Chapter Eleven
Sweat dripped from beneath navy SEAL “Big Jake” Schuler’s helmet, down his forehead and into his eyes. He raised a hand to wipe away the salty liquid, blinking to clear his vision.
Their local informant stood at the village entrance, in the Tillabéri region of Niger, talking to a barefoot man dressed in long dusty black pants and a worn button-down gray shirt. They had their heads together and appeared to be talking fast. Several times, the men glanced in the SEAL team’s direction.
“What’s Dubaku doing?” Jake asked into his mic.
“He’s only supposed to be checking that the village is clear, before we move on,” Harmon “Harm” Payne said. “You heard the brief. We’re on a recon mission. We’re not to engage.”
Military Intelligence had gotten wind that Abu Nuru al-Waseka, the head of the ISIS faction in north central Africa, had been seen in one of the villages farther up the road.
With what little they knew, Jake’s SEAL team had deployed from their base of operations in Djibouti to Niger. From there, they hooked up with Dubaku, a member of the Niger Army who had connections with villagers along their route. Their contact had been known to help the army Special Forces unit positioned there to train the Niger armed forces. He was supposed to be a trusted source.
A prickly feeling crawled across the back of Jake’s neck. “I don’t like how long he’s been standing there.”
Dubaku turned and pointed in Jake’s direction.
The man he’d been talking to nodded and reentered the small village, disappearing around the side of a hut.
Dubaku left the village and walked along the dusty road until he reached one of the SUVs they’d commandeered from the Special Forces units. The vehicle stood partially hidden in the branches of a group of scraggly trees.
The sun baked the land, making dust out of the soil. Every puff of wind stirred the fine grains of dirt into whirling dervishes.
Using the SUV for cover, Jake hurried to Dubaku. “What did you find out?”
“The villagers haven’t seen any strangers,” Dubaku said.
Jake studied the man.
Dubaku didn’t make eye contact. Instead, he alternated between staring at his feet and back at the village. “Ashiri went to ask others if they have seen anyone.” Dubaku gave a slight bow with his hands pressed together. “If you will excuse me, I must relieve myself.”
That prickly feeling multiplied when Dubaku left the SUV, walked into the sparsely wooded landscape and disappeared.
“I have a bad feeling about this,” Jake said. “Let’s move.”
Percy “Pitbull” Taylor leaned across the cab of the SUV and flung open the passenger door. “Get in.”
Jake shook his head, his gaze scanning the area and coming back to the village where Ashiri had disappeared. He gripped his rifle in his fists. “I’ll walk alongside until we’re past the village. I don’t trust Ashiri or Dubaku at this point.” Then he spoke into his mic. “Diesel, keep a safe distance between the vehicles.”
“Wilco.” Dalton “Diesel” Landon waited until Pitbull pulled several vehicle lengths ahead.
Graham “Buck” Buckner climbed out of Diesel’s vehicle and raised his M4A1 rifle at the ready.
Harm, already on the other side of Pitbull’s vehicle, moved forward as the SUV inched along at a slow, steady pace.
Buck and Trace “T-Mac” McGuire brought up the rear of Diesel’s SUV. Every SEAL on the ground had an M4A1 carbine rifle with the Special Operations Peculiar Modification (SOPMOD) upgrade. Pitbull and Diesel had their weapons in the SUVs, within easy reach.
At that moment, Jake wished he had an HK MP5 submachine gun with several fully loaded clips. That prickly feeling was getting worse by the minute. Jake didn’t see the normal congregation of women and children outside the huts. In fact, since they’d arrived outside the village, those people who had been hanging around had all disappeared.
“Let’s move a little faster,” Jake urged. “The village appears to be a ghost town.”
“Something’s up,” Harm agreed.
“I thought this was supposed to be a routine fact-finding mission,” T-Mac said.
“‘Don’t engage,’ they said.” Buck mimicked the intel officer who’d briefed them in Djibouti. “Well, what if they engage us first?”
“That’s when all bets are off.” Jake’s hold tightened on his rifle.
The lead vehicle had passed the village and was moving along the dirt road leading to the next village when an explosion ripped through the air.
“What the hell was that?” Diesel asked.
“We’ve got incoming!” Harm yelled. “Someone’s got an RPG and they’re targeting our vehicles.”
Another rocket hit the ground fifty yards from where Jake stood. He dropped to a squat and waited for the dust to clear.
When it did, he counted half a dozen men in black garb and turbans rushing toward him, firing AK-47s.
“They fired first,” Jake said, returning fire. “Six Tangos incoming from the west.” He took out two and kept firing.
“I count five from the east,” Harm said from the other side of the SUV. Sounds of gunfire filled the air.
“Got a truckload of them coming straight
