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 wasnt dangerous enough, they were getting close to an area known for their bands of gorillas. Now wasnt 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 wasnt 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 didnt carry any identification cards or tags.
Each man knew the risks. He also knew his fellow SEALs wouldnt leave a single man behindnot 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 theyd 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 oclock, 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 wouldnt raise the alarm.
Ill take him, Diesel said. Buck, cover me.
Graham Buckner, or Buck for short, moved up to take Diesels 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 didnt 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 mens 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 cant 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 Diesels 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 didnt 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 theyd tied her hands behind her back and bound her ankles. Theyd done the same to Ferrence. When hed surfaced from unconsciousness, hed 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 Ferrences 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, theyd 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 didnt care, as long as they didnt touch her.
A moan sounded from her clients 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, didnt 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 guards head came up, and he glanced toward her.
Reese closed her eyes and let her head slump forward like shed just nodded off.
Through her lashes, she could see the mans 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 hadnt heard a generator, and there werent any other lights on in the camp that she could see through the canvas of the tent, the guard wouldnt be playing his game for the rest of his time there with no way to recharge the battery.