David stopped the jeep at the agreed-upon spot, got out with Father John. They waited, silent. The priest had met him in Hyderabad on short notice, as David had known he would. As usual, Father John projected the calm air of one who has seen all and accepts all. David scanned the horizon. At precisely the appointed minute, the MV-22 Osprey appeared, and set down on a bare patch of ground 300 meters away from them. The downdraft threatened to knock the cleric off his feet, and David put a steadying hand on one black-clad shoulder, watching, bracing himself and the Father against the dust raised by the rotor.
A Marine jumped out of the aircraft and jogged over to them. "Second Lieutenant Wiatrek, 2nd Air Wing, U.S. Marine Corps, at your service, sir," he shouted over the engine noise, snapping to attention and saluting.
David felt himself straighten to attention automatically, deliver a crisp salute in return. "Captain David Webb, USMC," he replied. "This is Father John."
"Sir." The Second Lieutenant took the cleric's arm and headed for the aircraft. David followed close behind, one hand on Wiatrek's back, per protocol. They boarded, strapped in—Father John with Wiatrek's help—and the vessel took off. Handed a communications headset by Wiatrek, David had the pilot confirm his coordinates. All was a check. He sat back for the ride, lulled by the familiar sound of rotor blades overhead.
The AH-1W Super Cobra is small and light, no cargo room inside. Seated on benches mounted on the outside of the bird are six heavily armed men, masked and goggled against the stinging cloud of sand raised on takeoff from Mogadishu Beach. Conveyed over the ruins of Mogadishu to the eye of the hurricane that has become The Battle of Mogadishu/The Day of the Rangers, they are a unit with no name, made up of warriors with no names. They answer to code names: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta, Echo, Foxtrot. They are not even Marines, or Delta Force or SEALS any more; the DOD would deny their existence, as it has denied the existence of this unit throughout history. Few even dare utter its code name: Medusa. Their uniforms lack last-name ID. Their dog tags are in drawers, on dressers, back Stateside. Given an average of 8 hours to muster, their first order of drill is always to divest themselves of identification.
"Hey Delta, is it true?" Echo shouts over the rotor noise. David Webb, Delta for six months now, looks over. "They left their night vision at base? Their bayonets?"
Delta nods. "Canteens, too. Orders." Unprepared for contingencies, the elite U.S. Army forces on the ground in Mogadishu—Rangers and Delta Force—are pinned down, getting massacred, in what has stretched into a night-time battle.
"Poor bastards," mutters Echo. Delta ignores him. He doesn't want to consider what could be happening on the ground. His brother is with the 75th Ranger Regiment out of Fort Benning. Chances are, Gordon is down there, somewhere.
The unit sits grim and silent, bayonets fixed, night vision goggles in position on every helmet, hydration systems on every back. Conversation is a drain of energy under these conditions. From what Delta can see, the ten months since his MSOC detail exfilled Mogadishu have only brought more devastation to the formerly graceful seaport city. When his unit pulled out last January, he would have predicted that to be impossible. He had been naïve then, about many things.
The aircraft is hovering 70 feet above a dark street as Alpha and Delta fix their ropes. They jump two at a time, fastroping down to the ground while their brethren provide cover, then returning the favor. When all are on the ground, they immediately fan out. Tonight they will operate solo and bug out solo.
The stink of rotting garbage and flesh is accented by the acrid smoke of tire-fueled bonfires. Bodies litter the streets, women and children among the armed male casualties. How did food aid turn into this? Delta wonders. Light arms fire and explosions punctuate the chaos.
His mission is to find and recover any stranded American servicemen. His methods: the arsenal he carries on his person and in his mind. His sharpest implement is instinct.
Led by that tool up a wall of wrecked vehicles stacked three high and ten wide, he comes upon a tableau imported straight from Hell. Three Army Rangers, hands bound, are on their knees, held at gunpoint by two enemy combatants. All five backs are to Delta as he surveys the unfolding horror. One of the unfriendlies has a sidearm drawn and Delta can see that the other has one tucked in the back of his waistband.
Perched on top of the wall of junkers, he has a clear shot. In a heartbeat, he has his rifle stock tight against his shoulder, the shooter's head in his crosshairs. Sparks flying around his head, raised by small arms fire, tear his attention away. He loses sight of his countrymen as he searches for his assailant through his scope. Dispatching the source of the crossfire with a single shot, he looks back to his original objective.
One Ranger is down now. The executioner is just pulling his trigger again, inches from the second Ranger's head. Cursing bitterly, Delta lines up his shot. The gunman falls on top of his victim.
The second Somali combatant draws his firearm now, intent on finishing off the third Ranger. Delta sights through the scope, squeezes the trigger, showering the kneeling Ranger with blood and gray matter.
The young soldier rolls on the ground, his knees pressed to his face, screaming in terror. Delta breaks cover, runs to the man and pushes him onto his back, seeing a gore-smeared face, streaked with tears running from blue eyes, same as his own. Looking closer, he reads the man's last name from the left breast of his uniform: Webb. Recognizes his brother's face through the ashen mask of shock that has fallen over it.
"Gord?" he barks. "Gord! Can you get up? You have to get up!" As his brother looks at him with no acknowledgement, the screaming dissolves into uncontrollable sobs. Goddamn it! If he would get up, they could recover the two bodies. No Man Left Behind is in Delta's blood, it's his creed.
Bullets are sailing by now, so close that he can feel currents of air off them as they push past. He has to get the living to safety. Delta digs in his lumbar pack, pulls out a self-injector of Nembutal and sticks it in Gordon's exposed neck. Bends down and hoists the slackening body over one shoulder. Runs like hell to an upside-down van, the missing windshield providing access to a mini bunker.
Moving fast, he pulls out an IV bag of dextrose fluids, jabbing the needle in the vein of Gordon's limp arm. Injects Levophed to counteract the affects of shock, and safeguard against the Nembutal doing its job too well. Props the bag up on the dash. Reloads all his weapons, pulling grenades and sidearm off the unconscious Ranger and adding them to his arsenal. Crouches between the inert form and the wilderness outside the van, night-vision on, rifle at the ready.
He is still at his post when the mob comes for the bodies at dawn. Intent on roping the dead soldiers by the ankles to the bumper of their Jeep, they don't notice the two brothers hidden in the rubble. Delta does not risk defending the bodies. He realizes that his patient is conscious when he hears weeping as the Jeep pulls away, dragging the remains of two young Army Rangers behind it. He turns away from the grim scene outside to check the survivor's vital signs.
"Dave?" Gordon is lucid now. Lucid and disbelieving. "What are you doing here?"
"I'm not here," says Delta. "I'm going to get you out."
The motor's change in pitch as the Osprey went from forward flight to hovering snapped David out of his waking dream. They were touching down at Margau.