Inside the Wire, page 18
Either way, he was content.
He spotted the camp ahead, only by the shadows, for there wasn’t a single light visible. But something was wrong, something was different. He had been told there was a large open area with a chain-link fence and a collection of buildings at the center. Instead, he was approaching what appeared to be a wall taller than a man, surrounding the entire base.
Just what the hell was in that container?
61 |
Amman Rotana Hotel Amman, Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan
Kane paced in front of the bed of his hotel room, waiting for word on what was going on. He had delivered Leroux’s message to the Gray Network through Zorkin, but had heard nothing since. That wasn’t necessarily unexpected, though if the request had been approved, he should have heard something through the grapevine, especially if the request had been actioned.
Yet nothing.
His watch signaled a new message and he dove for his phone sitting on the nightstand. He logged in and listened to the heartbreaking plea from Dawson to the president. He had known the man for years, and Dawson didn’t fear death. He never embraced it. No good soldier did. Dawson wasn’t scared of dying, and would go down fighting to the bitter end if he had to, but Kane had no doubt the plea wasn’t for himself or his men, it was for those they were willing to die for to protect.
Unfortunately, too many politicians didn’t care about the civilians in some poor African country. They weren’t voters. But if the recording of a soldier, pleading to his president for a single aircraft that could save a dozen American soldiers were to ever be released to the public, it would sink any politician’s career. America loved its soldiers and wouldn’t stand for a repeat of Benghazi. One plane could save them all, could buy them the time to hold out for the Nigerian troops to arrive and secure the area.
All that was needed was a nod of the head.
And he swore, if that nod weren’t given and his friends died, there wouldn’t be a corner of the world where you wouldn’t find someone listening to the last words of a dead hero.
62 |
FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Dawson cocked an ear and tensed slightly at the sound of motorcycles approaching. A lot of motorcycles. He scrambled up the first few rungs of a ladder positioned against one of the buildings and cursed at the long line of headlights stretching into the distance, coming from both directions of the lone road that ran through the village.
This was it. This was the Alamo, and Santa Anna had just arrived. If they ever made a movie out of this someday, he wanted the equivalent of John Wayne playing him.
Though he wasn’t dead yet.
He hopped down. “This is it people! Remember, no matter how scared you get, nobody fires a single shot until I give the order!”
“And what if you’re dead, mate?” asked Ledger from his post in the kill box.
“He’s too pretty to die!” shouted Niner, to which everyone began to laugh, the nervous tension relieved slightly.
“He’s right. I’m too pretty and too stubborn to die. But, if I can’t give it, Red will, then whoever. If we’re that far down the chain of command, our little plan probably failed, so just shoot the shit out of everything you can.”
The whine of the motorcycles changed and Dawson climbed back up to see the columns were holding position at either end of the road, one group at the schoolhouse to the south, the other closer to Niner’s secondary LZ.
“What do you think they’re doing?” asked Red from his own perch.
“Probably wondering what the hell happened to the chain-link fence.”
“It’s still there.”
Dawson chuckled. “Yeah, along with this beast of a new wall.”
Atlas drove by, filling another segment, the pile of dirt at the far end much smaller now. He paused in front of him. “Orders?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing until it’s no longer safe to be doing it.”
“You got it.” Atlas bounced away and Dawson surveyed the barrier. The key areas were all filled to full height, and the rest had a half load. Bullets weren’t going to be their downfall unless the enemy made it over the wall, and RPGs were only a threat to his men on the rooftops. It was grenades. They had no way to defend well against those, which was why you pushed your tree lines back and shot anyone that came within throwing distance. That wasn’t an option here if they sent in everyone at once.
A single motorcycle raced down the road then stopped at the old front gate. It was tempting to shoot the bastard, just to send a message, but it would serve no purpose. They were in a delaying action. They had to hold out 3.5 hours, assuming the roads were clear enough. The locals had had the entire day to do their own work clearing, so if they were lucky, the column on its way here would encounter far fewer delays than when they had started out this afternoon.
A day away.
It was a worst-case scenario estimate that ignored the industriousness of the local population, and the determination of the brave Nigerian soldiers to save their countrymen.
Eight hours on a good day.
Let’s just pray it’s a good day.
“I can take him,” called Mickey from his position.
“Negative. Let’s just see what they do when we don’t react.”
The engine revved slightly as the rider turned through the gate then gunned as he raced around the entire perimeter. Dawson held his breath, begging any itchy trigger fingers to remain calm, then sighed heavily as the rider returned to the road and rejoined the southern group.
“Is anybody else’s heart beating a little faster?” asked Red.
Ledger batted Clarke. “I think my wristy friend here filled his drawers.”
Clarke grunted. “Shows what you know. I don’t wear any.”
“That’s the last time you ever borrow any of my trousers.”
Dawson activated his comms. “Control, Zero-One. Come in, over.”
“This is Control. Go ahead.”
“I think now is as good a time as any.”
“Copy that, Zero-One. Reaper inbound. Control, out.”
Now the show begins.
63 |
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
“Target One in sight. Stand by.”
Leroux stared at the display showing a computer-enhanced version of the situation. Two large clusters of riders had converged to the north and south of the FOB. Hundreds of motorcycles now idled as the leadership no doubt debated what to do now that they had discovered the Hesco barrier in their way. There was little chance they were even aware of what it was, which was good. If they thought it was a seven-foot wall of concrete, they might change their plans and perhaps leave, though that was wishful thinking, he was sure.
Yet the longer they debated, the stronger that wall became, every minute giving Atlas a chance to fill yet another segment. Enhanced imagery from the Reaper had given them a detailed look at the prepared defenses, and they were impressive for such a compressed timeframe. It showed what could be done with willpower and manpower. The barrier was in place, the essential areas filled to the full seven-foot height, most of the rest to half that. Gun nests were ready, pre-detonation screens installed, foxholes dug, tree lines pushed back, a kill box set up. So much had been accomplished, and yet it would be for naught if they couldn’t hold out.
“Taking the shot.”
He redirected his attention to the display split between the Reaper’s camera, the missile’s, and a bird’s eye view from the satellite. A massive explosion erupted from the center of the northern cluster of hostiles, but he had already moved on from that, turning his attention to the southern group that had originated from the main stronghold.
The cluster that likely contained the leadership.
He just prayed the drone pilot was on her game.
64 |
South of FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Ibrahim gasped as a massive fireball erupted down the road, the screams and cries of those who had joined them from the north filling his ears. He gunned his engine and surged forward into the ditch then out the other side, hunched over against what he was certain was coming.
And he was right.
A second explosion blasted the ground behind him, the shockwave knocking him off his bike. He tumbled forward, over the handlebars, then hit the ground hard, crying out in agony as the rear of the bike flipped over him and slammed into his shoulder. He rolled to the side and lay in the dirt, facedown, catching his breath and gingerly testing his shoulder.
Wails from the wounded finally pierced his own fog of pain, and he pushed to his knees then his feet, turning to witness the carnage left behind by the American drone. Dozens of his men were dead or dying, and he was certain the same could be said at the other end of the road. He stared up to see the drone circling back.
There was no escape.
He glared at the encampment, still silent, still dark, its new wall taunting him.
And he realized the only safe place was the most dangerous. He grabbed his bike and restarted it, smiling as the engine roared. “To the base! We can’t stay on the roads!” He twisted the throttle, his rear tire spitting dirt as he turned, then released the front brake as he surged back onto the road and raced toward the gate to the base, entering the grounds unopposed. He did a complete circuit, confirming what his scout had reported, spotting the inexplicable opening in the wall, and again questioning it.
They must not have had time to finish.
And his thought was confirmed as he spotted a piece of heavy equipment working inside, dumping dirt into the wall.
And his jaw dropped.
It’s just a big dirt holder!
It explained how it fit in the container delivered earlier, and why there had been a large pile of dirt left at one end of the cleared area. This was the intent all along—he had simply moved up their plans. Which meant they weren’t ready. They had a tremendous vulnerability with that opening. If he could put a couple of hundred men at that entrance, he could overwhelm any defenses the enemy might have.
And the walls? For all he knew they were simply canvas. Little to none of it might be filled, for if it were complete, the loader wouldn’t still be working.
They had weaknesses.
Weaknesses that could be used against them.
He continued to circle the base, unchallenged, now joined by scores of his warriors, more entering the gate with each passing moment, the enemy cowering in fear behind their wall of canvas and dirt. His men poured lead on the compound, the night air filling with the rattle of Kalashnikovs, and he smiled as his heart hammered with what was to come. He had hundreds and they had few. Every stray bullet that caught one of them was like killing ten of his own.
The night would be theirs.
The night would be his.
65 |
FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Dawson, hunched over, made a circuit of the wall, checking on everything and everyone as he shouted orders to Red to fix whatever he found amiss, though it was little. He stepped aside as Atlas roared up, dumping another load of dirt. “Status?”
Atlas leaned over, poking his head out from the dangling body armor. “I’ve dumped a load at each of the fifty cal openings. I can keep filling the rear around the dirt pile, but I’ve already got it all to half-height. The only way they’re coming over is on foot, then we’ve got a nice shooting range for them set up with fortified positions.”
“Good. Park that thing inside our entrance, as close to the opening as you can. I want them on foot, not bike, if they make it through.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and Atlas?”
“Yup?”
“Don’t leave the keys in it.”
Atlas grinned then roared away as Dawson continued his rounds. Women and children inside the buildings he passed were crying and screaming, and he didn’t blame them. The sound was intense, and a stray round would occasionally catch the top of the buildings, likely fired by someone holding their gun over their head at a sharp angle—unaimed and more likely to hit one of their own than anyone inside.
He reached the last of their Hail Mary positions and patted the Nigerian manning it on the back. “You good?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” was the response from the wide-eyed man, terrified but determined. “Your plan looks like it might work.”
Dawson smiled. “From your lips to God’s ears. Get ready.” He stepped away and joined Red. “Report.”
“Everything looks good. The barrier is holding, and so are the nerves so far.”
“So far.” Dawson activated his comms. “Control, Zero-One. Report.”
“Zero-One, it looks like it’s working. The longer you guys hold your fire, the more that are taking the plunge and entering the compound.”
“Damage assessment?”
“We believe we took out over twenty north and south. Congratulations, you’re only facing about four-hundred-fifty now.”
Dawson chuckled. “Yay for us. What’s your assessment on our Hail Mary?”
“It’s pretty crowded. I doubt they’ll get much more in there, and there are signs of the passengers getting off their bikes and taking up position. I think now is as good a time as any.”
“Copy that, Control. Throwing the pass. Zero-One, out.” Dawson gave Red a look. “Well, here goes nothing.” He drew a flare gun from his hip and raised it over his head, squeezing the trigger. The flare shot into the air and burst, bathing the entire area in a dull red glow. “Open fire!”
The ground shuddered with the firepower instantly unleashed, and a rush of endorphins raced through him as he exchanged a smile with Red. Six positions cut into half-height portions of the walls had been manned by Nigerian crews with their own .50 cals that were once at the chain-link. They now belched lead on the hostiles circling the camp through slits opened in the other side of the barrier, barely visible to those outside. Six positions on the rooftops, manned by his own team, used the confusion to pick off the riders with disciplined shots, while the rest of his men tossed grenades over the wall into the thick cluster of targets.
Boko Haram, in its arrogance, had forgotten that numbers meant nothing against a well-prepared position.
He just prayed they killed enough of them in the initial attack to make them think twice about a counterattack.
Niner squeezed the trigger, taking out yet another of the surprised enemy. Dawson’s plan had been brilliant, and it was so far working like a charm. He picked his next target and took him out. It was a smorgasbord of fanatics, and he had already eliminated ten himself, and between the others, the .50s, and the grenades, they had to have eliminated at least one hundred by now.
“They’re figuring it out!” shouted Mickey from his left. “They’re starting to bug out!”
“Just keep firing! Whoever’s got a bead on that gate, shoot as many as you can. Maybe we can clog it up!” Niner fired another shot, his position covering the southern flank.
“RPG!” announced Sweets as he rose and fired one of their confiscated weapons at the gate. An explosion sent a shudder through the ground and up the supports holding the roof in place.
Niner spotted activity at the far end, around where what remained of the dirt pile was. They had opened the chain-link fence so they could give the loader room to work, and also to extend the barrier around the pile. The hostiles were now using that opening to escape the carnage inside the wire. “They found the opening!”
Jagger cursed. “Well, it was just a matter of time. Keep firing. There are plenty here who haven’t figured it out yet.”
The .50s continued to pound, as did the M4s, the wails of the dying and the shrieks of the terrified dwindling as more escaped, but even more lost the battle. Niner reloaded, another mag spent, another thirty dead.
He rarely missed.
And tonight, every bullet counted.
Ledger sat in his sandbagged position with Clarke, his favorite weapon, Ginger, an F88 Austeyr assault rifle, held at the ready as they, along with half a dozen Nigerians, covered the only gap in the barrier. At the far end, Atlas had parked the loader with the bucket at half height. Anyone coming in would have to abandon their bike enter on foot, at a crouch, or a crawl.
As long as he and the others hadn’t plugged the gaps with bodies.
His biggest concern wasn’t holding this position. He was confident they could as long as they survived any grenades lobbed over the barrier. It was the enemy figuring out their weakness—once at the wall, they were safe. Nobody had an angle on them. They could boost each other over the seven-foot barrier, then be inside to create havoc. They had fire teams made up of Nigerians and Delta, roaming the compound, watching for just this, but throw enough men at it, and they could overwhelm them in short order.
The key was keeping them back from the wall so they couldn’t figure that out.
The sound of motorcycle engines died down and the gunfire dwindled then eventually stopped. He had no idea how long the battle had lasted, though it couldn’t have been the half-hour his watch suggested. Then again, perhaps it had.
A voice sounded on the other side of the barrier and he cocked an ear. “What the hell was that?”
Clarke listened as the voice continued. “Sounds like a radio.”
Ledger smiled and jumped from his position, racing toward the gap. “Cover me!”
Clarke cursed and Ledger glanced back to see his friend climb up atop the sandbags so he could see over the wall. Ledger reached the end of the barrier, peering out into the carnage, and it was impressive. Twisted wrecks of motorcycles were mixed with the bloodied corpses of their riders and the still dying.
Yet it didn’t affect him. He had no sympathy for these bastards, and hoped they died slowly and painfully, for however they did die would be far more merciful than what they had planned for those taking refuge inside. Though despite his lack of concern for their wellbeing, he was concerned with the fact some could still potentially fire a weapon.
He spotted the camp ahead, only by the shadows, for there wasn’t a single light visible. But something was wrong, something was different. He had been told there was a large open area with a chain-link fence and a collection of buildings at the center. Instead, he was approaching what appeared to be a wall taller than a man, surrounding the entire base.
Just what the hell was in that container?
61 |
Amman Rotana Hotel Amman, Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan
Kane paced in front of the bed of his hotel room, waiting for word on what was going on. He had delivered Leroux’s message to the Gray Network through Zorkin, but had heard nothing since. That wasn’t necessarily unexpected, though if the request had been approved, he should have heard something through the grapevine, especially if the request had been actioned.
Yet nothing.
His watch signaled a new message and he dove for his phone sitting on the nightstand. He logged in and listened to the heartbreaking plea from Dawson to the president. He had known the man for years, and Dawson didn’t fear death. He never embraced it. No good soldier did. Dawson wasn’t scared of dying, and would go down fighting to the bitter end if he had to, but Kane had no doubt the plea wasn’t for himself or his men, it was for those they were willing to die for to protect.
Unfortunately, too many politicians didn’t care about the civilians in some poor African country. They weren’t voters. But if the recording of a soldier, pleading to his president for a single aircraft that could save a dozen American soldiers were to ever be released to the public, it would sink any politician’s career. America loved its soldiers and wouldn’t stand for a repeat of Benghazi. One plane could save them all, could buy them the time to hold out for the Nigerian troops to arrive and secure the area.
All that was needed was a nod of the head.
And he swore, if that nod weren’t given and his friends died, there wouldn’t be a corner of the world where you wouldn’t find someone listening to the last words of a dead hero.
62 |
FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Dawson cocked an ear and tensed slightly at the sound of motorcycles approaching. A lot of motorcycles. He scrambled up the first few rungs of a ladder positioned against one of the buildings and cursed at the long line of headlights stretching into the distance, coming from both directions of the lone road that ran through the village.
This was it. This was the Alamo, and Santa Anna had just arrived. If they ever made a movie out of this someday, he wanted the equivalent of John Wayne playing him.
Though he wasn’t dead yet.
He hopped down. “This is it people! Remember, no matter how scared you get, nobody fires a single shot until I give the order!”
“And what if you’re dead, mate?” asked Ledger from his post in the kill box.
“He’s too pretty to die!” shouted Niner, to which everyone began to laugh, the nervous tension relieved slightly.
“He’s right. I’m too pretty and too stubborn to die. But, if I can’t give it, Red will, then whoever. If we’re that far down the chain of command, our little plan probably failed, so just shoot the shit out of everything you can.”
The whine of the motorcycles changed and Dawson climbed back up to see the columns were holding position at either end of the road, one group at the schoolhouse to the south, the other closer to Niner’s secondary LZ.
“What do you think they’re doing?” asked Red from his own perch.
“Probably wondering what the hell happened to the chain-link fence.”
“It’s still there.”
Dawson chuckled. “Yeah, along with this beast of a new wall.”
Atlas drove by, filling another segment, the pile of dirt at the far end much smaller now. He paused in front of him. “Orders?”
“Keep doing what you’re doing until it’s no longer safe to be doing it.”
“You got it.” Atlas bounced away and Dawson surveyed the barrier. The key areas were all filled to full height, and the rest had a half load. Bullets weren’t going to be their downfall unless the enemy made it over the wall, and RPGs were only a threat to his men on the rooftops. It was grenades. They had no way to defend well against those, which was why you pushed your tree lines back and shot anyone that came within throwing distance. That wasn’t an option here if they sent in everyone at once.
A single motorcycle raced down the road then stopped at the old front gate. It was tempting to shoot the bastard, just to send a message, but it would serve no purpose. They were in a delaying action. They had to hold out 3.5 hours, assuming the roads were clear enough. The locals had had the entire day to do their own work clearing, so if they were lucky, the column on its way here would encounter far fewer delays than when they had started out this afternoon.
A day away.
It was a worst-case scenario estimate that ignored the industriousness of the local population, and the determination of the brave Nigerian soldiers to save their countrymen.
Eight hours on a good day.
Let’s just pray it’s a good day.
“I can take him,” called Mickey from his position.
“Negative. Let’s just see what they do when we don’t react.”
The engine revved slightly as the rider turned through the gate then gunned as he raced around the entire perimeter. Dawson held his breath, begging any itchy trigger fingers to remain calm, then sighed heavily as the rider returned to the road and rejoined the southern group.
“Is anybody else’s heart beating a little faster?” asked Red.
Ledger batted Clarke. “I think my wristy friend here filled his drawers.”
Clarke grunted. “Shows what you know. I don’t wear any.”
“That’s the last time you ever borrow any of my trousers.”
Dawson activated his comms. “Control, Zero-One. Come in, over.”
“This is Control. Go ahead.”
“I think now is as good a time as any.”
“Copy that, Zero-One. Reaper inbound. Control, out.”
Now the show begins.
63 |
Operations Center 2, CIA Headquarters Langley, Virginia
“Target One in sight. Stand by.”
Leroux stared at the display showing a computer-enhanced version of the situation. Two large clusters of riders had converged to the north and south of the FOB. Hundreds of motorcycles now idled as the leadership no doubt debated what to do now that they had discovered the Hesco barrier in their way. There was little chance they were even aware of what it was, which was good. If they thought it was a seven-foot wall of concrete, they might change their plans and perhaps leave, though that was wishful thinking, he was sure.
Yet the longer they debated, the stronger that wall became, every minute giving Atlas a chance to fill yet another segment. Enhanced imagery from the Reaper had given them a detailed look at the prepared defenses, and they were impressive for such a compressed timeframe. It showed what could be done with willpower and manpower. The barrier was in place, the essential areas filled to the full seven-foot height, most of the rest to half that. Gun nests were ready, pre-detonation screens installed, foxholes dug, tree lines pushed back, a kill box set up. So much had been accomplished, and yet it would be for naught if they couldn’t hold out.
“Taking the shot.”
He redirected his attention to the display split between the Reaper’s camera, the missile’s, and a bird’s eye view from the satellite. A massive explosion erupted from the center of the northern cluster of hostiles, but he had already moved on from that, turning his attention to the southern group that had originated from the main stronghold.
The cluster that likely contained the leadership.
He just prayed the drone pilot was on her game.
64 |
South of FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Ibrahim gasped as a massive fireball erupted down the road, the screams and cries of those who had joined them from the north filling his ears. He gunned his engine and surged forward into the ditch then out the other side, hunched over against what he was certain was coming.
And he was right.
A second explosion blasted the ground behind him, the shockwave knocking him off his bike. He tumbled forward, over the handlebars, then hit the ground hard, crying out in agony as the rear of the bike flipped over him and slammed into his shoulder. He rolled to the side and lay in the dirt, facedown, catching his breath and gingerly testing his shoulder.
Wails from the wounded finally pierced his own fog of pain, and he pushed to his knees then his feet, turning to witness the carnage left behind by the American drone. Dozens of his men were dead or dying, and he was certain the same could be said at the other end of the road. He stared up to see the drone circling back.
There was no escape.
He glared at the encampment, still silent, still dark, its new wall taunting him.
And he realized the only safe place was the most dangerous. He grabbed his bike and restarted it, smiling as the engine roared. “To the base! We can’t stay on the roads!” He twisted the throttle, his rear tire spitting dirt as he turned, then released the front brake as he surged back onto the road and raced toward the gate to the base, entering the grounds unopposed. He did a complete circuit, confirming what his scout had reported, spotting the inexplicable opening in the wall, and again questioning it.
They must not have had time to finish.
And his thought was confirmed as he spotted a piece of heavy equipment working inside, dumping dirt into the wall.
And his jaw dropped.
It’s just a big dirt holder!
It explained how it fit in the container delivered earlier, and why there had been a large pile of dirt left at one end of the cleared area. This was the intent all along—he had simply moved up their plans. Which meant they weren’t ready. They had a tremendous vulnerability with that opening. If he could put a couple of hundred men at that entrance, he could overwhelm any defenses the enemy might have.
And the walls? For all he knew they were simply canvas. Little to none of it might be filled, for if it were complete, the loader wouldn’t still be working.
They had weaknesses.
Weaknesses that could be used against them.
He continued to circle the base, unchallenged, now joined by scores of his warriors, more entering the gate with each passing moment, the enemy cowering in fear behind their wall of canvas and dirt. His men poured lead on the compound, the night air filling with the rattle of Kalashnikovs, and he smiled as his heart hammered with what was to come. He had hundreds and they had few. Every stray bullet that caught one of them was like killing ten of his own.
The night would be theirs.
The night would be his.
65 |
FOB Ugurun, Nigeria
Dawson, hunched over, made a circuit of the wall, checking on everything and everyone as he shouted orders to Red to fix whatever he found amiss, though it was little. He stepped aside as Atlas roared up, dumping another load of dirt. “Status?”
Atlas leaned over, poking his head out from the dangling body armor. “I’ve dumped a load at each of the fifty cal openings. I can keep filling the rear around the dirt pile, but I’ve already got it all to half-height. The only way they’re coming over is on foot, then we’ve got a nice shooting range for them set up with fortified positions.”
“Good. Park that thing inside our entrance, as close to the opening as you can. I want them on foot, not bike, if they make it through.”
“You got it.”
“Oh, and Atlas?”
“Yup?”
“Don’t leave the keys in it.”
Atlas grinned then roared away as Dawson continued his rounds. Women and children inside the buildings he passed were crying and screaming, and he didn’t blame them. The sound was intense, and a stray round would occasionally catch the top of the buildings, likely fired by someone holding their gun over their head at a sharp angle—unaimed and more likely to hit one of their own than anyone inside.
He reached the last of their Hail Mary positions and patted the Nigerian manning it on the back. “You good?”
“Yes, Sergeant Major,” was the response from the wide-eyed man, terrified but determined. “Your plan looks like it might work.”
Dawson smiled. “From your lips to God’s ears. Get ready.” He stepped away and joined Red. “Report.”
“Everything looks good. The barrier is holding, and so are the nerves so far.”
“So far.” Dawson activated his comms. “Control, Zero-One. Report.”
“Zero-One, it looks like it’s working. The longer you guys hold your fire, the more that are taking the plunge and entering the compound.”
“Damage assessment?”
“We believe we took out over twenty north and south. Congratulations, you’re only facing about four-hundred-fifty now.”
Dawson chuckled. “Yay for us. What’s your assessment on our Hail Mary?”
“It’s pretty crowded. I doubt they’ll get much more in there, and there are signs of the passengers getting off their bikes and taking up position. I think now is as good a time as any.”
“Copy that, Control. Throwing the pass. Zero-One, out.” Dawson gave Red a look. “Well, here goes nothing.” He drew a flare gun from his hip and raised it over his head, squeezing the trigger. The flare shot into the air and burst, bathing the entire area in a dull red glow. “Open fire!”
The ground shuddered with the firepower instantly unleashed, and a rush of endorphins raced through him as he exchanged a smile with Red. Six positions cut into half-height portions of the walls had been manned by Nigerian crews with their own .50 cals that were once at the chain-link. They now belched lead on the hostiles circling the camp through slits opened in the other side of the barrier, barely visible to those outside. Six positions on the rooftops, manned by his own team, used the confusion to pick off the riders with disciplined shots, while the rest of his men tossed grenades over the wall into the thick cluster of targets.
Boko Haram, in its arrogance, had forgotten that numbers meant nothing against a well-prepared position.
He just prayed they killed enough of them in the initial attack to make them think twice about a counterattack.
Niner squeezed the trigger, taking out yet another of the surprised enemy. Dawson’s plan had been brilliant, and it was so far working like a charm. He picked his next target and took him out. It was a smorgasbord of fanatics, and he had already eliminated ten himself, and between the others, the .50s, and the grenades, they had to have eliminated at least one hundred by now.
“They’re figuring it out!” shouted Mickey from his left. “They’re starting to bug out!”
“Just keep firing! Whoever’s got a bead on that gate, shoot as many as you can. Maybe we can clog it up!” Niner fired another shot, his position covering the southern flank.
“RPG!” announced Sweets as he rose and fired one of their confiscated weapons at the gate. An explosion sent a shudder through the ground and up the supports holding the roof in place.
Niner spotted activity at the far end, around where what remained of the dirt pile was. They had opened the chain-link fence so they could give the loader room to work, and also to extend the barrier around the pile. The hostiles were now using that opening to escape the carnage inside the wire. “They found the opening!”
Jagger cursed. “Well, it was just a matter of time. Keep firing. There are plenty here who haven’t figured it out yet.”
The .50s continued to pound, as did the M4s, the wails of the dying and the shrieks of the terrified dwindling as more escaped, but even more lost the battle. Niner reloaded, another mag spent, another thirty dead.
He rarely missed.
And tonight, every bullet counted.
Ledger sat in his sandbagged position with Clarke, his favorite weapon, Ginger, an F88 Austeyr assault rifle, held at the ready as they, along with half a dozen Nigerians, covered the only gap in the barrier. At the far end, Atlas had parked the loader with the bucket at half height. Anyone coming in would have to abandon their bike enter on foot, at a crouch, or a crawl.
As long as he and the others hadn’t plugged the gaps with bodies.
His biggest concern wasn’t holding this position. He was confident they could as long as they survived any grenades lobbed over the barrier. It was the enemy figuring out their weakness—once at the wall, they were safe. Nobody had an angle on them. They could boost each other over the seven-foot barrier, then be inside to create havoc. They had fire teams made up of Nigerians and Delta, roaming the compound, watching for just this, but throw enough men at it, and they could overwhelm them in short order.
The key was keeping them back from the wall so they couldn’t figure that out.
The sound of motorcycle engines died down and the gunfire dwindled then eventually stopped. He had no idea how long the battle had lasted, though it couldn’t have been the half-hour his watch suggested. Then again, perhaps it had.
A voice sounded on the other side of the barrier and he cocked an ear. “What the hell was that?”
Clarke listened as the voice continued. “Sounds like a radio.”
Ledger smiled and jumped from his position, racing toward the gap. “Cover me!”
Clarke cursed and Ledger glanced back to see his friend climb up atop the sandbags so he could see over the wall. Ledger reached the end of the barrier, peering out into the carnage, and it was impressive. Twisted wrecks of motorcycles were mixed with the bloodied corpses of their riders and the still dying.
Yet it didn’t affect him. He had no sympathy for these bastards, and hoped they died slowly and painfully, for however they did die would be far more merciful than what they had planned for those taking refuge inside. Though despite his lack of concern for their wellbeing, he was concerned with the fact some could still potentially fire a weapon.
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