Camp Lemonnier

Djibouti

July 13th, 2019

1715C

Jawa POV

People don't normally eat breakfast at 1700 (5:00 PM), but when you set your work schedule around hours of darkness, then you're going to turn into a night owl. As such, I was chowing down on military-grade eggs, bacon, sausage, toast, and coffee in Camp Lemonnier's mess hall.

Camp Lemonnier, for those of you who don't know, is in Djibouti, an east African nation that is a strategically important location as it is at the southern entrance to the Red Sea, near some of the world's busiest shipping lanes. Plus, it's a bridge between Africa and the Middle East. But for the purposes of my task unit, it was the headquarters and main operating base of Combined Joint Task Force - Horn of Africa (CJTF-HOA).

My unit—Task Unit Cougar, composed of SEAL Team 4's Echo and Foxtrot Platoons—had been deployed to carry out counterterrorism, anti-piracy, foreign internal defense, and even limited humanitarian operations. And yes, I understand the irony of sending SEALs—the special operators most notable for their special recon and direct action (i.e., kill/capture missions) capabilities—to support humanitarian work, but hey. Maybe it was a PR stunt due to the amount of bad press the SEAL Teams were getting... no matter whether it was deserved or not.

Ironically, the Marine Corps—America's abused pitbulls—has probably done more good for the world than the Peace Corps and Doctors Without Borders combined, I thought to myself with an internal laugh as I considered my task unit's directives for this deployment. Was it a hot take? Absolutely. Would it get me canceled on the Internet? Hell yeah. Did that mean I thought any less of the humanitarian organizations? No, I thought they were a good set of dudes and chicks. They had their purpose... but so did we.

"So, what do you think, Lieutenant?"

Yanking me from my thoughts was my task unit commander, Lieutenant Commander Terry Briggs, a no-nonsense SEAL officer known for his bluntness and general disdain for unnecessary rules and regulations (emphasis on the "unnecessary..." he wasn't pro-drug legalization and he considered traffic/motor vehicle violations as real crimes). Behind his back, many had nicknamed him "Tater," "Potato," or simply "Spud" due to the fact that he was from Idaho and his head looked like a potato... plus, he was so bald, I'd swear on my life that I could see my reflection in it. "Well?"

I tried to save face with a lie. "Sorry, sir. Drifted off. Was thinking about a way to get some SDV (SEAL Delivery Vehicle) training done... y'know, since some NSWG-3 (Naval Special Warfare Group 3) guys are augmenting the Navy ships off the coast. Waters are clear, so it'd be good to practice... just in case."

"That's a good thought, O'Shea, but focus on the task at hand. Now, I know you're biased towards Echo as their AOIC (assistant officer-in-charge), but which platoon do you think should handle the escort duty next week?"

Right, the escort duty: United States Africa Command (AFRICOM) wanted a SEAL platoon to perform a personal security detail (PSD) for a World Health Organization convoy that was rolling into Ethiopia to assist with a cholera outbreak... how exactly the United fucking Nations, of all entities, was going to be useful was beyond me, but orders were orders, and LCDR Briggs had to choose a platoon to get stuck with this jackassed one-month PSD while the other platoon got to actually do SEAL shit.

Common sense would dictate that the WHO should simply hire private military contractors—who specialized in PSD—rather than rip a SEAL task unit in half, but the former was out of the question for some stupid reason. I obviously didn't want my platoon to get stuck with PSD... we're SEALs, not the Secret Service. But I had to admit... in the few missions we'd run, Foxtrot was just a little cleaner. Not that we weren't on top of our game, but Foxtrot unfortunately had more experienced guys.

My integrity told me to say Echo. But for the sake of my sanity next week and a month onward, I really wanted Foxtrot to get stuck with the PSD. "Well, sir... I can't say."

"And why is that, O'Shea?" LCDR Briggs asked pointedly.

"Well, PSD is challenging work... and it's an order straight from the AFRICOM commander. Gotta get it right, right?"

Foxtrot Platoon's AOIC barked out a laugh. "Bullshit, O'Shea. You just don't want your platoon to get stuck with PSD."

I rolled my eyes at my fellow lieutenant junior grade. "Fine, but it's not my place to judge."

"The boss was asking for your opinion... if you were so sure we should've been shafted, you would've said so."

"Fuck off, Caulder," I muttered, annoyed by his unfortunately true words.

"Sir, if I may?" a firm, yet gentle feminine voice said to my left, belonging to none other than 1st Lt. Tina Cuevo, the ex-pariah of the CIA-turned US Air Force air battle manager. As it turned out, a detachment of the 965th Airborne Air Control Squadron was also here in Camp Lemonnier, with Tina's crew typically flying nighttime missions... as such, whenever we went out, they were the flying air traffic control tower that managed any and all aerial assets in the area of operations.

LCDR Briggs raised an eyebrow at the Air Force officer's interjection. "Yes, Lieutenant Cuevo?"

"I understand that I'm no operator, so it's not my place to say... but I'd recommend a competition both in and outside the wire. You and your HQ keep score as neutral adjudicators, and let the two platoons battle it out."

"What sort of competition, Cuevo?"

"Well, SOCOM's compound has to have a kill house in there somewhere, right? And as Lieutenant O'Shea said, perhaps some underwater practice will shed light on who's needed here and who's needed in Ethiopia."

Oh yeah, Tina and the rest of her detachment have been read in on the PSD mission, given that CJTF-HOA would be responsible for sending backup in the event that the WHO convoy came under attack... either her aircrew or her sister aircrew would be up in the air at that time working air traffic control.

"I like it. Good suggestion, Lieutenant."

LTJG Caulder grinned. "You better get your boys ready for that PSD, O'Shea."

"Shut your trap, Caulder," Lieutenant Lowry—my platoon commander—shot back. "We've got a month to see if you and ole Bridgerton here can cut the mustard."

"Bring it on, Lowry," LT Bridgerton—Foxtrot Platoon's commander—sassed back.

"Piece of cake... we just don't need a repeat of the Noodle Incident, eh?"

"There is no proof that we did that!" LT Bridgerton and LTJG Caulder snapped.

"My brother in Christ, that response doesn't exactly dissuade suspicion."

LCDR Briggs rolled his eyes, finishing his meal before moving to leave. "None of you mention the Noodle Incident again, or I'll find a way to throw you all in the brig."

"Briggs throwing us in the brig," I chuckled to LT Lowry as the bald Idahoan trudged away, making my platoon commander grin. "That'll be the day."

"What's this about the 'Noodle Incident?'" Tina asked, turning my fellow SEAL officers' attention back at her.

"Don't worry about it, Tina," I quickly replied.

"But—"

"Tina, please."

"... fine."

With our evening breakfast over, Tina and her fellow Air Force officers rejoined their aircrew while LT Lowry and I went back to the rest of Echo Platoon in the SOCOM compound—minus the platoon chief, who was in sickbay with explosive diarrhea. As we shot the shit with our boys (mostly with the leading petty officer) and worked out, LCDR Briggs came by, ordering us to get our asses to the joint operations center: we had a mission.

"In 24 hours, Somali SOF are going to be carrying out a direct action raid on an al-Shabaab camp south of Baidoa," our task unit commander explained. "Intel indicates that this camp is on the larger side, and the Danab Brigade can only spare a single company. They've been talking to HOA headquarters, and we've been greenlit to support the Danab commandos. However, AFRICOM has ordered that no more than ten of our guys can be on the ground with them... and even so, those ten will only be handling calls for fire while the Somalis do the actual fighting. R.O.E. (rules of engagement) dictate that any Americans on this mission will only fire when fired upon. AFRICOM has only authorized the deployment of an Air Force MQ-9 Reaper with eight Hellfire missiles, and each missile launch must be cleared by the HOA commander himself. And before you ask... we're not allowed to call for the Apaches sitting on the other side of the base, nor the carrier-based F/A-18s off the southeast coast, unless the HOA commander says so."

Restrictive R.O.E., limited manpower, limited firepower... should be fun, I thought to myself sardonically before deciding to ask my own question. "What about QRF (quick reaction force)?"

"The rest of Task Unit Cougar will be on standby, and will only respond if the TIC (troops in contact) escalates to a level that the HOA commander deems necessary for intervention... but it'll be a long time 'til the QRF can reach, since we're stuck here as per the general's orders."

"Great, so some general's gonna be micromanaging the op?" one of Foxtrot's SEALs groaned, the rest of us grumbling as well. "Sir, please tell me this is a joke. Please tell me that a two-star general doesn't feel the need to micromanage a SOF element."

"It gets worse: this general's a POG," LCDR Briggs answered, pissing us off even more. Foxtrot's platoon chief even faked vomiting noises to further express his disgust: a mutual feeling throughout all of us. A POG, or person other than grunt, was the last person any conventional troop or door-kicker wanted in charge of a combat operation. Now don't get me wrong: I love my support personnel, and you won't catch me dead saying that supply, comms, maintenance, or medical guys aren't important, but they're not the people you want micromanaging a goddamn special operations force. It didn't help that the commanding general of CJTF-HOA wasn't the top dog in Africa, having to report to the four-star who was in charge of every American military asset in the whole continent.

In case you're confused, dear reader, the fact of the matter is that the guys with stars on their lapels are unfortunately more politician than warrior as a rule. So our beloved two-star general was more worried about getting in trouble with his higher-ups than mission success or the lives of the guys getting shit done. Hell, I'd be somewhat understanding if he didn't give two shits about our welfare, providing the fact that his priority was mission success... but all he seemed to worry about was the AFRICOM commander "tanning his hide," to quote Chip and Hank.

The bullshit of military bureaucracy aside, it would honestly be slightly less worse if the major general was an infantry officer—they're not total idiots in a combat situation—but the fact that the CJTF-HOA commander was a POG was just...

"To quote those chicks who simply can't reject with a 'no...'" LT Lowry said, his tone sarcastically profound. "Ew."

LCDR Briggs nodded grimly. "'Ew,' indeed. Nonetheless, that's the hand we've been dealt, so we need to work with it."

"Chrissake, why is the Horn of Africa commander as annoying as a homeowners' association president?"

"Maybe he runs an HOA when he isn't here running the HOA..." LTJG Caulder joked, eliciting snickers from the rest of the task unit.

Even LCDR Briggs couldn't stop the corners of his mouth twitching upward in a brief smirk. As by-the-book as he was, he called out bullshit when he saw it. "Alright, alright, you all focus up now. O'Shea!"

I shifted my eyes from the PowerPoint to him. "Sir?"

"Since your platoon chief's diarrhea has rendered his backblast area not clear for the time being, I want you to take over as Echo 3-1. Take Echo's 2nd Squad, a CCT (combat controller), and an EOD (explosive ordnance disposal) tech, and support the Somalis. I want you n' the boys to work out a mission plan then run it by me so we can look it over together tomorrow. Word of warning: this particular al-Shabaab camp managed to get their hands on some anti-air armament, so be prepared to bring your own fire support if the CG (commanding general) pulls our air."

"Will we be able to utilize our own fire support assets, sir?"

"Well, the same R.O.E. apply: CG's gotta clear it."

"Roger that, sir."

"Good... oh, and O'Shea?"

"Sir?"

"Remember: the game has begun, and the loser platoon gets to protect a bunch of holier-than-thou doctors and reporters for a month."

"... well, shit."

28 HOURS LATER...

Tina POV

"Darkstar 4, this is Mercury 3-6. We're arriving on station, over," the Reaper drone pilot called as the UAV maneuvered into its position overlooking the point where the SEAL team would rendezvous with the Danab commandos.

"Roger, Mercury 3-6, we have you on radar, over," I replied from my cramped surveillance controller's station towards the center of the E-3 airborne warning and control system (AWACS). I activated my intra-flight comms to notify the tactical director—the commander of the mission crew, and the top officer aboard, who sat at a station with his back facing me around 20-30 feet forward. "Cleric, be advised: Mercury 3-6 is on station."

The tactical director, a major with the callsign "Cleric" (due to him being a massive Dungeons and Dragons geek) replied with his thick Minnesotan accent. "Copy, Mercury 3-6 on station. How's the rest of the picture looking?"

"Skies are clear otherwise."

"Check. Thanks, TOBIAS."

Now, I'm sure you're curious about my own callsign, "TOBIAS." It was the enlisted airmen of the squadron who came up with that one while they were drunk. It didn't really have anything to do with my name, lineage, home state, or anything else. It was an acronym that succinctly summarized the most obvious thing about me: The Only Boobs In the AWACS, as I was the sole female in my crew. A few of my fellow officers apparently tried to change it, but it stuck. And as crude as the callsign, I had to admit it was kind of funny... in a raunchy sort of way.

But hey, you don't get to choose your own callsign... and I got the last laugh in the end. They, along with the rest of the 965th Airborne Air Control Squadron, would never know that I was responsible for the shaving cream in their flight suits. In my defense, it was nice being able to apply the infiltration, sabotage, and exfiltration skills I learned at the CIA Academy for Espionage.

I was yanked from my memories by a tap on my right shoulder from the passive controller—the man responsible for handling our passive radar, enhancing the air picture as well as our aircraft's self-protection by searching for enemy radiation emitters and platforms—a hillbilly-turned-combat systems officer with the callsign "Sandwich" due to his Alabaman heritage... though the irony was in his favor, since he had an IQ of 156 (and yes, we checked). "TOBIAS, we're pickin' up a signature in the location intel says the enemy camp is."

I glanced at him with a frown. "A 'signature?' Care to elaborate?"

"I reckon our tangos have themselves some MANPADS (man-portable air defense systems), if not an all-out SAM (surface-to-air missile)."

"Roger that," I acknowledged before hailing the MQ-9 Reaper crew. "Mercury 3-6, this is Darkstar 4. Be advised, enemy may have a SAM or MANPADS, over."

"Roger, potential enemy SAM or MANPADS. Stand by, over," the drone pilot called. After a few moments, he called me back. "Darkstar 4, we just relayed it up the chain. We will maintain a wide orbit but are not cleared to move closer to the target until the missiles have been neutralized, over."

Damn, I thought to myself. It seemed like our SEAL team was in for a rough time. I radioed the communications technician towards the front of the plane, needing his assistance to contact Jawa. "Hey, Gordon?"

"What's up, TOBIAS?" Technical Sergeant Ramsey replied, his voice as gravelly as usual from yelling basically all the time at junior enlisted airmen.

"Patch me through to Echo 3-1, please."

"Roger, stand by."

A few moments later, Jawa's voice was emitted from my headset as he seemed to talk loudly over the rotors of the Black Hawk he was riding in. "This is Echo 3-1. Are you receiving me, over?"

"Echo 3-1, this is Darkstar 4. Gotcha loud and clear. Be advised, we're detecting potential SAMs or MANPADS in the target area. Mercury 3-6 can only maintain a wide orbit, and cannot move in until the anti-air threats are neutralized, over," I reported. I could hear the annoyance in his tone as he replied after a moment of silence.

"Roger, potential SAMs or MANPADS in the target area. We'll utilize our indirect then call for the drone when it's finished, over."

From what I'd heard in the mission brief, the SEALs had an extra trick up their sleeves: a 60-mm mortar that they'd trained on with some Camp Lejeune Marines, along with some soldiers stationed at Camp Lemonnier. Mortars—along with artillery—are special because they are all-weather fire support: clouds, winds, or precipitation could take even the most resilient aircraft out of the sky, but mortars and artillery guns would fire until they ran out of ammo, their crewmen were dead, or no targets remained.

What's more, while plenty of anti-aircraft weapons existed, there wasn't much that could defeat a mortar or artillery shell outside of reinforced bunkers... which al-Shabaab did not have.

"Darkstar 4 copies all. Good luck. Out," I signed off, going back to checking my radar picture, which could now detect the Black Hawk—callsign "Sinner 5-5"—flying the SEAL team to their rendezvous point with the Danab commandos. After 15 minutes, the helicopter had reached its landing zone with some guidance from myself and other mission crewmen.

"Darkstar 4, this is Sinner 5-5," the firm Midwestern voice called. "Customers are dropped off. We are RTB (returning to base), over."

"Roger, Sinner 5-5. Skies are clear. Safe flight. Out," I replied as the Black Hawk turned back for Camp Lemmonier. And with that, my job was over for the time being. It was up to the SEAL team and their Somali partner forces. 8 SEALs plus 2 augmentees and 100 Danab commandos versus 90+ terrorists with armament that could knock a drone out of the sky...

Cake.

Jawa POV

"Cougar 6-Actual, this is Echo 3-1. We've linked up with partner forces and are rolling to target, over," I radioed.

"Echo 3-1, Cougar 6-Actual copies all," LCDR Briggs acknowledged. "QRF is standing by. Be advised: it will take us sixty-nine minutes to reach your position, over."

"Acknowledged."

"Good luck. Out."

Our Somali allies were giving us a lift to the target in their modified Toyota Hiluxes: uparmored, armed, and fitted with communications systems. I rode in the commander's vehicle along with Staff Sergeant Wilkins, the CCT I'd selected to help us out. The Danab company commander, Captain Yussuf, sat across from me in the truck bed with his own radioman.

"Your warplanes, Lieutenant?" Captain Yussuf asked in heavily accented English.

"We gotta take care of the enemy anti-air first, sir," I explained, addressing him as a superior because: first, it was a good idea to butter him up; second, for all intents and purposes, as a Somali Army captain, he was effectively an O-3, which outranked me as a US Navy lieutenant junior grade). "But my men have a mortar prepped. Once we reach, they'll just need a few minutes to set up and they can start sending it."

The captain nodded. "My 3rd Platoon shall establish blocking positions with their technicals, and I shall be leading 1st and 2nd Platoons to assault the al-Shabaab camp. My recon squad has found a good place for you and your men to set up."

I looked at the map Captain Yussuf handed to me, reading his annotations. But the position he'd marked to the northwest of the enemy camp made more sense for the mortar team to take, not the rest of us... there was no way SSgt Wilkins would be able to direct air support when the time came.

"I appreciate your men's effort, sir. My three-man mortar team, along with our EOD tech, will be happy to take this position," I began diplomatically, pulling out my own marker. "But we will require a second observation post. When planning out the op, one of my snipers designated this position, to the north of the camp, as a place to more effectively set up. And sir, I must unfortunately remind you that we cannot fire unless fired upon, unless the general gives us the green light."

"Bah!" Captain Yussuf scoffed, the clean-shaven commando rolling his eyes as his radioman gave me a smirk. "What is it with your generals and cowardice? I recall the man who brought about Maalintii Rangers, searching for Mohamed Farrah Aidid."

His statement confused me before I realized what the captain was referring to: Maalintii Rangers was Somali for "Day of the Rangers." He was referring to the Battle of Mogadishu when Task Force Ranger (primarily 3rd Ranger Battalion, Delta Force, and the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment) were hunting down the Somali warlord due to his attacks on UN personnel conducting humanitarian operations.

"Black Hawk Down..." Captain Yussuf stated, naming both the book and movie that came out after some time after the battle. "The book was... interesting. It was strange to see what the American soldiers were thinking. But their commander, General Garrison... he was a warrior, not a coward. And the general you have, Lieutenant? Why is he so scared to let his men use the weapons they need?"

I shrugged. "He's scared of the general above him."

"Ah, bureaucracy... worry not, Lieutenant. Even here in Somalia, I can understand your plight. Soldier to soldier... upper levels of chains of command are obnoxious."

I let myself smile at the captain's statement, internally chuckling at my current situation. Who says that SEALs can't befriend the locals?

90 MINUTES LATER...

You know what sucks about being a sniper? Having to just lay there in your sniper hide for hours, if not days on end, watching and waiting as your chain of command argues itself senseless. And if you need to piss or shit, you basically gotta do it right there... sometimes in your pants. News flash, kids: 95% of sniper work is information gathering via reconnaissance and surveillance, with the last 5% being shooting. SOF snipers do a bit more shooting, but even so, no more than 10-15% of the job is actually taking shots at the enemy... and even then, we're not doing mile-long shots like Chief Chris Kyle, we try to do stuff we know we can hit: center mass, as close as possible without compromising ourselves.

Because a kill at 500 yards is just as good as a kill at 2,000 yards: either way, it's one more enemy off the battlefield.

"Echo 3-1, this is Cheetah 6-Actual," Captain Yussuf called, using radio discipline as taught to him by American instructors from CJTF-HOA. "My men are in position to commence the assault."

Finally, I thought to myself. I've never been one for impatience—like I learned in the Academy for Espionage, 99% of CIA ops end without any kinetic action—but for some reason, my trigger finger felt oddly itchy... either I had a problem or the fact that a two-star general was micromanaging me and my platoon-mates was gnawing away at me. And it could definitely be both.

"Roger, 6-Actual," I replied, receiving the thumbs-up from the CCT and four other SEALs with me in the sniper hide: the CCT would handle fire support and air assets, one SEAL and I would handle sniping, one SEAL had a Mark 48 machine gun, and the other two SEALs had their M4A1s ready to rock. "We're green to go. You may fire when ready, over."

"Understood, Echo. Cheetah initiating in three, two, one..." And with that, the 100 Danab commandos sprang into action, their pickup truck-mounted rocket launchers and heavy machine guns laying down the hate with overlapping sectors of fire from the north and west. True to their name, the foot-mobile "Lightning Force" charged in, their AK-74s blazing as they caught the al-Shabaab terrorists flat-footed. And from our elevated OP to the south, we were perfectly positioned to cut down any runners moving south or east, as well as provide guidance to the mortar team.

But of course, we couldn't engage yet, due to the R.O.E. set for this mission by the CJTF-HOA commander. After a few minutes of scanning with my spotter scope, I turned to my fellow sniper. "Anything?"

He shook his head. "No sign of the enemy SAM, sir... can't see any MANPADS either. And it looks like the al-Shabaab camp has more fighters than we thought... plus some IEDs."

"Keep it up. Cheetah's got some good momentum, but we need Mercury 3-6 for ISR and CAS, fast."

"Echo 3-1, this is Darkstar 4. Be advised: we've managed to get a lock on the enemy SAM, over," Tina suddenly called on the long-range radio.

"Roger, Darkstar 4. Send it," I replied. If my guys and I weren't yet cleared to shoot, we could at least give the Danab commandos the location.

"Stand by... location has been transmitted to your ATAK. Center of the enemy camp, over." The ATAK, or Android Tactical Assault Kit, is basically a Samsung Galaxy in a hard case that's strapped to the operator's chest. It can be used for Blue Force Tracking (tracking the location of the operator and friendly forces), giving and receiving locations of interest, and general communications. I flipped open my ATAK, examining the GPS setting to see the pin dropped on the map: a red marker in the center of the area designated as "ENEMY CAMP." And if Tina and the rest of the AWACS crew believed it was a SAM, that meant the target was at least stationary.

"Darkstar 4, enemy SAM location received. We'll handle it. Out," I acknowledged before switching radios to relay the message. "Cheetah 6, this is Echo 3-1. Enemy SAM at the center of the camp. Need you to take it out to get our air on station, over."

"Enemy SAM at center of camp, understood," Captain Yussuf's radioman replied. "Wait a moment, stand by, over."

Captain Yussuf had hopped on the radio to speak to me personally. "Echo 3-1, this is Cheetah 6-Actual. My men have encountered a hardened enemy position with Dishkas (DShK machine guns) in all directions. Requesting mortar strike, over."

"Boss, I've got eyes on," the other sniper murmured to me. "Southwest side of the camp... definitely in range of the sixty mike-mike."

"Stand by, 6-Actual," I told Captain Yussuf before switching radios again to get LCDR Briggs on the horn. "Cougar 6-Actual, this is Echo 3-1! Partner forces are getting chewed up! Request permission to launch mortar strike, over!"

My task unit commander's reply was terse, his frustration evident: he'd rather we already have struck... but we hadn't been fired upon yet. "Echo 3-1, interrogative: have you been engaged, over?"

I rolled my eyes. "Negative."

"3-1, the R.O.E. unfortunately stand: you may not fire unless fired upon, over."

"Fuck!" I hissed to myself after signing off the radio. The situation certainly sucked: our ISR was shit, we had no CAS, and our perfectly positioned mortar couldn't shoot. Unless... "Hey, all Echo elements, listen up. I've got an idea."

"3-1, does your idea by any chance involve goading our tangos into shooting us?" the platoon LPO sarcastically replied from the mortar pit he'd established with two other SEALs and the EOD tech.

"That's affirmative, 4-1. Any better ideas?"

"Negative, 3-1. But I'll be frank: I'm not sure what we can do at this distance, over."

"Sir, I have an idea!" one of the junior SEALs—Special Warfare Operator 3rd Class Jenkins, an Arkansas hillbilly with a near-undecipherable accent—in my sniper hide whispered. "I can run out, toss a crash, an' get to cover quick! Those fuckers gotta be shootin' at anythin' that moves at this point!"

"Jenkins, you cannot be serious."

"L.T.J.G., I was one helluva runner in high school... purdy damn speedy in BUD/S an' SQT, too! Those jihadi sumbitches ain't hittin' shit!"

"Your confidence is both inspiring and frightening... you remind me of my old schoolmate."

"Boss, we better get our distraction on, fast," the other SEAL sniper urged. "Some al-Shabaab guys are trying to rabbit."

"Dammit. Get going, Jenkins."

"Yessir," the Arkansan SEAL acknowledged as he gave me a toothy grin, crawling out of the sniper hide and scrambling down the slope facing away from the enemy camp. I rolled my eyes at the slightly younger man's ludicrousness. He reminded me a lot of Chip: country boy, natural gunfighter, utterly audacious, and a red-blooded 'MURICAN (not that I had a problem with that). About the only difference was that Chip was from North Carolina, bigger, and more muscular, compared to the shorter, skinnier track/cross-country star that was SO3 Jenkins. Oh, and Chip was a United States Marine while Jenkins was a Navy SEAL.

I gotta introduce these two weirdos to each other... maybe good ol' Hernandez, too, I chuckled inwardly, remembering my best friend from the Academy for Espionage and my old platoon-mate from SEAL Team 3. SO3 Jenkins finally appeared before me, his limber form sneaking towards the firefight with a suppressed M4 at the ready. And after a few seconds, he took a knee, prepped a crash (short for "flash-crash," a nickname for a flashbang), and radioed a warning to me.

"Three, two, one, crash out!" Jenkins whispered on the net as he hurled the crash into the southern end of the enemy camp, after which he flattened himself against the deck (I mean the ground, not a literal deck... Navy jargon, y'know?), bracing himself for the incoming fire... that never came. "Uh, 3-1? I don't think they noticed."

"Yeah, no shit, 4-4," I shot back, not needing my hillbilly platoon-mate to state the obvious. "Stand by—"

"Hang on, hang on... stand by, boss."

Did this motherfucker just "stand by" me after I already made him "stand by?" I thought, astounded by the audacity of this man. As I peered through my scope, I could feel my eyes widening to the point I thought my eyeballs would fall out of their sockets. Why, you may ask? Well, our platoon Arkansan had pulled out an American flag from his assault pack, and had begun to wave it as he yelled at a horde of al-Shabaab fighters.

"C'MON, YA GOAT-FUCKERS!!" he screamed at the terrorists as he brandished Old Glory with a passion, appearing to attract some of their attention. "COME OUT AN' PLAY!!"

"What... the... hell?" the other sniper gasped, flabbergasted.

The machine gunner, meanwhile, emitted manly giggling as he watched SO3 Jenkins continue to taunt the terrorists (and probably confuse a few of our Danab partners). "Joker Jenkins at it again! This might just top that fella at Team 3... Hernandez?"

"Didn't you have him in your previous platoon, sir?" another junior SEAL questioned.

"Long story for another night. Jenkins' gonna get himself killed!" I hissed, waiting for someone to shoot Jenkins. And as soon as I saw the first muzzle flash, I squeezed the trigger and dropped the fighter. "All stations, this is Echo 3-1! Engage, engage, engage!"

"Echo 4-1, this is Echo-Charlie. Fire mission, over," my attached CCT radioed, beginning to direct our mortar team as the rest of us opened up with our small arms. I let the chatter between the CCT and Echo's LPO fade into the background as the machine gunner, the other sniper, the other junior SEAL, and I laid down a wall of lead with our weapon systems, suppressing the enemy as Jenkins dashed for cover, stowing his flag away.

"4-4, this is 3-1, get your ass back here, over!" I ordered before resuming fire, dropping two more tangos with well-placed rounds of 7.62.

"Lemme toss somethin' real quick," he replied, leaning around the rock he was taking cover behind to throw a frag grenade into the enemy camp... then a second... and only then did he begin sprinting back to our position. As Jenkins did his little 100-yard dash, my CCT and the mortar team had successfully dropped 60-mm rounds on the enemy machine gun nest, some barracks, and to our surprise...

"Echo 3-1, this is Cheetah 6," Captain Yussuf's radioman reported cheerfully. "Enemy SAM destroyed! I say again, enemy SAM destroyed!"

"Roger, enemy SAM destroyed! Keep up the good work! Echo 3-1 out!" I acknowledged, switching radios to hail the AWACS above: it was time to get the drone overhead. "Darkstar 4, this is Echo 3-1. Are you still detecting radiation from anti-air armament, over?"

"Echo 3-1, this is Darkstar 4. Negative on anti-air. Picture is clear," Tina replied after a few moments. "Break, break. Mercury 3-6 has been notified and will be on station in five mikes to provide CAS and ISR, over."

"Solid copy, Darkstar 4!"

"What'd I miss, boys?" Jenkins cheekily asked as he crawled back into the sniper hide from behind, looking absolutely thrilled despite having just been shot at repeatedly. Not to be deterred, he took up a prone position a few meters to my left and began lining up al-Shabaab fighters and taking shots at those who'd found our position. "By the way, them fellers got a few RPGs."

"We know!" the other sniper and I grumbled simultaneously, having already dropped a few while the machine gunner sprayed 7.62, the other junior SEAL shot whoever was in range, and the CCT was directing the mortar. With a laugh, Jenkins joined his fellow junior SEAL, aiding in the firefight to the best of his ability (5.56 doesn't go as far as 7.62). After a few minutes, the Danab commandos had advanced further into the camp, thanks to our sniper and indirect fires, with the three SEALs to the northwest having mortared half of the al-Shabaab stronghold. However, the Danab commandos had once again been forced into a stalemate when the mortar fires ceased.

"Echo 3-1, this is Echo 4-1. We are winchester! Say again, winchester!" the LPO reported—"winchester" meaning he was out of ammo—but right as I acknowledged his call, I received a new message on the long-range radio.

"Echo 3-1, this is Darkstar 4," a different AWACS crewman called—maybe another air battle manager?—in his thick Minnesotan accent. "Mercury 3-6 is on station at this time. Echo-Charlie will be patched through momentarily, over."

"Solid copy, Darkstar 4!" I replied before turning towards my CCT, shouting to him over the roar of the machine gunner's MK48. "Wilkins! The Reaper's here!"

SSgt Wilkins nodded as he got on his own long-range radio, apparently having been hailed by the drone pilot. "Mercury 3-6, this is Echo-Charlie. Fire mission, danger close, on enemy bunker! Friendly position, marked by strobes! Enemy position, one hundred meters east, marked by laser designator!"

"Cougar Base, this is Echo 3-1. Requesting permission to put a Hellfire on an enemy bunker in the southeast part of the camp, over," I requested as the CCT continued to transmit the necessary details for the fire mission, marking the target with his infrared laser designator.

"Copy your last, Echo 3-1. Stand by," the information systems technician (one of Task Unit Cougar's various support personnel) on the other side replied, his voice almost robotic. I got nothing but silence for the next sixty seconds—during which I assume LCDR Briggs was arguing with the dumbass commanding general of CJTF-HOA.

Finally, the bald Idahoan himself came on the comm. "Echo 3-1, this is Cougar 6-Actual. Fire mission on enemy bunker approved. I say again: fire mission on enemy bunker approved. Break, break. Mercury 3-6 has been designated 'weapons free' on all targets of opportunity. All missiles are available for airstrikes at your discretion. No additional clearance required, over."

I was stunned: a two-star general was making a common sense decision? Then I realized that my task unit commander had come through for us yet again; LCDR Briggs had convinced the major general to let us use Mercury 3-6's Hellfire missiles at our discretion without clearing it with him first. Say what you will about the shiny-headed SEAL, but he was one helluva boss. "Roger that, 6-Actual. Thanks for the help, over."

"Good hunting, 3-1. Out."

"Wilkins!" I called over the gunfire, tapping his shoulder. "Drop as many Hellfires you want on these fuckers' heads! Boss-man made a believer outta the general!"

The Air Force staff sergeant stared at me for a moment in disbelief before laughing. "Well, looks like Mr. Potato Head has struck again!"

"We've got ourselves a guardian angel, boys, an' it's Commander Spud!" SO3 Jenkins jubilantly interjected as he reloaded his rifle, grinning like an idiot. And hell, I had to agree: converting a flag officer from the religion of Bureaucratic Stupidity to Not-So-Common Sense was a goddamn miracle.

"Mercury 3-6, this is Echo-Charlie! You are cleared hot on the enemy bunker!" And moments later, the missile streaked down from above, slamming into the roof of the bunker and blowing it and its occupants to kingdom come. Now I'm not an explosion fanatic like Hernandez, Jenkins, or Chip, but I had to admit... it was a pretty sight. If nothing, it made Cheetah Company happy, with the Somali commandos intensifying their attack, inspired by the airstrike.

With the gridlock broken, the Somali Special Forces soldiers continued to swarm the camp with lightning speed, their assault unrelenting. And by this point, a few terrorists were attempting to escape in—you guessed it—Toyota pickups and sedans. The Danab commandos, already stretched thin throughout the large terrorist camp, could only stop one of the fleeing sedans... but to quote many a police officer I've talked to, "you can't outrun the radio."

"Mercury 3-6, this is Echo-Charlie. I've got three squirting vehicles moving east, over," SSgt Wilkins called, tracking the sedan and pickups with his binoculars. After an apparent reply from the Reaper drone pilot, he continued the call for fire. "Put some Hellfires on these assholes, over."

The first missile went off the rails, blowing up the sedan with a direct hit. The second missile hit the ground just ahead of one pickup, but since the truck was within the blast radius, it was destroyed. And due to what I could only assume were sudden turns by both the second pickup and the Reaper drone at the same time, the third missile flew directly into the truck's right side, flipping it and ripping it apart in the explosion... like some Michael Bay shit.

"Mercury 3-6, this is Echo-Charlie. Good effect on target. Squirting vehicles destroyed. Thanks for the assist, over," SSgt Wilkins radioed after confirming the destruction of the fleeing fighters.

"Echo 3-1, this is Cheetah 6-Actual," Captain Yussuf called. "I am pleased to inform you that the enemy has been destroyed. I say again, all enemies destroyed. You may begin your search for intelligence material, over."

"Roger, Actual. Thanks for the assist. Out," I signed off before hailing my task unit headquarters yet again. "Cougar Base, this is Echo 3-1. All tangos KIA. Moving to SSE (sensitive site exploitation)."

"Roger, 3-1 moving to SSE," the information systems technician acknowledged. And with that, we collapsed our fighting positions to make entry into the al-Shabaab camp. While a few of the Danab commandos had been wounded, not a single friendly had been killed. On the other hand, only a handful of al-Shabaab fighters had survived, and were already undergoing field interrogation at the hands of some very angry Danab commandos.

Enhanced interrogation imminent, I thought to myself as I walked past the detained terrorists, focusing on the task of SSE. With our Navy EOD technician leading the way, we carefully searched the huts, tents, and destroyed bunkers for anything that could give us actionable intel against al-Shabaab and support our Somali partners in their counterterrorism efforts. After around an hour of searching, I called for extraction: we were done here.

We bid our Danab friends goodbye, with Captain Yussuf shaking my hand before pulling a morale patch—the coat of arms of the Danab Brigade, to include the tabs with the words "DANAB" and "KUMANDOOSKA"—off his right shoulder and handing it to me, a grin on his face. "It was an honor, Lieutenant."

In return, I pulled off my own morale patch—a circular emblem of Task Unit Cougar, complete with a snarling cougar holding a trident in its jaws, a pair of crossed rifles, and the words "SEAL TEAM 4." I slapped my patch on his shoulder and took his with a grateful smile, putting it where TU Cougar's patch had once been. "Fair winds and following seas, Captain."

He and a few of his fellow commandos gave me a salute that I reciprocated, before they loaded up into their modified Hiluxes and began their drive home. As the convoy disappeared into the early morning darkness, I waited alongside the nine men under my command for our Black Hawk to pick us up (according to the AWACS crew, Sinner 5-5 had just crossed the border into Somali airspace). The direct action raid had been a good one: we'd taken dozens of terrorists off the chessboard, and gathered intel on their pals. Plus, we'd strengthened our relationship with our partner forces.

Eventually, Sinner 5-5 arrived at the landing zone, the Black Hawk flaring before finally touching down and allowing us to board. Once we were all in, we took off and began the 70-minute flight back to Camp Lemonnier. I sat on the floor of the cargo bay, my legs dangling off the side of the helicopter as we RTB'd. I glanced towards the east, watching as the sun began to peek out from beneath the horizon.

"AAAAAHHHHHH, SAVENYAAAAAA, BABIBI, SEEVAVAAAAAAA!! BABIBI, SEEVAVAAAAAAA!!" SO3 Jenkins began to sing in a very, very poor rendition of "The Circle of Life" from The Lion King... though in his defense, I sang almost the exact same thing until I actually turned on the subtitles around a year back. The rest of the squad joined in, singing the genuinely iconic—not some bullshit that's "iconic" because some fool on social media said so—song as we flew off into (okay, more like away from, since we were going northwest) the sunrise. Hell, even the pilots, crew chiefs, and I joined in on the fun... it was going to be a long, dull-ass flight... why not sing some silly songs?

"IT'S THE CIIIIIRCLE OF LIIIIIIIIIIFE!!" we chorused when the line arrived, our combined voices a cacophony that would destroy any healthy person's auditory system.

Oh, well. Nobody's perfect.

WELCOME TO THE HORN OF AFRICA!! I thought it'd be cool to be sent at least one member of the cast to an entirely new area of operations. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Erica, Zoe, Nate, or Mike... they'll get their chance to shine soon. It won't be in the next chapter, but the one after that. The next chapter takes us to INDOPACOM's area of responsibility. Hint: it takes place in the second half of 2019.

On the topic of history... did you know that the current administration has been sending money to the Taliban? Y'know, the terror group currently running Afghanistan?

https://youtu.be/pOxlxXa_coM

https://youtu.be/RudLmL9kCSY

And of course, let's not forget the absolute insanity that's been going on in the past few weeks: an attempted assassination that makes no sense, a presidential candidate being installed rather than voted in, and so on... I really wish I wasn't living through so many historical events right now.

But hey, we're here to talk about a bunch of aspiring CIA paramilitary/specialized skills officers... so let's focus on them. Hope you all have been enjoying the story so far.

"Our dead are never dead to us, until we have forgotten them." - George Eliot

Keep this quote in mind as the story continues. As always, thank you for continuing to read, and comment your thoughts! Stay hydrated, stay safe, and I'll see you in the next one!

- ADF-2