One Intrepid Seal

The helmsman opened up the throttle and sent the boat skimming through the marshlands of the headwaters of the Congo River.

The hostages had been taken three days ago. Their captors might be getting antsy and ready to kill them and cut their losses. Thus the need for speed, covering as much ground, or river, as possible that night. If all went well and they didn’t get lost in the maze of tributaries, they might make it to the extraction location within a few hours.

Diesel and his team had been over and over the maps and satellite images provided by the Military intelligence gurus back in Langley, Virginia. Those were the guys who poured over hundreds of satellite images a day to locate threats or, in this situation, find the location of a kidnapped person being held for ransom. They sat behind their desks, staring at computer screens all day, and sometimes all night, long.

A shiver of revulsion slipped over Diesel. He’d rather shoot himself than man a desk inside an office all day long. Though extraction missions could be tricky and highly dangerous, he’d still rather face the danger than the boredom.

The military didn’t always get involved in hostages being held for ransom. “We don’t negotiate with terrorists” being the mantra repeated every time the hostage wasn’t “worth” saving. But when the captive happened to be the Secretary of Defense’s son, strings got pulled and men deployed.

Ferrence Klein, of the Manhattan Kleins, and the son of the Secretary of Defense, Matthew Klein, had been taken hostage by a Congolese rebel faction and was being held for ransom, along with his bodyguard, Reese Brantley.

The official story out of Africa indicated Klein had been on a wild-game hunt and had gotten ahead of his guides, on the other side of the border, in Zambia.

Their vehicle had been set upon by Congolese rebels. Once the SUV had come to a halt, the driver ran away, and the rebels took Klein and Brantley into custody. Some of the witnesses claimed the driver was paid to bring the vehicle to the rebels and was allowed to go free once the deed was done.

A video message was broadcast on the Al Jazeera television network with Ferrence blubbering about paying the ransom or whatever it took to get him out of the jungle and back home to his beloved Manhattan. He didn’t mention his bodyguard. The team could only assume Brantley was still alive, so they planned on bringing back two civilians.

Using the GPS, the helmsman navigated the river, speeding along as fast as he could in the growing darkness, skimming past what appeared to be drifting logs in the murky water. Those logs turned out to be crocodiles, floating on the surface. As the SOC-R neared, the crocs dove deep into the dark river, leaving no indication they’d been there other than a gentle rippling wave.

A chill slithered across the back of Diesel’s neck. He did not want to fall into the water. He’d rather face a dozen Congolese rebels with only a knife than an African crocodile and its mouth full of razor-sharp teeth.

He spent the next couple hours on alert, watching the shoreline 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.

Chapter Two (#uf60fe08d-6982-5313-8852-41cb415e065d)

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.