The procession marched forward and onto the bird, the ramp closing after them as its engines spooled to full power. Then the aircraft lifted straight up, wobbling slightly as it rose to a hundred feet and then drifted forward, passing out of view over the trees.
Three more Ospreys glided into view, landing in an echelon formation as the Delta operators hoisted parachute kit bags and lined up in chalks to load. My team each grabbed a kit bag to lighten the load from the missing hostage escorts, then took our place in the rightmost line of shooters. We filed between two operators that formed a chokepoint, slapping the shoulder of each man as he passed to maintain a running count. Then our file jogged across the field, following the lead operator onto the Osprey’s ramp, then into the narrow cabin where the lead shooters were dropping their kit bags into the center before stripping their rucks and claiming drop seats. I looked toward the open ramp, counting off the other four members of my team as Cancer gave me a thumbs up to indicate everyone was accounted for.
We didn’t take off immediately; some of the Delta guys had to shuttle a few more kit bags aboard while the final contingent maintained local security. Above the idling roar of the engines, I heard Reilly shouting out to the Delta operators seated around us.
“Hey, you guys got any of those Snickers left?”
It seemed like a badly timed joke that neither I nor anyone aboard would understand; but to my surprise, one of the assaulters procured a candy bar and passed it down the row to him.
“Sweet.” Reilly ripped apart the wrapper. “Thanks, bro!”
Then the ramp closed halfway, the engine noise growing louder as we lifted off and began a vertical ascent.
I caught a final glimpse of the Sambisa Forest out the ramp, a black swath that vanished from view as the Marine pilots banked the Osprey into a hard left turn, toward Abuja.
21
Ian watched David closely, waiting for some response to his extended explanation as they sat in the ad hoc operations center of their Abuja safehouse.
David, for his part, looked like shit—unshaven, bags under his eyes, hair disheveled as he sat there in his T-shirt and boxers.
Ian knew he probably looked just as bad, but sometimes the devil lay in the details.
While everyone else in the team had slept in ahead of Duchess’s call, Ian had been the first one awake. He’d used his time wisely, first calling Tolu to place his order, then making the first pot of coffee and drinking three cups by the time the Nigerian driver arrived with the goods: three dozen eggs, bacon, sausages, and fresh cheese.
Ian hadn’t cooked, of course, leaving that to the next two men awake, both having slept until close to noon: Worthy and Reilly, who began preparing breakfast as Ian pored over intelligence reports, drank more coffee, and grew increasingly confident in his theories, which he’d just finished briefing to David.
Finally, the team leader responded, “I don’t know, man. Seems far-fetched, is all.”
“You’re under-caffeinated,” Ian replied, checking his watch, “and underfed. Go get some food and coffee before Duchess calls.”
David rose and shuffled off, leaving Ian to face his computer and the latest news from this corner of the world—breaking reports of a joint US-Nigerian raid yielding seven hostages and thirteen enemies dead, along with the capture of a high-ranking terrorist. Having been on scene, Ian concluded that the “joint” specification was a concession to the Nigerian government, which was probably notified last-minute of the arrival of US forces to their airspace, then kept completely in the dark as to the target location lest their political staff let the details slip too soon.
Ian took another sip of hot coffee, considering the previous night’s festivities.
The reception at Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport outside Abuja was carefully orchestrated chaos—an entire terminal had been shut down by the Nigerian government, with two Air Force C-17 cargo planes staged on the runway. One was for the Delta Force shooters to return to Fort Bragg, North Carolina, where they’d immediately refit and stand by for the next international crisis. The second bird was for the hostages, who would be transported stateside under the care of a full onboard medical and psychiatric staff, along with military and CIA intelligence personnel to conduct debriefs in the hopes of obtaining any information on the remaining hostage’s whereabouts.
Where Usman had gone remained to be seen—Ian’s team had quietly boarded an unmarked vehicle that the Agency had sent for them, then returned to their Abuja safehouse to await Duchess’s next call. And while Ian remained confident in his assessment that Usman would be transferred to Nigerian custody, he had no earthly idea what his team’s next tasking would be. An American oil executive was still missing—along with, Ian speculated, at least two other unidentified hostages—and while his team’s charter had nothing to do with searching for captured Americans, they’d succeeded in executing an impromptu special reconnaissance mission that resulted in a successful hostage rescue. For that, if nothing else, they should have been justified to receive an assignment in the collective effort that was sure to follow.
Cancer entered the room then, and the sight of him almost made Ian startle with disgust.
He looked about as bedraggled as David had, with a few notable exceptions. While his team leader had the self-awareness to pull on a T-shirt over boxers, Cancer was both shirtless and wearing tighty-whities, with a lit cigarette dangling from his lips as a final affront to any sense of professionalism.
Cancer pulled back a chair and took a seat beside Ian, lifting one sandal-clad foot onto the desk and exposing a pale, hairy thigh crisscrossed with lacerations from the thorn bushes as he spoke with an exhaling puff of smoke. “What’s good, Ian?”
“Please put your leg down. Have some respect.”
Squinting at the computer clock, Cancer took another drag and said, “We’ve got twelve minutes before the call. Fill me in before then, or I’ll hang brain and make you really regret not telling me.”
Aside from not knowing—or particularly wanting to know—what that meant, and having received a less than enthusiastic response from David, Ian spoke quickly.
“Usman may be a sociopath, but he’s smart. I told you last night, it’s all about the number three. He initially demanded the release of two Boko Haram leaders, but surrendered to the Delta guys rather than put up a fight. He wouldn’t do that unless he had an insurance policy in place, and since he wouldn’t go back on his previous demand, that means he staged three hostages in advance to cover the possibility of him being captured.”
Cancer looked unconvinced, taking a leisurely exhale of his cigarette.
“But there’s only one missing executive.”
“You saw those women on the objective,” Ian pointed out. “Mark my words: there are two more where those came from.”
“Who were they, anyway? ExxonMobil would’ve known if any wives went missing.”
“They weren’t wives.”
“Three of those guys were married—”
Ian snorted a laugh. “They were girlfriends.”
“Girlfriends?”