flags on the walls, including the black and white al-Shabaab war flag. There was a table covered in pictures, two laptops, and several weapons, Kalashnikovs and Makarovs.
It was also enough light to see the mocking smile on the third terrorist’s face, as he watched us, his hands at his sides. Bob and Larry started to glide along the wall toward him, as the rest of us kept our rifles trained on him. He just stood there, that small smile on his face.
Just before Bob got within arm’s length of him, he said something in Somali, smiling broadly, then raised his hands and shouted “Allahu akhbar!” I saw his hand curled around something, and yelled, “Trigger!”
Six suppressed shots still made a pretty impressive noise as Mohammed Khasam’s head was splashed into a red mist of blood, brain, and bone, and he dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Ordinarily, bullet impacts will not cause explosives to detonate by themselves, but none of us wanted to take that chance, or that a suicide vest would stop the rounds and give him time to hit the trigger. When he collapsed and did not explode, we all breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Larry moved up and carefully removed the trigger from his hand. He held it up; it was a garage door opener.
“Figure he’s still live,” Alek said quietly. “We’ve got five minutes. Tear this place apart. Kemosabe, let’s arrange a tragic bomb maker’s accident.”
Rodrigo and I took security on the door, while the rest of the team went to work. Jim checked the corpses for explosives first. The runner had had a grenade, which he hadn’t pulled the pin from. Khasam had nothing on him, but Larry called Jim over a moment later.
The IED was under a tarp next to several crates of PETN. It would have been a hell of a boom, and none of us would have left much to get sent home. Maybe some teeth, if they could be found. It made Jim’s job easier, though.
“Don’t even fuck with it,” he said, picking up the trigger from where Larry had set it on the table. “We’ll get a decent distance away, and use this on the way out.”
Alek and Bob were going over the materials on the table, shoving pictures and documents into drop pouches. How much of it would be useful, we didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The longer we were on the target site, the more chance Murphy had to rear his ugly head.
We had been on-site for about four and a half minutes when Alek keyed his radio. “Cleghorn, Coconut. Ready for exfil, meet us at the gate.” He let off, then keyed again. “All stations, collapse on the gate.”
There was a chorus of acknowledgments, then Alek was behind me, thumping me on the shoulder. I went out the door we had come in, rifle still up and ready. Nothing. An IR light flashed from the far corner, and I returned the flash. A moment later, Tim and Hank came around the end of the east building, where they had been holding inner cordon duties. I heard footsteps behind me, where Rodrigo was covering, as Nick and Colton closed up with the rest of the team.
A moment later, we heard the rumble of a diesel engine, and then the 3-ton was out front, with Jon and Chad in the back, manning two of our M60E4s, which they had laid over the top of the slats around the bed. It wasn’t fancy, and accuracy was going to suffer, but it would work for a hasty technical.
The guys who had been on inner cordon set up hastily on a knee around the truck, while the rest of us piled on the back. The bed was positively bristling with weapons by the time the last two got on. Alek beat on the roof of the cab, and Cyrus hit the accelerator, speeding us out of there.
Chapter 8
T he team room was quiet. Colton and Nick were going through the pictures and laptops we had taken from the target site. Most of the rest of us were sitting on our cots, sweating and cleaning our rifles.
Something was bugging me. I tried to just focus on weapons maintenance, but finally gave up. The M1A didn’t get
It was also enough light to see the mocking smile on the third terrorist’s face, as he watched us, his hands at his sides. Bob and Larry started to glide along the wall toward him, as the rest of us kept our rifles trained on him. He just stood there, that small smile on his face.
Just before Bob got within arm’s length of him, he said something in Somali, smiling broadly, then raised his hands and shouted “Allahu akhbar!” I saw his hand curled around something, and yelled, “Trigger!”
Six suppressed shots still made a pretty impressive noise as Mohammed Khasam’s head was splashed into a red mist of blood, brain, and bone, and he dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Ordinarily, bullet impacts will not cause explosives to detonate by themselves, but none of us wanted to take that chance, or that a suicide vest would stop the rounds and give him time to hit the trigger. When he collapsed and did not explode, we all breathed a tiny sigh of relief. Larry moved up and carefully removed the trigger from his hand. He held it up; it was a garage door opener.
“Figure he’s still live,” Alek said quietly. “We’ve got five minutes. Tear this place apart. Kemosabe, let’s arrange a tragic bomb maker’s accident.”
Rodrigo and I took security on the door, while the rest of the team went to work. Jim checked the corpses for explosives first. The runner had had a grenade, which he hadn’t pulled the pin from. Khasam had nothing on him, but Larry called Jim over a moment later.
The IED was under a tarp next to several crates of PETN. It would have been a hell of a boom, and none of us would have left much to get sent home. Maybe some teeth, if they could be found. It made Jim’s job easier, though.
“Don’t even fuck with it,” he said, picking up the trigger from where Larry had set it on the table. “We’ll get a decent distance away, and use this on the way out.”
Alek and Bob were going over the materials on the table, shoving pictures and documents into drop pouches. How much of it would be useful, we didn’t know. It didn’t matter. The longer we were on the target site, the more chance Murphy had to rear his ugly head.
We had been on-site for about four and a half minutes when Alek keyed his radio. “Cleghorn, Coconut. Ready for exfil, meet us at the gate.” He let off, then keyed again. “All stations, collapse on the gate.”
There was a chorus of acknowledgments, then Alek was behind me, thumping me on the shoulder. I went out the door we had come in, rifle still up and ready. Nothing. An IR light flashed from the far corner, and I returned the flash. A moment later, Tim and Hank came around the end of the east building, where they had been holding inner cordon duties. I heard footsteps behind me, where Rodrigo was covering, as Nick and Colton closed up with the rest of the team.
A moment later, we heard the rumble of a diesel engine, and then the 3-ton was out front, with Jon and Chad in the back, manning two of our M60E4s, which they had laid over the top of the slats around the bed. It wasn’t fancy, and accuracy was going to suffer, but it would work for a hasty technical.
The guys who had been on inner cordon set up hastily on a knee around the truck, while the rest of us piled on the back. The bed was positively bristling with weapons by the time the last two got on. Alek beat on the roof of the cab, and Cyrus hit the accelerator, speeding us out of there.
Chapter 8
T he team room was quiet. Colton and Nick were going through the pictures and laptops we had taken from the target site. Most of the rest of us were sitting on our cots, sweating and cleaning our rifles.
Something was bugging me. I tried to just focus on weapons maintenance, but finally gave up. The M1A didn’t get
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