Adult-FanFiction.org : Movies

Operators	By : Saoirse Category: 1 through F > Black Hawk Down Views: 2460 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Black Hawk Down, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Before I begin
my story, I would like to say that Black Hawk Down is an incredible work of
non-fiction and excellent portrayal of actual events in Ridley Scott�s film. I
usually would avoid writing fan fiction about a real person (deceased or not)
because I do not want to offend the families and readers sensitive to this type
of material, especially military personnel (even though I am a staunch Liberal
Democrat) but considering I was moved by the events eleven years ago (I do
remember the situation in Mogadishu because I was obsessed with the war in the
Balkans and the two were paired up in the news programs) and am a bit more
enlightened concerning background events- both civilly and culturally in
Somalia- I couldn�t stay away. My story revolves around life in the hangar and
previous missions a number of weeks prior to the events of 10/3-4/93 fueled by
facts that Bowden provided and of course the film, but I will be playing
favorites with the Deltas since (in this fangirl�s opinion) they didn�t get
enough screen time.

There will be
original characters, humor, and romance but all done tactfully. Keep in mind
that my knowledge of Special Forces surveillance, reconnaissance, intelligence
gathering, seizure techniques and types of weaponry is virtually nil and is
taken from Spy Game, 24, and Alias (I HATE that show!) and am uncertain of equipment names and
appropriate jargon. Also any outside presence at the U.S. Army HQ/Mogadishu
Airport is unrealistic since Rangers and Deltas/Special Forces operate in
complete secrecy, but for this bit of fan fiction that rule�s relaxed since I
enjoy playing God. If you want to correct me feel free to drop me a line or
leave it in your review, but be warned I know the difference between
constructive criticism and flaming so I�m not afraid to blast you in an e-mail.
Other thant, It, I wish you happy reading! Rangers are cool but D-BOYS RULE!!!
SANDERSON! HOOT! SHUGHART! GORDON! WEX! BUSCH!

Disclaimer: I
have no relationship with the living or deceased mentioned in BHD nor do I own
the composite characters. All is accredited to Ridley Scott and Mark Bowden.

Operators

By Saoirse
the Irish Colleen

The Washington Post

August 23, 1993

East Africa�s Wild West:
The Bakara Market

By Lise Davies

Kicking up dust, the rusted technical
toting a dozen militia armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs and rocket
launchers strapped to their backs, bandoliers cartoonishly criss-crossing their
emaciated torsos bounded down the street passersby oblivious to the carnage
ensuing on Marehan Road. A one-room schoolhouse converted from abandoned office
space was fire bombed, the unidentified male teacher�s corpse lay face down in
a shallow sand hill rivulets of his blood baking brown into the concrete. His
crime: suspected of having leftist affiliations. �Everyone�s so paranoid, so it
might not be true. It�s not my business though.� My companion, calling herself
�Meena� brought me to her favorite caf� where we sat in the cordoned off
women�s section under a tattered awning. She took my proffered cigarette but
before I could lend her my Bic a rapid string of gunfire sounded from the
collection of canopies yards away. �He must have new customers,� Meena snorted.

Taariq, whose jaws snap faster than any
seasoned Arkansas cattle auctioneer peddled his heavy artillery wares, fired
rounds straight into the air testing his freshest black market import. It isn�t
odd to see sacks of Brazilian sugar being sold alongside of M-16s and RPGs at
the sprawling open-air Bakara Market in downtown Mogadishu. We shouted small
talk over the combined blast of Somali reggae and the usual din of hundreds
going about their business in this Third World galleria gripped in the iron
fist of the Habr Gidr warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid.

�Don�t misunderstand, peace is
something we pray for, but to have this with another clan we�d rather die.
Americans are blind to this. You destroy our homes and kill our people just for
one man, but our soldiers won�t put down their guns because you do this. We
were happy when you came, the famines stopped. Now you frighten our children
with your missiles and helicopters, you arrest our innocent men dragging them
like animals from the street. What are your reasons?�

Our lunch consisting of steamed white
rice, an oily compote of chicken with hunks of the cooked meat settled at the
bottom of the cracked porcelain clinging to the bone, and bottles of a local
orange soft drink was served, I watched Meena dig in with her fingers and
wondered if I should tell her about the angry whispers of General Ahmen Jilao.
What exactly happened that night outside of the Italian embassy remains
unclear, without doubting the talent and capabilities of our Rangers the men
may be a bit edgy after setting up shop at the defunct Mogadishu Airport.
Perhaps this reporter�s thoughts aren�t vindictive as Meena�s, but she posed an
interesting question, what are the reasons Major General Garrison?

*
* *

The decorated
officer folded the paper and glanced at the date. It had been two weeks since
its publication and the media swarmed the fortuitous arrest of the U.N.
workers, but this blurb was buried in the International section under the
spotlight of yet another failed Soviet coup in the burgeoning democratic
Russian republic. Garrison leaned back in his chair surrounded by the glowing
blue monitors in JOC. The tech was long dismissed and enjoying his dinner
watching the Three Stooges video marathon with the Rangers, so the General was
left to stare at a blank computer screen. Two short raps on the steel door cut
off Garrison�s desert reverie and a long minute ticked by before he answered.
�Come in.�

The balding
head of Lieutenant Colonel Gary Harrell poked in. �Bill, I think you�d better
get out here.� Garrison�s brows knit and affixed his two-star insignia
camouflage baseball cap on his thick silver hair before following Harrell out.
He left the door open to let out the stale coffee and air aroma behind him. The
General, quite accustomed to the typical noise of post-high school grad Rangers
mooching about eating, joking, cussing, sometimes reading or crowded round a
board game. The Deltas comfortably segregated to their little niche in the
hangar under tents and tarpaulins stripping down weapons to either clean or
repair them, loading mags, tinkering with machinery, and some were dozing off.
On the sagging brown leather sofa sat Ranger Captain Mike Steele and Lieutenant
Colonels Danny McKnight and Tom Matthews. Steele stood at attention and
saluted.

�Good evening
gentlemen.� McKnight halfway through a Parliament nodded to the Major General.

�Bill,�
Matthews said eyes never leaving the big screen. Garrison seated himself on the
left armrest and turned to the TV where almost everyone�s attentions were on.
The video marathon concluded early and CNN�s opening sequence ran.

�This is CNN,�
Sergeaom Pom Pilla mimicked the announcer.

�Good evening, I�m Tim Barksdale.
Tonight, the international front takes us to Somalia, East Africa where earlier
in the spring U.S. Marines launched Operation Restore Hope to feed the millions
of starving Somalis terrorized by warlord Mohamed Aidid has become Operation
Hunt Down Aidid. Joining us from the war torn nation�s capital Mogadishu is
CNN�s war correspondent Lise Davies.'
The plasma screen behind Barksdale changed from an enlarged map of Somalia to a
live shot of Pakistani Stadium.

�Good morning Tim,' Lise said.

�And good evening to you, Lise. Sounds
a bit strange considering the time zones.'

�I know what you mean.' The camera zoomed out and panned to
the female journalist standing on a ridge overlooking the U.N.�s stronghold,
immediately whistles and cheers erupted from the young male audience.

�So what are the latest developments in
the conflict? Are there any significant changes within the rebel front?'

�As it pains me to say it Tim, the Mog
is hardly Iraq. Both sides have balked since Aidid�s militia has refused to lay
down arms and enter into a cease-fire let alone any peace accord where the
despot should, by all rights, turn himself in.�

Barksdale
folded his hands atop the desk. �Has
there been any word from the U.N.?�

The brunette�s
sun bleached ponytail swayed. �They have
not released any statement and have stonewalled the media since the ambush that
killed 24 Pakistani troops back in June. But I was fortunate enough to have
gotten closer to the Habr Gidr�s top personnel closest to Aidid to find out
just what exactly are the roots of the American-Somali conflicts, and where the
country will go from here on.' The cameras filtered back to the CNN studio.

�Up next, an exclusive interview with
Aidid�s CFO, Osman Atto. We�ll be right back.' Save for the racket of power tools
working on ground vehicles and helos, all jabbering slowed to a nail-biting
silence. The Deltas put aside whatever they were working on, Dan Busch
stretched out on a bench pushed up the brim of his Raiders cap and Wex hung up
the clipboard he was scribbling on.

�Oh shit.� The
soft whoosh of Sergeant First Class Kurt Schmidt, the unit�s finest medic could
have been heard sitting on the Indian Ocean�s shoreline. None of the men turned
from the set, but their eyes were screwed down feeling the General grind his
molars into the wad of spearmint gurcilrcilessly. Hoot didn�t look up once from
his book, but directed his eyes to Sanderson standing in the clerk�s office
door sipping coffee not at all perturbed by this new and inconvenient
development, but looking almost pleased.

/Keep me in the dark again man, and
those sharks�ll have a new chew toy. /
If Jeff suddenly developed telepathic abilities, Hoot certainly hoped he heard
him. Gordon and Shughart quietly took apart their chessboard.

�Hey Randy,�
Gary whispered. �You keeping score?� Randy smirked at his flaxen-haired
teammate. The news resumed and they were back in Mogadishu that very afternoon,
Lise stood in the same outfit she was wearing in front of the Pakistani Stadium
sans blazer, hair loose and blue tinted
Oakleys perched atop her head. Comments were stifled but silly, lustful
grins split every Ranger�s face. She wore a form fitting black tweed skirt and
a sleeveless mock turtleneck made of white lace.

�Africa: The Dark Continent. Since the
age of exploration the world has been enthralled with it, a place of intrigue
and high adventure. This is where Westerners had their discount holidays to
live out their Joseph Conrad and Dr. Livingstone flights of fancy. But until
the mid 1960�s when the African nations rallied to toss the yoke of European
colonization there have been few functioning governments, the new generation
knows nothing but corruption, tyranny, and bloodshed. To name a few: South
Africa, Zaire, the Congo, Rwanda, Liberia, Sierra Leone, C�te d�Ivoire, and
here the very Horn of Africa, Somalia.'

She glided
through trash-strewn labyrinths, on dainty Keds
Lise padded down the same paths as hopped up militia slaughtered their own
people. 'In 1991 as the world watched the
Iron Curtain fall, Somalia�s Marxist dictator Mohamed Siad Barre was ousted in
a governmental coup, one of its organizers was Aidid himself driven at the
prospects of victory for his clan and a lucrative free market economy that
could ultelytely achieve his goals. This brings us here, the Bakara Market, the
Habr Gidr militia�s stronghold where the U.N. is strictly off-limits. But as
you visit you�ll take note of the interesting juxtapositions; normalcy muddles
through at a frenetic pace and business flourishes amid starvation and
homelessness. There�s no place on earth quite like the Bakara Market where you
can find Honduran bananas, Cuban cigars or coffee, the finest Ivorian Gold
Coast chocolate bars- a personal favorite- and on the shelves below .50
calibers and the infamous AK-47s, yours for just one million Somali shillings.
That�s about $200 dollars American.'

�The fuck,
Jeff! � Sanderson took the pencil and sketchpad from Wex�s lap, tore off a
strip and scrawled something.

�Mass migration has turned this leveled
city into slums of biblical proportion and yet there are the unabashed wealthy
and powerful living lives of decadence if you look hard enough. Tribalism has
sapped the coffers of would-be governments dry thickly lining the pockets of
warlords and their henchmen, who�s footing the bill? Millions of innocent men,
women, and children fighting for and against men like Aidid.' The market faded to Lise strolling the
decrepit Olympic Hotel�s courtyard. �1993
is coming to a close, and as we approach the 21st Century we wonder why places
in the world, like Mogadishu, haven�t changed since Mohamed left his footprints
in the sand. In a few minutes I will be granted access into Aidid�s secret sect
for an exclusive interview with his personal banker, Osman Atto.' Parting
the way for the journalist were dozens of militia and mooryan spread out on the
dirt courtyard, hanging the on dry fountains, prowling the loggias. Lounging on
a sooty white wicker chair was Atto, a pearline smug smile on his face
appreciativedmirdmiring Lise�s curvaceous form. The 120 soldiers� murderous
glares at the podgy terrorist were crushing enough to destroy him alone. Atto
took Lise�s hand in both of his and shook it.

�Miss Davies.'

�Mr. Atto.' He gestured for her to take the seat
across from him. One of the soldiers, a boy of sixteen with a machine gun that
weighed more than him dangled from his shoulder set a tray on the 30-year-old
plastic table cloth. He poured the tea from a stained silver pot into a pair of
mugs, a pile of cream biscuits sat on a chipped china platter. �Mr. Atto, I�ll ask you two questions during
this entire interview. The first now and the last at the end.'

He laughed
heartily. �Such is your assertive style.
But you are honest, which is why I will only speak with you.'

�Mr. Atto what do you think Mr. Aidid
can do for Somalia, and why does such animosity exist between the Somalis and
the Americans?' Atto
cleared his throat and tapped embers from his Bolivar.

�There is nothing personal between the
Americans and myself. I like your country; many great things come from it.
Especially your television entertainment. But Somalis believe that Americans
suffer not from ignorance- no, no but from misinformation. If you search for
one man why must your Rangers sacrifice thousands of innocents? And what does
your country think it will accomplish by capturing this one man? Americans have
a narrow vision; your kind of right is not for us. Jeffersonian democracy
cannot work in our world- it has no place. You want peace, yes? As do my
children and I. But for there to be peace one must be victorious, and for even
people like you Miss Davies it is inadvisable for you to stay here. This is our
war, not yours.' Atto
took a languid pull off his cigar.

�One final question, Mr. Atto.� He nodded. �Might you be able to get me an interview with Mr. Aidid?' The
smile Atto gave her was more brilliant than his last. He lifted the teapot.

�More tea, Miss Davies?'

Lise lifted
her mug. �Please.' The tape cut and
Lise�s live shot faded in.

�Powerful, angry words,' Jim commented.

Lise solemnly
acquiesced. �No argument here.'

�Lise give us
your impression of Mr. dur during your meeting. What was he like outside of
the fighting?� She took a deep breath.

�Engaging, articulate, well educated
and sophisticated. He spoke at length about his family and reminisced about his
life before the war. Religious, a decisive mind and utterly ruthless. I don�t
think I felt more terrified in my life.'

Randy Shughart
rolled a toothpick across his tongue. �Bullshit,� Gordon handed him a can of Sprite. �She ain�t afraid of nothin�.�
Nelson nibbled on his cuticles, his eyes sprinting between Sergeant Eversmann seated
on a crate flipping through his journal and Specialist Mike Kurth on the
recliner, hands folded pressed to his nose wondering if Atto made an indirect
threat. Nelson tapped his commanding officer�s knee.

clasclass=MsoNormal>�Hey Matty,�
Eversmann looked down at Shawn.

�Yeah?�

�What do you
think?�

�About the
interview?� Nelson nodded. �I hope he�s wrong. In fact, I believe he is. I
mean, look around you,� Eversmann geed ted to the open hangar door, �there�s
nothing more that the Somalis want is to have peace and guys like him put
away.� The murmuring that resurfaced once again silenced when the General got
up the sofa�s armrest. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

�Mike?�

The Ranger
captain stood. �Sir?�

�Get me
Sanderson.� And Garrison stalked to his office.

n stn style='font-family:"Palatino Linotype"'>�Yes sir.�
Steele�s unrestrained glee at the thought of disciplinary action finally taken
against the boisterous Deltas was exhibited in a tiny, shit-eating grin. In the
weeks occupying the airport, it became apparent that the older soldiers were
corrupting his Rangers because the cracks in their programmed discipline began
to show. A few began to question orders, hinted at a lack of orderliness, and
took the initiative when it was most inappropriate. While Steele encouraged
creative thought during combat, he most certainly oted ted to the Deltas
contempt of rank and the Army�s chain of command. However the captain
begrudgingly acknowledged that the operators were good at their jobs. He tapped
Sanderson�s shoulder.

�The General
is requesting an audience with you.� Sanderson bit his tongue but Steele saw
the cool-headed Delta sergeant�s blue eyes darken, something he didn�t catch
during past altercations and surely not a trick of the terrible florescent
lighting. Garrison wandered about his �office�. Pitched tents draped with
mosquito netting protection from the malarial pests and camouflaged mesh. A
trio of long folding tables, maps of Mogadishu, Somalia, and blown up spy
photos taken by Orion. Red flags marked the spots where previous missions took
place. He paused before one particular map covered with a dual colored sheet of
acetate, green depicting the U.N. Safe Zone, which were the majority of the
capital and a chunk of red indicating the Hostile Area. A square of the Black
Sea marked off the Bakara Market, Post
Its and yellow legal pad sheets outlining mission templates were taped up
everywhere. The sound of boots and Busch�s flip-flops crunching on the sandy
planks grew louder as the Delta command team sidled in. Garrison sucked his
teeth.

�I don�t
know,� the former Delta commander said shoving his hands in his pockets, �you
know what I had to do to get you here?�

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise�~

�Can�t blame
her though,� Trip sighed. �But we�re done here.� Hoot looked questioningly at
him. �Shipping out over the next 48 hours. If not, our insurance premiums go
sky high.� He cackled.

�And a l�il
interesting tidbit has been floating around the sand dunes,� Maxine began, �the
Italian and British embassies have been evacuating their people on the quiet.�

�That is an
interestin� footnote.� Hoot said. �Will Imelda be joinin� y�all?�

�Are you
kidding?� Trip looked aghast. �The only way she�d be willing to leave is in a
big pine box. Besides, if she is hot on the heels of Aidid�s top political
advisor her station manager wouldn�t have it.�

~�I thought that I was in heaven

But I was sure surprised

Heaven help me, I didn't see

The devil in your eyes

You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise~

Things were
not looking up and the contingency plan would have to be carried out. �Hey
conga line!� Trip shouted and joined the row of linked reporters circling the
room to Cuban Pete. Kellner and
Butterworth whirled about, cheek-to-cheek doing an exaggerated tango dancing to
their own off-key voices.

�~�And we have music, all right

Tearing the night

A song

Played on a solo saxophone

A crazy sound

A lonely sound

A cry that tells us

Love goes on and on

Played on a solo saxophone

It�s telling me

To hold you tight

And dance

Like it�s the last night

Of the world�~�

Kellner
twirled Vicki away watching her spin into the conga line. Richard whipped off
his cap and mopped his brow grabbing a bottle of Poland Spring. He
approached the hookah on a plant stand and as he took a few puffs he caught a
glimpse of the activity in a corner of the room in the dark glass urn. Maxine
claimed Hoot�s knees and pecked him on the end of his nose. He tickled the
small of her back. The margarita clouds parted and Richard took a good look at
Hoot, panic welling up. The vibes weren�t feeling right anymore.

�So where you
from, Gibson?�

�Fort Worth.
You?�

�Clearwater,
Florida.�

�Nice place,
huh?�

Maxine
shrugged. �If you�re into swamps.�

/I�ve seen a few. /

�So tell me
Gibson from Fort Worth, have you ever made love on a beach with bullets flyin�
over your head?�

�There�s a
first time for everything.� /Maintain
radio silence, and fuck you all! / In the jeep Busch cracked up, Wex swore
up a blue streak. They dawdled for about an hour until departing arm in arm as
the merriment wound down. Richard trailed behind them keeping his distance not
going farther than the flagpole watching the lusty pair vanish in the direction
of the waves. In the black expanse Richard heard the faint motor of the jeep
tear off. Not good. Not good. Not good.

~Hawlwadig
Road, September 6 8:18 A.M. ~

Lise left one
of the balcony doors open catching a nice sea breeze during the night. The
floor was swept clean and Howa brought her up a bucket of heated water to wash
in. Lise folded up the cotton sheets and left them on the mattress. She seated
herself at a mismatched plastic chair and table set to apply her make up and
review her notes while waiting for Richard. Waadi was the only person who knew
the location to the new place his younger brother, Assad, and his other militia
friends were staying. If their info were reliable, Salad would get the prime time
slot. The two-storey building was made of clay, whitewashed in salmon with
paint chipped green shutters and doors. Waadi�s candy shop and hamburger stand
was ground level always bustling, and serving the customers was his wife Howa
they lived in the flat above with their brood. The children were at school so
it was thankfully quiet save for the sounds of cooking below. Lise stood out on
the balcony and watched the morning shopper commute clog the streets like a
backed up aorta, and across the way was the Olympic Hotel. This was the Africa
she knew so well. This was the place that Hemingway and Conrad preached to her
closeted in a nook of her grandfather�s house. It was almost picturesque, the
way it was supposed to be unspoiled by foreign hands. Almost.
On the street
Delta dispersed. Hoot showed up around 3500 at the rendezvous, a Cheshire cat
grin from ear to ear. Wex shot him a dirty look before going back to the USA
Today sports page. Armed with cameras, knapsacks, AP tags clipped to shirts or
dangling from their necks, and their .9 mm�s tucked away they took to the
streets in two man teams: Wex and Busch; Shughart and Gordon; Hoot and
Sanderson. Jeff strolled down the sand swept street, a Nikon around his neck
ignoring every armed skinny giving him a second glance. He was a 6�1 ��
semi-serious body builder, you do not fuck with him, he fucked with you. They
let him be. He loitered around the Olympic Hotel rapt with a group of militia
enveloping a smaller group of unarmed men exiting the front doors, climbed into
a brand new red SUV and the militia piled onto technicals and took off. Lise
opened up the other balcony door and watched the clan leaders and their
bodyguards vacate the market. She propped her elbow up on the ledge, fist to
temple. Jeff turned round and looked up. He saw Lise�s smile in profile as she
watched some kids run down the street waving sticks. He lifted the camera to
his eye and shot. Her wheat-gold and cocoa powder hair sparkled in the sun. She
wore what looked like a white tank top with a frill going down the middle; Jeff
hoped it was a nightie.

/Look this way� look this way� look
this way� look this way�/
As if he willed it, Lise caught him in the corner of her eye and looked down at
him. She was almost forced to cram her fist into her mouth to keep from
laughing at this tall white guy waving at her to come down. She knew better.

�Come here.�
Jeff mouthed hand signaling. Lise signaled back.

�No you come
here.� Jeff threw his arms up so wonderfully distracted that he didn�t see Kellner
walking down the other way and go into the shop. The cameraman greeted Waadi
who poured him a glass of tea and pointed to the stairs. On his way up he waved
to Howa and took a sip from the glass, promptly making a face. He was a Maxwell man, not Tetley�s.

�Yo, chief!�
Lise turned from Jeff whose second vain attempt to entice her down to Richard
standing in her doorway. �Tea, milady. What are you doing?� Lise waved to shoo
him back into the hall.

�Stay there,�
she hissed. Going back to Jeff she smiled and shrugged. �Sorry,� she mouthed.
�Bye.� And went back into the bedroom. Jeff cursed kicking the dirt, but
stopped short when something came to mind.

�What the hell
is going on? What the fuck-!� Lise pushed Richard to the threshold of the
balcony where they could get a view of the street without being seen. Jeff
walked a few paces down to meet Hoot popping out of a doorway.

�I spy with my
little eye, Special Operations.� She picked up his arm and waved his hand.
�Wave to the nice Delta-man.� The coals in Richard�s stomach began to smolder
thinking back to last night�s party. Luckily Lise hadn�t seen his tortured
eyes, or all hell would have broken loose. �C�mon, we�ve got work to do. Isn�t
it sick how these guys just stand out? The unit should really work on that.�

* * *

Lise and
Richard waddled down the streetghteghted down with a hemp bag containing 65
lbs. of khat to the van parked deep into the bowels of interconnected alleyways
behind a militia patroned brothel.

�Did Waadi
leave?� Richard asked.

�Yeah.� They
hefted the sack into the back and slammed the doors.

�So where is
this place?�

normal'>Gold Coast chocolate.
�Now, we
should talk about making arrangements for next time.� Waadi drew his lips in
tight cutting his eyes away. �Waadi?�

�It is
impossible,� he whispered.

��Impossible�?
Waadi what-� their eyes met and Lise saw the terror in his otherwise placid
exterior. She opened her mouth but snapped it shut when a bunch of mooryan
indolently strolled by in animated conversation, slapping each other�s
shoulders chewing khat. They waited until they were down the street to resume
speaking. �Were you threatened? Were the children-� she pointed in their
direction when he lifted a hand to quiet her and shook his head.

�Not yet.�

�Waadi,
listen. You know I have been straight with you the whole time. When I spoke to
your people, it ended up on TV just as I said.�

�I have seen
this.�

�So rest
assured when I say that we�re CNN, not CIA.� Waadi folded his hands one atop
the other.

�Maybe so. But
what about your friends?�

�My�?� Waadi
screwed his eyes up indicating for her to look in that direction. Lise turned
her head slightly and saw Wex and Busch on the second floor veranda of the
Olympic Hotel fg thg the opposite direction. Busch leaned his chair on its hind
legs against the wall, his Islanders cap pulled down low over his damp mop of
shaggy curls. He was dressed in white Bermudas, a Lakers jersey, and a Hawaiian
shirt. Wex stood, hands clutching the railing, a cigarette dangling from his
mouth. Lise could make out a blotchy smudge at the corner of his left eye
spreading to his temple behind his shades. He looked comfortable in khakis and
a short sleeved white pinstriped shirt. Lise gulped down her tea and slid Waadi
the envelope before departing. He opened the flap and counted $1,000 dollars;
Miss Davies was honest and knew that it could get her killed in this world. So
he prayed that those American men that he�d seen hanging around for the past
week would send her from Somalia before the evening prayer.

* * *

�Can�t catch
me! Can�t catch me!� Richard chanted, Waadi�s children racing after the
cameraman in a crude game of tag. A single half naked olive tree stood in their
barren yard; it was pitifully ignored as the children enjoyed the charred fire
bombed shell of a Chevy that had been there long before they could remember.
After they dog piled on Rich he propped himself up on the razed car�s trunk,
his shirt sticking to his back. The rear window was blackened but intact, and
while he fixed his hair Richard was able to make out the faint image of someone
in the alley adjacent of them. Behind a wall pockmarked from shelling and poor
English graffiti sitting on a trashcan was Gordon. He clapped his hands to get
the kids� attention. �Okay kids, gather round! Gather round!�

He took his
time explaining the new game they would be playing: hide and seek. Richard took
the eldest, Jamila and brought her to the tree instructing her that she will
have to cover her eyes and count to ten to let everyone find a hiding spot and
she would have to find them. It was agreed that this new game sounded fun and
they should try it. Jamila covered her eyes, turned to the tree trunk and began
counting. Her siblings scrambled, Richard collected his cameras and went into
the house. After a few tense minutes of watching Jamila hunt around for her
brothers and sisters Howa called her children into the house for lunch. Gordon
saw the other four kids jump out of their well-concealed hiding places in the
car, which he assumed they also used during firefights.

*Kilo 1-3, this is Kilo 1-1. Come in.* Gordon�s earbud transmitter crackled
with Hoot�s voice.

�I receive you
Kilo 1-1ordoordon spoke into the ultra sensitive mic pinned in his shirt.

*Talk to me Gordy. *

�Kellner was
in sight with the kids goofing off in the yard, but he disappeared into the
house a few minutes ago.�

*How do you mean �disappeared�? *

�As in he went
into the house and hasn�t come back out.�

*The kids? *

�Waadi�s wife
called them inside.� Hoot still at the fish stand itched to blow something
away.

*What were they doing, Kilo 1-3? *

e"'>�Whatever kids
do, playin� a game!�

*Such as? * Gordon backtracked to Kellner talking
to Jamila then getting his shit together before high tailing it out of there.

�Oh Christ!�
Gordon tore off.

*Kilo 1-2-*

*I�m on it! * Shughart said. Hoot left his position,
mounted his bike and made a beeline for the van on the side streets of Via
Lenin and Armed Forces.

* * *

Lise pushed
through the market trying to avoid walking too fast, at the same time looking
over her shoulder for Busch and Wex. She worked her way through automobile and
donkey cart traffic to keep moving, but Lise knew better than to think she
could shake Delta. Only one of her eight cousins retired from the deeply covert
laid it out for her bluntly should she run into any on assignment: they got all
bases covered. She found herself under the tent of a house ware hawker trying
to duck behind the hole ridden flaps.

�Hsssst!� Lise
jumped when she heard something behind her. �Hsssst!� It was coming from a
cluster of rolled oriental carpets reeking of mold and old hemp rope.

�Lise!�
Richard was hidden behind the carpets with a fern leaf in front of his face.

�Richard! What
the fuck are you doing?� He was about to retort but yanked her behind the
carpets. �What�s the matter with you?�

�Sssh!� He put
a finger to his lips. �Chuck and Lee three o�clock!� (A/N: Chuck Norris and Lee
Marvin were in the �85 action hit The Delta Force) Richard pointed when Shughart and Gordon walked by.
Squatting down Lise was bereft of oxygen and tried to calm down. Were they
being tailed? Did anyone beside Waadi know? But most importantly, why?

�We can�t stay
here.�

�Obviously!�
Richard snapped, Lise slapped a hand over his mouth.

�Not so
fucking loud!� She removed her hand. �We gotta move, get back to the van.�

�How? What if
there�s more of them?�

�There are
more of them!� The cameraman went pale. �Now�s not the time for that,� Lise
cautiously left the carpets and checked a side street that went along in the
opposite direction to where they were headed. �C�mon, we�re going this way.�

Richard
grabbed her wrist. �But the van�s parked behind that whorehouse! That way goes
to National; we�ll have to walk halfway around the city!�

�That�s the
point!� She hauled him up by the scruff of the neck and fled.

* * *

A sweaty Hoot
pulled up to the van, Sanderson let him in. �Griz and Busch sighted them up on
National. They�re taking the scenic route.� Hoot splashed a bit of water from
the bottle Jeff handed him on his face.

�So what do
you wanna do?� The two soldiers stared at one anothointointedly, their quandary
hanging between them. After a while Sanderson nodded.

�You�re right,
let�s take �em in.� Hoot got behind the wheel.

* * *

Gary and Randy
were having a hell of a time keeping up with the news lady and her sidekick.
Lise hadn�t looked back once but felt their presencerwherwhelm her so when they
turned into another alleyway she refused to take another step.

�Why are we
stopping?� Lise ignored Rich digging through her purse.

�Can�t� find�
my goddamn lighter!�

�Excuse me?!�
Rich looked down the street, and as expected, saw no one. Randy and Gary were
at the end of the alley behind the walls on either side of the entrance.

�Maintain
positions,� Randy said.

*Roger. *
Busch answered. Giving up, Lise spotted a crate despoiled by wood rot, kicked
off the newspaper making the chicken feathers on it fly, and sat down.

�Y�know if I
don�t sit for a minute, I�ll start screamin� and we�re all going to die.�
Richard lit himself one and tossed his lighter to Lise. �Thanks.�

�Keep it. I
got a dozen more back in the truck.� They smoked in silence and flicked the
butts into the dirt.

�Yo, Rich.�

�Yeah?�

�Free piece of
advice?�

He threw his
arms up. �Why not.�

�Don�t run. If
Delta perceives you as a threat they will shoot you.� He puckered his lips as
if to say �what� but just pointed down the alley.

�So you�re
saying that Surfer Dude and Pee-Wee are packin�?!�

��Surfer
Dude�?� Gordon mouthed to Shughart.

�.9 mm
pistols.� Lise lit up another cigarette.

�How can you
tell?!�

Lise grinned.
�That�s the whole point asshole.�

�You mean
they�re not carrying their, y�know� big shit?� Lise looked at him
incredulously.

�That would
defy the whole purpose of covert operations.�

�No! That�s
not what I-� Richard threw his hat violently into the wall behind him.

�It�s their
sidearm, for God sakes!� Richard sat Indian style on the ground and toyed with
his hat. �CQB. Close Quarters Battle...� But Lise was talking more to herself
than her friend.

�Y�know, now
more than ever do I not want to know what you get up to during family
reunions.� Lise guffawed. �I don�t get it, why do they think that we�d be a
threat? Why are theyng tng this to us in the first place?� Lise lolled her head
to one side, in her peripheral vision she could just make out a tiny corner of
Shughart�s Yankees jersey sleeve.

�I suppose
General Garrison follows my work more than I anticipated.�

�Thought that
your dad had that honor.�

�You know what
they say about reopening old wounds.�

Richards
laughed. �Yeah� I remember reading this old transc fro from one of his last
interviews. Y�know, the one with Diane Sawyer?� Lise nodded.

�I know.�

�So what was
the snafu between him and gramps back in �Nam?� This time Lise laughed
mirthlessly.

�Did you know
that Green Beret is just another term for �gun-toting nut�?�

�So who isn�t
like that in your family, despite the difference in uniform that is?� Lise
crushed out her cigarette against the crate.

�Choose your
poison: straight jacket or coffin? Listen Richman man can only take so much.
And when you�ve heard nothing but nationalistic propaganda from someone all your
life you might do something drastic like dropping out of college to join the
Peace Corps protesting the draft. Then you stumble into this little journalism
thing because you keep a pretty good diary of picking up body parts in Khe
Sahn, meanwhile you�re hooking up this CBS guy with the best beer and shrimp
this side of the Mekong who happens to think it might make good press. But to
make things more complicated you got your old man in Da Nang under some tent
commanding a Special Forces unit, and screamin� that his son is frightening the
good, clean American people with carnage tales instead of being in the trenches
where he belongs.�

Suddenly the
world shrunk, Lise having aired out her entire family�s notorious history of
death out on the frontlines, suicide, or slow spiral into insanity. But she had
hoped if either of those idiots shadowing them heard this second gen military
brat�s feelings about the armed forces she illustrates in everything she has
written would have a bit of leniency.
&;
�Look, don�t
think I don�t know how they feel about this new administration. For us this is
an overdue change, because of men like our commander in chief we can do our
jobs. Leave it up to guys like Garrison, everything but the Right to Bear Arms
would be suspended.�

�Actually,�
Richard interjected, �I don�t vote. I never get what I want in the end.� Lise
threw her head back and laughed, as did Richard. As they recovered from their
giddiness Rich shook his head, disbelieving that Lise talked about something so
personal at the worst time. �Lise, you and I can afford to look at the big
picture because that�s in the job requirement. In theirs, they can�t, and you
know that better than I do.� Lise nodded knowing why men chose this life had
reasons that no one could understand. Whether or not men gave or took their
lives it was over. It was something she was unwilling to go through again, but
since that morning on the balcony something told her she was fucked if she
didn�t get out of the Mog soon.

�I just� I
can�t�.� She whispered.

�What?� Lise
rose up and slung her purse back over her shoulder, she beckoned to Richard who
looked at her questioningly. Lise took his arm and began to walk.

�We need to
reach the van,� her voice was above a whisper.

�I�ve been
saying that.� They continued to walk slowly to the end of the alley and around
the corner then stopped.

�When we get
out of the alley, we�re going to split up and meet at the van.� Richard
goggled, staying silent because he would be the one to scream

�What do you
mean, split up? We�re gonna miss each other!� He ground out. Rich was skating
on thin ice; Lise clawed his ear with her French manicured nails.

�If you stay
put how will you miss me?� It was too painful to nod.

�Ahh� I see
your point.� Lise freed him, Richard�s head snapping back. They went as far as
a courtyard and took off in separate directions. Gordon and Shughart saw
Richard heading for another shantytown of ramshackle sheds made of scrap sheet
metal, cardboard and trash, Randy went after him. Gordon saw Lise run back down
National and pursued her. The cameraman jumped through houses, scooted under
chicken wire fences until coming upon a main road able to duck into the mob.
Randy, unable to draw his weapon was frustrated when he saw Richard vanish.
Lise bolted through open doorways and running out the back entrances, got lost
in a caravan, and finally came upon a cab whose driver was taking a cigarette
break. She let herself into the back and flashed the driver a Ben Franklin who
then tossed his cigarette and started the car.

Richard was
forced to lay face down at the bottom of the donkey cart, almost crushed by the
sheer weight of the junk that was collected nearly did him in. He leapt out
just as the driver approached Hawlwadig; he could walk it from there. Richard
felt his heart decelerate when he saw the van and threw his hat inside. He was
about to light up again when Wex materialized from the back of the truck.

�Mr. Kellner?�
Rich turned around and spat out the cigarette.

�Holy fuck!�

�Hey Rich,
let�s take it easy� we only want to talk to you man.� Busch came from around
the corner. The Deltas didn�t seem threatening, but Richard was not taking any
chances.

�Fuck this! I
ain�t selling my soul to the man!� He threw his camera bag into Wex�s chest and
tried to make a break for it, but Busch tackled the slender cameraman. While
Busch wasn�t as tall as his teammates, his girth of well-proportioned fat and
muscle made up for it. Richard held his own putting up a struggle, managing to
knee Busch in the gut with little success. Busch had Richard pinned down long
enough to twist his arms round his back and lugged him to his feet where Wex
took him down with a well placed kick to the femoral artery.

�Sorry man.�
Busch said. Wex took the groaning man�s feet.

�You take that
end, I got this.� Randy showed up as his teammates lowered Rich to the ground
near the CNN van.

�You got him?�

�Yeah,� Wex
said.

�What about
this?� Randy asked jutting his thumb at the van. Wex uppedpped the keys from
Richard�s belt loop and openp thp the back doors before tossing them to
Shughart.
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Operators

Operators