Chapter 15

Langley, Virginia

David Richmond had two PhDs; many of his childhood friends considered him to be, somewhat bizarrely, over-educated, even for a former Jesuit. Conversely, his supervisors at the main Langely site considered his two doctorates in religion and physical chemistry to be ‘adequate’. The CIA job was his third attempt at choosing a vocation. His mother had been led to believe that his government job was that of an economic analyst. What only the CIA and the Jesuits knew was that ‘Doctor Dave’ picked up languages like a computer programmer picked up Cheetos.

David tapped his keyboard for a few seconds, bored his eyes into the resultant display, did more keyboard tapping, then reached for the communications panel.

“I will forgo a sat-comm intercept. Let’s do something now, Linda. Their proxy is worthless. Let’s see ... just a basic SSH into and ... ok, have our tunnel. I got their VOIP. What the heck, lets call our man. Get me connected, Linda.”

The on-watch tech nodded to David Richmond as she flipped switches and pressed buttons on the control panel and started the voice-analysis computer.

A woman answered the phone in a common Dinka dialect. After verifying the location was an internet cafe, the CIA analyst engaged the young woman in conversation. David Richmond, in a ridiculously short period, was able to deduce or extrapolate that she went to school in Milan, the location of her tribe in southern Sudan, her prospects for marriage, and her political bent. The subsequent request for a description of any customer that was a westerner was willingly provided. As she described several males, Dave stopped her when a description matched the obvious physical characteristics of O’Brien.

The female co-proprietor carefully approached the large western man with a short reddish beard. The woman was unable to understand her strange combination of revulsion and attraction to O’Brien. Before addressing the westerner, she briefly stared at the unusual, for Africa, red hue of his beard.

“Are you O’Brien?”

O’Brien almost sprayed his sip of coffee onto the young woman before recovering and placing his right hand close to the butt of his pistol.

“Uh ... yes, I am...”

“You have a call at the entrance desk.”

O’Brien deduced that she was referencing the front counter. First scanning the cafe then out the windows, O’Brien made his way to the entry area of the restaurant.

“Hello?”

“Are you Sergeant Sean O’Brien?”

Although the unknown speaker used unaccented American English, O’Brien’s internal klaxons were banging an alarm. He stepped to the side of the counter to have a better over-watch of the establishment and its entrance. O’Brien stood next to the end of the counter to discretely remove his pistol from the small of his back, re-positioned the lanyard, then shoved it into his front trouser pocket while retaining a grip on the weapon.

“Yes. Identify yourself.”

“What is the call-sign of your team-member that is Corporal Malone?”

“Uh, Digger.”

David was somewhat relieved that he was able to verify his man. Although the man at the other end of the conversation was unnerved.

“Good. I will arrange your extraction. I would encourage you to not attempt further contact with Nighthawk. I will handle notification of Tisdale.”

With Major Tisdale’s name-drop, O’Brien immediately surmised that some three-letter concern had inserted itself into the mix, and noted that the unknown caller had skirted his request for an ID. As his mind plotted the various eventualities that could result from this anonymous benefactor, he devised several literal and metaphorical paths. Doctor Dave became concerned with the conversational void at the other end.

“Still with me, sergeant?”

“Uh ... yep. I’m here ... So what’s your plan?”

“A local will meet you. He speaks English. Go to the south of the city. Location and phrases follow. Ready?”

“Go ahead.” O’Brien’s memory skills were well known to the CIA analyst as he rapidly rattled off the contact information and procedure.

Main South Road, Sudan

The road changed from gravel to mostly hard-packed dirt and dried swamp aluminum silicates as they walked to the south. As the city disappeared behind, the savannas to the east and west of the White Nile took over where the agriculture receded. The smokey, dusty air made for a striking view of the wide flat Nile valley. Dotted with acacias and sparse spindly bushes, the plains were a unique vision to the Marines, and probably close to the scenery that a Hollywood film maker would seek as a dramatic back-drop for a movie. O’Brien was, again, lightly amused when Malone pulled out the issued digital camera to record the dramatic sunset views.

O’Brien, looking at his watch, estimated via travel time that he was about 4 km south of the city. Closely monitoring the graded berm along the west side of the road, O’Brien slowed his pace. In less than ten minutes he was able to identify the assigned rendezvous site. O’Brien pointed to the turnout, barely discernible in the vanishing twilight.

“This is it. Let’s get ‘bout 15 or 20 meters off the road. We got five or six hours to kill. Wanna sleep?”

“Nah. I’m good. Chow?”

“Sounds good. What ya got?”

“Yesterdays shit. A vegetable pack.”

“Fuck that shit. What else?”

“Two tunas, and...”

“Belay that, Digger. Your tuna for a cheese-mac?”

“Fucking-A skippy. You sun-baked or something?”

“Nope. Jammer gave me two.”

“You know what? That fucker is getting back at me for taking his money in that last card game. There’s no fucking way he didn’t see my flush coming. I can’t believe he didn’t fold.”

“What did he have?”

“Two pairs. Threes and fives. What a dumb-shit.”

“Not stupidity, he just chooses to ignore reality. Some shit is immutable. If he wasn’t so fuckin funny, Pistol or me would’ve stabbed his ass and left his body behind the shitters a while back.”

Malone and O’Brien softly laughed as they prepared the MREs and shared a bottle of O’Brien’s famous Texas sauce. The perfection of a meal, at least to a grunt in the field, was when O’Brien produced a packet of chocolate peanut butter. They were lost in an unadorned and simplistically honest ecstasy of chocolate P/B and crackers, shared in quiet reverence.

Malone and O’Brien were facing in opposite north/south directions, reposed on their packs, with their G3 rifles layed across their chests. O’Brien continued to look for the companion galaxies peeking above the south horizon. Unable to sight the Magellanic ‘clouds’, O’Brien directed his astronomical observations more towards the zenith. The sounds radiating to their edge of the savanna were largely ignored by O’Brien, as none were of human origin. But Malone was analyzing each sound.

“You hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The grunting noises and the splashing?”

Probably came from the river. Its probably wildlife doin the shit that animals do.”

“That water hit and splash sound. What was that, boss?”

“I dunno. Probably some croc having chow.”

“Crocidiles? Shit. They eat people?”

“Crocs are apex predators. They eat whatever the fuck they want. People are on their menu.”

“Yeah?!”

“Fuckin-A, Digger. That wildlife book I got outa the Pearl library said the Nile croc chows down on a thousand people a year. Those big fuckers are all over east Africa.”

Malone did not want to think about being eaten by giant lizards. Malone was not comfortable with not being the apex predator.

“So what the fuck is going on in Sudan? We know about the coming vote to separate into two nations. That Coronado SEAL said its is basically the north Arabic Islamists versus the south tribals. But there seems to be a lot of other factions and other countries playing games down here.”

“Why ya think we kicked Saddam outa Kuwait?”

“Probably for a stable oil supply.”

“Tits up, dude. There ya go.”

“Lots of oil here?”

“We sittin on the shit. Its all over the south half of Sudan. The Chinese want it. The Russians want it. And we don’t want the commies to have it. And while all of that foreign intrigue shit is raining down, we have the two main clans continuing their territorial wars of the past several hundred wars. Of course there’s the Islamists in Chad and Somalia that fuck with everybody.”

“But what if the south tribes vote to separate from the north? Won’t that stop the wars.”

“I dunno. I’m gonna guess not for two big reasons. First, they need a common language; and I’m gonna guess from those Coronado lectures and what Jake has said that there are about a dozen fuckin languages bein tossed around in an area smaller than Texas. The Dinka and Nuer clans will never allow a common official language. Second, the christian influence and control on tribal spiritual shit is being pushed. If the south half becomes a sovereign state, it will just leave them free to kill each other without external intervention. This place is probably worse then the Sunni and Shiites and Kurds always killing each other. I am officially declaring this place a total fuck story.”

“Yeah. I can see it. Matches up your history babbles on the way humans are wired.”

“You mean that we tend to group into insular tribal orientations?”

“Yeah. Its what you always say, ‘its tribes all the way up to the top, and turtles all the way to the bottom.”

“You’re mixing my metaphors, fucker.”

“Show me one Marine Corp Order or ALMAR or UCMJ clause that does not allow mixed metaphors.”

“Fuck you.”

“About all of this oil drilling, boss. Have you been reading all of the shit-talking about carbon dioxide.”

“Yep. But that is some complex shit. As usual, I don’t have a fuckin clue. I’ve read all sorts of contradictory shit. It looks like a third of these science dudes are making shit up as they go along, a third are sayin life is good and be happy, and the other third have dropped out of the fray because they thinks its too late to keep bad shit from happening to the planet.”

O’Brien gave Malone the hold signal, then stood to look around, scanning in a 270 degree arc from the southeast to the east then to the north east.

“Sounds like critters are comin out for the evening hunt.”

“Back at the oil, boss. It would seem we’d run out of the shit more sooner than later.”

“Dunno. Depends on what geologist you believe. Some say that global conventional oil and gas production has already peaked. Some say that we have another hundred years because of the new fracking shit they’re doin in Texas, Oklahoma and other places.”

“So we’ll still have cheap oil?”

“Again, I dunno. And oil prices, at least for now, have little to do with how much shit is still in ground. It shit-load of economic and refinery infrastructure and political cause and effect. I do know this, the shit in the ground will be ultimately limited by the cost of drilling and refining. If these fancy new methods are expensive and consume more energy, and if refining costs cannot be recovered by the value of remaining oil, that’s the end of cheap oil. I do not care how much the Saudis pump outa the ground, if it is expensive to get out, its gonna eventually be thousands of dollars per barrel. Only the rich will be driving or flyin or able to buy stuff that comes from oil-based shit.”

“All of this environmental shit. And available oil reserves. How can most people know what to believe?”

“They probably can’t. Shit, no one can really knows ... Remember Captain Olsen, the guy that took over the two shop when I was at Quantico?”

“Yeah. Never talked to him much. Why?”

“I met him when he was a lieutenant. He’s a smart mother-fucker. Don’t know if he can be trusted, but he’s smart. And not because he has several physical science degrees and reads lots of shit. He can organize and make sense of a boat-load of complex data. He can generate conclusions and solve problems using large data sets. Wanna know what he said? He said that what’s false today has often become true tomorrow.”

Nighthawk Control, Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti

Sergeant Carlton stood, at parade rest, in front of Major Tisdale. To the side of the major’s desk was an army master sergeant bearing airborne and ranger tabs.

“Sir, the major needs to know what has been set in motion per the perceived inaction by the local special forces commander. The office of the director of the MCIA has been notified that a team from the 1/5 scout/sniper platoon has been abandoned in south central Sudan. The General has ordered the XO of the third intel battalion to Djibouti, and has recalled Staff Sergeant Warren to three-MEF headquarters for debrief. Warren departed about an hour before your return, sir.”

“When will that XO arrive, sergeant?”

“Sir, scheduled arrival is 1030 tomorrow.”

“Have you informed the commander or anyone else?”

“No, sir.”

“This is not to leave this office, sergeant. Arrangements have been made with in-country Sudanese operatives for the team’s extraction. I am uncertain, but the best estimate is that they will return to Djibouti in less than four days ... Top?”

The army ranger faced Major Tisdale, “Yes, sir?”

“Give me two of your senior men. Place one in the command and control box and one between the SEAL and commando tents. Handhelds on TAC-Five with head-sets. I want to know who is doing what and when they are doing it. Understand?”

“Understood, sir.”

The ranger adroitly turned to make a rapid exit from the office.

“Carlton, your intel people probably already know, but I can tell you officially. Your shooters are being closely monitored by the community. Not for legal reasons; and not for tactical reasons...”

“Why, sir?”

“I will only say that they have been evaluated for reasons of international and national strategic concerns.”

“Sir?! That is, wholly, non-sequitur. Obviously, they are expert shooters. They are grunts out of a regular infantry battalion. They have no operator training, with the exception of Warren.”

“Sergeant Carlton, I do not like being played like a fool. You damn well know that the skills and knowledge of those Marines are superior and have rapidly evolved into a rather unusual, perhaps singularly unique, amalgamation of talents. And I desperately need their ilk for what is coming in east and central Africa and southwest Asia, and other places.”

Jake Carlton introduced the XO of the Third Intel battalion, who flew directly out of Hansen Okinawa, to meet Major Tisdale. Jake had never worked with Major Larson, but she knew of him. He was a decent Marine that was no-nonsense, having a technical education. She was immediately dismissed.

“Major, I am certain you are aware that your SOCOM stunts have pissed off the wrong people. General Stewart is putting his fist through bricks back at Hochmuth Hall. Want to tell me why you people insist on using Marines as fodder?”

“Major, my name is Martin. Please have a seat. Want coffee?”

“Negative. Tell me why I should not recommend pulling my shooters and Raiders in CENTCOM and Africa back to CONUS.”

Major Tisdale noted the CIA-compiled folder on Major Larson was open on his computer, thus quickly closing the file.

“If we can convince the Marine Corps to retain unit integrity per that fifth regiment sniper platoon, we, as in SOCOM and limited elements of the intel community, have long-term considerations for their strategic implementation.”

“The question remains unanswered, major. So with all of your fancy and over-funded SOCOM assets, why do you need my boys to be your private insurgent assasins; but more importantly, why are you special forces people always setting my boys up for failure?”

Major Tisdale was momentarily stunned by the Marine intel officer’s abrupt and accurate assessment. Sooner, more than later, Tisdale would have to bring other, carefully selected, DoD members into the ‘fold’. Tisdale paused to internally design his response to be deliberate and precise, as the need to have people such as Major Larson on the inside had been greatly increasing.

“Major, on a geopolitical scale, what do see as the principal threats to the current states of Asia and the Americas?”

“What is this? A Twenty Questions game?”

“No, sir. I need to understand where you are with your world-view.”

Major Larson held his disgust in check and decided to go with the Green Beret’s flow.”

“It is volatile and dynamic. The immediate and near-future strategic concern is the increasing Russia and China influence in Africa and southwest Asia. A secondary effect would most likely be the increasing splinter-type nationalism in Asia and Europe.”

“Let us discuss your ‘secondary effect’...”

The resultant discussion continued for two hours. The exchange left both officers with a darkened view of possible political outcomes for the world and the U.S. It also enabled the Marine Intel officer’s understanding of SOCOM’s infatuation with the scout/sniper platoon out of Fifth Marines, and their particular fascination with Sgt O’Brien. Major Larson firmly decided that his next stop would have to be Hochmuth Hall.

Main Road, South-Central Sudan

The Toyota Landcruiser’s suspension was creaky and sounded of tortured cats. The body have very little remaining paint, and the exposed metal, while oxidized, had remarkably little rust. As the worn SUV approached, O’Brien noticed that the engine’s smooth purr did not match its appearance. As Malone provided cover from a concealed position over 50 meters across the opposite side of the road. O’Brien’s ruck and load gear and rifles lay on the gravel berm as the landcruiser slowed to stop across from O’Brien. The driver was quick to notice that the big man’s right hand was behind his back and probably held a pistol.

“Howdy. Where ya going?”

“No where. I go where the wind blows.”

“Where do you go when the wind does not blow?”

“I go south.”

The coded greetings provided proper identification to the driver and to O’Brien and a reasonable assurance that there was relative safety.

“Is there not another?”

O’Brien bent his lips to blast a shrill whistle. The driver followed O’Brien’s sight-line to see a piece of the dessert become animated as it rose to assume a somewhat human outline. The driver was fascinated by the expert concealment that was offered by the Marine’s use of his ghillie but was careful to not comment or question.

“I am Deng. We should not delay.”

O’Brien signaled double time to Malone, grabbed his gear, and set it behind the rear seat as Malone did the same.

“I am Sean. Where are we going? How far?”

“To the Malakal airport. Perhaps 400 kilometers.”

O’Brien was fascinated with the driver’s accent. He was easily understood, but it was not the British English of the Pakistanis or Indians. He could not place the accent. O’Brien guessed that he was of a Nuer clan, but otherwise nondescript.

The driver reversed direction to the south as soon as Malone and O’Brien were seated.

“Please put your rifle on the floor where is cannot be seen.”

O’Brien pushed the butt of his G3 towards Malone, who was stretched out on the rear seat.

“Have you been paid, Deng?”

“My services will be paid. You do not pay me.”

“Deng, can you tell me about your people?”

“I am considered Nuer, but my wife is not. So we stay around Juba.”

“If your people vote for a seperate state will that make it easier for you and your wife?”

“Perhaps for a short time. Then the two main tribes will return to killing each other without Arab interference. It will be much worse this time.”

“It would be worse than your civil war?”

“Very much. Too many guns. Too many bombs. China, Russia, America, Britain, Germany; they all have brought weapons and explosives to our tribes. And the Christians are now much greater and they are forming militia. Many will die if we become our own country.”

“Could the UN help?”

Deng snorted a derisive laugh. “The UN are fools. Their soldiers are brave, but their leaders are cowards that do not understand tribal ways. They think that we will vote for seperation to avoid sharia law. We will vote for separation to get the oil and to have the right to kill each other in another civil war. Then the Islamists will start coming in and recruit the people that have lost their livelehood to the civil wars.”

O’Brien and Deng discussed tribal ways and politics, tactics and strategies, and infrastructures for the next two hours while Malone’s awareness drifted in and out of their subject at hand as he watched the swamps, savannas, and crop fields pass by.

Even by the uneven illumination of the vehicle headlights, O’Brien could see the changes. The terrain was more flat, the marshes had a stronger smell and the dirt of the road top was a deep reddish and less coarse.

As morning twilight begin to brighten the eastern sky, the Landcruiser slowed to turn off the road, onto a hectare-sized gravel plot that was less than 100 meters from the White Nile.

“We stop to call cornstalk. They will be waiting at the airport.”

Deng grabbed a hand held radio from beneath his seat.

“Cornstalk this is bean.”

When there was no answer, Deng bade his passengers to get get out and stretch. Malone and O’Brien exited the vehicle and slung their G3 rifles into a forward carry position then extracted binoculars to scan the area.

Deng attempted to make contact once more.

“It may be another hour. We will wait here.”

“Want some coffee, Deng?”

“Thank you. That would be good.”

O’Brien collected several MRE packets from his ruck, pulled a spare canteen cup from his ruck and absconded with Malone’s aluminum container.

“I have seen a MRE, Sean. I do not think it would be good to eat for a long time.”

O’Brien smiled as Deng accepted the coffee container. “That is very true, Deng. Very true.”

A long wood, narrow-draft, boat that was powered by a single outboard, sputtered down the White Nile as Deng and O’Brien looked to the east, tracking the progress of the ragged boat, laden with over 15 people. The river obviously conducted more traffic than the road. O’Brien followed the boat is it was lost behind the southeast horizon, where the river braided into several channels just north of the airstrip.

Deng lifted his radio for another attempt.

“Cornstalk this is bean.”

“Go bean. Say your status.”

“I have two, cornstalk. Are you ready?”

“Can you get to the turnout at the north end in 15 minutes?”

“If there are no people there, yes.”

“I will meet your there. Condition Yellow.”

“I understand.”

“Sean, we may have problems. You need to be ready for bad people or something?”

“Is there war now?”

“No, but there are many foreigners in Malakai and Juba. They want to influence our future, so they do bad things to each other and sometimes to my people.”

“We’ll be ready ... Digger, condition one. Let’s vamos, dude ... Deng, do not go all the way to the airstrip. Get us to within 200 or 300 meters. It may be safer for you.”

Deng nodded his head and returned to the driver’s seat.

O’Brien and Malone were separated by over 40 meters as they approached the turn-out ramp at the north end of the runway. O’Brien stepped over the small fence and assumed a prone position as he observed the rolling approach of a Cessna 208 Caravan single-engine turboprop as it did a taxi down the runway. Malone faced the opposite direction on the other side of the fence.

The extreme angle of the first morning sun over the bare savanna to the north and east of the city prevented a clear view of the small airplane’s occupants. As the aircraft did a pivot steer to face to the east, the pilot was scanning across an 180 degree arc, obviously looking for his erstwhile passengers.

O’Brien gave the hold signal to Malone, stood, and rapidly walked to the aircraft, in an arcing approach to the aft port quadrant of the Cessna utility airplane. The sole occupant of the aircraft noted O’Brien’s approach, opened the pilot’s door and motioned to O’Brien.

The pilot, yelling over the turbine engine, “Need you to get in now, the pilot is dead.”

“Can you fly this thing!?”

“Yeah, I’m a pilot.”

The pilot applied the parking brakes, jumped out, and popped open the aft passenger hatch as O’Brien signaled to Malone.

The pilot pointed O’Brien to the right seat and handed him a headset, going back through the cabin to secure the aft hatch.

“What happened?”

“Not certain. Two people, one with English and one with Scot accents tried to hi-jack the plane. They shot the pilot and I shot them.”

“Where are they?”

“On the ramp. We have to get the hell out of here before they are found.”

“You the co-pilot?”

“Nope, I’m a field officer. But I can fly.”

“You ever fly a turbine before, sir?”

“Nope. But I read the manual.”

The pilot gave a sneering grin over his right shoulder to O’Brien, said, “Let’s go!”, then shoved the throttle forward. About 500 meters down the runway, the pilot’s increased his look of concentration as he tweaked the props to adjust torque while playing with the foot pedals to keep the airplane accelerating down the center-line.

“Damn. Almost over-torqued it.”

Malone, looking to the east, noted an Antonov and other unmarked aircraft on the ramp. As Digger’s eyes swept past the aircraft, he further noted three bodies, prone and in disarray, on the west side of the main airport ramp as the Cessna rotated about halfway down the airstrip. Malone snapped an image of the ramp as the pilot banked the plane back to the north as it climbed over the White Nile river.

“I’m Harry. I will assume that you are Sergeant Sean O’Brien?”

O’Brien glanced at the young field officer, thinking that he could pass for an undergrad college student on spring break.

“Yes, sir. So CIA is now part of this game?”

“Always have been. Your boss must have raised some serious hell. A bit atypical to risk exposure of an operative for use use as an extraction. What were you people doing?”

O’Brien had not established the pilot’s ID, but having established he was CIA, being circumspect was reasonable. O’Brien had yet to determine who should know what and when they should know it.

“Not much of anything. We were doin over-watch for some brits when they decide to up and leave us in the middle of the savanna about 450 clicks north of Malakal. When we called home, nobody would say shit until your spook gear caught us calling home.”

“Yeah, that’s similar to what I heard on this end. The Company is attempting to bring a little order to this situation.”

O’Brien was only marginally alarmed when the ‘pilot’ pulled out the manual for the Cessna 208.

“Uh ... you said you were a pilot, sir?”

“I am. Have never flown a turbo-prop. Looking up some parameters. Have to keep the engine and the airframe within the envelope.”

“But you’re a pilot?”

“I have a private license with an instrument rating.”

O’Brien did not know if the overly-enthusiastic CIA officer had the skill level to control the machine, but he had avoided death and dismemberment thus far.

“Where are we going, sir?”

“Don’t know...”

“You don’t fuckin know?!”

“There was no time to make contact and receive our instructions. Only had time to re-fuel before those two came after us. Had to get the heck out of that place.”

“You’re tellin me we’re heading north for the fuck of it, sir?”

“Relax, sergeant. The only places we could use are to the north, and we have to be careful where we extract. Whether it is Sudan, Ethiopia, Somalia, or Djibouti; it will be to the north. Another ten to fifteen minutes and we should be at an altitude that would put us within radio contact range.”

O’Brien scanned the instrument panel until he found the directional gyro.

“Our heading is 35 magnetic. So were going more close to 40 degrees true. That’s northeast, sir. So what did you have in mind if you can’t make contact?”

“Try to get clearance to fly across Ethopia and into Djibouti.”

“That’s over one thousand kilometers, sir.”

“This plane has the range, and with these tanks, sufficient reserve. Would probably be at four or five hours.

“Who were the people that attacked your pilot?”

“Do not know. What was interesting was their accents.”

“Sir?”

“One had a Scot brogue and the other was English.”

“Brits?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Why?”

“Various reasons. None of which are clear to the Company. I am told that the British intel community and the armed forces have a deteriorating relationship, so it depends on who is asked. I will say that they did appear to have a military appearance and bearing; as you do.”

“So the CIA believes that the brit military is operating outside of their national interests?”