One Intrepid SEAL Read online

  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

  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.

  Reese almost laughed. She suspected the battery had died. Since she hadn’t heard a generator, and there weren’t any other lights on in the camp that she could see through the canvas of the tent, the guard wouldn’t be playing his game for the rest of his time there with no way to recharge the battery.

  The man stood, ducked his head and stepped out of the tent.

  Finally alone in the tent, Reese scooted on her butt toward Ferrence and whispered into his ear. “Wake up.”

  He moaned, rolled onto his back and frowned when he couldn’t move his hands. For a moment, he lay still. Then he asked, “Any news?”

  She shook her head, and then realized he wouldn’t see the movement in the dark. “None. We can’t wait to be rescued. We need to get ourselves out of this mess.”

  “And hide in a jungle full of snakes, gorillas and who the hell knows what else?” He shook his head. “No way. I’ll wait for my father to pay the ransom and be escorted out of here in one of his helicopters.”

  She snorted. “Wake up and smell the coffee, Ferrence.” As soon as she mentioned coffee, her belly rumbled. The only thing they’d been given to eat were a couple of bananas and unbaked sweet potatoes. Fortunately, they’d been supplied bottled water to drink, thus saving their stomachs from parasites. But the last bottle of water had been on the second morning. “It’s been three days. If they don’t get their ransom money soon, they might decide to kill us and hide the bodies.”

  “We’re still equipped with the GPS tracking devices,” Ferrence argued. “They’re probably on their way as we speak.”

  “Are you willing to risk it? Do you really think these men will wait much longer? Just today, they were fighting among themselves. At least sit up and let me see if I can untie the ropes on your wrists.”

  He did as she asked, scooting around to put his back to hers.

  Reese had already tried to untie her bonds or to rub the rope against something coarse, but she was confined to the tent, and nothing inside the tent presented itself as a coarse surface.

  She fumbled with the ropes on Ferrence’s wrists, finally finding the end and working it back through one of the knots.

  She’d broken out in a sweat by the time she’d freed Ferrence’s hands. “Now me. Untie my hands.”

  “When I get my feet done.” He leaned away from her and grunted.

  Reese grit her teeth. “Think about it, Ferrence. If you untie my wrists first, we can both untie our feet at the same time.”

  “I’ve got it,” he said, triumphantly, and then turned to work at the knots on her wrists. “Yours are tighter.” He blew out a frustrated breath. “I don’t think I can get it.”

  “Try harder,” she urged.

  Finally, she felt the ropes give, and she shook her hands free. She immediately bent to the task of untying her legs. “If the guard comes back, pretend your wrists and ankles are still tied.”

  “Like hell. I’m getting out of here.”

  “Wait until I’m free,” she said. “We need to stick together.”

  “You’re fast. You can catch up.” He lifted the back of the tent, stared out at the night and whispered, “I don’t see anyone out there. I think we can make a run for it.”

  “Wait—” Her hands still fumbling with the knots around her ankles, Reese couldn’t lunge after Ferrence. He was out the back of the tent and gone.

  “Son of a b—” The end slipped through the knot and the ropes fell away from her ankles. A grunt sounded outside the front of the tent, and something fell, landing hard against the ground.

  Not willing to stick around to find out what it was, Reese ducked beneath the bottom of the tent, rolled out and sprang to her feet. She ran for the nearest trees and bushes.

  A shout rang out to her right, and then all hell broke loose.

  Shots were fired, men yelled and chaos reigned. Reese didn’t slow down, didn’t stop, just kept running until she hit a wall. She hit the obstacle so hard, she bounced off and landed on her butt. Refusing to be captured again, she shot to her feet and dodged to the left.

  A hand snaked out and grabbed her arm.

  She rolled beneath the arm, sank her elbow into what she hoped was the man’s belly and hit what felt like solid steel. Pain shot through her arm. She’d likely chipped her elbow.

  Whoever had hold of her was wearing an armored plate. Having been caught and tortured before, she refused to be a victim again. She kicked her foot hard, connecting with the man’s shin.

  He yelled and almost lost his grip on her arm.

  Reese took advantage of the loosened hold and yanked herself free.

  Before she could run two steps, arms wrapped around her waist from behind, and she was lifted off the ground. She struggled, kicked and wiggled, but nothing she could do would free her of the man holding her.

  “Damn it, hold still,” a man’s voice whispered against her ear, his breath warm and surprisingly minty.

  Reese recognized the American accent immediately. “Who are you? Why are you holding me captive?” She fought again. Many Americans hired out as mercenaries. This could be one of them.

  “I’m not here to hurt you.” He grunted when her heel made contact with his thigh. “Damn it, I’m here to rescue you.” He dropped her to the ground so fast, she lost her footing and crumpled into a heap at his feet.

  More gunfire sounded behind her. Where the hell was Ferrence? Had the rebels shot him for trying to escape?

  This time, when she tried to get up, the man in the armored vest laid a hand on her shoulder and dropped low beside her. “Stay down. You don’t know the direction they’re shooting.” He stayed close to her, and then he said. “Get him out of here.”

  “What?” she asked.

  “We’re getting Klein out of here.”

  “Not without me,” she said. “He’s my client.” Reese started to get up, but that hand on her shoulder kept her down. “Who are you?”

  “My team was sent to get you two out of here.”

  “Your team?” She glanced around. “Are you Spec Ops?”

  “Shh,” he said. “Someone’s coming.”

  In the limited light making its way through the canopy of foliage, Reese could make out the silhouette of a man carrying a weapon. She lay low against the ground. The man beside her flattened himself, as well.

  Neither moved a muscle as the man carrying what appeared to be an AK-47 passed inches away from where they lay.

  More shouts rose up from the rebels in the camp. A motor sounded close by, and flashlights lit up the area.

  The man with the AK-47 turned and almost walked over them on his way back to camp. Thankfully, he must have been too blinded by the lights to see what was r
ight next to him.

  Once the rebel fighter was out of hearing range, the man beside Reese spoke softly. “Looks like they’re getting into their boat.”

  Reese peered through the darkness. All she could see were flashlights heading away from her and the occasional man caught in the beam. The camp was emptying out, heading for the river.

  “They’re heading south,” the man said softly. “Your direction. Don’t wait on me. Get Klein out of here, now. I have Brantley. We’ll find our own way back. I’ll contact you when we’re out of danger. Don’t argue. Just go.”

  Reese was only half-listening to her rescuer’s side of a conversation. Some of the men appeared to be climbing aboard a boat. The others turned around, shining lights toward the jungle. She tugged on the sleeve of the man beside her. “We’ve got a problem.” She rose onto her haunches. “Some of them are coming this way with flashlights.”

  * * *

  BRANTLEY WAS RIGHT. Diesel glanced around. The men were coming toward them and spreading out, heading south along the river. A shout went up when they found their sentry.

  “Follow me. And for the love of God, stay low,” he commanded. He led the way deeper into the jungle and turned north, praying he didn’t get them lost. He figured, as long as he had a GPS device on his wrist, he’d be all right. If they had to, they’d travel all the way to Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of the Congo, and show up on the doorstep of the US Embassy, claiming some lame excuse of being tourists who’d fallen off a riverboat cruise.

  In the meantime, they had to get away from the gun-toting rebels who’d just as soon shoot first and ask questions of a corpse later. Especially since they’d found one of their own dead.

  A shout sounded behind him. He glanced back at Brantley. Lights flashed toward them. “Run,” he urged.

  They gave up all attempt at quiet and charged through the jungle. The head start they had on the rebels would help, but they couldn’t keep running forever. They needed to find a place to hide.