Chapter 18

Langely, Va

“What group does he belong to?”

“Not SA or IA, but we do know that Harry Acorn had been working out of the London and Amsterdam offices.”

“Should I put a query into the ops Deputy Director’s office?”

“Already talked to the boss. The station chief for Amsterdam reported nothing unusual, but London says he had been working closely with SIS.”

“But that is not unusual. Correct?”

“I am not certain. We looked at their logs, and Acorn was working both the inside and outside.”

“Both MI5 and MI6?”

“That’s correct.”

“I will guess that the full text of the logs will not be made available?”

“That would be a valid assumption.”

“What about his section supervisor.”

“No face time, because he’s in Munich. But I did talk to him.”

Dr David Richmond was growing weary of pulling teeth from his supervisor.

“So what can be said?”

“His boss believes that he is, and was, easily led astray.”

“Led astray?! Mr. Cameron, this is not the third grade. The is the Central Intelligence Agency. You are telling me that after years of undergraduate and advanced studies, that the man is an innocent. And after a year of training at The Farm, that the company failed to evaluate and vet this field officer?! That he is of such weak character he can be easily coercied into going against policy and statute?!”

Cameron had taken Dave Richmond into his group for these very character traits being exhibited; that is, outspoken, strong sense of ethics, and not subject to arguments of moral relativism. Mark Cameron was a capable student of history, well knowing of the malfeasance incurred by the intel community. He had made it a point to study the classified reports documenting the cause and effect per the Company’s efforts in Iran and Chile, and some other less-known interventions resulting in chaos and catastrophe. Cameron’s influence on the Director’s southwest Asia policies had been shunted and pushed aside by other company factions, making him further determined to preserve the agency’s cultural ‘soul’ by preventing, yet another, intractable mess in Africa. Cameron needed people such as Richmond that did not limit their thinking to simplistic two-dimensional spaces.

“Acorn is being returned stateside now, David.”

“More than that, sir. The need to put a ball and chain on the man and keep him in lock-down at Camp Peary.”

“It is being taken care of, Dave. We need to focus on our mirthful band and their merry-makers. Has the third team deployed?”

At times, David Richmond thought his boss’s allusions and metaphors to be cringe-worthy. This was one of those times.

Yes, sir. They departed somewhere past midnight local time. Spooky One and Two should be on the ground after their local sunrise.

Tibesti Mountain Region, Northwest Chad

Beeman and Pistochini were unable to understand the gobbledygook-filled briefings for the basis of being inserted into northwest Chad. The politocol briefs had provided contradictory information and had appeared to be purposefully incomplete. They had intended to query Sgt O’Brien on the questionable regional intel, but his team had been the first to debark. It seemed suspicious to Pistochini that Jake Carlton had also been sent ‘somewhere else’, so her advice and insight would not be available. The two Marines were being sent into an area that was unforgiving and hostile to westerners, in all meanings of the word ‘hostile’.

Many, probably most, peoples of northwest Chad had no sense of national identity. Chad was not their nation, and neither was neighboring Libya to the north their nation, and they certainly did not identify with Niger to the west. They were a loosely-affilitated group of regional tribals, that somehow managed to make a living in the most hostile and isolated mountains and deserts of Africa. Only the Antartic mountains were more isolated.

Having no sense of a national identity, the peoples of northwest Chad had rebuked the central government’s attempts to organize their patch of sand, basalt, and lava into a regional entity that answered and payed tribute to the Chad federals. The state of Chad told the world that they had a civil war in progress, while the locals of Tibesti told an unhearing world that they had, at times, ‘expelled’ armed interlopers for theft of their people and the natural resources and for the enviromental destruction of their lands.

The United States, historically, had largely ignored the comings and goings of the resurgent French neo-colonialism in Africa and their insistentence that they were protecting their interests across central Africa. America thought it best to let the French expend their soldiers, systems, and monies running around the belt of central sub-saharan Africa and allow them to put out the numerous brush fires. America was generally ambivilent about Africa, until radical Islamists started a hard push to the south, determined to establish caliphates and the associated sharia law.

The CIA, if not anything else, was consistent. They were consistent in their failures to succesfully engineer a stable government in southwest Asia or north Africa in the Muslim-Arabic world. The CIA fucked up Afghanistan leaving an imploding power vacuum after Russia retreated, they fucked up Iran by offing a moderate iman in an orchestrated coup d’etat to seat a viscous shah, they fucked up Iraq by silencing their analysts and lying about WMDs, they fucked up Somalia by giving the army poor or false intel; which brought American special forces and the CIA to Chad.

During the 1970s, the CIA was royally pissed that Libya was controlling northern Chad up to 200 km south of the Libyian border. What the CIA was really pissed about was that the godless soviet commies were backing Libya. The CIA convinced the American congress and the white house that Ghadaffi was in bed with the commies, so America joined the French military and paramilitary operations in Africa. The end result was that, by the 1990s, the man that the CIA had supported in Chad was deposed and an Islamist of the Zaghawa tribe, that had connections to Somalia, deposed the deposer. This furthered the conflict between the central Chad government and the Tubu tribes of Tiebesti, as the Tubu did not like Darfur people in general, and did not like the Zaghawa tribe in particular.

Out of the incompetent madness promulgated by the French and American intel agencies, the jihadists that came from Libya, Niger, Somalia, and Nigeria became increasingly organized by the boko haram. The CIA’s circuit, and circle, of incompetence was nearing the same completion that had occured in Afghanistan after 1989. And, surprise of surprises, the boko haram had come to establish organizational connections and was recieving directions and some support from the Afghan taliban.

Beeman and Pistochini had watched the Tiebesti massif slowly build to the northwest as the Cessna Caravan flew to the west, then to the south, to circumnavigate the looming heights formed by the 70 kilometer diameter of the Emi Koussi shield volcano. The low angle of the morning sun cast dramatic lighting on the landscape of thousands of square kilometers of volcanic cones with well-formed calderas, fumaroles, sills, dikes, and plateaus formed one to two million years ago by lava flows and pyroclastic ejections. This science fiction-worthy chorography dominated the attention of the two Marines.

The airport to the east of Zouar was an ill-defined 1000-meter airstrip of packed alluvial sand, only discernable by the runway numbers and thresholds marked in the dirt. After the landing roll-out, the taciturn pilot executed a short back-taxi, shut down, and curtly instructed the two Americans to unload. As Pistochini and Beeman extracted their gear, a boy on a donkey ambled at an easy gait to the airplane. Pistochini stopped to watch the boy with a questioning, but non-threatening gaze.

Not leaving his small beast, the boy pulled a folded paper from his white robe and gestured to the two westerners. Pistochini responded to the offering. The boy and his donkey immediately tacked to a northwest departure route. The pilot said nothing as he closed the cargo hatch, secured the cockpit, started up the turbine, pivoted onto the airstrip, and took off in an opposite direction to the east.

In blocked, hand-written, inked lettering, on a coarse and heavy paper, Pistochini read aloud to Beeman.

“Go into black rocks of the ridge to east of airfield. Wait until night.”

“That’s it, Pistol?”

“That’s it, man. We were told we they would only move us at night, so makes sense. Let’s put most of our shit in those bushes. Get a pack ready. Use the dark ghillie. We don’t want to be here if some townies come looking.

Chad/Niger border, 250 km north of Lake Chad

After Warren returned to the encampment, Jerry and Watson had played rock/paper/scissors to decide whom was getting the next 24-hour circuit patrol. Each night, a member of the team would scout an oval, about three kilometers in the long axis, around their small ad-hoc CP. Watson, with triumphant smugness, shouldered his pack to exit their CP, but more importantly, to exit boredom.

By morning, Watson’s one-man patrol had found himself in the right place at the right time. What he found was not, yet another, of the typical overloaded truck caravans between Libya and Chad.

“Spirit One, this is Two. Contact report.”

“Go, Bark.”

“Range one click, from 275 of Charlie-Two. Heading 085. Platoon-sized. No contact. Rifles and at least one RPG. All camel-mounted.”

SSgt Warren placed the issued overlay over his AO map. Using his protractor as an overlay to convert from magnetic to grid azimuth, he guessed that the caravan was on an intercept to the main truck trail, which was tangential about 500 meters from his location.

“Jammer, call Nighthawk. Let them know.”

Jerry, almost estatic at a chance to relieve his tedium, dumped his MRE to crank up the comm station.

Langley, Va

“We have anything less than an hour away?”

“Cannot find anything less than three hours, doc.”

“Ping the WTC nerds. See if we have a satellite with eyes on the Spirit AO.”

Dr Richmond had hoped that the group could get an unlimited personnel-time approval. The agency beuracracy was still pending on the request. In the meantime he would have to do with the tech assigned to the current time slot. Brad Mead was a competent tech, but no other tech on the schedule had that resolute response and mental acuity he had become accustomed to from Linda, his most-favored assistant.

“Feed incoming. They can give us abut 15 minutes, doc.”

“Put it on ‘C’. And record it.”

David Richmond had studied the caravan for less than five minutes when they turned to the northeast.

“Long-wave available?”

“Uh ... coming up, doc.”

Richmond had no desire to be addressed as ‘doctor’ or ‘doc’. He had made it known once, but a few group members persisted in the appelation. Dave Richmond was a reasonable person, and not willing to be difficult, he thus accepted that some people, however useful they may be, are destined to be socially clueless assholes.

Seeing nothing remarkable in the longer IR wavelengths, Richmond returned to visual wave lengths.

“Let Nighthawk know that possible tangos will be at the Spooky AO in less than a week.”

“ ... done, doc.”

As the image of the caravan exited the coverage of the reconassaince satellite, David Richmond called his supervisor.

Chad/Niger border, 250km north of Lake Chad

“Spirit Two, if you can find cover, follow for about five clicks and report.”

“Roger that, Spirit One. See ya.”

Warren hypothesized that the caravan was making the long trek to Pistochini’s area. He was certain that the agency POGs would now be tracking these camel jockeys. Warren extrapolated to the conclusion that a regional tribal alliance was in it intitial organizational stages.

“What are they up to, staff sergeant? They going into Pistol’s AO?”

“That’s what I am guessing, Jammer. There is some weird shit being organized. Very unusual for those mountain tribals to form cooperatives with others.”

“Think the major will send more troops? They have a ranger platoon not doing shit.”

“Probably not rangers. The state department does not want any significant contingent of Americans in this area. What’s required is for the frogs to send in several platoons out of Niger and for the spooks to dedicate some drones to northwest Chad and southwest Libya. Too fucking big for just us and Pistol to watch. And too much commerce traveling this trail, its the only major route between Libya and N’Djamena.”

Mountain water-shed of the Blue Nile, Ethiopia

“Damn, Digger. I know what that is. It’s a fucking FN49. Its a sorta like a European garand, but different caliber. My dad had a surplus Egyptian FN. Well-made shit. Think we can keep one of them?”

“Dont’t know, dude. Ask the boss. Help me with these assholes.”

White and Malone dragged the dead body, then the semi-conscious body, onto the side of the road. They removed their sandals and load-carry rigs, tossing them into the depression next to their rifles. After bagging papers and IDs and personal effects, the two Marines headed east, returning to the valley over-watch site.

“Ghost One, this is Three, over.”

“What ya got, dude?”

“We put the tangos on the road. We have their stuff. Soldiers in the house still not doing anything.”

“Sounds good, Ghost Three ... One of ya get ‘bout 100 to 200 meters above the valley floor. Find a place for eyes from Diianoli’s place to one click west of the soldiers’ pos.”

“Roger that Ghost One. See ya, boss.”

White, literally, jumped at the oppurtunity to do more.

“I got it, man.”

“Take another battery. And this.”

Malone handed White a full canteen to supplement his camel, knowing that O’Brien could have him up on the side of the mountain for two days.

White delayed another 30 minutes for the end of twilight, then ascended the slope using a zig-zag diagonal path up the mountain side, to the west.

O’Brien, remained being uncertain about the Ethiopia soldiers and their commander, and had yet to reveal any of his team’s positions. A quick look at his watch indicated a satellite was within ‘view’ of the sat-comm repeater.

“Nighthawk, this is Ghost One.”

For the third time, O’Brien heard Major Tisdale’s voice respond. He was getting concerned that he had yet to hear Carlton or Captain Owen or the ranger master sergeant.

“Ghost One, you are broken. Go ahead.”

“Nighthawk, be advised the two tangos have been placed on the road for pick-up, one click west of soldier bivouac. One is still alive. We have possesion of their IDs and other personal items.”

“Roger that. Advise on contacts.”

“Negative contacts, sir. Not able to confirm Ethiopian regulars’ intentions. They appear hostile to the local farmer. Does Nighthawk have eyes on the area?”

“Roger that, Ghost One. Your team is on the surveil end of two Reapers per day. Still waiting for state department response; will advise. Nighthawk out.”

The next ten days saw O’Brien varying the location of Malone’s and White’s over-watch positions at least once every other day, moving them prior to morning twilight. O’Brien had two motivations. He had seen the Ethiopian officer scanning the mountain slopes with binoculars at intermittent intervals, and he did not want his Marines to become bored and complacent.

Langely, Va

“Give me an update, Dave.”

“There are between 47 and 52 in the group. They are currently nineteen kilometers north of Ghost One. Outhouse Nine Two is out of range and is RTB. Outhouse Eight One is being re-positioned to the north now, sir.”

“I’ll be there in less than 15. Call me if you see something new.”

David Richmond had been operating on two to three hours of sleep per day for at least nine days. He was getting that bleary wild-eye look, much to the concern of his duty tech and the other group analyst. Dave’s forehead sunk onto his notebook at the control officer’s desk. David Richmond went into REM in less than 30 seconds. The other two occupants of the control center were careful to say nothing. At least until they could not say nothing.

“We may have more coming to the party, Dave.”

Dave’s head popped up as he rapidly exited his ten minute nap.

“Show me, Linda...”

As the Reaper drone’s camera panned to the northeast horizon, a column of four Chinese trucks were climbing the mountain roads, winding their way to the next valley, over the mountain ridge that was to the north of Diianoli’s farm.

David called up the 40k topo map for the area north of the Ghost AO.

“They have less than five kilometers to the road junction. That will take another twenty minutes at their rate. We’ll call the boss if he’s not on station.”

Mark Cameron walked into the secured operations chamber at the tail-end of the statement.

“Call me for what? Talk to me David...”

“We have trucks coming in, sir. I will guess that they are doing this with the help of Ethiopia insiders, or that this group has been staged for a while with a controlled insertion.”

“There it is, sir. They just turned towards the other group. They are planning to throw a party. Inform the Ghost team?”

“Negative. If O’Brien does not want to expose his positions, we have to assume our man had a damn good reason. I will call the state department. We will give their army a chance at glory. And this will get The Company some brownie points.”

Cameron made a short, intense call to the U.S. State Department, directly to the Under Secretary of State for Political Affairs. Mr. Burns was not amused, but he was relieved that the agency had not chosen an immediate and direct military action.

“How much time remaining for that Reaper, and what does it have?”

“Current drone is Outhouse Eight One. Not much more than fifteen hours remaining on station, sir ... It has one AGM and one Jay-dam.”

“Is its MTS up?”

“Yes.”

“Dave, you look exhausted. Go down the passageway and get some sleep. I’ll take the remainder of your watch. I’ll send for you. I will guess that we are three to ten hours from them getting organized and into the next valley.”

“Linda, alert our folks in Djibouti. I want another in the air in less than six hours, with six AGMs.”

The extraordianry and unlikely formation of an alliance of animast and Muslim tribes had not gone unnoticed by either David Richmond or Mark Cameron.

Tibesti Mountain Region, Northwest Chad

Pistochini and Beeman observed the column of camels and men thread their way northwest through the wadi cut into the dark lava rock. This was their second week in the rocks, most of which was consumed wandering around the lower levels of the surreal mountain range of pre-Halocene volcanism. Watching the caravan pass through was the high point of their mission, thus far.

Back-tracking up the mountain, and over an adjacent ridge, the two Marines returned to their temporary camp. They had been here for the longest period of any other encampment - three days; for two principal reasons, the maze of several wadis through the southern half of the volcanic plain was fun to explore and offered a respite from the constant winds, and they had found a rare water seep not covered in sand and not at a lower elevation.

“See anything interesting?”

“Nada, dude. Just AKs and one RPG tube. You see anything?”

“Not sure. but that third camel had only two long crates. So whatever it is, its fucking heavy.”

“What would require a two-meter box?”

“Yo nay se, dude. But we need to call it in.”

“About three hours until we can get our sat, man.”

“Yeah. We’ll give the camel dudes another twenty or thirty and then you can follow. I’ll guess those fuckers know where some water is further up the wadi, or they know a route to get up on top of the plateau.”

“Or they’re going to meet some other tangos.”

“Yeah. Or both.”

Hartman followed the caravan as they winded up the wadi into the mountains, staying at least 15 meters away from the edge of the ravine and using the sound of the camels to track the caravan’s progress. Hartman neared a five-meter overhanging ledge that was blocking access to the rim of the wadi, thus an alternate route around the formation was used to avoid exposure from climbing the ledge. Rounding the rock formation and hearing people talking, Hartman stopped to listen and smell. The sounds were not coming from below, but from above.

“Shit, Pistol. There’s a fucking company-sized gaggle up in the mountains”

“How far?”

“About five clicks; maybe two or three straight-line distance.”

“What were they doing?”

“Not a fucking thing. Some were cooking. The others were sitting on the rocks just shooting the shit. They got both a water source and a way out of the wadi. Looks like sand filled in where the lava rock got washed out. Forms a ramp up to the top of the lava plain.”

“I got a sat-link about two hours ago. Time to talk to Nighthawk.”

Special Operations Compound, Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti

Major Tisdale was pacing in front of the communications bench, loudly arguing with the dis-embodied voice of Mark Cameron.

“Mr Cameron, you have achieved your goal in less than a month, what had been planned to consume up to five months. We need to get the spooky team out of those mountains. And the spirit team should also RTB.”

“Major, leave both border teams in place for at least fifteen to twenty days. There is a possibility that there may be but a single formation of insurgents. As we have no reliable assets on the ground in the northwest of Chad, we would have to keep a Reapers on station. This would require us to fly out of western Africa. I do not think that the SAD director would allow such use of these limited materials.”

“The area is isolated and had no federal Chad authorities. I am sure that your people know that if the locals find them, they will be lost.”

‘Major, We have already lost the person that guided the team into the mountains; he was our single asset in the region. I repeat, we have no further assets on the ground. We need those teams to remain in that AO longer.”

“You have fifteen days, sir. That means, Mr Cameron, on day fourteen, I send out the birds to pick them up on day fifteen.”

“Understood, Major. And about your ghost team, its soon to be a hot contact. Is your fourth back-up team ready to go?”

“That’s afirmative. If they go, I will send out a ranger squad with them.”

“Please hold on that, major. I’m waiting on the Ethiopian response to the state department notification.”

“If O’Brien is in trouble, we’ll send in a team of twelve to fifteen. And I may decide to put the back-up team in the air within the next three hours. SOCOM will back me on this, Mr Cameron.”

“We understand, major. I’ll be giving your people a live feed. You should know that one Reaper is on station, and another is coming out of the barn now. We’ll support your people non-stop with air on-station.”

Major Tisdale visibly relaxed. “Thank you, sir. Bye.”

The ranger master sergeant raised a questioning eyebrow to the special forces major.

“Who is taking the squad, top?”

“Sergeant Armand, sir. Those two young Marines have been ready to go for some time, sir. Are you certain about them sir?”

“Do not underestimate those Marines. They have all been through the grinder in Afghanistan. I have no doubt as to their ability to perform.”

“Good enough, sir. We’ll leave in about thirty mike to stage on the tarmac. They will be ready when you give the word, sir.”

Mountain water-shed of the Blue Nile, Ethiopia

“Nighthawk says a company-sized unit is forming on the other side of the mountain. They will probably come from the pass at the east end of the valley.”

“Why wouldn’t they come in from west?”

“I’m guessin that they won’t take the easy route because it would be over 150 clicks around. If they come down the pass, they’ll be slower, but its less than 50 clicks from where they are.”

“What about back-up you asked for, boss? Reinforcements? Air on station?”

“Supposed to be an armed drone on station now, and another later. I’m gonna guess that the major is not gonna wait for spook direction on this one. He sorta said that were gettin some rangers by tomorrow morning, whether those those tangos enter the valley or not.”

“Yeah? They said the same shit in the ‘stan.”

“The spooks lied to us, not the army. We should trust the major.”

“We have a current position?”

“Like I said. They have a gaggle-fuck on the other side of the mountain. They’re still sittin there.”

“What about the Ethiopian regulars, boss? They don’t seem to know shit. Nobody standing watch, no patrols, just sitting on their ass smoking and joking.”

“I’m gonna agree. They don’t know shit. And we’re not gonna say shit. No contact unless the major orders it or if we have to engage those other fuckers to protect the farmer’s family. Questions? Ideas?”

“This could be interesting.”

“Interesting wasn’t the word I was gonna use, Digger ... Listen up. Here’s where I want you fuckers...”

Special Operations Compound, Camp Lemonnier, Djibouti

“Wheels up 50 mike ago, sir. Those two damned Marines; they were walking around with 50 to 60 kilo loads like they’re going to the park to feed the ducks.”

“That’s something I learned to not question, top. They train, almost maniacally, with loads. They have learned to expect the unexpected and to never depend on their command for support. Did you brief Sergeant Armand on scout/sniper methods versus the ranger way.?”

“Did not have to, sir. Hartman and Mybar have been part of his squad for almost three weeks. Armand thinks they are good to go. Anything from the state department or the agency, sir.”

“It is too late to do anything else. I sent a message to the admiral just before their departure. Did you re-emphasize the ROI and orders, top?”

“Yes, sir. And I had Corporals Hartman and Mybar repeat the two orders.”

“I do not blame them for their reticence to restrict contact. They do not want to lose another member of their platoon.”

Sgt Carlton drove the hummer to a skidding stop to one side of the compound’s gate. Her first observation was that there was but a single soldier on watch. Her second observation was that there were several empty munitions cases scattered about the work benches. Yanking her old and cherished ALICE pack out of the hummer, Carlton beat feet to the command and communications space built into the largest CHU box.

“Was the fourth team sent out, top?”

“That’s affirmative, sergeant. Need you to man to comm center. I will bring you up to speed later. Your last two Marines went out with a ranger squad to support O’Brien’s team. The logs are on the comm bench. The Major will return in about 15, I’ll return in about two hours. Read the log.”

“Aye, top. See ya.”

As Jake Carlton quickly took to comm-control chair, she started to read the lastest entries of the radio log. As the master sergeant watched the Marine smoothly assume her duties, his gut feelings were that he should be in fear of this person. MSgt Burkins was uncertain as to why he should have this fear, but his instincts told him that caution was prudent while in her presence. His similar feelings on O’Brien had been justified.

Carlton’s level of anger and concern incrementally increased as she read the various logs. Once again, Opie and Pistol, and now Warren, were isolated, without support, and facing odds that would have been unexceptable to any reasonable line commander. Her fears and concerns were not significantly reduced when she read the coming insertion of the ranger squad supplemented with the two Marines.

“Nighthawk, this is Ghost One, over.”

“Ghost One, this is Nighthawk, Go.”

“Jake? Long time no see, Marine. Hear anything from Farmer or Pistol?”

“Negative, One. Just returned. Log says that they are still in place, doing stupid shit. What’s up, Opie?”

“Oscar Four Tango wanted sitrep this hour before we lose the sat.”

“Roger that. Not at this pos. He will return soon. Go ahead.”

“Roger. Grid two overlay is the reference. Ghost One and Two and Three are moving to alpha nine three, charlie seven two, and mike zero one. Army regulars not effective. Advise no use of designated LZ. Suggest two clicks west of LZ Bravo. Las supply status no change.”

“Copy that, Opie. What’s your next comm window?”

“Four hours, Jake.”

“Opie, Copy this. Calvary on the way. Probably four hours.”

“We have bird comm for them?”

“Unknown, Opie, but the log says...”

“You are breaking up, Nighthawk. Losing sat. Ghost One out.”

Carlton updated the log while commenting out loud.

“Damn! Fuck! Piss! Shit! Damn, damn, damn.”