Somalia, South of Mogadishu

The lack of tall vegetation meant fairly unobstructed visibility for long stretches, but low dunes and other optical obscuring features allowed the cavalry trio a reasonable chance of masking themselves.

They occasionally heard the guttural cries of traffic commute, or heard avian clattering, but mostly cicada chirping.

Trowa stretched out his senses, feeling for any sign of man.

"Halt, that brush has been trampled."

The equestrian trio arrested their gallop.

"Dismount."

They joined in conference.

"I need a volunteer to probe the ground. I'll provide the cover."

Without comment, Duo fell to his hands and knees, combing the ground.

He didn't see anything, but a score of meters into the clearing, he caught a scent. He lifted his head, whiffed the wind, and followed. These events had a surreal quality to Dorothy.

"Crap!"

Trowa made a frantic sweep, but didn't understand.

"Where?"

Duo pointed.

"I fell into a crap-can, and its nasty!"

Trowa cautiously walked over, peered in. Sure enough, Duo pulled himself from a 55-gallon oil drum, partially saturated in a raunchy paste.

Trowa carried a plastic canteen independent from his camel pack reservoir, for just these purposes.

"Here's a canteen and a bar of soap. Wash yourself as much as you can, but hurry it up. Stay here."

Trowa and Dorothy left Duo to lather up, as they carefully advanced the path, deeply crouched. The clown plucked a mosquito from the air, crushed it, and saw red.

"They're close," he mouthed, looking at his teammate. She registered concurrence.

They detoured from the path, snaking low to the earth, until the pair sensed conversation.

Trowa cupped his hands around his partner's ear.

"This is the hospital. Get Duo clear, and circle east. Go."

She did, giving Trowa some solitude as he tucked himself away and pondered where best to put his charges.

He found an old dried pine stump perfect for elevating a Claymore mine. The mine, a commanded explosive weighing three-and-half pounds, no longer carries the 700 steel ball bearings it once threw about, but tosses a far better set of flechetes, doubling the effective casualty range from 50 meters, to one-hundred.

He burrowed away with the detonation switch, waiting for his team's signal.

Morse code toned in his earpiece, spelling D-U-O. Trowa double-clicked his radio, then keyed his Morse transmitter once.

He then keyed the Claymore, triggering a composition three brick that shoots hundreds of steel spikes in a sixty-degree arc.

He can imagine what happened, but he sees none of it. The hospitalized gunners correctly direct their retaliation toward Trowa, but all for zero net gain in results.

The barrage quickly quiets down, as shooters go through the maintenance of hot and gritting chain-fed guns.

That's when the cavalry charge gallops by, dismounts, and clears a hooch. Duo finds the well, entrenches there, before the hospital defenders adapt to the sudden shift in gravity.

Duo settles into the water pitcher, lobs some pineapples near the facility entrance.

Dorothy, in a more compromised position, takes aim with an AT-4 tank-buster, and fires from her right shoulder, through the opening, where 440 grams of explosive drills to the dunes middle, and violently coughs sand on everything.

Trowa re-emerges, taking careful rifle aim at Somali hips. No reason to kill them exists anymore.

Satisfied he saw no one actively in position to kill his friends, Trowa set up a friendlier Claymore, the M5 Modular Crowd Control Munition (MCCM). It's basically an M18 Claymore with 600 .32 caliber rubber balls inside

"This will sting, guys."

Without remorse, he fired into the area occupied by his teammates, taking them down with the Somalis.

"They'll be all right."

He popped an M1006 sponge grenade into a resilient fighter's back, more lethally dissected the kneecap of another shooter. Time to offer an end of this.

"You can see it's useless," he vocalized, "I'm now accepting surrender."

Hands began popping up, emboldening Trowa to order them on a march to the city.

The team remounted Pewter, Diva, and Lincoln, and herded their catch in the fashion of a cowboy posse.

Duo handled a radio to hail the UN teal berets.

"Hey, you remember Taskforce Trinity, the group so secret, it seems I invented it out of thin air? We're coming in. Better build a new jail before we arrive. Oh, and bring the TV crews. They'll just LOVE seeing this."

Trowa just had one bit of advise to add.

"Tie your scarves to hide your identity. Only one not of sound mind would desire being recognized by the press."