for any sign of movement or guards. They passed several villages on the banks with docks jutting out into the water. Unlike back in the States, these little towns were completely dark. Not a single light shining, now that the sun had set. Many didn’t have electricity. Those who did conserved the energy, not seeing a need to light the darkness. Dark was meant for sleeping.
Diesel imagined the boat that had taken the two hostages upriver had passed much the same—unchallenged and in the dark, without raising suspicion or providing clues as to its destination.
Time passed slowly. Like a good SEAL, Diesel rested, conserving his strength for the task ahead. If they didn’t run into any trouble, they’d arrive well before midnight. That’s when the fun would begin.
What seemed like a lifetime later, the helmsman called out, “Twenty minutes to LZ.”
Diesel’s pulse ratcheted up several notches, and his hand tightened on the M4A1 rifle in his hand. With only twenty minutes until they reached their landing zone, they could potentially run into Congolese rebels soon.
Ten minutes passed, and the helmsman slowed the boat to a crawl, hugging the starboard banks, using the shadows cast by the moonlight as concealment, while he searched for a good spot to tie off. Those who weren’t staying with the boat would cover the rest of the distance on foot. That was seven of the ten-man team. They’d push through the trees and bushes of the now jungle terrain to their destination, where the green blips on the GPS location device led them.
A break in the overhanging limbs led to a narrow tributary, just wide enough to wedge the SOC-R into and allow the landing party to disembark.
Before he led the team off the boat, Diesel slipped his night vision goggles into position over his eyes. He scanned the shoreline, searching for any green heat signatures, whether they be man or beast. Life along the Congo River was rife with crocodiles, and if that wasn’t dangerous enough, they were getting close to an area known for their bands of gorillas. Now wasn’t the time to be wrestling crocs or gorillas. They had a job to do.
Nothing moved, and no green lights glowed in his night vision goggles. Diesel hopped over the side of the boat and landed on the soft, muddy slope of the riverbank. He scrambled up to a drier purchase and provided cover for the others as they disembarked. The SOC-R would remain hidden until the team returned with the hostages. Helicopter backup was a last resort.
Operation 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
