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I saw the Somali guide, Ahmed Ghedi, and the five members of my team couched low in the dry, brush-choked streambed. We crept up beside the compound of the clan leader named Samantar Afrah. The Walled compound had an open central courtyard, with a large, whitewashed, cinder-block building in the front, flanked by a cluster of smaller mud-brick and tin sheds- all covered in the ubiquitous ochre dust of East Africa.
During the intelligence summary that morning, Afrah had been described as an arms broker. He was a businessman with a large cache of weapons that he rented out to the various clan chiefs. They would in turn employ them against his other customers. Business was good.
Getting the intelligence was easy. The locals didn’t like him. He extorted bullied, and stole. He didn’t have his own territory, but picked at the fringes of the stronger clans. We thought that was how he earned his nickname, Waarabe, which means hyena in the local language, because of his tactics. I found out later that there was a different reason.
The shambles stood a few dozen meters from the road that led from Moge. We watched unseen as Afrah’s mercenaries loaded trucks and prepared to leave. Attack helicopters would destroy them later on the road. Afrah should remain behind with a smaller contingent that we would neutralize. Simple snatch and grab.
Ahmed, fidgeting as the black flies sucked at the corners of his mouth, looked furtively up and down the loose line of mismatched soldiers. Desert cammo bottoms, tan aviator vests jammed with ammo and gear were stretched over black Kevlar vests. Black Pro-tec hockey helmets and matching knee pads, earpieces and voice activated flex mikes. No two soldiers were armed the same.
My CAR-15 carbine had a silencer that looked like a soda can. A new .45 caliber Heckler and Koch M23 was in my shoulder holster. A Randall Bowie knife and a few grenades completed my personal armamentarium for healing the enemy’s ailments.
On the other side of our guide knelt my team ops NCO, ‘Granddad’. He carried an old 7.62 mm M14 rifle he had named Chekov, with a 9mm Beretta pistol at his hip. I always thought it funny he carried the big-bore antique for its stopping power and then kept a plicker like the 9mm.
“Ahmed, we’ll go in after the vehicles leave,” I said.
The short dry grass trembled in the faint breeze.
Ahmed didn’t look reassured. “Waarabe is of the Bouda,” the thin young man said earnestly. He clutched his Maadi, an Egyptian-made AK-style rifle to his chest like it was a stuffed animal.
“Tribe?” I asked. Bouda didn’t mean anything to me then. It would later, but then it was just another name. Isaaq, Hawiye, Habr Godr. Men with more similarities than differences that each found an excuse to kill one another.
“No, reer Bouda. Gelid of the Waarabe to Afrah,” he said. He was trying hard to make a point, but I didn’t get it. “When no longer the sun shines, he will be great danger.”
I was looking forward to the sun no longer shining. We all had our night-vision-devices, NODs. Special Forces owned the night.
“Rogue-six, Bear, over,” CW2 Bear Barron’s voice said I in my ear. The team executive officer had the other half of my twelve-man team in an over-watch position across the road.
“Bear, this is Rogue-six, go ahead.” I whispered back. I slowly wiped a trickle of sweat from the side of my nose.
“John, gates opened; looks like they’re saddling up, over.” From the compound I heard a cacophony of diesel engines turn over and then catch.
“Roger Bear.” No one moved.
Then the convoy rumbled over the bridge that crossed our wadi. Old soviet trucks and mismatched equipment. The mercenaries chattered excitedly with their feet hanging over the vehicles sides like they were going to a picnic.
“I mark zero. We go in zero plus five mikes,” I whispered. All of the highly choreographed events were timed in minutes, mikes, from the zero mark I made.
The last man checked his watch, raised a thumb and the signal was passed up the chain, until it got to Granddad, who modified it to a middle-finger. He stood to a low crouch with two others and peeled out of the line.
Razor alerted the aviators on a handheld High Freq radio. He and Justin stayed with me. Razor was a seasoned professional, but Justin was new and assigned to my team straight from the Q course. I wanted to keep an eye on him.
“Rogue-six, Bear again, over.”
“Go-ahead, Bear again,” I said.
“Be advised, our Sammy here is saying he’s pretty sure these guys are hopped on khat.”
Khat was a weed these people chewed like folks back home would chew tobacco. Except that it was an amphetamine and made them skittish, until they crashed. A bunch of high teenagers with automatic weapons, it was just like everywhere else on the continent.
“Roger, we go in three,” I said. I leaned in close to Ahmed and reminded him again of the plan.
As I turned to go, he grabbed my camouflage-paint smeared forearm, pointed to the tired sun and repeated his warnings about Afrah. “He is of great danger.”
I nodded and left him there.
The six-foot-high wall around the compound was made of rough mud bricks and rusted tin siding. It was the same sort of construction found in most third world shanty towns.
I grabbed the edge of the sun-warmed bricks and pulled myself up high enough to look over. Three men in the open, a half-dozen skinny chickens and a new, white, Toyota Land Cruiser, which was Afrah’s ride. The place smelled sour, overlaid with pungent diesel fumes.
I slid back down and hand-signaled the scene. I could just see Granddad and his boys at the far end of the wall, half hidden in the shadows left by the setting sun.
We silently slid low over the wall and crept between rusted oil drums and refuse. Three shots made a muffled flash and crack. Three simultaneous thumps into the chests dropped the exposed mercenaries.
A slight breeze mixed the first whiff of cordite with the diesel fumes.
“Bear, Rogue-six. Inside, three down,” I said into the mike.
A skinny young Somali, casually carrying an AK, rounded the corner of a shed. He saw me and stopped short. Razor dropped him and flashed me a smile; white teeth contrasting with his cammo-smeared face.
We closed the distance to through the detritus of the yard, and found two young Somalis by the vehicle. They stood with no thought of where their weapons were pointed. The sound of the brass casing bouncing off the gravel made as much noise as the shots. More cordite to add to the diesel fumes. The chickens clucked anxiously as they scattered.
We crept to the large central building and saw Granddad’s team doing the same. I gave him a thumbs-up, he gave me the bird.
In operations of this nature speed is your best ally. Shock them, gain and maintain the initiative and keep the momentum. So far everything had gone exactly as planned.
We posted at our pre-assigned windows and tossed in the flash-bang grenades. Two, three, four, Boom! The grenades created a concussive wave. The force and light would incapacitate those inside. Razor kicked in the side door. He an I went through, weapons at the ready. Justin stayed outside, protecting the rear.
We entered into a large, dimly-lit room. Sammies staggered to the walls but none looked like the stocky Afrah. Granddad and Valentine came in through the other door, seconds behind. We made eye contact as one of the Somali’s raised a weapon.
The Sammie started to fire before he aimed, the rounds bouncing off the concrete floor. He continued to raise the rifle toward me, spitting out a dozen 5.54 mm rounds at 900 meters per second. I snapped off two rounds, one to the solar plexus, the second ripped into his throat, and blunted his enthusiasm.
The other Sammies started to recover. There was a brief instant in which they tried to decide if they should fight. I screamed in Somali for them to drop their weapons. They were hired kids and there was no need for them to die. That seemed to tip the balance and weapons dropped as hands were raised.
“Justin, inside!:” He heard and obeyed. “Cuff them and then provide securit
y.”
We went through the house like ghosts. We popped a few more hostiles before we found Afrah in a back room. He was a heavily muscled, middle-aged East African and looked just like the photo from the briefing. The photo didn’t prepare me for the pungent body odor though. He was unarmed and unimpressed when apprehended, watching as the sunset through the west-facing window.
“Ah, Americans. Come to save this world, but instead this night you will leave it,” he said. He was standing there with two dead body guards at his feet and it seemed like bravado. While Granddad pressed his old M14 to the back of Ahfra’s head, Valentine zipped the flex-cuffs on.
“Yeah, looks that way to me too,” I said.
“I want no trouble with Americans, so if you leave now there will be time to forgive this offense,” he said.
I smiled slightly at his confidence but shook my head.
“You do not comprehend your danger.” He smiled broadly, displaying the worst teeth I had ever seen. They were yellow-brown chicklets with wide gaps between them.
As I looked at these horrible teeth one fell out onto the floor. And then another, the faint plink as it bounced off the concrete.
Not actually falling; the teeth were pushed out by thick yellow fangs, erupting up from the gums. His short dreadlocks dropped out in small patches as pale brown hair thrust up from the flesh.
He moaned and doubled over, dropping to his knees. Pulling his arms forward, the plastic cuffs snapped. Granddad stood frozen. Valentine leaned in to help and then stopped, his expression unsure.
“What the hell, Justin yelled. “Captain Rogers?” The pitch of his voice increasing as he watched the scene unfold.
Cracking sounds came from inside Afrah. His distorted body tore through the olive drab shirt.
“Calm down!” I snapped. I had no idea what was happening either.
Afrah’s face stretched out as he flexed and snapped and writhed on the floor. An anguished guttural moan escaped the thrashing mess on the floor.
“Kill it!” Justin yelled.
“John, what’s going on?” Granddad demanded.
In less than a minute Afrah had gone from an unremarkable clan chief to what looked like a hyena.
The sound of its gasping breath filled the room.
The beast stopped moving and when his eyes met mine I could see they glowed with an intelligence that was not the dull look of a beast.
A blur of motion.
The beast ducked under the barrel of Granddad’s M14 and knocked him aside.
Valentine leveled his carbine and popped three individual rounds at the monster. None hit before his throat was ripped out. That fast.
I flicked the selector switch from semi to auto and sent every round in my thirty-round magazine at the monster. I don’t think a single round connected. I pushed down the shock and compartmentalized my emotions. I had a job to do. Beside me Razor and Justin opened fire while I dropped the empty and slapped a fresh magazine into my weapon. Razor went down before I chambered the first round.
Small snicks appeared in it’s hide as a few of my little 5.56 rounds passed through.
The Monster leapt for me. Granddad’s rifle roared to life a few feet away. The large 7.62 mm round left a smoking hole just in front of the shoulder as it knocked the thing aside.
We all stood motionless. The sounds of weapon discharge making my ears buzz, the acrid smoke biting at my eyes.
Granddad crossed to where the monster lay.
“Careful!” I yelled.
The thing twisted, standing up on hind legs. Its mouth opened impossibly wide, and it bit down. The lower teeth came up through the Granddad’s chin while upper teeth came down through the hockey helmet. The sickening sound was like throwing an apple hard onto the concrete.
Granddad’s faceless corpse dropped.
“No!” Justin yelled. He flipped to auto and sprayed bullets at the thing. Another fresh magazine. We would kill it.
Focus, drop back and get stand-off distance. Aim center of mass, squeeze. Too many rounds for it to dodge, the monster crashed through the window and was swallowed by the night.
All I could hear was my heart throbbing. Then I heard a disembodied scream in my earpiece.
“Justin, retrograde,” I said. To my mike I said, “All Rogue elements, be advised there’s a…”
A what? Monster? Hyena?
Granddad, Valentine, and Razor down. Who else?
We turned to the door, find the thing and kill it. Justin turned to me, wide-eyed.
“Go! Now!” I screamed.
In the larger central room, the Sammies prayed. Outside the door, a bloody, lifeless corpse no longer provided security.
Bear’s voice was in my ear. What was happening, should he send the team? Were we clear? No to all.
I sucked air, open-mouthed, huge gulps.
We were professionals. We could handle anything.
“NODs,” I said, turning mine on as I pulled them from the case. I clicked them to the mount on my helmet. It took a few seconds to power up. Seconds were hours. When I was ready Justin clipped his on. A faint green glow under the cut-away faceplate indicated he was ready.
We scanned the perimeter together but found no beast. The breeze picked up the sour smell and raised goose bumps up on my flesh.
Justin fired at at movement. Dead chicken.
We heard staccato automatic fire from the over watch position a hundred meters away. The rounds looked like green flames licking at the sky through the monochromatic night vision goggles.
“Bear, Rogue-six, what’s going on?” I demanded.
“Bear’s down,” someone said. I couldn’t tell who it was. Confusion, obscenities, screams. We sprinted through the gate toward the rest of my team, the gravel crunching under our boots.
Too late, the beast had snuck up on them. Justin and I stood back-to-back intent on killing that monster.
Every sound was amplified. Keep fire discipline and shoot when you’re sure.
We could see the over watch position, a now-silent cluster of shacks.
“Any Rogue elements, acknowledge!”
My order was answered with static.
No movement, we crept forward.
Before we made it to the shacks the beast hit me from the side and bowled me over.
Jaws snapping, I tried to shoot it. The carbine was too long to swing the muzzle to point at the monster, so I used it as a shield to bar it. I reflexively scissored my legs around its mid-section. In military combative training you learned to maintain contact. I needed to keep it anchored to buy Justin time.
I slid the knife from the scabbard. Bone crunched as the thing sank its teeth into my left bicep. The knife dangled loosely.
The pistol was out of reach in the shoulder holster with my hands full. Claws ripped at my my torso. The hole in the beast left by Granddad’s rifle gaped, I dropped my carbine and stabbed my fingers into the wound.
The thing reared back in pain. I held more tightly with my legs, stabbing the fingers deeper.
With my damaged arm almost useless, I stabbed into the beast with the knife. The blade nicked bone and angled into the roof of the mouth. Its blood gushed down my arm and mixed with my own.
I pulled the fingers from the wound and pulled out my forty-five. Pushing the knife, I brought the pistol up beside it and sent round after round up through the throat and into the monster’s brain, stopping only when the receiver locked to rear, empty.
The thunderclaps of the report rang in my ears and I collapsed into the enveloping mist of blood.
Shards of bone and brain fell slowly, like wet confetti as the monster went limp.
Then there was silence, but for my labored breathing and the ringing in my ears. The cold, numb feeling in my limbs told me that I was bleeding out.
Justin called for Medevac and an extraction team.
The beast twitched out its last bit of life on top of me.
To the beating sound of the rotors, the whin
e of the turbine, flying over that broken landscape, I died too.
I died and something altogether different came into being.