Hard to starboard! Firing flares, now. "

  The pilot reacted in a split second and threw the control column over. The huge aircraft banked steeply to the right and plunged nearer to the ground. Nolan could see the missile a kilometer in front of them, trailing smoke as it blazed straight at them. The aircraft was alive with warning sirens and shouted orders from the crew, but he couldn't take his eyes off that weapon closing on them.

  He had no way of knowing what kind of missile they were facing, but he was already registering that it was tracking them with an infrared aiming sensor. He'd seen plenty of RPG7s in his time, but this was something different. Faster, and it responded much quicker to the frantic efforts of the pilot to decoy it from its inexorable course. Either side of the aircraft was lit up with flares deployed from the Globemaster, but the missile ignored them and bored straight to the port side engine.

  At the last second, they veered again, in a maneuver that almost tore off the wings. Instead of slamming into the engine and exploding close to the fuselage, which would have torn off the entire wing, the abrupt
change of course caused it to impact low on the front of the aircraft, right on the nose and several meters below the windshield. He was thrown to the deck with the last maneuver, and so he didn't see the explosion and jet of flame that spurted up in front of them. The windows in the nose shattered instantly, turning the flight deck into a maelstrom of flying glass fragments.

  "I can't see, I can't see!" the pilot screamed, "Larry, take over!"

  The co-pilot didn't reply, and Nolan crawled over the glass-strewn deck to find him unconscious, jammed into the gap between the seats.

  He shouted at the pilot, "The co-pilot is down. What do you want me to do?"

  The man seemed to freeze in that moment. He shook his head, a ghastly sight, covered in blood from a thousand cuts.

  "There's nothing you can do. We're going down. Tell your buddies the aircraft is about to crash."

  Chapter Four

  The wind screamed through the empty gaps in the windshield, and the big aircraft was still losing height. Nolan climbed to his feet, and he could see the ground only three hundred meters below, sitting at a crazy angle as the aircraft yawed more and more to starboard.

  He reacted immediately and jumped over the body of the co-pilot and into his seat. He put his hands on the control column but met with resistance, and he saw Larry's leg jammed against the stick. Even as he reached down to move him aside, Lucas Grant was there, pulling the body away to free the controls. Nolan nodded his thanks and set to recovering the aircraft's course. His first move was to push the throttle levers forward. He knew they'd need plenty of power to regain control, and he recalled what was needed was to slowly ease their descent until he could put the nose up and gain height.

  The problem was vision. The slipstream knifed in through the broken windshield and almost blinded him. He reached up to pull down the goggles from his helmet, but in the emergency they'd slid off and disappeared. He couldn't search for them. He was trying to control the aircraft and knew if he took his hands off the column, they could flip over.