“My office is down to two, my deputy is on home leave, and the ambassador wouldn’t approve of using the marines. Something happens out there and we lose our embassy watchstanders.” He watched Gable’s reaction before he spoke again. “We might be in luck. Two SEALs from Team Eight working with AFRICOM are here doing embassy-evacuation surveys. They might be willing to help.” He picked up a phone, and in two minutes the SEALs knocked on the door.
They were both in their twenties, lean and quiet. They wore jeans and flip-flops. Senior Chief Petty Officer Gilbert “Gil” Lachs was blond and freckled. He was a breacher, a demolitions expert, who could open a can of peaches with a few grains of RDX without spilling the syrup. Petty Officer First Class Richard “Ricky” Ruvo, was Italian swarthy with Staten Island wise-guy eyes. He was a sniper who could drive a nail into a tree at fifteen hundred yards. They sat slumped in chairs, arms crossed over their stomachs, looking at Gable like sleepy leopards on a tree limb.
“I need some backup. I figure we get a truck with a winch and drag those cases out of the mud,” said Gable. He turned to Bianchi. “What we got for weapons?”
“Not much,” said Bianchi. “Glocks in 9mm and Remington 870s. We have rifled slugs and buck.” Gable nodded.
“Glad to help,” said Ruvo. “I’ll stand overwatch while you guys get the cases.”
“Bullshit,” said Lachs. “I outrank you. You get in the mud.”
“Gil, you can’t hit shit,” said Ruvo.
“I always shoot first and call whatever I hit the target,” said Gable.
The SEALs nodded. An unspoken code had been transmitted and received: Gable was okay. “You CIA guys still recruiting frogmen?” asked Lachs, whose time in the Teams was running short.
“Yeah, we got a whole division that teaches squids how to use a knife and fork,” said Gable. “But it’s filling up fast.”
Ruvo, Lachs, and Bianchi all laughed.
It was pitch-black when Gable drove the F-350 truck in second gear across the dusty field with lights doused, and put the nose of the truck into the break of the riverbank scrub. There was a dilapidated fisherman’s shed made of irregular sheets of corrugated tin at the river’s edge. Lachs peeked through a gap in the metal and shook his head. Empty. Ruvo shoved five Sabot shells into the 890, jacked the slide, and clambered up onto the roof of the cab. He did a 360 turn and whispered okay. Gable and Lachs put their pistols into their belt holsters at the smalls of their backs. Silently cursing Gondorf, Gable went knee-deep into the mud, pulling the wire rope off the spool, while Lachs stood beside the winch, holding the remote controller. A tactical flashlight between his teeth, Gable waded to the nearest case, put the snap hook onto one of the metal handles, and waved to Lachs. The truck swayed a little, but the ninety-five-hundred-pound pull of the winch broke the suction and the case slithered up the bank. One down, eleven to go.
An hour later, there were three more cases left, but Lachs had to get in up to his thighs to help Gable dig away mud so they could clip on to a handle. The two of them were on either side of a partially buried case, flashlights in their mouths. Lachs’s back was to the black river. Then it happened. A warning shout from Ruvo came seconds before a fourteen-foot Nile crocodile erupted out of the water behind Lachs in an explosion of spray, jaws open. Unable to move in the mud, Lachs could only throw himself across the top of the muddy case. Gable never moved faster in his life. He drew his pistol and pumped all seventeen 9mm rounds into the croc’s cotton-white mouth, but it only shook its head and slammed its jaws down on Lachs’s buttocks. Perhaps distracted by Gable’s light, the croc miraculously did not bite down on flesh, but rather hooked an eye tooth on Lachs’s hip holster, tore his cargo pants down to the ankles, shook its head, spit out the gun, and turned to bite again.
Ruvo’s shotgun barked from the bank. A two-inch spot between the croc’s eyes spouted blood and the croc collapsed in the mud, its tail whipping twice, its walnut-sized brain vaporized. The sounds of the shots echoed over the river and across the fields. A dog began barking. Gable looked at Lachs, who gave a thumbs-up. They both looked at the black water, specifically at two more gray shapes moving toward them. “Fuck this,” said Gable, who quickly threaded the snap hook through the handles on the first, then the second, then the third case, and gave Ruvo the sign. The winch groaned, the handles bent, the cases groaned and popped, but all three broke free and slid up the bank. Gable and Lachs pulled each other onto dry land, the grunts of crocs in the river behind them. Lachs was pantless and muddy to his chest.
“First time I ever saw a croc give someone a wedgie,” said Ruvo.
“Thanks for getting that fucker off me,” said Lachs. “Slug went right by my left ear.” Ruvo had snapped the twenty-yard head tap with a shotgun’s iron sights, in low light, from the upper bank, a remarkable shot.
“I was gonna wait to see how big a croc’s dick was, you bent over like that,” said Ruvo. Lachs flipped him the bird.
They finished loading the filthy cases onto the truck when the sound of an approaching jeep came out of the night, its headlight beam bouncing as the jeep jounced over the dried furrows in the field. Militia.
“Heads up, ladies,” said Gable out of the side of his mouth. He seated a new magazine into his Glock.
“None of these fuckers goes home,” said Ruvo, holding his shotgun slightly behind his leg.
The jeep pulled close, its engine windmilling until it fell silent. The four men in the jeep wore a collection of watch caps, kepis, and berets. The Americans stood in the light of the single working headlamp. The driver stood up in his seat and said “Kayfa halak?” His tattered, sweat-stained shirt was unbuttoned. The passenger also stood up in his seat to look at the men over the filthy cracked windshield. No weapons were visible. The driver again yelled “Kayfa halak?” to raucous laughter. The passenger pointed at Lachs’s bare legs, said something, and spit on the ground, to additional laughter.
“That guy likes your package, Gil,” said Ruvo.
“These fuckers are all loopy, chewing khat all day,” whispered Gable.
The driver reached down beneath the dashboard and tugged on the barrel of an AK-47. “Weapon,” barked Ruvo, who brought up the shotgun, shot through the windshield, and blew the driver off the jeep in a cloud of pulverized glass. Gable shot the passenger in 1.5 seconds with a double tap in the chest, and a third round in the head, a triple called The Mozambique. The guy collapsed and slid beneath the dashboard. Even before he hit the floor, Ruvo and Lachs advanced on the vehicle in the bent shuffle of close-quarter combat, each firing three rounds, simultaneously knocking the two in the backseat over the rear of the jeep. The sounds of the shots rocketed into the night air, and more dogs on both sides of the river started barking. Aspirated grunts came from the black river. The dead passenger in the jeep settled sideways. The whole evolution had lasted twelve seconds.
“You CIA guys all this good?” said Lachs. He had last seen The Mozambique used in Panama.
“Yeah, it’s the sensitivity training we get,” said Gable. “And the pistol instructors from Texas.” The SEALs looked sideways at Gable.
“You could do with more time on the range,” said Ruvo to Lachs. “You hit that last guy a little high.”
“Didn’t hear him complain,” said Lachs.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” said Gable. “Check these guys for IDs, usually little paper booklets.”
“I’ll ditch the jeep behind the shed,” said Lachs. “You want me to rig a bang on the ignition?”
Gable shook his head. “Odds are some kids will find it first. Let ’em have it.”
“What about these guys?” asked Ruvo, looking at the tangle of legs on the ground.
“Wait a minute,” said Lachs. “Listen.” The sound of multiple vehicles coming across the field and the babbling of excited voices were faint, but getting louder.
“Fuck,” said Gable peeking around the tangle of riverine brush. “More militia. I make three jeeps a klick out, coming slowly.”
Ruvo racked the shotgun slide. “That makes no more than twelve loopy lovers; we each take out a jeep and we’re done.” Gable shook his head.