Alex Berenson - The Night Ranger

“You see us.”

“Yes. Count eight vehicles in your convoy.”

“I’m in the second Range Rover, sixth overall. Front passenger seat.” Wells leaned forward, waved.

“You’re waving. It’s a little lame, but yes. Hi, John!” This last in a mock-girlish tone.

“I guess the optics are as good as advertised.”

“Better. I can pick out every finger. The volunteers are in the other Rover?”

“Correct. Wizard’s driving that one.”

“You’re separated.”

“We’ll see if it’s a problem. But he knows he needs the Reaper to have a chance. Speaking of, how big’s the welcoming committee?”

“Last pass was ten minutes ago. We counted two hundred–plus armed men. AKs mainly, some RPGs. Twelve technicals.”

“Twelve technicals.”

“Correct.”

Too many. The heavy machine guns the technicals carried could tear up Wizard’s men in one burst. Even the armor on the Rovers could stop those rounds for only a few seconds.

“Give me the setup.”

“Main element has four techs side by side. At least one hundred men in that area. Two more techs spread wide to left and right. Four behind, a reserve element and also guarding against any flanking move by your side. Those four will need to be moved up to have an open field of fire. Pilot thinks he can disable the main element with the GBU, take out all four techs and maybe fifty percent of the men. More or less simultaneously he can fire Hellfires at two of the spread technicals, but then he’ll have to circle around to hit the other two.”

“So absolute best case, he takes six techs out right away, but at least two will survive that first round of fire.”

“Yes.”

“Then he’ll come around, take out the other two technicals that have an open field of fire. But after that he’s got no Hellfires left. So those last four technicals, the ones in reserve, Wizard’s going to have to deal with those on his own.”

“Any chance you can bring in additional Reapers? Or even the Pentagon?” Wells knew that asking for help ran contrary to everything he’d done in the previous twenty-four hours.

A profound silence followed. Wells wondered if Shafer had hung up. “Is that what you want now, John? Because that’s a little different strategy than we’ve been discussing.”

Now a new voice spoke. “We’ve informed the White House that you’ve found the hostages.” Duto. “They’re looking at putting a SEAL team in the air. And the Air Force is launching at least four MQ-9s”—Reapers. “But the minimum ETA is five hours.”

Too late, as they all knew.

“If we’d had a little more time. If you’d given us a little more time.”

“Miss you too, Vinny,” Wells said.

“Last thing,” Shafer said. “We’re considering ourselves cleared to drop soon as Wizard gives us a PID”—positive identification—“on Awaale. He knows what to do, right?”

“Yes. He asked you to give him at least one minute. He said he’s going to move a bunch of guys up after he meets with Awaale.”

“He say how? Because I can’t believe Red Team would allow that.”

“I didn’t ask.” But Wells realized that Shafer was right. He didn’t know how Wizard would get armed men forward when he was more or less surrendering to Awaale.

“Doesn’t matter. We’ll see it if it happens. So we’ll give him that minute, but he’s got to know that the bomb will be most effective when the other side’s all clustered up.”

“He knows.”

“And you know if things set up good, we’re not going to give you a heads-up. Be ready.”

“Fantastic tip. Where would I be without you?”

“I know why you’ve made it this long, John. You’re too big a prick to die.”

“Roger that. Over and out.”

Wells wondered if he ought to tell Wizard that they were headed for twelve technicals. But the Somali would go ahead even if Wells told him they were facing an entire mechanized brigade. He’d roused his men and he couldn’t back down.

Wells would just have to seize his chance when it came. And remember that his responsibility was to the hostages, not the White Men.

—

In the Rover ahead, Wizard made his own calculation. He’d promised to let the wazungu go home to their families. He would keep his word. He had no choice, anyway. Too many people wanted them. But the man who’d come for them was a soldier. He’d come on his own, even offered to trade himself for the three.

Wizard decided to take the man up on that offer. After he destroyed the Ditas, he would set the others free. But not this one. A single hostage would be easy to hold. Wizard wouldn’t make the same mistakes as he’d made before. Handcuffs and hoods for him. Wizard would sell him back after a few weeks. Maybe not for a million dollars. But even a hundred thousand would be enough with the Ditas gone. His men would see Wizard had destroyed their enemies and found another mzungu to ransom. Wizard relaxed in his seat, hands loose on the wheel, eyes smiling behind his sunglasses. This new mzungu had arrived at just the right moment. Wizard didn’t feel a twinge of remorse for betraying him. The man had killed four of his soldiers.

The sun rose, filling him with its power. Wizard realized he’d been a fool to lose his confidence. How could he have imagined his magic would leave him?

28

LANGLEY

Shafer and Duto stood side by side behind Tomaso’s workstation, watching the convoy chug northeast through the empty plains. Wizard and Awaale had set their meeting at an abandoned watering hole ten kilometers from Wizard’s camp. They were less than three kilometers apart, close enough that they would soon glimpse each other through the scrub that covered the pancake-flat land. Tomaso dialed back the Reaper’s main camera to pick up both the White Men and the Ditas simultaneously.

“The God view.”

“The Old Testament God,” Shafer said. “All-seeing and vengeful and loaded for bear.”

“Just wish we had a little more ammo.”

“A B-52’s worth, yeah.”

“What’s a B-52?”

This kid. “Ever heard of the Cold War? Dr. Strangelove—”

Tomaso grinned. “Messing with you, Ellis. Course I know what a B-52 is.”

“I hope you choke on your hair.”

But the joke was on them both. Maybe they didn’t need an eight-engine bomber, but they could have used an A-10 with a full load of depleted uranium shells. The gap between the two militias was painful to see.

The Dita Boys had showed up at the meeting site a few minutes before Wells called Shafer from the convoy. As Shafer had warned Wells, the Ditas had come with a dozen technicals, enough to keep four in reserve in case Wizard tried to circle and attack from the rear. Each technical was mounted with a 12.7-millimeter NSV machine gun draped with belts of copper-jacketed ammunition. Shafer recognized the NSVs immediately. They had been the Red Army’s frontline machine gun during the seventies and eighties. They were sleek, nasty weapons that fired thirteen rounds a second. They were easily lethal at five hundred meters, and capable of serious damage at three times that distance. A skilled NSV gunner could take out a light plane.

The Ditas didn’t bother with unarmed pickups, either. Their soldiers traveled in three open-topped five-ton trucks, the same troop transport that real armies used. At this distance, even their uniforms were convincing, the mismatched jumble of their camouflage blurring together.

Meanwhile, the White Men looked like a bunch of recruits on their way to their first day of basic training. Or worse, kids headed for camp, with those ridiculous Range Rovers that belonged in a Connecticut suburb. Coach said if we were good we could ride with him after practice. Their lone technical was a couple hundred meters ahead. The rest of the convoy was bunched close, running single file down the track, spinning up mud.