Operators
Who Dares Wins
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Before I begin
my story, I would like to say that Black Hawk Down is an incredible work of
non-fiction and excellent portrayal of actual events in Ridley Scott’s film. I
usually would avoid writing fan fiction about a real person (deceased or not)
because I do not want to offend the families and readers sensitive to this type
of material, especially military personnel (even though I am a staunch Liberal
Democrat) but considering I was moved by the events eleven years ago (I do
remember the situation in Mogadishu because I was obsessed with the war in the
Balkans and the two were paired up in the news programs) and am a bit more
enlightened concerning background events- both civilly and culturally in
Somalia- I couldn’t stay away. My story revolves around life in the hangar and
previous missions a number of weeks prior to the events of 10/3-4/93 fueled by
facts that Bowden provided and of course the film, but I will be playing
favorites with the Deltas since (in this fangirl’s opinion) they didn’t get
enough screen time.
There will be
original characters, humor, and romance but all done tactfully. Keep in mind
that my knowledge of Special Forces surveillance, reconnaissance, intelligence
gathering, seizure techniques and types of weaponry is virtually nil and is
taken from Spy Game,
appropriate jargon. Also any outside presence at the U.S. Army HQ/Mogadishu
Airport is unrealistic since Rangers and Deltas/Special Forces operate in
complete secrecy, but for this bit of fan fiction that rule’s relaxed since I
enjoy playing God. If you want to correct me feel free to drop me a line or
leave it in your review, but be warned I know the difference between
constructive criticism and flaming so I’m not afraid to blast you in an e-mail.
Other thant, It, I wish you happy reading! Rangers are cool but D-BOYS RULE!!!
SANDERSON! HOOT! SHUGHART! GORDON! WEX! BUSCH!
Disclaimer: I
have no relationship with the living or deceased mentioned in BHD nor do I own
the composite characters. All is accredited to Ridley Scott and Mark Bowden.
Operators
By Saoirse
the Irish Colleen
The Washington Post
August 23, 1993
East Africa’s Wild West:
The Bakara Market
By Lise Davies
toting a dozen militia armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs and rocket
launchers strapped to their backs, bandoliers cartoonishly criss-crossing their
emaciated torsos bounded down the street passersby oblivious to the carnage
ensuing on Marehan Road. A one-room schoolhouse converted from abandoned office
space was fire bombed, the unidentified male teacher’s corpse lay face down in
a shallow sand hill rivulets of his blood baking brown into the concrete. His
crime: suspected of having leftist affiliations. “Everyone‘s so paranoid, so it
might not be true. It‘s not my business though.” My companion, calling herself
‘Meena’ brought me to her favorite café where we sat in the cordoned off
women’s section under a tattered awning. She took my proffered cigarette but
before I could lend her my Bic a rapid string of gunfire sounded from the
collection of canopies yards away. “He must have new customers,” Meena snorted.
seasoned Arkansas cattle auctioneer peddled his heavy artillery wares, fired
rounds straight into the air testing his freshest black market import. It isn’t
odd to see sacks of Brazilian sugar being sold alongside of M-16s and RPGs at
the sprawling open-air Bakara Market in downtown Mogadishu. We shouted small
talk over the combined blast of Somali reggae and the usual din of hundreds
going about their business in this Third World galleria gripped in the iron
fist of the Habr Gidr warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid.
something we pray for, but to have this with another clan we’d rather die.
Americans are blind to this. You destroy our homes and kill our people just for
one man, but our soldiers won’t put down their guns because you do this. We
were happy when you came, the famines stopped. Now you frighten our children
with your missiles and helicopters, you arrest our innocent men dragging them
like animals from the street. What are your reasons?”
rice, an oily compote of chicken with hunks of the cooked meat settled at the
bottom of the cracked porcelain clinging to the bone, and bottles of a local
orange soft drink was served, I watched Meena dig in with her fingers and
wondered if I should tell her about the angry whispers of General Ahmen Jilao.
What exactly happened that night outside of the Italian embassy remains
unclear, without doubting the talent and capabilities of our Rangers the men
may be a bit edgy after setting up shop at the defunct Mogadishu Airport.
Perhaps this reporter’s thoughts aren’t vindictive as Meena’s, but she posed an
interesting question, what are the reasons Major General Garrison?
* *
The decorated
officer folded the paper and glanced at the date. It had been two weeks since
its publication and the media swarmed the fortuitous arrest of the U.N.
workers, but this blurb was buried in the International section under the
spotlight of yet another failed Soviet coup in the burgeoning democratic
Russian republic. Garrison leaned back in his chair surrounded by the glowing
blue monitors in JOC. The tech was long dismissed and enjoying his dinner
watching the Three Stooges video marathon with the Rangers, so the General was
left to stare at a blank computer screen. Two short raps on the steel door cut
off Garrison’s desert reverie and a long minute ticked by before he answered.
“Come in.”
The balding
head of Lieutenant Colonel Gary Harrell poked in. “Bill, I think you’d better
get out here.” Garrison’s brows knit and affixed his two-star insignia
camouflage baseball cap on his thick silver hair before following Harrell out.
He left the door open to let out the stale coffee and air aroma behind him. The
General, quite accustomed to the typical noise of post-high school grad Rangers
mooching about eating, joking, cussing, sometimes reading or crowded round a
board game. The Deltas comfortably segregated to their little niche in the
hangar under tents and tarpaulins stripping down weapons to either clean or
repair them, loading mags, tinkering with machinery, and some were dozing off.
On the sagging brown leather sofa sat Ranger Captain Mike Steele and Lieutenant
Colonels Danny McKnight and Tom Matthews. Steele stood at attention and
saluted.
gentlemen.” McKnight halfway through a Parliament nodded to the Major General.
“Bill,”
Matthews said eyes never leaving the big screen. Garrison seated himself on the
left armrest and turned to the TV where almost everyone’s attentions were on.
The video marathon concluded early and CNN’s opening sequence ran.
“This is CNN,”
Sergeaom Pom Pilla mimicked the announcer.
Tonight, the international front takes us to Somalia, East Africa where earlier
in the spring U.S. Marines launched Operation Restore Hope to feed the millions
of starving Somalis terrorized by warlord Mohamed Aidid has become Operation
Hunt Down Aidid. Joining us from the war torn nation’s capital Mogadishu is
CNN’s war correspondent Lise Davies.'
The plasma screen behind Barksdale changed from an enlarged map of Somalia to a
live shot of Pakistani Stadium.
a bit strange considering the time zones.'
the female journalist standing on a ridge overlooking the U.N.’s stronghold,
immediately whistles and cheers erupted from the young male audience.
the conflict? Are there any significant changes within the rebel front?'
is hardly Iraq. Both sides have balked since Aidid’s militia has refused to lay
down arms and enter into a cease-fire let alone any peace accord where the
despot should, by all rights, turn himself in.
Barksdale
folded his hands atop the desk. ‘Has
there been any word from the U.N.?’
The brunette’s
sun bleached ponytail swayed. ‘They have
not released any statement and have stonewalled the media since the ambush that
killed 24 Pakistani troops back in June. But I was fortunate enough to have
gotten closer to the Habr Gidr’s top personnel closest to Aidid to find out
just what exactly are the roots of the American-Somali conflicts, and where the
country will go from here on.' The cameras filtered back to the CNN studio.
Aidid’s CFO, Osman Atto. We’ll be right back.'
working on ground vehicles and helos, all jabbering slowed to a nail-biting
silence. The Deltas put aside whatever they were working on, Dan Busch
stretched out on a bench pushed up the brim of his Raiders cap and Wex hung up
the clipboard he was scribbling on.
“Oh shit.” The
soft whoosh of Sergeant First Class Kurt Schmidt, the unit’s finest medic could
have been heard sitting on the Indian Ocean’s shoreline. None of the men turned
from the set, but their eyes were screwed down feeling the General grind his
molars into the wad of spearmint gurcilrcilessly. Hoot didn’t look up once from
his book, but directed his eyes to Sanderson standing in the clerk’s office
door sipping coffee not at all perturbed by this new and inconvenient
development, but looking almost pleased.
those sharks’ll have a new chew toy. /
If Jeff suddenly developed telepathic abilities, Hoot certainly hoped he heard
him. Gordon and Shughart quietly took apart their chessboard.
“Hey Randy,”
Gary whispered. “You keeping score?” Randy smirked at his flaxen-haired
teammate. The news resumed and they were back in Mogadishu that very afternoon,
Lise stood in the same outfit she was wearing in front of the Pakistani Stadium
sans blazer, hair loose and blue tinted
Oakleys perched atop her head. Comments were stifled but silly, lustful
grins split every Ranger’s face. She wore a form fitting black tweed skirt and
a sleeveless mock turtleneck made of white lace.
age of exploration the world has been enthralled with it, a place of intrigue
and high adventure. This is where Westerners had their discount holidays to
live out their Joseph Conrad and Dr. Livingstone flights of fancy. But until
the mid 1960’s when the African nations rallied to toss the yoke of European
colonization there have been few functioning governments, the new generation
knows nothing but corruption, tyranny, and bloodshed. To name a few: South
Africa, Zaire, the Congo, Rwanda, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Côte d’Ivoire, and
here the very Horn of Africa, Somalia.'
She glided
through trash-strewn labyrinths, on dainty Keds
Lise padded down the same paths as hopped up militia slaughtered their own
people. 'In 1991 as the world watched the
Iron Curtain fall, Somalia’s Marxist dictator Mohamed Siad Barre was ousted in
a governmental coup, one of its organizers was Aidid himself driven at the
prospects of victory for his clan and a lucrative free market economy that
could ultelytely achieve his goals. This brings us here, the Bakara Market, the
Habr Gidr militia’s stronghold where the U.N. is strictly off-limits. But as
you visit you’ll take note of the interesting juxtapositions; normalcy muddles
through at a frenetic pace and business flourishes amid starvation and
homelessness. There’s no place on earth quite like the Bakara Market where you
can find Honduran bananas, Cuban cigars or coffee, the finest Ivorian Gold
Coast chocolate bars- a personal favorite- and on the shelves below .50
calibers and the infamous AK-47s, yours for just one million Somali shillings.
That’s about $200 dollars American.'
“The fuck,
Jeff! “ Sanderson took the pencil and sketchpad from Wex’s lap, tore off a
strip and scrawled something.
city into slums of biblical proportion and yet there are the unabashed wealthy
and powerful living lives of decadence if you look hard enough. Tribalism has
sapped the coffers of would-be governments dry thickly lining the pockets of
warlords and their henchmen, who’s footing the bill? Millions of innocent men,
women, and children fighting for and against men like Aidid.'
decrepit Olympic Hotel’s courtyard. ’1993
is coming to a close, and as we approach the 21st Century we wonder why places
in the world, like Mogadishu, haven’t changed since Mohamed left his footprints
in the sand. In a few minutes I will be granted access into Aidid’s secret sect
for an exclusive interview with his personal banker, Osman Atto.' Parting
the way for the journalist were dozens of militia and mooryan spread out on the
dirt courtyard, hanging the on dry fountains, prowling the loggias. Lounging on
a sooty white wicker chair was Atto, a pearline smug smile on his face
appreciativedmirdmiring Lise’s curvaceous form. The 120 soldiers’ murderous
glares at the podgy terrorist were crushing enough to destroy him alone. Atto
took Lise’s hand in both of his and shook it.
across from him. One of the soldiers, a boy of sixteen with a machine gun that
weighed more than him dangled from his shoulder set a tray on the 30-year-old
plastic table cloth. He poured the tea from a stained silver pot into a pair of
mugs, a pile of cream biscuits sat on a chipped china platter.
this entire interview. The first now and the last at the end.'
He laughed
heartily. ‘Such is your assertive style.
But you are honest, which is why I will only speak with you.'
can do for Somalia, and why does such animosity exist between the Somalis and
the Americans?'
cleared his throat and tapped embers from his Bolivar.
an
style='font-family:"Palatino Linotype"'>‘There is nothing personal between the
Americans and myself. I like your country; many great things come from it.
Especially your television entertainment. But Somalis believe that Americans
suffer not from ignorance- no, no but from misinformation. If you search for
one man why must your Rangers sacrifice thousands of innocents? And what does
your country think it will accomplish by capturing this one man? Americans have
a narrow vision; your kind of right is not for us. Jeffersonian democracy
cannot work in our world- it has no place. You want peace, yes? As do my
children and I. But for there to be peace one must be victorious, and for even
people like you Miss Davies it is inadvisable for you to stay here. This is our
war, not yours.' Atto
took a languid pull off his cigar.
smile Atto gave her was more brilliant than his last. He lifted the teapot.
Lise lifted
her mug. ‘Please.' The tape cut and
Lise’s live shot faded in.
Lise solemnly
acquiesced. ‘No argument here.'
‘Lise give us
your impression of Mr. dur during your meeting. What was he like outside of
the fighting?’ She took a deep breath.
and sophisticated. He spoke at length about his family and reminisced about his
life before the war. Religious, a decisive mind and utterly ruthless. I don’t
think I felt more terrified in my life.'
Randy Shughart
rolled a toothpick across his tongue. “Bullshit,” Gordon handed him a can of
Nelson nibbled on his cuticles, his eyes sprinting between Sergeant Eversmann seated
on a crate flipping through his journal and Specialist Mike Kurth on the
recliner, hands folded pressed to his nose wondering if Atto made an indirect
threat. Nelson tapped his commanding officer’s knee.
Eversmann looked down at Shawn.
“Yeah?”
“What do you
think?”
“About the
interview?” Nelson nodded. “I hope he’s wrong. In fact, I believe he is. I
mean, look around you,“ Eversmann geed ted to the open hangar door, “there’s
nothing more that the Somalis want is to have peace and guys like him put
away.” The murmuring that resurfaced once again silenced when the General got
up the sofa’s armrest. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger.
“Mike?”
The Ranger
captain stood. “Sir?”
“Get me
Sanderson.” And Garrison stalked to his office.
n stn style='font-family:"Palatino Linotype"'>“Yes sir.”
Steele’s unrestrained glee at the thought of disciplinary action finally taken
against the boisterous Deltas was exhibited in a tiny, shit-eating grin. In the
weeks occupying the airport, it became apparent that the older soldiers were
corrupting his Rangers because the cracks in their programmed discipline began
to show. A few began to question orders, hinted at a lack of orderliness, and
took the initiative when it was most inappropriate. While Steele encouraged
creative thought during combat, he most certainly oted ted to the Deltas
contempt of rank and the Army’s chain of command. However the captain
begrudgingly acknowledged that the operators were good at their jobs. He tapped
Sanderson’s shoulder.
“The General
is requesting an audience with you.” Sanderson bit his tongue but Steele saw
the cool-headed Delta sergeant’s blue eyes darken, something he didn’t catch
during past altercations and surely not a trick of the terrible florescent
lighting. Garrison wandered about his ‘office’. Pitched tents draped with
mosquito netting protection from the malarial pests and camouflaged mesh. A
trio of long folding tables, maps of Mogadishu, Somalia, and blown up spy
photos taken by Orion. Red flags marked the spots where previous missions took
place. He paused before one particular map covered with a dual colored sheet of
acetate, green depicting the U.N. Safe Zone, which were the majority of the
capital and a chunk of red indicating the Hostile Area. A square of the Black
Sea marked off the Bakara Market, Post
Its and yellow legal pad sheets outlining mission templates were taped up
everywhere. The sound of boots and Busch’s flip-flops crunching on the sandy
planks grew louder as the Delta command team sidled in. Garrison sucked his
teeth.
“I don’t
know,” the former Delta commander said shoving his hands in his pockets, “you
know what I had to do to get you here?”
“Sir we-”
Sanderson futilely attempted to explain but was cut off.
“I had to
lobby the idenident at his summer home in Nantucket. I was turned down twice,
but I suppose Mr. Clinton doesn’t think the sound of my voice over the phone at
three A.M. isn’t as pleasant as I do. I know what you boys are capable
doi
doing, the restrictions placed upon you and I sympathize. But between y’all,
Mike, Colonel McKnight and taking the flak my patience is thinning. Now just
what the fuck are you boys doin’ out there? Jerkin’ off?!” Hoot cleared his
throat.
“General
Garrison,” Wex took a gamble and played mediator. “We have our assets and guys
out there working around the clock. Sir you are the first one to say that
whatever intel we get off the street is not the most reliable.”
Garrison
massaged his left temple. “So how in the fuck did one little girl manage to
lure Atto out of his hovel for an on-camera interview, and unit of Green Berets
and CIA that have beene spe spoon-feedin’ these people just barely get two snap
shots off their telephoto lenses?”
“She’s an
investigative journalist, sir,” Hoot spoke up. “The skinnies ain’t stupid. They
could smell military from 50 clicks off; they’re a lot more responsive to
someone like her. And being that she’s a woman does help….”
“Do you
believe that Miss Davies will be leaving our fine city, any time soon?”
Sanderson
chortled. “I don’t think a Pulitzer qualifies for a Christmas wish list, sir.”
Garrison drew a cigar from his breast pocket to do something with his hands.
“I can imagine
what is on Davies’ Christmas list… what the fuck y’all standin’ round here
for?” The Deltas tensed. “Put a tail on her! Who has she talked to? Where is
she stayin’? Where has she been? Who are her contacts? How much is she payin’
them? Is she alone? And what does she know? Get the fuck out there!” Sanderson
scribbled furiously, Hoot vanished, Shughart and Gordon exchanged comical
glances before strolling out of the tent, and Wex trailed after Busch. Garrison
collapsed in a metal folding chair and flipped open a binder thick with sitrep
copies, notes, and blacd whd white photos of their Tier One Personalities:
Mohamed Farrah Aidid, Mohamed Hassan Awale, Omar Salad, and Osman Atto.
with Mr. Aidid? / “For your sake Miss Davies, I hope you don’t.”
* *
Richard
Kellner coiled yards of black cable before tossing it into an aluminum trunk.
“It’s Miller time!” He thrust both
fists into the air and jogged around the CNN van imitating crowd cheers.
“Not so fast
cocheese,” Lise scanned her notepad sitting at the back of the open van. Rich
scoffed and began swinging his upper appendages like an ape.
“C’mon Lise!
We’ve been here almost four fucking months. Atto made Stu perfectly happy!” The
cameraman whined.
“Don’t
complain.” She poked him on the chin with her pen not looking up once. “We are
this close to Aidid.” To demonstrate this, Lise held up her index finger and
thumb a quarter of an inch apart. Rich threw himself on the dirt.
“You know what
you’re doing, Lise? These people are dangling a carrot in front of your nose
that could lead us to some dark alleyway where we’ll be staring down a missile
launcher!” The reporter snapped another square from her Hershey’s block.
“Then I’ll go
out knowing I’ve done my duty,” Lise mockingly saluted. Rich lifted his head
from the dirt.
“If your
granddaddy could hear you now.” He shot up ignoring the coating of sand and
dust on his Bat Out of Hell T-shirt.
“C’mon, I don’t know about you but all of this Third World wholesomeness is
killing me. Let’s go indulge ourselves in good ol’ fashioned infidel sin!”
Richard clapped Lise on the shoulder as she hopped off the van floor.
“No can do.
Got a few things to check out.”
“What? Don’t
tell me you’re goin’ back into the jungle?! The guys from Reuters and our old
AP pals are dropping in from Abidjan- it’s gonna be a blast!” Lise piled into
the passenger side paying no heed to Rich’s objections.
“Just drop me
off at Marehan, okay?” She twisted the straps of her suede shoulder bag round
the pouch and tucked it under her head using it as a pillow. Rich started the
van, cursing under his breath.
“If your granddaddy
could hear you now….”
~Red Cross
Food Distribution Center, September 5 11:48 P.M. ~
Within an hour
of Garrison’s order the Deltas sequestered two civilian vehicles, a white jeep
and a blue van, both literally on their last legs. The mechanics went to work
refitting them, blackening the van’s rear doors windows and teardrop porthole.
Forgoing their combat fatigues for jeans and T-shirts they were deployed at
4500 hours. The van carried their weapons and surveillance equipment, as well
as Shughart and Gordon. Wex and Busch took the jeep, Hoot’s uniform and boots
were abandoned on his cot and his mountain bike missing, Sanderson was en
route. Master Sergeant Chris Wexler sometimes referred to as Wex, usually
called Griz by the other Deltas counted the days until his pension next year.
He saw through shit and took less of it, and as a warm breeze wafted up from
the Indian Ocean Wex got a powerful whiff of some- animal and human. The jeep
was parked behind a derelict shantytown of tin and rag huts a half mile outside
the capital. Wex lay on his belly in the back of the jeep utilizing NOD, he
could see perfectly in shades of green and yellow the Red Cross Food
Distribution Centre a crude two-storey cinderblock construct with a tattered
Red Cross flag billowing from a rusty pole. There was heavy activity,
floodlights were on and music was heard even at the jeep’s distance. Why they
were partying evex dix didn’t venture to think about.
“Yo Griz,”
Busch said from behind the wheel.
“Yeah?”
“Got any more
of those Ritz Bitz?”
“The box on
the passenger seat.”
Busch yawned.
“Thanks man.” Liz had sent him a package a week into his stay in Somalia. A
half of his mom’s sponge cake, vacuum sealed sausage and sharp cheddar, an
audio tape letter from the girls, a fifth of gin, his manuscript, two boxe style='mso-bidi-font-style:normal'>Ritz Bitz (cheddnd pnd peanut butter),
his colored pencils, and an extra sketchpad. “Where the fuck is Norman?” Wex
growled.
“He’s gonna be
here,” Busch placated him. “Randy and Gary radioed in saying he just left their
position at the market.”
“That was
half-a-fucking-hour ago!” Wex snapped. “Radio them again.” Tossing the Ritz
back into Wex’s box, Busch pulled on his headset.
“Kilo 1-3,
this is Kilo 1-5. Come in.”
September 6 12:02 A.M. ~
thermal pad was Gordon. Shughart was up front sprawled across the seats, NOD on
his lap, waiting for Sanderson. Gordy lazily reached over to the comm and
switched it on. On the other end Busch heard soft, shallow snores.
The blonde
operator had yet to respond. “I am up, Dan! I just have my eyes closed.”
eyes closed, Kilo 1-3. *
Wex piped up.
“Nobody asked
you Kilo 1-4.”
“Just
sittin‘,” Randy said.
open his mouth when a car came barreling round a corner towards them. Gordon
shot up with his rifle already in hand; Shughart pulled his .9 mm from his hip
holster. He leapt over the seats, both operators kneeling in a prime firing
position facing the rear doors, just then the car flashed its headlights twice
and the men relaxed.
Kilo 1-2. *
Sanderson‘s voice was heard on all channels.
“Kilo 1-5,
Kilo 1-0 reported in,” Gordon said.
Shughart and Gordon jumped out with their weapons down. It was a shoddy white
Ford Anglia with a sooty, dim light that read ‘TAXI’ on the corner of the roof
that belched diesel fumes. Sanderson emerged from the passenger side and softly
ordered the driver to stay put, turned round and signaled behind him. The back
door swung open and Schmidt dressed in civilian clothes stumbled out. The two
scrambled into the van where Schmidt produced a Ziploc bag.
“You got
everything?” Shughart asked the medic. Schmidt squirrelly gave the affirmative.
“Now, listen
to me carefully,” he laid out a small glass bottle and two sterile syringes,
“this sedative is extremely potent. Actually, this is a rohypnol-based
pre-anesthetic. We normally give this to patients prior to their procedures, so
I’m prepping this now because judging by Miss Davies’ height and weight if I
give her too high a dose she might go into a coma or her heart will stop
altogether. As for Mr. Kellner, I’m giving him the average because we’re not
supposed to see cameramen.” Schmidt shrugged and recapped the hypodermics.
Sanderson nodded, taking them.
“Thanks
Schmidt.” He thumped the Ranger twice on the back causing him to rock forward.
For the medic it was a bit overwhelming being in the presence of the Deltas.
D-Boys. Dreaded D. The pros. This is
what being a Ranger was all about; he’d heard Sizemore babbling over Risk.
They transcended rank, were beyond the hoo-ahs and brass. Who wanted a co
ba
bars on their lapel when they could be living out adventures like in Waddell’s
books! The guys seemed okay, at least in Schmidt’s opinion. The Deltas never
said a bad word to him, or just not to his face. But Kurt knew that the D-Boys
did get occasionally pissed with his friends especially when it came to
training exercises and battle sims, never mind the missions they’d already run.
His pals like Sizemore, Ruiz, and Smith were caught craning their necks round
to see what tricks they had up their sleeves instead of doing their job and
covering them. He and Grimes made a pact during their flight over and that was
to fuck all else and keep their guns up and backs to the wall. Hah! Easy for
Danny to say, he’d spend the entire assignment in the office listening to his
going 24/7.
But not
everyone was impressed with the operators. Clay Othic, for one didn’t like how
they’d show up their Ranger training by giving them 'pointers' and making light
of their duties. He and Specialist Eric Spalding seemed to have agreed on that
entirely and have been inseparable. Then again, ‘Little Hunter’ Othic’s
jealousy could come from the D-Boys ‘realistic training’ sessions by
commandeering a Black Hawk and returning to the hangar by sundown with big game
like wild boar, antelope, and gazelle for a surprise cookout. The only big game
trophies he had under his belt were the carcasses of a few rats that have
overrun Mogadishu since the country hadn’t had a regular trash pick up in
recorded history. He and Spalding rigged up a clever trap made up from two Evian
water bottles, some trip wire from their booby traps, and MRE leftovers. They’d
have a regular night watch up in a hide on the rafters so all they would have
to do was listen and wait. After the telltale SNAP was heard, their
mission was a success. Spalding being the more superior marksman would take
their ‘game’ behind the hangar and resolve their rat infestation. Othic
recorded all of this in his journal.
“Well, you
don’t have to worry about that staying fresh,” he pointed to the syringes,
“they have an excellent shelf life. Please understand for someone in my
position that I hope you don’t have to use that, because if Captain Steele
finds out I will be pulling night watch duty hanging from my balls. So no
offense.”
Gordon
laughed. “None taken kid.” Another uncomfortable pause.
“Good night.”
Schmid felt the air in the cramped van get so thick he had to get the hell out
of there. And being amongst these mad, warmongers didn’t make things any
easier. Yup, med school was looking better every time. The Anglia sped off
taking Schmidt back to the hangar.
* *
Hoot pedaled
the dusty terrain; the Red Cross’ floodlights getting brighter and the jeep
nowhere in sight. “This is Kilo 1-1, approaching position.”
1-1. *
“About damn
time,” Wex groused, Busch just laughed. Wex had Hoot in view and watched the
Texan sluggishly dismount his bike and adjust the strap of the camera bag
across his chest.
“Kilo 1-1
out.” Hoot walked his bike up to the feeding center and walked right into the
open door. Minnie the Moocher blared
over the boom box with dozens of people drunkenly gyrating to the jazzy tune,
there was a queue coiling to the makeshift bar that consisted of three large
coolers stocked with alcohol, soft drinks, and water. The table was laden with
junk food, a punch bowl, stacks of napkins, and plastic cups. A banner draped
above it read ‘GOODBYE MOGADISHU’. The media set up shop at this particular
feeding center because it was one of the few that saw a good part of militia
action for photos ops and feedback. This was also where Davies and Kellner were
rooming to have easier access to the market instead of the enduring the
remaining functional hotels in the city where their fellow correspondents
stayed. Hoot leaned his bike against the wall and plopped down on a rickety
chair.
“That’s smart,
man!” Hoot was taken by surprise when a tall, California blonde guy appeared
ripping the caps off a six-pack of Rolling
Rock longnecks.
“What?!” Hoot
roared back over the blast. The blonde gestured to the ten-speed with his
bottle opener.
“The bike! I
said that’s clever!” Hoot nodded.
“Thanks!” The
tape changed and I’m Just a Baby in This
Business of Love began. The two men resumed speaking in normal tones.
“Let me
guess,” the blonde handed Hoot a beer, “they just sent you in.”
“Pretty much.”
Hoot took a grateful pull off his beer. The blonde pointed to the laminated AP
ID tag clipped to one of the many pockets on Hoot’s khaki vest.
“Where were
you before or you straight from the home office?”
“Home office.”
“You’re in the
shit now dude!” The blonde scoffed.
“I like it
hot.”
“Sucks be to
you then, babe.” A voice purred behind Hoot. The Delta sergeant turned round to
face a redhead with misty verdant eyes in spray painted white jeans and a
purple blouse knotted above her navel. He smiled.
“Gibson,” he
stuck out his hand. She took it.
“Maxine,” she
pointed to the blonde, “and that’s Trip.”
“Howyadoin’?”
Gibson shook his hand. In the van Gordon threw a pencil over his shoulder.
/We ain’t
gonna get shit done. /
“It’s
official.” Maxine announced.
“What is?” “I just spoke “Fuck her “ “Lise or “Said he “Salad’s next “Why should “I don’t care
Trip asked.
to Dickie-boy,” she tipped her head to the dance floor; Hoot leaned over for a
closer look. A couple in the center undoubtedly tipsy making fools of
themselves to The Mask soundtrack. “Imelda ain’t showin’.”
then,” Trip sipped his drink.
whatever the fuck she’s calling herself these days.” Trip held up a pack of
lit it, Hoot thanked her with a grin.
dropped her off on Marehan right after the broadcast. Blew off our most
gracious invitation to a party that’s technically in her honor.” Hoot nodded
most fascinated.
towards National.
on her hit list.” Trip commented. “I swear to God, she’s not fazed in the least
by bullets!”
she be?” Maxine winked and took a sip from Hoot’s beer. “They’re party favors
at all Davies family jamborees.” Trip shook his head.
if she’s billeted on the Liberal-Democrat ticket; the mere mention of combat
sends her chomping at the bit to leap into the fray. That Green Beret blood
juss kickin’ in!” Trip puffed out his chest and saluted, looking povelyvely
idiotic. “'We ain’t makin’ cornflakes
here motherfuckers!’“ Maxine guffawed.
“They’re
playin’ her song.” Maxine said. Hoot continued to watch the couple dominating
the dance floor. It was Kellner and a bottle blonde dressed in khaki shorts and
a white baby doll he recognized as BBC correspondent Victoria Butterworth. They
were rocking out to a beloved oldie, and he wondered how old Kellner was. He
looked like he should be hanging out at some Los Angeles skateboarding ramp
kitted out in a black Meatloaf T-shirt, jean shorts frayed at the knees, red
Converse sneakers, a string of African beads round his neck and a baseball cap
turned backwards that read ‘ERACISM’. Under the brim jutted his stubby black
ponytail.
“Can’t blame
her though,” Trip sighed. “But we’re done here.” Hoot looked questioningly at
him. “Shipping out over the next 48 hours. If not, our insurance premiums go
sky high.” He cackled.
“And a l’il
interesting tidbit has been floating around the sand dunes,” Maxine began, “the
Italian and British embassies have been evacuating their people on the quiet.”
“That is an
interestin’ footnote.” Hoot said. “Will Imelda be joinin’ y’all?”
“Are you
kidding?” Trip looked aghast. “The only way she’d be willing to leave is in a
big pine box. Besides, if she is hot on the heels of Aidid’s top political
advisor her station manager wouldn’t have it.”
Things were
not looking up and the contingency plan would have to be carried out. “Hey
conga line!” Trip shouted and joined the row of linked reporters circling the
room to Cuban Pete. Kellner and
Butterworth whirled about, cheek-to-cheek doing an exaggerated tango dancing to
their own off-key voices.
“
Kellner
twirled Vicki away watching her spin into the conga line. Richard whipped off
his cap and mopped his brow grabbing a bottle of Poland Spring. He
approached the hookah on a plant stand and as he took a few puffs he caught a
glimpse of the activity in a corner of the room in the dark glass urn. Maxine
claimed Hoot’s knees and pecked him on the end of his nose. He tickled the
small of her back. The margarita clouds parted and Richard took a good look at
Hoot, panic welling up. The vibes weren’t feeling right anymore.
“So where you
from, Gibson?”
“Fort Worth.
You?”
“Clearwater,
Florida.”
“Nice place,
huh?”
Maxine
shrugged. “If you’re into swamps.”
“So tell me
Gibson from Fort Worth, have you ever made love on a beach with bullets flyin’
over your head?”
“There’s a
first time for everything.” /Maintain
radio silence, and fuck you all! / In the jeep Busch cracked up, Wex swore
up a blue streak. They dawdled for about an hour until departing arm in arm as
the merriment wound down. Richard trailed behind them keeping his distance not
going farther than the flagpole watching the lusty pair vanish in the direction
of the waves. In the black expanse Richard heard the faint motor of the jeep
tear off. Not good. Not good. Not good.
~Hawlwadig
Road, September 6 8:18 A.M. ~
Lise left one On the street “Come here.” “No you come “Yo, chief!” “Stay there,” “What the hell “I spy with my * * * Lise and “Did Waadi “Yeah.” They “So where is “Somewhere on * * * There was only “That she has “Let’s see… Her “She’s been “She’s made Busch “So I take it Paying their ~Hawlwadig At the last “Richard!” “Yes, yes it “Y’know, you “Anonymity has “Now, we “It is “’Impossible’? “Not yet.” “Waadi, “I have seen “So rest “Maybe so. But “My…?” Waadi * * * “Can’t catch He took his “I receive you “Kellner was “As in he went “Waadi’s wife e"'>“Whatever kids “Oh Christ!” * * * Lise pushed “Hsssst!” Lise “Lise!” “Richard! What “Sssh!” He put “We can’t stay “Obviously!” “Not so “How? What if “There are Richard “That’s the * * * A sweaty Hoot “So what do “You’re right, * * * Gary and Randy “Why are we “Can’t… find… “Excuse me?!” “Maintain *Roger. * “Y’know if I “Keep it. I “Yo, Rich.” “Yeah?” “Free piece of He threw his “Don’t run. If “So you’re “‘Surfer “.9 mm “How can you Lise grinned. “You mean “That would “No! That’s “It’s their “Y’know, now “I suppose “Thought that “You know what Richards “I know.” “So what was “Did you know “So who isn’t “Choose your Suddenly the &; “Look, don’t “Actually,” “I just… I “What?” Lise “We need to “I’ve been “When we get “What do you “If you stay “Ahh… I see Richard was “Mr. Kellner?” “Holy fuck!” “Hey Rich, “Fuck this! I “Sorry man.” “You take that “You got him?” “Yeah,” Wex “What about “You got the-” Lise saw the There were “Hoot!” He “Right! All
of the balcony doors open catching a nice sea breeze during the night. The
floor was swept clean and Howa brought her up a bucket of heated water to wash
in. Lise folded up the cotton sheets and left them on the mattress. She seated
herself at a mismatched plastic chair and table set to apply her make up and
review her notes while waiting for Richard. Waadi was the only person who knew
the location to the new place his younger brother, Assad, and his other militia
friends were staying. If their info were reliable, Salad would get the prime time
slot. The two-storey building was made of clay, whitewashed in salmon with
paint chipped green shutters and doors. Waadi’s candy shop and hamburger stand
was ground level always bustling, and serving the customers was his wife Howa
they lived in the flat above with their brood. The children were at school so
it was thankfully quiet save for the sounds of cooking below. Lise stood out on
the balcony and watched the morning shopper commute clog the streets like a
backed up aorta, and across the way was the Olympic Hotel. This was the Africa
she knew so well. This was the place that Hemingway and Conrad preached to her
closeted in a nook of her grandfather’s house. It was almost picturesque, the
way it was supposed to be unspoiled by foreign hands. Almost.
Delta dispersed. Hoot showed up around 3500 at the rendezvous, a Cheshire cat
grin from ear to ear. Wex shot him a dirty look before going back to the USA
Today sports page. Armed with cameras, knapsacks, AP tags clipped to shirts or
dangling from their necks, and their .9 mm’s tucked away they took to the
streets in two man teams: Wex and Busch; Shughart and Gordon; Hoot and
Sanderson. Jeff strolled down the sand swept street, a Nikon around his neck
ignoring every armed skinny giving him a second glance. He was a 6’1 ½”
semi-serious body builder, you do not fuck with him, he fucked with you. They
let him be. He loitered around the Olympic Hotel rapt with a group of militia
enveloping a smaller group of unarmed men exiting the front doors, climbed into
a brand new red SUV and the militia piled onto technicals and took off. Lise
opened up the other balcony door and watched the clan leaders and their
bodyguards vacate the market. She propped her elbow up on the ledge, fist to
temple. Jeff turned round and looked up. He saw Lise’s smile in profile as she
watched some kids run down the street waving sticks. He lifted the camera to
his eye and shot. Her wheat-gold and cocoa powder hair sparkled in the sun. She
wore what looked like a white tank top with a frill going down the middle; Jeff
hoped it was a nightie.
this way… look this way…/
As if he willed it, Lise caught him in the corner of her eye and looked down at
him. She was almost forced to cram her fist into her mouth to keep from
laughing at this tall white guy waving at her to come down. She knew better.
Jeff mouthed hand signaling. Lise signaled back.
here.” Jeff threw his arms up so wonderfully distracted that he didn’t see Kellner
walking down the other way and go into the shop. The cameraman greeted Waadi
who poured him a glass of tea and pointed to the stairs. On his way up he waved
to Howa and took a sip from the glass, promptly making a face. He was a
Lise turned from Jeff whose second vain attempt to entice her down to Richard
standing in her doorway. “Tea, milady. What are you doing?” Lise waved to shoo
him back into the hall.
she hissed. Going back to Jeff she smiled and shrugged. “Sorry,” she mouthed.
“Bye.” And went back into the bedroom. Jeff cursed kicking the dirt, but
stopped short when something came to mind.
is going on? What the fuck-!” Lise pushed Richard to the threshold of the
balcony where they could get a view of the street without being seen. Jeff
walked a few paces down to meet Hoot popping out of a doorway.
little eye, Special Operations.” She picked up his arm and waved his hand.
“Wave to the nice Delta-man.” The coals in Richard’s stomach began to smolder
thinking back to last night’s party. Luckily Lise hadn’t seen his tortured
eyes, or all hell would have broken loose. “C’mon, we’ve got work to do. Isn’t
it sick how these guys just stand out? The unit should really work on that.”
Richard waddled down the streetghteghted down with a hemp bag containing 65
lbs. of khat to the van parked deep into the bowels of interconnected alleyways
behind a militia patroned brothel.
leave?” Richard asked.
hefted the sack into the back and slammed the doors.
this place?”
21 October Road. Waadi said he’ll call us to give directions, if we get the
okay.” Richard started the engine, ed thd the alleyway and chugged down
Hawlwadig. The van made a turn onto Armed Forces hoping there would be less
congestion when Richard looked into the rearview mirror and saw a battered blue
van with white Arabic graffiti mimic them. Lise rooted through her bag for a
fresh audiotape, and Richard continued to keep quiet. Nothing surprised him
anymore.
one thing worse than paper work- stakeouts, Hoot mused. They regrouped back at
the hangar under their tents after two weeks of shadowing this crazy lady and
all they had to show for it were dozens of photos of Lise, her sidekick,
militia or Somalis they spoke to and reports. But even this most crusty vet
couldn’t help but admire the woman’s tenacity and ingenuity. And adding to this
problem was Jeff’s subtle behavior changes, especially since he unnecessarily
dropped some cash at the market haggling with some old vendor over a box with
French writing on it that suspiciously looked like Belgian Gold Coast chocolate. He
worked it like only Hoot’s granny could at the church bazaars, and he’d seen
worse crap on display there. “So what do we know?”
a taste for exotic junwelrwelry,” Wex remarked at a photo of Lise at a trinket
stall purchasing a thick amber bangle. Gordon shuffled through a notepad.
full name is Elise Davies, age 27. She’s worked the Africa desk at CNN in D.C.
since she left the Associated Press two years ago. She occasionally makes some
ink with The Washington Post.” Shughart picked it up.
here since the Marines pulled out in May staying at the Red Cross Food
Distribution Center with CNN cameraman Richard Kellner, 32. He was the station
manager for KBSC in Boise before relocating to Washington.”
several contacts after her initial arrival in Mogadishu,” Wex said, “but she
dropped them all when one of the militia’s little messengers brought her to the
candy store on Hawlwadig.”
continued, “His name’s Waadi, not militia but one of their biggest suppliers
and growers of khat. His younger brother Assad is militia and it’s safe to say
that if she’s getting her foot in the door of Habr Gidr Enterprises then he is
her man.” Sanderson studied a group ryinrying black and white shots of a gutted
office complex on 21 October.
this is where Mr. Assad and his board of trustees conduct business?” Jeff had
joined Randy and Gary shortly after they reported seeing her gain access. The
CNN van approached the complex behind a small hill where Lise pulled out her
compact, and leaned out of the passenger window directing it towards the sun. A
circle of light reflected on the concrete, Lise lowered it until it fell on a
narrow cellar window close to the dying, brown grass. Minutes ticked by until a
side door corroded by rust and bullet holes was thrown open. Lise smiled when
she saw Amir, the 11-year-old messenger waving them in. Lise smoothed his hair
and handed him a Giant Crunch bar
with the strict instructions to share with his siblings. Hauling out the khat,
Amir helped them divide equal portions for the men inside as per their
agreement. Having a little extra provided a crutch for the fighters, since the
clans monopolized it. Leaders would dole out the drug in the late morning,
where the fighters would chew it getting it into their bloodstreams so that by mid
afternoon the peak of their cycle would hit and they would be ready for combat.
Khat, a stimulant akin to cocaine was ingested in its purest form, a weed whose
roots tend to stain the teeth a freakish black-orange. It gave the men that
daring to pick up weapons and begin butchering, sometimes unprovoked. But by
sundown the fighters would crash miserably.
weight in khat, Lise and Kellner got around much easier than Sanderson or the
rest of the team had thought. He tapped his lips with a pencil eraser. One of
the fighters inside had a cousin who was the assistant of Aidid’s chief
spokesman, Abdi “Queybdid” Hassan Awale, the assistant being his food taster.
The info was solid, and it only set her back a few more stalks of khat to meet
this cousin who could possibly get her in touch with Awale and may lead her to
Salad. The meeting would take place in three days, had Awale or Salad been
there instead then to hell with Garrison’s orders Delta would have been on them
faster than flies on shit! Negotiations were still underway to determine the
safest place to meet, so Delta had options: 1) They could sit on this keeping
Garrison in the dark until discovering the meeting place and tun. 2). 2)
Persuade Garrison to deploy them on a mission should they learn if Salad would
surface and bring everyone in. 3) Wait until after the meeting and just bring
her in. 0400 hours the following morning, Delta plunged back onto the street.
Road, September 19 1:22 P.M. ~
possible minute, the meeting was held at the bombed out American embassy.
Ibrahim was simple enough to get along with, but a shrewd representative. Mr.
Awale would be more than happy to relay Miss Davies’ message to Mr. Salad for
an interview request- if he also would be allowed to make an appearance. That
woue une under assessment. Ibrahim skipped out of the embassy, confident that
his leader would get his 15 minutes too. At the K4 traffic turn Lise and
Richard debated, then rang Stu on the satellite phone leaving a message on his
office voice mail with the scanty details of the next Somali warlord profile.
They ended up right back where they started, the Bakara Mar Lis Lise wandered
around checking the time on her father’s watch, she’d hoped to waste a little
time before getting back to Waadi’s but it was dragging along. Sweaty bodies
milling around made the equatorial heat less tolerable, Lise cursed forgetting
to bring a scarf or elastic band. She hung her cat’s eye shades on the scoop
neck collar of her rust silk tank, over it was a black shirt made of a sheer
material with sleeves rolled to her elbows, a peacock feather print flare skirt
fell to her knees, and brown leather sling backs keeping her feet cool. The
amber bangle clacked against her onyx and jade bracelet on her right arm.
Richard was somewhere behind, lost in the thick of things. He had two cameras
round his neck and his cap brim turned to the side dressed in torn jeans and a
white Andy Warhol Elvis portrait T-shirt. A thick silver chain clipped to a
belt loop secured his wallet in his back pocket; he’d seen Hoot once again by
the fish stalls with his bike holding up the wall. He had on a pair of red
tinted Oakleys, so Richard was uncertain as to what he was staring at.
Lise called out, she pointed to her watch. “C’mon!” He said nothing and ran
after her. A stampede of little sandaled feet came crashing out of the candy
shop and collided with the man whose pockets overflowed with gold. Waadi’s five
children attached themselves to Richard who happily handed out
their back yard to play. Howa greeted Lise warmly and went to prepare the tea;
Waadi stepped out from behind the grill and joined Lise at one of the plank
tables. “Well Waadi,” she playfully beat a melody on the table, “it’s payday!”
is Miss Davies.” Howa brought out the tea and a cloudy glass goblet of
with date paste. Waadi filled their jelly jar glasses to the brims and Lise
produced an envelope from her purse.
deserve a footnote Waadi. Without your assistance I wouldn’t be nearly as close
to getting Aidid on camera.” Lise took a sip, Waadi spread his hands.
its virtues, Miss Davies.”
should talk about making arrangements for next time.” Waadi drew his lips in
tight cutting his eyes away. “Waadi?”
impossible,” he whispered.
Waadi what-” their eyes met and Lise saw the terror in his otherwise placid
exterior. She opened her mouth but snapped it shut when a bunch of mooryan
indolently strolled by in animated conversation, slapping each other’s
shoulders chewing khat. They waited until they were down the street to resume
speaking. “Were you threatened? Were the children-” she pointed in their
direction when he lifted a hand to quiet her and shook his head.
listen. You know I have been straight with you the whole time. When I spoke to
your people, it ended up on TV just as I said.”
this.”
assured when I say that we’re CNN, not CIA.” Waadi folded his hands one atop
the other.
what about your friends?”
screwed his eyes up indicating for her to look in that direction. Lise turned
her head slightly and saw Wex and Busch on the second floor veranda of the
Olympic Hotel fg thg the opposite direction. Busch leaned his chair on its hind
legs against the wall, his Islanders cap pulled down low over his damp mop of
shaggy curls. He was dressed in white Bermudas, a Lakers jersey, and a Hawaiian
shirt. Wex stood, hands clutching the railing, a cigarette dangling from his
mouth. Lise could make out a blotchy smudge at the corner of his left eye
spreading to his temple behind his shades. He looked comfortable in khakis and
a short sleeved white pinstriped shirt. Lise gulped down her tea and slid Waadi
the envelope before departing. He opened the flap and counted $1,000 dollars;
Miss Davies was honest and knew that it could get her killed in this world. So
he prayed that those American men that he’d seen hanging around for the past
week would send her from Somalia before the evening prayer.
me! Can’t catch me!” Richard chanted, Waadi’s children racing after the
cameraman in a crude game of tag. A single half naked olive tree stood in their
barren yard; it was pitifully ignored as the children enjoyed the charred fire
bombed shell of a Chevy that had been there long before they could remember.
After they dog piled on Rich he propped himself up on the razed car’s trunk,
his shirt sticking to his back. The rear window was blackened but intact, and
while he fixed his hair Richard was able to make out the faint image of someone
in the alley adjacent of them. Behind a wall pockmarked from shelling and poor
English graffiti sitting on a trashcan was Gordon. He clapped his hands to get
the kids’ attention. “Okay kids, gather round! Gather round!”
time explaining the new game they would be playing: hide and seek. Richard took
the eldest, Jamila and brought her to the tree instructing her that she will
have to cover her eyes and count to ten to let everyone find a hiding spot and
she would have to find them. It was agreed that this new game sounded fun and
they should try it. Jamila covered her eyes, turned to the tree trunk and began
counting. Her siblings scrambled, Richard collected his cameras and went into
the house. After a few tense minutes of watching Jamila hunt around for her
brothers and sisters Howa called her children into the house for lunch. Gordon
saw the other four kids jump out of their well-concealed hiding places in the
car, which he assumed they also used during firefights.
with Hoot’s voice.
Kilo 1-1ordoordon spoke into the ultra sensitive mic pinned in his shirt.
in sight with the kids goofing off in the yard, but he disappeared into the
house a few minutes ago.”
into the house and hasn’t come back out.”
called them inside.” Hoot still at the fish stand itched to blow something
away.
do, playin’ a game!”
to Jamila then getting his shit together before high tailing it out of there.
Gordon tore off.
mounted his bike and made a beeline for the van on the side streets of Via
Lenin and Armed Forces.
through the market trying to avoid walking too fast, at the same time looking
over her shoulder for Busch and Wex. She worked her way through automobile and
donkey cart traffic to keep moving, but Lise knew better than to think she
could shake Delta. Only one of her eight cousins retired from the deeply covert
laid it out for her bluntly should she run into any on assignment: they got all
bases covered. She found herself under the tent of a house ware hawker trying
to duck behind the hole ridden flaps.
jumped when she heard something behind her. ”Hsssst!” It was coming from a
cluster of rolled oriental carpets reeking of mold and old hemp rope.
Richard was hidden behind the carpets with a fern leaf in front of his face.
the fuck are you doing?” He was about to retort but yanked her behind the
carpets. “What’s the matter with you?”
a finger to his lips. “Chuck and Lee three o’clock!” (A/N: Chuck Norris and Lee
Marvin were in the ’85 action hit The Delta Force) Richard pointed when Shughart and Gordon walked by.
Squatting down Lise was bereft of oxygen and tried to calm down. Were they
being tailed? Did anyone beside Waadi know? But most importantly, why?
here.”
Richard snapped, Lise slapped a hand over his mouth.
fucking loud!” She removed her hand. “We gotta move, get back to the van.”
there’s more of them?”
more of them!” The cameraman went pale. “Now’s not the time for that,” Lise
cautiously left the carpets and checked a side street that went along in the
opposite direction to where they were headed. “C’mon, we’re going this way.”
grabbed her wrist. “But the van’s parked behind that whorehouse! That way goes
to National; we’ll have to walk halfway around the city!”
point!” She hauled him up by the scruff of the neck and fled.
pulled up to the van, Sanderson let him in. “Griz and Busch sighted them up on
National. They’re taking the scenic route.” Hoot splashed a bit of water from
the bottle Jeff handed him on his face.
you wanna do?” The two soldiers stared at one anothointointedly, their quandary
hanging between them. After a while Sanderson nodded.
let’s take ‘em in.” Hoot got behind the wheel.
were having a hell of a time keeping up with the news lady and her sidekick.
Lise hadn’t looked back once but felt their presencerwherwhelm her so when they
turned into another alleyway she refused to take another step.
stopping?” Lise ignored Rich digging through her purse.
my goddamn lighter!”
Rich looked down the street, and as expected, saw no one. Randy and Gary were
at the end of the alley behind the walls on either side of the entrance.
positions,” Randy said.
Busch answered. Giving up, Lise spotted a crate despoiled by wood rot, kicked
off the newspaper making the chicken feathers on it fly, and sat down.
don’t sit for a minute, I’ll start screamin’ and we’re all going to die.”
Richard lit himself one and tossed his lighter to Lise. “Thanks.”
got a dozen more back in the truck.” They smoked in silence and flicked the
butts into the dirt.
advice?”
arms up. “Why not.”
Delta perceives you as a threat they will shoot you.” He puckered his lips as
if to say ‘what’ but just pointed down the alley.
saying that Surfer Dude and Pee-Wee are packin’?!”
Dude’?” Gordon mouthed to Shughart.
pistols.” Lise lit up another cigarette.
tell?!”
“That’s the whole point asshole.”
they’re not carrying their, y’know… big shit?” Lise looked at him
incredulously.
defy the whole purpose of covert operations.”
not what I-” Richard threw his hat violently into the wall behind him.
sidearm, for God sakes!” Richard sat Indian style on the ground and toyed with
his hat. “CQB. Close Quarters Battle...” But Lise was talking more to herself
than her friend.
more than ever do I not want to know what you get up to during family
reunions.” Lise guffawed. “I don’t get it, why do they think that we’d be a
threat? Why are theyng tng this to us in the first place?” Lise lolled her head
to one side, in her peripheral vision she could just make out a tiny corner of
Shughart’s Yankees jersey sleeve.
General Garrison follows my work more than I anticipated.”
your dad had that honor.”
they say about reopening old wounds.”
laughed. “Yeah… I remember reading this old transc fro from one of his last
interviews. Y’know, the one with Diane Sawyer?” Lise nodded.
the snafu between him and gramps back in ‘Nam?” This time Lise laughed
mirthlessly.
that Green Beret is just another term for ‘gun-toting nut’?”
like that in your family, despite the difference in uniform that is?” Lise
crushed out her cigarette against the crate.
poison: straight jacket or coffin? Listen Richman man can only take so much.
And when you’ve heard nothing but nationalistic propaganda from someone all your
life you might do something drastic like dropping out of college to join the
Peace Corps protesting the draft. Then you stumble into this little journalism
thing because you keep a pretty good diary of picking up body parts in Khe
Sahn, meanwhile you’re hooking up this CBS guy with the best beer and shrimp
this side of the Mekong who happens to think it might make good press. But to
make things more complicated you got your old man in Da Nang under some tent
commanding a Special Forces unit, and screamin’ that his son is frightening the
good, clean American people with carnage tales instead of being in the trenches
where he belongs.”
world shrunk, Lise having aired out her entire family’s notorious history of
death out on the frontlines, suicide, or slow spiral into insanity. But she had
hoped if either of those idiots shadowing them heard this second gen military
brat’s feelings about the armed forces she illustrates in everything she has
written would have a bit of leniency.
think I don’t know how they feel about this new administration. For us this is
an overdue change, because of men like our commander in chief we can do our
jobs. Leave it up to guys like Garrison, everything but the Right to Bear Arms
would be suspended.”
Richard interjected, “I don’t vote. I never get what I want in the end.” Lise
threw her head back and laughed, as did Richard. As they recovered from their
giddiness Rich shook his head, disbelieving that Lise talked about something so
personal at the worst time. “Lise, you and I can afford to look at the big
picture because that’s in the job requirement. In theirs, they can’t, and you
know that better than I do.” Lise nodded knowing why men chose this life had
reasons that no one could understand. Whether or not men gave or took their
lives it was over. It was something she was unwilling to go through again, but
since that morning on the balcony something told her she was fucked if she
didn’t get out of the Mog soon.
can’t….” She whispered.
rose up and slung her purse back over her shoulder, she beckoned to Richard who
looked at her questioningly. Lise took his arm and began to walk.
reach the van,” her voice was above a whisper.
saying that.” They continued to walk slowly to the end of the alley and around
the corner then stopped.
out of the alley, we’re going to split up and meet at the van.” Richard
goggled, staying silent because he would be the one to scream
mean, split up? We’re gonna miss each other!” He ground out. Rich was skating
on thin ice; Lise clawed his ear with her French manicured nails.
put how will you miss me?” It was too painful to nod.
your point.” Lise freed him, Richard’s head snapping back. They went as far as
a courtyard and took off in separate directions. Gordon and Shughart saw
Richard heading for another shantytown of ramshackle sheds made of scrap sheet
metal, cardboard and trash, Randy went after him. Gordon saw Lise run back down
National and pursued her. The cameraman jumped through houses, scooted under
chicken wire fences until coming upon a main road able to duck into the mob.
Randy, unable to draw his weapon was frustrated when he saw Richard vanish.
Lise bolted through open doorways and running out the back entrances, got lost
in a caravan, and finally came upon a cab whose driver was taking a cigarette
break. She let herself into the back and flashed the driver a Ben Franklin who
then tossed his cigarette and started the car.
forced to lay face down at the bottom of the donkey cart, almost crushed by the
sheer weight of the junk that was collected nearly did him in. He leapt out
just as the driver approached Hawlwadig; he could walk it from there. Richard
felt his heart decelerate when he saw the van and threw his hat inside. He was
about to light up again when Wex materialized from the back of the truck.
Rich turned around and spat out the cigarette.
let’s take it easy… we only want to talk to you man.” Busch came from around
the corner. The Deltas didn’t seem threatening, but Richard was not taking any
chances.
ain’t selling my soul to the man!” He threw his camera bag into Wex’s chest and
tried to make a break for it, but Busch tackled the slender cameraman. While
Busch wasn’t as tall as his teammates, his girth of well-proportioned fat and
muscle made up for it. Richard held his own putting up a struggle, managing to
knee Busch in the gut with little success. Busch had Richard pinned down long
enough to twist his arms round his back and lugged him to his feet where Wex
took him down with a well placed kick to the femoral artery.
Busch said. Wex took the groaning man’s feet.
end, I got this.” Randy showed up as his teammates lowered Rich to the ground
near the CNN van.
said.
this?” Randy asked jutting his thumb at the van. Wex uppedpped the keys from
Richard’s belt loop and openp thp the back doors before tossing them to
Shughart.
Wex started before Shughart threw him the syringe. “Thanks.” Slapping his arm
to pop a vein Wex put Richard to sleep. “Sorry.”
whole scene play out crouching behind a stack of wicker baskets and could do
nothing but watch them drive off. It was too hot to go back to the market, and
she could run a risk walking the street alone. The Red Cross was a couple of
miles but if she started now it was possible she could get out of the city
before anything could happen. Lise arbitrarily chose a direction and beat the
pavement. She avoided every alleyway and kept up with the crowds, but gunfire
from Taariq’s booth rang out and she lost her nerve. Lise zigzagged like a
pinball bouncing from one corner to the next, down one alley, up another street
until she jumped into the front entrance of a deserted tenement and kicked the
door shut. She put her hands over her ears and screamed. Huddled in the corner
Lise watched the plaster and dust particles fly as the sun arched from one side
of the sky to the other. She heard faint movement on the other side of the door
and scrambled up the unstable wood staircase, tripped over a loose tile and
went crashing to the floor hitting her head. Dizzy, Lise forced herself up
determined to find another way out.
several one-room apartments; their only occupants were the vermin she saw
skittering away. With her finger Lise pushed open the doors to check the rooms,
they were empty, she looked around the landing once more. That was her mistake.
Sanderson came out from behind the door and grabbed her, clamping one hand over
her mouth and the other arm around her waist.
bellowed up the other stairway. Appearances were deceiving, and Jeff was having
a little difficulty trying to keep her still. Lise fought to wrench her body
from his and almost made it when she was able to slam his back against the
wall.
right!” Hoot uncapped the syringe, Lise’s pupils contracted as she watched him
test it. Her loud grunt at Hoot sounded something along the lines of, ‘Fuck you
Delta’. He didn’t bother looking for a vein, just injected her and after a few
minutes Lise’s breathing tapered and her vision smeared. She sagged in
Sanderson’s arms and the last thing she felt was Jeff’s fingers brush against
the blossoming bruise on her forehead.TBC