Chapter 14

October, 2008 Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti

As the KC-130J descended over the Aden gulf, O’Brien and Pistochini stood on their respective jump seats to observe the area through the small circular windows. The three transport birds had assumed a tighter echelon formation, closing in from the two kilometer separation that had been used for the first several thousands of kilometers of travel and in-transit IFR missions.

The lead C-130 entered the airfield traffic pattern with an obtuse-angled crosswind to the southwest, flying over the runway, sharply turning west into a right downwind leg, then turned 180 degrees at a steep bank to align on a short final for runway 09. The three large birds re-grouped on the deck after landing, running a back-taxi on the active. The three re-fuelers bounced over sun-cracked asphalt and concrete taxi-ways in a round-robin loop, due to a dearth of taxi-way exits to the south from the east half of the runway.

As the C-130s re-crossed the runway to the south-side tarmac, the crew-chief partially lowered the aft cargo ramp. The Marines, and the singular soldier, were washed over by a blast of hot wind laden with the mixed odors of jet turbine exhaust, with a tinge of humidity from the Aden gulf, yet the air was strangely dry. As their C-130 trundled past the main ramp, O’Brien’s vision zoomed in on a platoon-sized unit of French troopers boarding two US Marine CH-53s, while further down, another Marine KC-130 was being pre-flighted. O’Brien nudged Pistochini, pointing to the tarmac action.

The joint-use facility was void of color and comprised of a featureless sea of tan dirt and tan rocks and tan tents, and nondescript off-white hangars, and an ocean of dull-white conex-box buildings. The predominate aircraft, mostly on ramps to the south of the single east/west runway, were large - P3 anti-sub jet-props, CH-53s helos, and C-130 re-fuelers. The commercial side of the facility to the North, was composed of mostly empty ramps. A single airline jet was accompanied by a smattering of small, twin-engine prop commuter-type aircraft.

The tarmacs in the northeast quadrant were obviously the ‘high-rent’ district of the international military contingent. French or British, or perhaps American, fighter jets were housed in tactically-scattered arrays of arched half-dome hangers. There were several smaller hangers, each with a single fighter, intended to be on an alert status for CAP. This was O’Brien’s first clue as to the tactical and strategic importance for the site.

“Is this green-zone shit, or do we walk around condition one?”

“Do not know, Opie...” Warren turned to Major Tisdale, “Sir, what’s the security status of this base?”

“Last I heard the area was generally secure. I would wear your pistols, round in the chamber. Most of the rebels and insurgents are well to the south and the west in Somalia and Sudan, and across the gulf in Yemen. We will recieve an orientation brief and intel update tomorrow.”

This was the platoon’s first exposure to ‘Containerized Living Units’. As three 9-ton MTVR trucks bounced around the large farm of CLUs, the troop’s first impression was that of a futuristic ghetto, by design, made with hundreds of modified conex shipping boxes stacked and ordered in an asshole-to-elbow array, over a ten hectare area. Past the CLU farm was a separate stand-alone compound, a larger version of what had been set up for the Marines at the Pearl Harbor base. The operator area was set aside from the main body of CLU living quarters, in separately fenced-in structures. The compound included five inflatable hi-tech tents and two CLUs, a row of porta-potties, and a mostly bare 30mx20m concrete pad with water bibs and work benches under a large canopy supported by a dry-rotted wood frame. This special forces sub-compound area was within the HESCO walls that surrounded the huge gaggle of conex boxes, but was separately enfenced in a two to three hectare field to the east of the CLU farm.

As the transport trucks approached the separated compound, the people exiting the tents and CLUs to observe the new arrivals were an interesting mix of American soldiers and sailors and airmen, and a few members of various European military forces. Most appeared to be senior people. A navy senior chief and a lieutenant commander made a straight line for Major Tisdale. The chief gave a wan salute then shook the major’s offered hand, while the navy and army officers clasped forearms. The two officers and the senior enlisted man were obviously operator colleagues.

“Bob, we have the shooters that were promised. They performed well in Afghanistan; they are good to go. This is Staff Sergeant Warren, their platoon sergeant.”

O’Brien and Pistochini exchanged slight head nods to each other on the realization that they were being dumped in with the local SOCOM people.

Warren saluted the navy officer and tacitly acknowledged the SEAL chief, but remained distanced from the three operators, carefully observing and attempting to grok the hierarchy among the special forces detachments via body positioning and verbal deference. Having toiled several years as a shooter supporting special forces and as the original MARSOC sniper instructor, Warren was well aware of the closed and insular ‘society’ of operators, and that his Marines would always be the outsiders.

“Senior Chief, where are you billeting them?”

“Last tent to your port, sir. Uh, don’t know about your sergeant, though. They have separate CLUs for transient female members. I will need to talk to base housing.”

“Belay that, senior chief. Sergeant Carlton will billet with the unit.”

The attendant green beanies, SEALs, rangers, and other U.S. operators reacted with indifference to the statement per the billeting of the sniper unit’s sole female member. There were, however, sour looks, some were expressions of pure contempt, among the gathering European troops.

O’Brien smirked at the representatives of the supposedly more liberal and ‘progressive’ western Europe states. Their reaction served to cement his opinion of the western EU states and that the true nature of the ‘Old World’ was monarchical Neo-colonialism. O’Brien, deep in his heart, was a proud American imperialist pig. He did not hide it, and believed that the EU were closeted, insular and racist cultures. And he had ‘raised’ his troops in a similar belief system.

O’Brien’s internalized geopolitical discussion was interrupted by a tireless Major Tisdale. The major had conducted over 15 hours of in-transit airborne briefs with Warren, Carlton, O’Brien, and Pistochini. The man had boarded the C-130 possessing almost a thousand pages of field reports, intel briefs, and tactical and strategic studies of central and eastern Africa. O’Brien did not, nor did Pistochini, believe that a Marine of pay-grade E-5 should be subject to such quantities of painful detail. But Major Tisdale had insisted.

As Tisdale departed the Marine gaggle, “Need you three to come see me and the commander in that first box as soon as your gear is secured.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Sardonically, O’Brien informed Pistochini, “he meant you and Cooker and Jake; its your duty as a new sergeant to attend these unending briefings...”

SSgt Warren was quick to correct, “Get you ass over there, Opie. Pistol, get everybody kitted out and make sure our people do not start a war with the UK or France, or whatever other people they have here.”

Pistochini mouthed a silent, victorious laugh at O’Brien, happy that he had evaded, yet another, lengthy planning and briefing meeting.

“ ... so some will be a roving group, mostly the south half of Sudan and perhaps Chad, supporting the U.N. troops and the British Commando detachment. And we would like your senior people as sniper instructors when we have breaks in the schedule. Questions?”

O’Brien did not like the proscribed set-up for a sniper over-watch that would support the ranger, and other operators, currently running missions in Somalia. O’Brien had studied the 1993 Mogadishu debacle, where the local American commanders had seen fit to insert about 200 operators into an area of over 10,000 Somali fighters.

“Sir, What is the exfil if the LZ is not clear for the Sudan side of Chad, given that the French are using U.S. airlift? And what about the Janjaweed, sir? Do we consider them as hostile Darfur or Sudan military?”

The SEAL officer, while quick to note the insightful nature of Sgt O’Brien’s questions, did not want a group of junior non-special forces Marines interpreting policy.

“Engagement rules for each over-watch team from your group will be individually briefed by the special forces mission leader. Coverages shall be determined by your mission commander only.”

“Sir? If we lose comm or become separated from the mission commander?”

“Most unlikely. It is not your area of concern, sergeant.”

O’Brien knew that the navy officer was informing the Marines that they have no autonomy; furthermore, he was contradicting SSgt Warren’s purported rationale for use of this particular sniper unit. O’Brien’s top-level determination was that his Marines were, by design, the canon fodder and/or the scrape-goats for operator fails.

The lieutenant commander continued with his mono-tonic death-by-power point presentation. After another two hours, O’Brien was unconvinced that anything new had been learned from the previous two hours.

“Staff sergeant, we need ya to take this to the major. I don’t know who’s full of shit and lying, but that SEAL is tasking us differently than what you said was the Pentagon’s rationale for choosing us. We didn’t fuckin re-up to spend the next year as sock-puppets and being fall-guys for a bunch of over-trained assholes.”

Warren was not surprised that O’Brien was quick to get in his face; he was protecting his troops. Warren was disappointed that the SEAL officer had reinforced to O’Brien that he cannot trust his chain of command and that they will be on their own once shit goes south.

“I was going to talk to Major Tisdale anyway, so don’t get your pantyhose in a wad. But be nice. I’m told that these people have some real fucking chefs with them. Don’t fuck with our access to some killer grilled chow.””

“Good. The French that are runnin the Chad shit and the SEALs and green beanies and Brits in Sudan, they habla?”

“Don’t know, Opie. Some do. Probably not all. For most of the AOs, all we’ll need is Arabic.”

“Yeah? That’s not what they told us back at Coronado.”

After almost three hours of rattling over and traversing Ethiopia, the CH-53 made a gradual port turn to align its heading to be behind and to the right of the path of a KC-130 re-fueler. The sun rising behind them provided dramatic lighting to the IFR evolution. Peering up forward through the cargo hold, and into the flight deck windscreen, O’Brien followed the pilot’s skillful control of the bird’s IFR probe into the re-fueling basket trailing behind the KC-130.

The CH-53 dropped off O’Brien and Malone behind a rise of volcanic tuft and breccia, less than 2km from the seemingly random gaggle of fabric canopies, camels, cattle, and people of an origin unknown to O’Brien and Malone.

Their kits were, per the Royal Marine officer’s assessment, a bit excessive for the projected one or two-day mission, but he figured that if the Marines wanted to bear the additional burden, it was on them. The officer’s doubts of their ability to carry the loads were removed as the bird lifted away and the two American Marines sprinted up the ridge and continued their rapid pace, parallel to the ridge.

O’Brien watched the large bird create a localized dust storm while alighting about 300 meters from the tribal gaggle.

“Ghost Three this is Two. Position, over?”

“At Alpha-Two. Comm relay operational. Three out.”

With disgust, Malone addressed the sky god, “Where the fuck else would we be?”

O’Brien shrugged, but would not deny Malone’s unvoiced implication that they were being treated as the untrusted red-headed step-child by the brit commandos.

“Dunno. Maybe we went to fuckin Disneyland?”

Malone smirked as his rifle scope remained focused on the group of Royal Marines approaching the gaggle of the supposed tribesmen.

“That ain’t no fucking tribals.”

“Yep. Ya got that right, Digger. Not one fuckin child or female. And look at those fuckers just aft of the cattle. And what’s with the fuckin camels? Didn’t the major say that the Dinka and Nuer don’t do camels?”

“Ghost Two, these are not tribals. They are militia, over.”

The RM reply was simply, “roger that, three.”

O’Brien and Malone watched. O’Brien’s increasing doubt was verbalized by, “no fuckin way that is SPLA. That SEAL commander was lyin to us - someone is playin both ends against the middle.”

“Why would they do that shit?”

“The Sudanese are a short time away from the referendum to separate the south tribes from the northern Sharia-based state. The brits have a history of supporting whatever Chevron or BP Oil wants, so I’m gonna guess we’re lookin at a fuckin Janjaweed militia from the North.

O’Brien and Malone, under ghillies, watched the interaction of the RMs and the supposed locals, taking turns observing to the featureless north and the greener south. Looking back to the west, O’Brien longed to set foot on the banks of the White Nile. O’Brien’s recollection of regional history was interrupted by the approach of vehicles from the southwest.

“Ghost Two, we have two Toyota Land Cruisers approaching, two to three kilometers southwest.”

“Standby, three.”

O’Brien kept Malone apprised as they watched in opposite directions, “They have rifles. They’re slowin down. I’m guessin they’re here to see what’s goin on with the brits and Janjaweed. Probably SPLA.”

“We going to engage?”

“Ya know damn well what that commando captain said for ROE. Sit tight, Digger.”

The worn SUVs trundled down the dirt road, slowing upon approaching where the road bends around the ridge. The level of caution observed by the people in the SUVs mae it apparent to O’Brien that the locals knew what lie ahead. The land cruiser gradually slowed, stopping before the road bent back 120 degrees towards the presumed Janjaweed encampment.

“Ghost Two, the vehicles have stopped at west end of the ridge to observe towards your site.”

“Standby, three.”

Malone caught a LED flash on the man-pack sat-comm repeater. “They’re calling home, boss.”

“What Channel?”

“One-Nine. And they’re not using cross-band re-trans.”

O’Brien yanked the hand-held radio out of his ruck pouch, hurriedly programming in a new frequency. He caught the tail-end of a conversation with the SEAL officer.

“They called for extraction.”

“They going to tell us?”

“Let’s act stupid and wait for orders.”

The delay was short, as were the Brit officer’s ambiguous instructions.

“Engage the locals?! What the fuck, boss? What does that mean?”

“I’ll go down the ridge and talk to them. You’re gonna be cover. Call home and get Jake on the line; gonna need a talker.”

O’Brien, desirous of a harmless appearance, left his M40 and G3 on the ridge with Malone. He was careful to be obvious and noisy as he ‘stumbled’ down the slope towards the locals that were gathered around their two Land cruisers. O’Brien stupidly waved to the tribesmen. If they were caught unaware at the unexpected American, they did not exhibit surprise.

O’Brien heard Malone on his headset just prior to reaching the locals, “Opie, we have Jake on programmed channel C.”

“Roger that, Digger. You need to listen in and maintain comm with Ghost Two.”

“Roger, boss.”

O’Brien stopped about 4 meters in front of the apparent elder. Putting down his pack and removing his head-set, he carefully approached the presumed elder, held out the head-set while O’Brien pointed to his hand-held radio.

“Ghost One, I’m gonna give comm to a tribal leader. I wanna know what’s goin on.”

“Roger that, Three. Opie, you need to stand by for a while. This may not be easy. I cannot do all the Nilotic dialects and languages. Will assume Nuer or Dinka.”

“Whatever, Jake. We’re by our lonesome. So let me know if these people are pissed about something.”

O’Brien handed the head-set to the elder, then stepped back as the elder donned the head-set. The initial look of surprise was probably that of hearing a female voice. Being non-Muslim, the tribes people had minimal issues with a women being the talker. After less than five minutes of back and forth, the elder returned the head-set.

“So what’s goin down, Jake?”

“You idiots would not have these communications issue if you and Cooker would include me and if...”

“Jesus, Jake. Just fuckin tell me what the guy said.”

“They are responding to the bird landing in an area known to have Janjaweed running around. They are getting more sensitive to incursions from the north as they close in on the day of the vote.”

“So they know that a Janjaweed militia is just around the corner?”

“Roger that, Opie.”

“Do they plan on engaging them?”

“Apparently not. They seem to be there to discourage and block any Islamist movement further south.”

A CH-53 made its arrival known as it buzzed over the SUVs and continued northwest to the Janjaweed and RM gaggle. It was obvious that a pickup of the brits was in progress.

“Jake a Marine bird is going in for the pick-up. Let the major know that the RMs did not inform us of any exfil, and probably did not say shit to the aircrew. Gonna guess that we’re on our own. So nuthin new.”

“Advise on your status, Opie.”

“Dunno. Ya think that these tribal people are ok?”

“Yes. They are Nuer peoples. Specific tribe uncertain.”

“Roger that, We’ll hang out with these people for a while. Can ya be available?”

“Affirm. I will stand by. The major says there will be a duty scheduled to monitor active channels 24/7.”

“Uh, Jake, hear the bird departing. Stand by...”

O’Brien switched freqs. “What are they doin, Digger?”

“Commandos have departed to the Northeast on that 53. Negative comm.”

“Roger that...”

“Jake, look like the RMs forgot about us. Gonna stay on this freq for 10 mike, then go back on air on the hour until we lose sat-comm.”

“Supply status, Opie?”

“Beans, bullets, and band-aids good to go. See ya, Jake. Ghost Three out.”

“Digger, wait 10 then shut down the repeat then get to my pos.”

“Roger that. See ya.”

O’Brien pulled off his ruck, pulled out a canteen, set down his ruck for a place to sit, then offered the canteen to the Nuer tribesman before sitting down. Only the elder took the water, closely watching the big American, fascinated with his relaxed and confident demeanor.

As Malone neared the gaggle of tribesman around the SUV, O’Brien queried, “What’s the status of the camel jocks?”

“Nada, boss. They packed up their shit and headed north after the Brit Marines ex-fil’d.”

The next hour was consumed by consumption. O’Brien and Malone broke out two MREs to demonstrate how they are prepared and eaten. The younger tribesman were more interested in the concept and use of prepackaged food than the older men, and did not seem to mind the tast or texture. The elders, being older and wiser, chose not to sample the offered MREs. The interactions were, again, closely watched by the elder tribesmen.

After an hour, Malone set up the sat-comm/repeater on the hood of the tribesmen’s Toyota SUV. The satellite had lost LOS or the base had shut down the channel. Seeing both Americans resigned and frustrated, a young tribesman produced a soccer ball from the back of the SUV. The next hour was used to play a style of soccer analogous to the spirit of American pick-up basketball.

The sun dropped low, back-lighting the mists of the swamps to the southwest, nourished by adjacent flows of the White Nile. The string of soccer games were halted by the elder. Words were exchanged, the SUV re-loaded with tribesmen, waving to the two Americans as they drove southeast.

“We got ‘bout two hours of usable light. Let’s get back up into those rocks, further west.”

Malone and O’Brien lay side-by-side, facing in opposing directions, propped up by their rucks. O’Brien was enjoying his first partial view of the southern constellations, attempting to find the Large Magellanic Cloud through the haze of dust and other suspended atmospheric matter. Malone’s fidgeting did not go unnoticed.

“ ... uh, Opie ... are the brits really that incompetent or were we ditched for a reason?”

“Dunno, Digger. I’ve always heard that the Royal Marines are some of the best of all of western forces. The shit they did in the ‘stan was fuckin stupid; but that was from the arrogance of their leadership.”

“You know that shit you were telling us about what the Brits did in South Africa, Islandia or something?”

“It was the battle of Isandlwana. The troops were greatly outnumbered, but had superior weapons and, supposedly, better tactics. But Chelmsford was an arrogant asshole who ignored a lot of shit and had assigned some shit-for-brains officers at the battalion level. There were two leieutents that escaped Isandlwana on horseback, leaving their foot-bound units to fight to the death. For their cowardice, the British awarded them the Victoria Cross.”

“You saying the brits have a long history of stupid shit?”

“Nah. They did some brilliant shit during World War Two, but that was a period of rapid transition for the brit military. Before the world-war era, most British officers came from upper-class families that bought their commission, or were royalty. The NCOs were a different animal, they had always been professionals - they trained and disciplined the troops and guided junior officers, which became the new post-Napoleonic standard for standing armies.”

“That doesn’t explain why the brits that we have supported and been around are so fucked up.”

“Dunno, dude. Maybe its the same disease that we see infecting many NATO forces today. Have no idea who the fuck is actually runnin the show in the EU these days.”

Their briefings had not mentioned any current insurgencies or bandits in the area, so the two Marines dozed with no watches with a sense of relative impunity from surprises. O’Brien slept intermittently, striving through out the night at irregular intervals, to make sense of the seemingly random and weird fabric of his life for the previous four years. Unable to ‘connect the dots’ that would enable a logical explanation of his life’s events, O’Brien returned to the astronomical task at hand. His night was complete when he was able to locate the Magellanic galaxies peeking above the horizon, observing through the dust and haze using binoculars.

The two Marines’ continued their intermittent slumber through the morning as the still lacked specific orders and really did not care if they were destined to spend a few days watching the boring terrain. The ennui ended when a dozen, or more, camels slowly rounded the bend of the ridge to the northeast, followed by a loose trail of foot soldiers, all bearing AK rifles. The camel-led column passed directly beneath the two Marines on the ridge. Malone and O’Brien had heard their approach well in advance, and were well covered by their ghillies and by their position in the rocks just below the ridge-line.

Malone picked up the fancy digital camera that he had used to surreptitiously capture images of O’Brien in his ghillie, then returned to looking through the rifle scope. Major Tisdale and Sgt Carlton insisted that a sniper team member carry a camera on each mission. Malone liked that the back-lit and broken scene of discontinuous barren ridges and troughs of vegetation would provide an ‘artistic’ backdrop for the camel column, recorded a series of images. As Malone continuously snapped images. O’Brien rolled his eyes at Digger’s budding artistry, while keeping his eyes on the caravan.

The entourage out of northern Sudan was tracked by the two Marines until they they had made about 500 meters to the southeast of the road and were blocked from view by the next ridge/trough pair.

“Where the fuck are these people going?”

“Not a fuckin clue. The sat-comm shit set up?”

“Good to go, boss. It indicates that it can see the sat.”

“Use that secondary side channel. Call Jake for our status. If they’re gonna leave us here for a while, let her know that we’re gonna follow these camel jockies just for the fuck of it.”

O’Brien listened and scanned for any sign of flankers or tail-end charlies that would be supporting the column of unknowns. O’Brien had determined that the group had no stragglers or outliers when Malone completed his status communications with Carlton.

“Fucking weird, boss. Jake says when the brits returned without us, and they said nothing. She gave Major Tisdale our status, and the man told her to do nada and to not talk to anyone not in the platoon. She said that the staff sergeant was told to get a three-man team together, ready to go into southern Sudan. Like I said, Opie. Fucking weird.”

“She know we’re gonna follow those fuckers?”

“Yeah. She didn’t say if anyone said yes or no.”

“We’ll take that as a ‘yes’. Let’s pack it up and see what they’re gonna do. Turn off the repeater. Lets set radios to low-power. Use a non-hopping channel. We’re gonna follow in a sorta picket; ‘bout 100 meters separation.

Malone and O’Brien stalked the camels and humans for most of the day. It was obvious that the column was up to no good, as they were pointedly staying clear of the road and treking the long way around the terrain features. At the end of the day, they column had managed to traverse about 20 kilometers, which failed to impress the two Marines.

As twilight was ending, O’Brien pointed to lights on the south horizon. They were about 5 km north of a small village that was not on their maps.

“This might be an old-fashioned tribal raid. But that would have some serious political affects to this area as we get closer to the day of the vote.”

“What is the ‘serious political’ stuff?”

“Remember the lectures at Coronado? Until the truce between the northern Arabic types and the southern tribal types, the strategy of raids for the previous twenty years were done to keep your adversary impoverished and to force them out of the area. It was a slow form of genocide. But it was more than fucking with their wealth and standing that comes from stealin the cattle.”

“So you think they’re staging a raid to affect the coming vote?”

“That and other shit. They’re trying to establish territorial rights further south because the northern haji-types know damn well that the south is gonna vote against a Sharia government.”

“We going to do something about it? At least warn that vill?”

“Fuckin-A, dude. We’re gonna fuck up their raid. As soon as those assholes hit the rack, we go past them to the south and find a good place to ambush. The ambush needs to be just north of the village. The SPLA people can get warned and we can fuck ‘em up in our cross-fire while the villagers respond.”

“You always have the best party ideas, boss. Can’t wait to see the major and that SEAL commander go ape-shit over this.”

“ ... Still can’t raise Jake. What if we just walk into the camp anyway?”

“Too much risk. We would need to have them set up by twilight with no way to habla. We’ll get into position and hope the southern peoples get their shit together as soon as the shootin starts.”

The Sudanese-African tribal people were encamped along an east/west linear seep between low-lying ridges of shallow width to the north and south. The ridge-lines were of intermittent and indeterminate lengths from a few hundred meters to over one kilometer. The ridge to the immediate north of the camp had an 80 meter long saddle, centered on a well-worn trail the led to the main dirt road to the east.

“Think that they would be that stupid, boss?”

“I’m gonna bet on it. Did anyone see you and Pistol open that case of Soviet grenades?”

“That’s a negative. They were under Jake’s rack. You sure this old stuff still goes boom?”

“This the same shit from that batch we blew in the ‘stan. Not sure ‘bout the fuze timing, though.”

Malone’s only reply was a nod as donned his ghillie and arranged his two rifles and eight ancient Ruskie hand grenades. Being wary of the single safety and the unpredictable fuzes, Malone would be happy to expend these grenades to avoid returning them to his ruck.

“We have to get as many as possible through the gap before we do ‘em with the grenades. Here’s some more mags. The main body is yours. I’m gonna go after the leaders individually. They need to go down first thing, so I’ll be focused on finding those fuckers.”

“What if the tribal guys can’t figure it out early on and shoot at us?”

“Like I said, just chill and get on the North side of the ridge until the tribals figure the raid out.”

After a final radio check, O’Brien went down the ridge, about 100 meters to the east. O’Brien prepared a likely spot having usable fields of fire to the southwest and northeast, then assumed a prone over-watch in his ghillie, facing northeast. Looking down the ridge to the east, O’Brien was not surprised that he could not find Malone’s position, with or without his NVGs.