Silver Spoon was a covert operation. The Congolese Government wasn’t to know the US Navy had sent people uninvited into their country. If members of the team were captured, they were to escape at any cost or disavow their connection to the US Navy and US Government. Though their weapons and equipment were dead giveaways, they each wore solid-black clothing without rank or insignia of any kind, and they didn’t carry any identification cards or tags.
Each man knew the risks. He also knew his fellow SEALs wouldn’t leave a single man behind—not for long, at least.
As the last man climbed out of the SOC-R, Diesel moved out, following the river, moving several yards in from the shore. He slid from shadow to shadow, carefully scanning the path ahead. He ran quickly and as quietly as possible. Stealth was their friend. If they could get into the camp, subdue the rebels and get out without stirring up a firestorm, they would make it back to Zambia by morning, and Djibouti by lunchtime.
Diesel shook his head. As much as they went through possible scenarios, or practiced different approaches, nothing ever quite turned out like they planned. Sometimes the weather played a role in gumming up the works. Sometimes the tangos they were going up against were a little more sophisticated or armed than they’d anticipated. And sometimes fate dealt them a crappy hand. Bottom line: they had to be ready to roll with the punches.
Diesel spied the first tango fifteen minutes from their LZ. “Tango at ten o’clock, twenty meters.” He held up his fist and lowered himself to a squatting position, studying the guard posted near the riverbank.
After a couple minutes of observation, Diesel determined the guard was lying in a prone position without moving. He was either dead or asleep at his post.
Either way, Diesel had to insure he wouldn’t raise the alarm.
“I’ll take him,” Diesel said. “Buck, cover me.”
Graham Buckner, or Buck for short, moved up to take Diesel’s position. Though he was the team corpsman, or medic, he was an excellent sharpshooter. He knelt on one knee and propped his elbow, staring down the scope fixed to the barrel of his M4A1 rifle. “Got your six. Go.”
Diesel shifted his night vision goggles up onto his helmet, slipped his rifle strap over his shoulder, pulled his KA-BAR knife from the scabbard on his ankle and circled wide, coming in behind his prey, who faced the river.
The man woke at the exact moment Diesel pressed the blade to his throat. He didn’t have time to shout or even whisper a cry before Diesel dispatched the man.
Slipping his night vision goggles back in place, Diesel studied the area to his north. A small camp had been set up with makeshift tents. Several men leaned against trees, their rifles resting in their laps. By the way the men’s heads were drooped to the side, Diesel could tell they were fast asleep. The faint glow of heat indicated two warm bodies in the nearest tent, one in the next closest tent and three more in the farthest tent. One man stood in front of the tent with two people inside. It had to be the tent containing the hostages. The one man stood guard, while all the others slept.
Unfortunately, that one man could easily wake the others, and then all hell would break loose.
“I count eleven tangos, but I can’t see the back side of the camp,” Diesel whispered into his mic. “Buck, bound to my position. Harm, cover. Pitbull, Big Jake and T-Mac, swing wide and head north to cover the flank.”
Each man gave a quiet affirmative and proceeded to spread out.
Once Buck took Diesel’s position, Diesel motioned Harm forward. Together, they approached the camp, easing toward the one guard on duty, his rifle held loosely in his hands.
“Cover me,” Diesel said.
Harm nodded. He had a silencer on his M4A1. He could drop the man in a heartbeat should trouble erupt. In the meantime, Diesel needed to get to the tent with the two hostages, take out the guard and spirit the hostages away before the rest of the camp got wind of their little operation.
Reese didn’t have much of an opportunity to escape. Their captors had seen fit to leave one of their members in the tent with her and Klein. Not only that, but they’d tied her hands behind her back and bound her ankles. They’d done the same to Ferrence. When he’d surfaced from unconsciousness, he’d been angry and scared. The captors only had to threaten pain and torture to get Ferrence to beg on video for the ransom money they wanted. One of the men had recorded his plea on a cell phone and left to take the video somewhere he could get cell tower reception.
They claimed to be Congolese rebels fighting for the freedom of their country to decide how to be governed, but Reese doubted they were fighting for anyone but themselves. Their leader was a big, bulky black man with a scar on the side of his face. He wore bandoliers filled with bullets, crisscrossing his chest like armor, and carried a submachine gun, waving it at anyone who angered him. His men had called him something that sounded like Bosco Mutombo.
Once their captors had their video of Ferrence’s plea, he and Reese had been left confined to the tent, allowed to go out only to relieve themselves under the watchful eyes of armed men.
Reese had been sized up and threatened with sexual abuse, but left alone when she said they would more likely get their money if both she and Ferrence were not harmed. Otherwise, they’d send in the US Army, Navy, Air Force and Marines to blow them off the face of the earth.
One man translated for the others, and they all laughed, though the laughter had a certain nervous edge to it.
Reese didn’t care, as long as they didn’t touch her.
A moan sounded from her client’s direction.
Inching her way across the bare ground, Reese moved toward Ferrence, careful not to draw the attention of the guard sitting with his back to her. He glanced toward her every two or three minutes, but otherwise, didn’t seem concerned that she might find a way to escape. He had an old video gaming device in his hand and seemed more interested in his game score than his captives.
The guard’s head came up, and he glanced toward her.
Reese closed her eyes and let her head slump forward like she’d just nodded off.
Through her lashes, she could see the man’s eyes narrow. He looked back at his video game. The light blinked out on it, and he shook it, muttering beneath his breath.
Reese almost laughed. She suspected the battery had died. Since she hadn’t heard a generator, and there weren’t any other lights on in the camp that she could see through the canvas of the tent, the guard wouldn’t be playing his game for the rest of his time there with no way to recharge the battery.
The man stood, ducked his head and stepped out of the tent.
Finally alone in the tent, Reese scooted on her butt toward Ferrence and whispered into his ear. “Wake up.”
He moaned, rolled onto his back and frowned when he couldn’t move his hands. For a moment, he lay still. Then he asked, “Any news?”
She shook her head, and then realized he wouldn’t see the movement in the dark. “None. We can’t wait to be rescued. We need to get ourselves out of this mess.”
“And hide in a jungle full of snakes, gorillas and who the hell knows what else?” He shook his head. “No way. I’ll wait for my father to pay the ransom and be escorted out of here in one of his helicopters.”
She snorted. “Wake up and smell the coffee, Ferrence.” As soon as she mentioned coffee, her belly rumbled. The only thing they’d been given to eat were a couple of bananas and unbaked sweet potatoes. Fortunately, they’d been supplied bottled water to drink, thus saving their stomachs from parasites. But the last bottle of water had been on the second morning. “It’s been three days. If they don’t get their ransom money soon, they might decide to kill us and hide the bodies.”