Assault on Al Shabaab Read online

  Grant pulled a pair of goggles down over Nolan's eyes. At last, he could see, yet they were not out of trouble. The controls were sluggish; obviously the missile had damaged the control systems. Probably he was flying on some second or third set of backup system. Still, he managed to slow their rate of descent. Only slow it, they were still going down. He glanced aside. Grant had helped the pilot out of his seat and took his place.

  "Chief, you want me to lower the gear?"

  "Not yet," he shouted over the scream of the wind, "We need to gain height to level off. The landing gear will make it more difficult. Contact the tower, and tell them we have an emergency."

  "I think they know that."

  Nolan risked a quick glance, and sure enough, the field below was alive with racing emergency vehicles, fire trucks, and ambulances.

  "In that case, I need a hand with the controls. You flown one of these things?"

  "Couple of hours in a T44 Pegasus, the Navy's Beechcraft King Air. Nothing this size."

  Great.

  He'd checked out on the Navy's T44 Pegasus turboprop, and once he'd sat in the right-hand seat of a C-130, which was another turboprop, although it did have four engines; useful experience, but not ideal preparation for flying a crippled giant Boeing C-17 Globemaster. Let alone making an emergency landing.

  "Roger that. Contact the tower. We need a clear runway. The moment we have control, we're landing, and it could be hairy. I guess the guys in the back know that, too."

  "For sure."

  "Okay, ease back on the throttles. We're almost level. We need to make a gentle turn and come back in."

  Grant talked to Ali Al Salem Air Base, and they assured him the runway was already cleared for their emergency landing.

  "What about the missile shooters?" He heard him ask them.

  "We sent people to look for them. We'll get them."

  "Amen to that."

  Nolan managed to bring up the nose a little more and climbed to a thousand meters. Then he began the long, slow process of bringing the aircraft around ready for a second approach to the strip. He heard Grant calling for a medic to come forward and attend to the crew. Seconds later, Zeke Murray appeared on the flight deck. Amelia Stowe was right behind him, and they began pulling the injured men away from the front of the cockpit to make them more comfortable at the rear. Then they began dressing their wounds. Both men had suffered badly from the influx of glass and debris, and their faces were red with blood, their skin crisscrossed with scores of gashes.

  The eyes were something different. Rudimentary first aid would not be sufficient to remove glass fragments from them, and their chances of flying again were remote. Even if they weren't permanently blinded, they'd be unlikely to recover the near-perfect vision required of a military pilot.

  Nolan struggled to bring the aircraft in a wide circle to make the final approach for a landing. Everything was wrong; the controls sluggish, the aerodynamics thrown off-balance after the explosion, and there'd be no way to assess the damage until they were on the ground. It was ten minutes before they were in position to try for a landing. The airfield was three kilometers in front of them, and they were flying low, at three hundred meters. He'd no idea of the landing speed for the huge cargo jet, and besides, even if he did do it by the book, the damage from the missile strike meant everything had changed.

  He told Grant to bring the air speed down and gave him the word.

  "Increase flaps and drop the gear. We're going in."

  Literally. There'd be no second chance. The aircraft was flying as much by willpower as the power of its engines and the aerodynamics. The flaps rumbled out, and the aircraft slowed. The big motors under the wings were loud as the hatches opened and the big wheels lowered. But no noise came from beneath their feet, the nose wheel.

  "It's stuck," Grant shouted over the roar of the slipstream, "The explosion damaged the gear."

  "Bring the wheels back up. We'll go belly down." He shouted to Zeke, who was at the rear of the cockpit, tending to the casualties with Amelia. "Go aft, and warn them we're making a belly landing. I guess thirty seconds, no more."

  "Roger that."

  He rushed out to the cargo hold, and Nolan made final preparations for the landing. He knew there were a hundred things he should have done, like jettisoning unnecessary fuel, and securing some of the electrical systems to guard against fire. But he didn't have time to read several thousand pages of aircraft manual. It would have to be a 'seat of the pants' landing.

  Nearer, nearer, they brushed over the lighting tower at the head of the runway, and then they were over the tarmac. Either side of them, emergency vehicles were racing along to catch up with them. There was little he could do except lower the big aircraft as gently as possible, which wouldn't be very gentle, and no way of knowing how far off the ground they were, as he was sitting so high up in the cockpit. He looked ahead and was astonished that already he was halfway along the runway, and still they hadn't touched down. It was now or never. He pushed the column forward and shouted.

  "Hold on!"

  The aircraft smashed into the ground and sent a bone-jarring shock through everyone aboard. Incredibly, the aircraft weighing in excess of two hundred thousand pounds bounced. Maybe a couple of feet, but it bounced before it settled back on the tarmac and skidded along, sending up showers of sparks in its wake. Speed slowed, and Nolan watched the ground speed indicator carefully. Seventy, sixty, forty; it was still going too fast. They were close to the end of the runway, and already the fire trucks either side were firing jets of foam over them to contain any chance of fire. They finally stopped when the nose of the wrecked Globemaster hit the lighting tower at the far end of the runway, and it tilted over at an acute angle.

  He snapped open his harness. Grant did the same, and they hurtled back to help drag the two wounded pilots to the door. Someone in the cargo hold had the sense to get the doors open, and men were wading out through the sickening foam. They helped pull out the casualties. Nolan gave Amelia Stowe a hand down where men waited to help them to the ground, and then he exited the aircraft with Grant. They didn't stop running until they were outside the extinguishing foam and had their feet firmly on hard tarmac. He turned to Grant.

  "You did a good job back there, thanks."

  The Seal vet nodded. "That landing was down to you."

  He stared at him for several seconds, and Nolan had the impression he wanted to tell him something. But he seemed to change his mind, and he grinned. "I hope they're well insured."

  They joined the men who'd climbed out of the cargo hold. Vehicles were approaching from the terminal, half a dozen Humvees. Will Bryce was talking to Boswell. He seemed angry about something, and the Lieutenant whirled as they approached.

  "Chief, I've given PO Bryce an order. He seems to think he can please himself in this unit."

  A new voice intruded. A voice they all knew well. "That's because he can."

  Admiral Jacks had just stepped out of a Humvee bearing the markings of the Kuwait Air Force.

  "Good job, men, getting that bus down. Who was flying it?"

  Grant pointed at Nolan. "Him."

  Nolan pointed at Grant. "Him too. It was a joint effort."

  He nodded. "You did damn well. Lieutenant Boswell, you're lucky to have men like these serving in Bravo. You should be proud of them."

  "Yes, Sir, I am."

  Nolan smiled at the Lieutenant's attempt to cover his look of dislike. He didn't fool anyone. Least of all Jacks.

  "Let's get you men over to the terminal and checked over by the medics."

  * * *

  They were enjoying a meal in one of the base canteens. In view of the attack, the Kuwaiti Air Force had surrounded the building with troops. The base commander had also assured them they were conducting a thorough search for the missile shooters.

  "We are a desert nation," he said grimly, "It will be difficult for them to hide in this area. I promise you we will have them soon. As soon as we do, ou
r intelligence people will question them and find out where this attack came from."

  He left them to their chow. Jacks stayed and apologized for the need to brief them right there and then.

  "The clock's ticking, guys. The enemy is close to mounting an attack on the US, and after that missile launch, I don't think any of us are in any doubt they mean serious business."

  He went through the details of the coming operation. Some they knew, like the destination, Somalia. Some they didn't, like infil and exfil, and the big question. Nolan halted the Admiral when the name came up.

  "Sir, this Somali warlord, Nabil Barre, what are our orders? I know the US wants him, sure, but dead or alive?"

  Jacks' face was as bleak as an Alaskan winter. "You bring that guy back alive, and there'll be a trial that will make world headlines. In addition, his buddies are sure to take hostages to try and do a deal. Alive isn't an option."

  "Roger that."

  Jacks continued. "We'll fly you down the Gulf, out into the Indian Ocean. You'll parachute into the sea where a sub is waiting to pick you up and carry your party to a point ten kilometers off the coast of Somalia. We can't take you any nearer. The Somalis have patrol boats that are pretty active in that area. "

  "It's a long swim," Grant observed.

  "Not this time. You'll be traveling first class, courtesy of our Seal Delivery Vehicles. The sub has a Dry Dock Shelter on the deck, with two Mk 8 SDVs inside. You'll approach the shore underwater, and you shouldn't have any problem reaching the outskirts of the town undetected. You'll be met by Ashe Ahmed, the local UN Commissioner."

  "The UN? It's not like them to get involved in a kill mission," Will Bryce observed.

  Jacks nodded. "Yeah, you're right. Ashe is sick of burying his people every time Barre's men hijack their food convoys, so he's offered to help out. He's made it clear he will do anything to remove Barre from the equation. And you're going to need his help. Kismayo is Barre's town, and it needs a local with good connections to help you find a way through it. We don't want another Gothic Serpent. When the operation is complete, the Navy will send in a couple of fast RIBs to bring you out to one of our missile cruisers we're diverting from the Gulf. Any questions so far?"

  "You mentioned Gothic Serpent," Nolan said, "Sir, are you sure this isn't just a repeat?"

  The mention of the ill-fated 1993 operation to arrest two aides of the Somali warlord Mohamed Aidid, codenamed Gothic Serpent, caused more than a few shudders. At the end of the fierce firefight in and around Mogadishu, eighteen US troops from the combined Ranger and Delta Force contingent were dead. Two Black Hawk helicopters were destroyed, another seriously damaged. It was a blow to American prestige, and a boost for the Somalis, even though more than a thousand of their people were killed. The politicians had decreed 'never again'.

  There was a further footnote to the operation. Osama bin Laden, who was living in Sudan at the time, cited this operation as an example of American weakness and vulnerability to an attack. Some suggested it might have inspired him to plan the attacks on 911. True or false, the so-called 'Battle of Mogadishu' triple underlined the strength of Somali response when they were under attack.

  Boswell was the first to react, cutting across Admiral Jacks.

  "What's up, Chief? You nervous about taking on those black Somali savages?"

  Before he could answer, Jacks cleared his throat. "Uh, Lieutenant, Special Agent Amelia Stowe is of Somali extraction. She is also black."

  Boswell glowed red. "Right, yeah. Sorry, I just meant..."

  "You been to Somalia, Lieutenant?"

  "No, Sir."

  "I thought not. Chief Petty Officer Nolan was part of a kill mission inside that country before you joined the unit, a successful kill mission. So I'd be careful about upsetting these people. Without Nolan and Agent Stowe, I doubt you'd have a ghost of a chance at succeeding with this."

  "No, Sir." He shut up.

  "Good. You were saying, Chief?"

  Nolan nodded. "Gothic Serpent. They failed because they underestimated the enemy, and when things went wrong, they had no armor to support their withdrawal, as I recall. If we hit similar problems, it would be a field day for our enemies. The US can't take another bloody noise in that region, Sir."

  "You're right, but this mission is different. I'm hoping you're in and out before they even know you're there. However," he held up his hand to forestall the obvious argument, "If things do go wrong, point taken. You need something to fight them with. I've arranged for some heavy firepower to help out if things go awry.

  First, I have two UAVs, Predators, lined up to give you cover all the time the mission is ongoing. Even if they need to refuel, it means one can be overhead at all times. Second, the Somali RPGs, they are the principal problem if a firefight develops. I realize the missile that hit your C-17 was something different, and we'll analyze what they used as soon as possible. However, if you run into any of their RPG7s on this mission, I want you to have the means to hit back hard. You'll be carrying two of our M3 MAAWS. They'll be fitted with an image intensifier system, so you'll be able to acquire targets at night. Which is a luxury your enemies will not have."

  The men broke into smiles. Known as 'Carl Gustavs', the missile systems had the range and the stopping power to deal with anything the Somalis threw at them.

  They can even destroy armor, at ranges of up to a thousand meters, Nolan thought to himself. Then it struck him.

  "He has armor, Sir? This warlord, Barre?"

  Jacks hesitated a fraction of a second. "Not as such, Chief. But he does have a line into the HQ of the local Somali National Army, and they do have a couple of old Soviet era T54s."

  The room went quiet.

  "T54s," Vince repeated, "They're big bastards, Admiral."

  "It's doubtful you'll even smell one, let alone see it. But if you do, you'll have the Hellfires overhead, and the M3s on the ground, so you can deal with anything you come up against." He checked his wristwatch. "I need to break this up. They're flying in a replacement Globemaster to take you out to the drop point. Your gear is already here, in another part of the building. Weapons, underwater gear, and commo, it's all ready for you. Take a few hours. I'll send someone to come and find you in good time, and get you kitted up ready for when your C-17 lands and refuels. That's all."

  They sat in silence for several minutes after he left. Boswell was first to speak. He got to his feet, as if he was about to make a speech, which he was.

  "Men, just a few words. This is an operation as vital as killing bin Laden. I know Somalia is a tough country, but remember, this guy Barre is part of the same group, Al Shabaab who slaughtered those people in the Kenya shopping mall. Now they plan to take the war to the US. No matter how it goes, when you get back home, you can roll up your sleeves and show your scars, and tell them these wounds I picked up in Somalia. We're a small unit, a band of brothers, going up against an enemy that has proved their strength. I'll tell you, just like after the raid on bin Laden's compound, every single US Navy Seal will regret they weren't a part of this fight. Let's give 'em hell!"

  He sat down as if he'd run out of words. Nolan was thoughtful.

  Something about those words, they sound familiar.

  The room was silent after his exhortation. It was as if he was talking to a bunch of green recruits. Someone clapped and all eyes turned. Amelia Stowe.

  "You've read Shakespeare, Lieutenant," she exclaimed in mock astonishment.

  His brow furrowed, but underneath his face had reddened.

  Shakespeare has nothing to do with it," he replied.

  It was obvious to everyone in the room he was fighting to keep his voice level. The FBI Agent was having none of it.

  "Henry V. You paraphrased the famous speech. 'And hold their manhoods cheap while any speaks, that fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.' Something like that, nice job though," she concluded with more than a trace of irony.

  Nolan was close to Boswell, and he heard him mutter
under his breath, "Fuck you."

  * * *

  Hasan Anglana ran. His loader, Ali Feiruz, stumbled along behind him. After the successful launch of the Grom missile, they'd watched as it tracked the big American aircraft and then impacted on the nose. They both cheered as they waited for the massive plane to crash into the ground. Yet incredibly, they'd managed to regain control, and even brought it in for a belly landing.

  He cursed as he ran. Sheikh Barre would be unimpressed. In order to acquire the two missiles he'd paid a large sum, and bringing them into the country had involved even more money for bribes. Perhaps he could persuade him to allow him a chance at using the second missile. Next time, he'd launch at a lower level and make doubly sure of a hit.

  He heard the sound of vehicles in the distance, and more serious, the clatter of a helicopter climbing from the base. They were both running as fast as possible, and yet he knew it wasn't fast enough. The problem was the launcher. It was slowing his loader down. He was about to instruct Ali to ditch it when he had a better idea.

  "We have to split up. You have west, and I'll go in east. Make sure you look after the Grom launcher. The Sheikh insisted we bring it back." Ali started to protest, but he overrode him. "It's the only way. Listen, I'll try and distract them to give you a chance to get away. As soon as you're out of sight, I'll wait for them and shoot the first man to appear. They'll come after me, and you'll have a chance to escape."

  The man stared at him. "You could sacrifice your life, Hasan. You would do this for me?"

  "Fool, I do it for the launcher. You must return with it. Our lives are as nothing. Now go!"

  The young man stumbled away, but he was slow, burdened by the heavy weapon. He also carried an AK-47 slung on his back, together with ten clips of ammunition. It would be enough. The slow-moving man would attract the attention of the pursuers, giving him a chance to disappear. He briefly considered ditching his own AK-47 but decided against it. He had one spare clip of ammunition, hardly enough to slow him down. He ran.