At the bottom of the screen, a blue banner read BREAKING NEWS: ATTACK IN NIGERIA.
“I’m looking at it now,” I answered, analyzing the ticker feed scrolling across the bottom of the screen: 3 Americans dead in Lagos, 6 ExxonMobil executives missing. Then I added dryly, “Does this mean we should stop packing?”
Duchess wasn’t amused. “You’re still packing, but not to come home. We’ve got a tip on a location in Sambisa Forest, and it’s possible the hostages will be taken there. It’s thin, but right now it’s all we’ve got. I just sent over the grid.”
I raised my eyebrows at Ian, who had received her message and plotted the point on our mission planning software. He thrust a finger at his screen to orient me, pointing to the far northeast border of the country, the sloped offshoot of Nigeria’s boundaries almost entirely run by Boko Haram.
“Is that our destination?”
“It is now,” she said. “I need you to get moving asap.”
Cancer grabbed Reilly by the shoulder and whispered, “Start packing the van.”
The medic departed as Cancer snatched a notepad and pen off the desk and began to scrawl something as Duchess continued, “You are tasked to conduct special reconnaissance and confirm or deny the presence of hostages at that location in advance of JSOC arrival in-country.”
My stomach sank at the words.
On one hand, we’d gone from being forced out of Nigeria to becoming the lead element in an international hostage rescue effort.
But on the other, we were in no way equipped for a special reconnaissance operation. Our original mission had been a paramilitary incursion into a Boko Haram camp, an in-and-out affair to kill Usman in his sleep at a precise grid location.
Still, I responded quickly, falling back on the adage known to everyone in a leadership position for a ground team: when in doubt, feign confidence.
“We’re on it,” I said. “Will get moving and report back with an ETA.”
Duchess sounded unimpressed. “I’ve got to feed the beast here at Langley. I need your ETA now.”
I heaved a sigh, then said, “Wait one,” and put the phone back on mute.
Ian spoke without prompting. “Driving route is twelve, maybe thirteen hours to the nearest dismount.”
“We’ll plan for thirteen,” I said.
“So if we leave now, we can step off on foot around 2000—two hours after sunset.”
“How long’s the foot movement?”
Ian consulted his screen. “8.2 klicks straight-line distance. Worthy?”
The point man was leaning over Ian’s back, staring at the screen. “What do we know about the Sambisa Forest?”
By now, Ian looked considerably more pale than he had at the start of the call. “It’s a nightmare. Close to 40,000 square miles, who knows how many Boko Haram camps. It’s their ultimate stronghold, very few roads, lots of hills, and between military bombings and failed raids, a hell of a lot of people have died there.”
Cancer didn’t seem to be listening, continuing to scrawl on the notepad in his hand. But Worthy was focused, his eyes darting across the satellite imagery as he concluded, “Minimum six hours to walk all but the last klick. After that it’s anyone’s guess on how long it’ll take us to get eyes-on—enemy’s going to get a say in that. But I’d say we can be one kilometer out from the camp by 0300 tomorrow.”
This answer was satisfactory to me, but not to Cancer; as I reached forward to take the phone off mute, the sniper swatted my hand away.
“No way,” he said. “We’re not considering the equipment we need to get before we roll out.”
I paused, trying to determine the best response. As a trained sniper, Cancer had more experience in reconnaissance than the rest of us put together.
“What do you suggest?”
“We go shopping. Spend two hours getting what we need, hit the forest by 2200, and have seven hours for a dismounted movement before the sun comes up again. Mark my words, getting the supplies we need will be the difference between a successful recon and us getting captured or killed.”
“So what do we need?” I asked.
Cancer consulted the notepad.
“Sewing kits, fishing net, rope, lots of burlap, sandbags, zip lock bags, and tarps. Hand tools, some shovels and hacksaws. Plus scissors, shoe glue, spray paint, newspaper, tent stakes, lime, and binoculars. We’ll have to split up to get it all.”
Looking up from the pad, he concluded, “And that extra two hours puts us one klick out by 0500.”
“All right,” I said, reaching for the phone. “Any more objections, speak now or forever hold your peace.”
When no one spoke, I tapped the button to take the call off mute.
“We can be boots on the ground in Sambisa by 2200, and be in proximity to the objective by zero-five. Expect to have visual on the camp sometime tomorrow afternoon.”
Her reply was almost instant.
“My operations officer says you could be one klick out by 0300.”
“Your operations officer,” I said hotly, “isn’t going eyeball-to-eyeball with Boko Haram. We came here for a surgical strike on Usman, not to crawl around one of the worst hotspots in Nigeria with a dagger in our teeth. I’m looking at a guy who’s forgotten more about reconnaissance than I’ll ever know, and we need to get the right supplies before we can head out. If he says zero-five, it’s zero-five.”
There was a long pause before she replied, “Understood. I’ll send over all data on your objective along with hostage profiles and update en route. And David?”
“Yes?”
“There are a lot of eyes on this one. The hostages are from a private corporation, but I shouldn’t have to tell you that US interests are clearly enmeshed with our oil supply abroad. That’s to say nothing of our economic involvement serving as a stabilizing force in West Africa. The entire administration is taking the gloves off to get this resolved as quickly as possible. Whatever you do, don’t screw this up.”
10
Ian reached for a final section of black fishing net, the material cut two squares wide. Placing the end against a sleeve of the fatigue jacket in his lap, he began sewing the netting strip to the fabric.
There were, however, a few factors complicating the procedure.
First was the bouncing suspension of the media van as it cruised up the highway to Borno State, which bordered Chad and Cameroon on Nigeria’s northeastern corner. Then there was the fact that Ian had—quite regrettably—left his headphones in the safehouse, thus subjecting himself to Tolu’s never-ending soundtrack of rap music.
The final factor that had slowed Ian’s otherwise fairly proficient sewing was addressed now by Worthy, who knelt in the far back of the van.
“On the plus side,” he said in his Georgia drawl, “I’ve never gone into a mission high before.”