Fan Fiction ❯ Operators ❯ Missions, Mayhem, and Magic on Hawlwadig ( Chapter 1 )

Before I begin my story, I would like to say that Black Hawk Down is an incredible work of non-fiction and excellent portrayal of actual events in Ridley Scott's film. I usually would avoid writing fan fiction about a real person (deceased or not) because I do not want to offend the families and readers sensitive to this type of material, especially military personnel (even though I am a staunch Liberal Democrat) but considering I was moved by the events eleven years ago (I do remember the situation in Mogadishu because I was obsessed with the war in the Balkans and the two were paired up in the news programs) and am a bit more enlightened concerning background events- both civilly and culturally in Somalia- I couldn't stay away. My story revolves around life in the hangar and previous missions a number of weeks prior to the events of 10/3-4/93 fueled by facts that Bowden provided and of course the film, but I will be playing favorites with the Deltas since (in this fangirl's opinion) they didn't get enough screen time.

There will be original characters, humor, and romance but all done tactfully. Keep in mind that my knowledge of Special Forces surveillance, reconnaissance, intelligence gathering, seizure techniques and types of weaponry is virtually nil and is taken from Spy Game, 24, and Alias (I HATE that show!) and am uncertain of equipment names and appropriate jargon. Also any outside presence at the U.S. Army HQ/Mogadishu Airport is unrealistic since Rangers and Deltas/Special Forces operate in complete secrecy, but for this bit of fan fiction that rule's relaxed since I enjoy playing God. If you want to correct me feel free to drop me a line or leave it in your review, but be warned I know the difference between constructive criticism and flaming so I'm not afraid to blast you in an e-mail. Other than that I wish you happy reading! Rangers are cool but D-BOYS RULE!!! SANDERSON! HOOT! SHUGHART! GORDON! WEX! BUSCH!

Disclaimer: I have no relationship with the living or deceased mentioned in BHD nor do I own the composite characters. All is accredited to Ridley Scott and Mark Bowden.

Operators

By Ishida Miyako

The Washington Post

August 23, 1993

East Africa's Wild West: The Bakara Market

by Lise Davies

Kicking up dust, the rusted technical toting a dozen militia armed to the teeth with Kalashnikovs and rocket launchers strapped to their backs, bandoliers cartoonishly criss-crossing their emaciated torsos bounded down the street passersby oblivious to the carnage ensuing on Marehan Road. A one-room schoolhouse converted from abandoned office space was fire bombed, the unidentified male teacher's corpse lay face down in a shallow sand hill rivulets of his blood baking brown into the concrete. His crime: suspected of having leftist affiliations. "Everyone's so paranoid, so it might not be true. It's not my business though." My companion, calling herself ' Meena' brought me to her favorite café where we sat in the cordoned off women's section under a tattered awning. She took my proffered cigarette but before I could lend her my Bic a rapid string of gunfire sounded from the collection of canopies yards away. "He must have new customers," Meena snorted.

Taariq, whose jaws snap faster than any seasoned Arkansas cattle auctioneer peddled his heavy artillery wares fired rounds straight into the air testing his freshest black market import. It isn't odd to see sacks of Brazilian sugar being sold alongside of M-16s and RPGs at the sprawling open-air Bakara Market in downtown Mogadishu. We shouted small talk over the combined blast of Somali reggae and the usual din of hundreds going about their business in this Third World galleria gripped in the iron fist of the Habr Gidr warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid.

"Don't misunderstand, peace is something we pray for, but to have this with another clan we'd rather die. Americans are blind to this. You destroy our homes and kill our people just for one man, but our soldiers won't put down their guns because you do this. We were happy when you came, the famines stopped. Now you frighten our children with your missiles and helicopters, you arrest our innocent men dragging them like animals from the street. What are your reasons?"

Our lunch consisting of steamed white rice, an oily compote of chicken with hunks of the cooked meat settled at the bottom of the cracked porcelain clinging to the bone, and bottles of a local orange soft drink was served, I watched Meena dig in with her fingers and wondered if I should tell her about the angry whispers of General Ahmen Jilao. What exactly happened that night outside of the Italian embassy remains unclear, without doubting the talent and capabilities of our Rangers the men may be a bit edgy after setting up shop at the defunct Mogadishu Airport. Perhaps this reporter's thoughts aren't vindictive as Meena's, but she posed an interesting question, what are the reasons Major General Garrison?

* * *

The decorated officer folded the paper and glanced at the date. It had been two weeks since its publication and the media swarmed the fortuitous arrest of the U.N. workers, but this blurb was buried in the International section under the spotlight of yet another failed Soviet coup in the burgeoning democratic Russian republic. Garrison leaned back in his chair surrounded by the glowing blue monitors that essentially made up JOC. The tech had long been dismissed and was enjoying his dinner watching the Three Stooges video marathon with the Rangers, so the General was left to stare at a blank computer screen. Two short raps on the steel door cut off Garrison's desert reverie and a long minute ticked by before he answered. "Come in."

The balding head of Lieutenant Colonel Gary Harrell poked in. "Bill, I think you'd better get out here." Garrison's brows knit and affixed his two-star insignia camouflage baseball cap on his thick silver hair before following Harrell out. He left the door open to let out the stale coffee and air aroma behind him. The General quite accustomed to the typical noise of post-high school grad Rangers mooching about eating, joking, cussing, sometimes reading or crowded round a board game. The Deltas comfortably segregated to their little niche in the hangar under tents and tarpaulins stripping down weapons to either clean or repair them, loading mags, tinkering with machinery, and some were dozing off. On the sagging brown leather sofa sat Ranger Captain Mike Steele and Lieutenant Colonels Danny McKnight and Tom Matthews. Steele stood at attention and saluted.

"Good evening gentlemen." McKnight halfway through a Parliament nodded to the Major General.

"Bill," Matthews said eyes never leaving the big screen. Garrison seated himself on the left armrest and turned to the TV where almost everyone's attentions were on. The video marathon had concluded early and CNN's opening sequence ran.

"This is CNN," Sergeant Dom Pilla mimicked the announcer.

' Good evening, I'm Tim Barksdale. Tonight, the international front takes us to Somalia, East Africa where earlier in the spring U.S. Marines launched Operation Restore Hope to feed the millions of starving Somalis terrorized by warlord Mohamed Aidid has become Operation Hunt Down Aidid. Joining us from the war torn nation's capital Mogadishu is CNN's war correspondent Lise Davies.' ' The plasma screen behind Barksdale changed from an enlarged map of Somalia to a live shot of Pakistani Stadium.

' Good morning Tim,' 'Lise said.

' And good evening to you, Lise. Sounds a bit strange considering the time zones.'

' I know what you mean.' 'The camera zoomed out and panned to the female journalist standing on a ridge overlooking the U.N.'s stronghold, immediately whistles and cheers erupted from the young male audience.

' So what are the latest developments in the conflict? Are there any significant changes within the rebel front?'

' As it pains me to say it Tim, the Mog is hardly Iraq. Both sides have balked since Aidid's militia has refused to lay down arms and enter into a cease-fire let alone any peace accord where the despot should, by all rights, turn himself in.'

Barksdale folded his hands atop the desk. ' Has there been any word from the U.N.?'

The brunette's sun bleached ponytail swayed. ' They have not released any statement and have stonewalled the media since the ambush that killed 24 Pakistani troops back in June. But I was fortunate enough to have gotten closer to the Habr Gidr's top personnel closest to Aidid to find out just what exactly are the roots of the American-Somali conflicts, and where the country will go from here on.' 'The cameras filtered back to the CNN studio.

' Up next, an exclusive interview with Aidid's CFO, Osman Atto. We'll be right back.' 'Save for the racket of power tools working on ground vehicles and helos, all jabbering slowed to a nail-biting silence. The Deltas put aside whatever they were doing, Dan Busch stretched out on a bench pushed up the brim of his Raiders cap and Wex hung up the clipboard he was scribbling on.

"Oh shit." The soft whoosh of Sergeant First Class Kurt Schmidt, the unit's finest medic could have been heard sitting on the Indian Ocean's shoreline. None of the men turned from the set, but their eyes were screwed down feeling the General grind his molars into the wad of spearmint gum mercilessly. Hoot didn't look up once from his book, but directed his eyes to Sanderson standing in the clerk's office door sipping coffee not at all perturbed by this new and inconvenient development, but looking almost pleased.

/Keep me in the dark again man, and those sharks'll have a new chew toy./ If Jeff had suddenly developed telepathic abilities, Hoot had certainly hoped he had heard him. Gordon and Shughart quietly took apart their chess board.

"Hey Randy," Gary whispered. "You keeping score?" Randy smirked at his flaxen-haired teammate. The news resumed and they were back in Mogadishu that very afternoon, Lise stood in the same outfit she was wearing in front of the Pakistani Stadium sans blazer, hair loose and blue tinted Oakleys perched atop her head. Comments were stifled but silly, lustful grins split every Ranger's face. She wore a form fitting black tweed skirt and a sleeveless mock turtleneck made of white lace.

' Africa: The Dark Continent. Since the age of exploration the world has been enthralled with it, a place of intrigue and high adventure. This is where Westerners had their discount holidays to live out their Joseph Conrad and Dr. Livingstone flights of fancy. But until the mid 1960's when the African nations rallied to toss the yoke of European colonization there have been few functioning governments, the new generation knows nothing but corruption, tyranny, and bloodshed. To name a few: South Africa, Zaire, the Congo, Rwanda, Liberia, Sierra Leone, Cô te d'Ivoire, and here the very Horn of Africa, Somalia.'

She glided through trash strewn labyrinths, on dainty Keds Lise padded down the same paths as hopped up militia slaughtered their own people. ' In 1991 as the world watched the Iron Curtain fall, Somalia's Marxist dictator Mohamed Siad Barre was ousted in a governmental coup, one of its organizers was Aidid himself driven at the prospects of victory for his clan and a lucrative free market economy that could ultimately achieve his goals. Which brings us here, the Bakara Market, the Habr Gidr militia's stronghold where the U.N. is strictly off-limits. But as you visit you'll take note of the interesting juxtapositions; normalcy muddles through at a frenetic pace and business flourishes amid starvation and homelessness. There's no place on earth quite like the Bakara Market where you can find Honduran bananas, Cuban cigars or coffee, the finest Ivoirian Gold Coast chocolate bars- a personal favorite- and on the shelves below .50 calibers and the infamous AK-47s, yours for just one million Somali shillings. That's about $200 dollars American.'

"The fuck, Jeff!" Sanderson took the pencil and sketchpad from Wex's lap, tore off a strip and scrawled something.

' Mass migration has turned this leveled city into slums of biblical proportion and yet there are the unabashed wealthy and powerful living lives of decadence if you look hard enough. Tribalism has sapped the coffers of would-be governments dry thickly lining the pockets of warlords and their henchmen, who's footing the bill? Millions of innocent men, women, and children fighting for and against the men like Aidid.' 'The market faded to Lise strolling the decrepit Olympic Hotel's courtyard. '1993 is coming to a close, and as we approach the 21st Century we wonder why places in the world, like Mogadishu, haven't changed since Mohamed left his footprints in the sand. In a few minutes I will be granted access into Aidid's secret sect for an exclusive interview with his personal banker, Osman Atto.' 'Parting the way for the journalist were dozens of militia and mooryan spread out on the dirt courtyard, hanging the on dry fountains, prowling the loggias. Lounging on a sooty white wicker chair was Atto, a pearline smug smile on his face appreciatively admiring Lise's curvaceous form. The 120 soldiers' murderous glares at the podgy terrorist was crushing enough to destroy him alone. Atto took Lise's hand in both of his and shook it.

' Miss Davies.'

' Mr. Atto.' 'He gestured for her to take the seat across from him. One of the soldiers, a boy of sixteen with a machine gun that weighed more than him dangled from his shoulder set a tray on the 30-year-old plastic table cloth. He poured the tea from a stained silver pot into a pair of mugs, a pile of cream biscuits sat on a chipped china platter. ' Mr. Atto, I'll ask you two questions during this entire interview. The first now and the second at the end.'

He laughed heartily. ' Such is your assertive style. But you are honest, which is why I will only speak with you.'

' Mr. Atto what do you think Mr. Aidid can do for Somalia, and why does such animosity exist between the Somalis and the Americans?' Atto cleared his throat and tapped embers from his Bolivar.

' There is nothing personal between myself and the Americans. I like your country, many great things come from it. Especially your television entertainment. But Somalis believe that Americans suffer not from ignorance- no, no but from misinformation. If you search for one man why must your Rangers sacrifice thousands of innocents? And what does your country think it will accomplish by capturing this one man? Americans have a narrow vision, your kind of right is not for us. Jeffersonian democracy cannot work in our world- it has no place. You want peace, yes? As do I and my children. But for there to be peace one must be victorious, and for even people like you Miss Davies it is unadvisable for you to stay here. This is our war, not yours.' Atto took a languid pull off his cigar.

' One final question, Mr. Atto.' He nodded. 'Might you be able to get me an interview with Mr. Aidid?' 'The smile Atto gave her was more brilliant than his last. He lifted the teapot.

' More tea, Miss Davies?'

Lise lifted her mug. ' Please.' The tape cut and Lise's live shot resumed.

' Powerful, angry words,' 'Jim commented.

Lise solemnly acquiesced. ' No argument here.'

'Lise give us your impression of Mr. Atto during your meeting. What was he like outside of the fighting?' She took a deep breath.

' Engaging, articulate, well-educated and sophisticated. He spoke at length about his family and reminisced about his life before the war. Religious, a decisive mind and utterly ruthless. I don't think I felt more terrified in my life.'

Randy Shughart rolled a toothpick across his tongue. "Bullshit," Gordon handed him a can of Sprite. "She ain't afraid of nothin'." Nelson nibbled on his cuticles, his eyes sprinting between Sergeant Eversmann seated on a crate flipping through his journal and Specialist Mike Kurth on the recliner, hands folded pressed to his nose wondering if Atto made an indirect threat. Nelson tapped his commanding officer's knee.

"Hey Matty," Eversmann looked down at Shawn.

"Yeah?"

"What do you think?"

"About the interview?" Nelson nodded. "I hope he's wrong. In fact, I believe he is. I mean, look around you," Eversmann gestured to the open hangar door, "there's nothing more that the Somalis want is to have peace and guys like him put away." The murmuring that resurfaced once again silenced when the General got up the sofa's armrest. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and index finger.

"Mike?"

The Ranger captain stood. "Sir?"

"Get me Sanderson." And Garrison stalked to his office.

"Yes sir." Steele's unrestrained glee at the thought of disciplinary action finally taken against the boisterous Deltas was exhibited in a tiny, shit-eating grin. In the weeks that they had occupied the airport, it became apparent that the older soldiers were corrupting his Rangers because the cracks in their programmed discipline began to show. A few began to question orders, hinted at a lack of orderliness, and took the initiative when it was most inappropriate. While Steele encouraged creative thought during combat, he most certainly objected to the Deltas contempt of rank and the army's chain of command. However the captain begrudgingly acknowledged that the operators were good at their jobs. He tapped Sanderson's shoulder.

"The General is requesting an audience with you." Sanderson bit his tongue but Steele saw the cool-headed Delta sergeant's blue eyes darken, something he didn't catch during past altercations and surely not a trick of the terrible florescent lighting. Garrison wandered about his ' office' . Pitched tents draped with mosquito netting protection from the malarial pests. A trio of long folding tables, maps of Mogadishu, Somalia, and blown up spy photos taken by Orion. Red flags marked the spots where previous missions took place. He paused before one particular map with a dual colored sheet of lamination, green depicting the U.N. Safe Zone which was the majority of the capital and a chunk of red indicating the Hostile Area. A square of the Black Sea marked off the Bakara Market, Post Its and yellow legal pad sheets outlining mission templates were taped up everywhere. The sound of boots and Busch's flip-flops crunching on the sandy planks grew louder as the Delta command team sidled in. Garrison sucked his teeth.

"I don't know," the former Delta commander said shoving his hands in his pockets, "you know what I had to do to get you here?"

"Sir we-" Sanderson futilely attempted to explain but was cut off.

"I had to lobby the President at his summer home in Nantucket. I was turned down twice, but I suppose Mr. Clinton doesn't think the sound of my voice over the phone at three A.M. isn't as pleasant as I do. I know what you boys are capable of doing, the restrictions placed upon you and I sympathize. But between y'all, Mike, Colonel McKnight and taking the flak my patience is thinning. Now just what the fuck are you boys doin' out there? Jerkin' off?!" Hoot cleared his throat.

"General Garrison," Wex took a gamble and played mediator. "We have our assets and guys out there working around the clock. Sir you are the first one to say that whatever intel we get off the street is not the most reliable."

Garrison massaged his left temple. "So how in the fuck did one little girl manage to lure Atto out of his hovel for an on-camera interview, and unit of Green Berets that have been here spoon-feedin' these people just barely get two snap shots off their telephoto lenses?"

"She's an investigative journalist, sir," Hoot spoke up. "The skinnies ain't stupid. They could smell military from 50 clicks off, they're a lot more responsive to someone like her. And being that she's a woman does help…."

"Do you believe that Miss Davies will be leaving our fine city, any time soon?"

Sanderson chortled. "I don't think a Pulitzer qualifies for a Christmas wish list, sir." Garrison drew a cigar from his breast pocket to do something with his hands.

"I can imagine what is on Davies' Christmas list… what the fuck y'all standin' round here for?" The Deltas tensed. "Put a tail on her! Who has she talked to? Where is she stayin'? Where has she been? Who are her contacts? How much is she payin' them? Is she alone? And what does she know? Get the fuck out there!" Sanderson scribbled furiously, Hoot vanished, Shughart and Gordon exchanged comical glances before strolling out of the tent, and Wex trailed after Busch. Garrison collapsed in a metal folding chair and flipped open a binder thick with sitrep copies, notes, and black and white photos of their Tier One Personalities: Mohamed Farrah Aidid, Mohamed Hassan Awale, Omar Salad, and Osman Atto. /Might you be able to get me an interview with Mr. Aidid?/ "For your sake Miss Davies, I hope you don't."

* * *

Richard Kellner coiled yards of black cable before tossing it into an aluminum trunk. "It's Miller time!" He thrust both fists into the air and jogged around the CNN van imitating crowd cheers.

"Not so fast Cocheese," Lise scanned her notepad sitting at the back of the open van. Rich scoffed and began swinging his upper appendages like an ape.

"C'mon Lise! We've been here almost four fucking months. Atto made Stu perfectly happy!" The cameraman whined.

"Don't complain." She poked him on the chin with her pen not looking up once. "We are this close to Aidid." To demonstrate this, Lise held up her index finger and thumb a quarter of an inch apart. Rich threw himself on the dirt.

"You know what you're doing, Lise? These people are dangling a carrot in front of your nose that could lead us to some dark alleyway where we'll be staring down a missile launcher!" The reporter snapped another square from her Hershey's block.

"Then I'll go out knowing I've done my duty," Lise mockingly saluted. Rich lifted his head from the dirt.

"If your granddaddy could hear you now." He shot up ignoring the coating of sand and dust on his Bat Out of Hell T-shirt. "C'mon, I don't know about you but all of this Third World wholesomeness is killing me. Let's go indulge ourselves in good ol' fashioned infidel sin!" Richard clapped Lise on the shoulder as she hopped off the van floor.

"No can do. Got a few things to check out."

"What? Don't tell me you're goin' back into the jungle?! The guys from Reuters and our old AP pals are dropping in from Abidjan- it's gonna be a blast!" Lise piled into the passenger side paying no heed to Rich's objections.

"Just drop me off at Marehan, okay?" She twisted the straps of her suede shoulder bag round the pouch and tucked it under her head using it as a pillow. Rich started the van, cursing under his breath.

"If your granddaddy could hear you now…."

~Red Cross Food Distribution Centre, September 5 11:48 P.M.~

Within an hour of Garrison's order the Deltas sequestered two civilian vehicles, a white jeep and a blue van, both literally on their last legs. The mechanics went to work refitting them, blackening the van's rear doors windows and teardrop porthole. Forgoing their combat fatigues for jeans and T-shirts they were deployed by 4500 hours. The van carried their weapons and surveillance equipment, as well as Shughart and Gordon. Wex and Busch took the jeep, Hoot's uniform and boots were abandoned on his cot and his mountain bike missing, Sanderson was en route. Master Sergeant Chris Wexler, sometimes referred to as Wex, usually called Griz by the other Deltas counted the days until his pension next year. He saw through shit and took less of it, and as a warm breeze wafted up from the Indian Ocean Wex got a powerful whiff of some- animal and human. The jeep was parked behind an derelict shantytown of tin and rag huts a half mile outside the capital. Wex lay on his belly in the back of the jeep utilizing NOD, he could see perfectly in shades of green and yellow the Red Cross Food Distribution Centre a crude two-storey cinderblock construct with a tattered Red Cross flag billowing from a rusty pole. There was heavy activity, flood lights were on and music was heard even at the jeep's distance. Why they were partying even Wex didn't venture to think about.

"Yo Griz," Busch said from behind the wheel.

"Yeah?"

"Got any more of those Ritz Bitz?"

"The box on the passenger seat."

Busch yawned. "Thanks man." Liz had sent him a package a week into his stay in Somalia. A half of his mom's sponge cake, vacuum sealed sausage and sharp cheddar, an audio tape letter from the girls, a fifth of gin, his manuscript, two boxes of Ritz Bitz (cheddar and peanut butter), his colored pencils, and an extra sketchpad. "Where the fuck is Norman?" Wex growled.

"He's gonna be here," Busch placated him. "Randy and Gary radioed in saying he just left their position at the market."

"That was half-a-fucking-hour ago!" Wex snapped. "Radio them again." Tossing the Ritz back into Wex's box, Busch pulled on his headset.

"Kilo 13, this is Kilo 15. Come in."

~Via Lenin, September 6 12:02 A.M.~

*Kilo 13, this is Kilo 15. Come in.* Busch paused. *Come in Kilo 13.* Racked out on the van floor laying atop a thermal pad was Gordon. Shughart was up front sprawled across the seats, NOD on his lap, waiting for Sanderson. Gordy lazily reached over to the comm and switched it on. On the other end Busch heard soft, shallow snores. *Gordy get your ass up!*

The blonde operator had yet to respond. "I am up, Dan! I just have my eyes closed."

*Nobody snores just with their fuckin' eyes closed, Kilo 13.* Wex piped up.

"Nobody asked you Kilo 14."

*What is your status Kilo 12?*

"Just sittin'," Randy said.

*ETA on Kilo 10?* Busch queried. Shughart was about to open his mouth when a car came barreling round a corner towards them. Gordon shot up with his rifle already in hand, Shughart pulled his .9 mm from his hip holster. He leapt over the seats, both operators kneeling in a prime firing position facing the rear doors, just then the car flashed its headlights twice and the men relaxed.

*Kilo 12, this is Kilo 10. Come in Kilo 12.* Sanderson's voice was heard on all channels.

"Kilo 15, Kilo 10 reported in," Gordon said.

*Roger Kilo 13. 15 out.* Opening up the left side door, Shughart and Gordon jumped out with their weapons down. It was a shoddy white Ford Anglia with a sooty, dim light that read 'TAXI' on the corner of the roof that belched diesel fumes. Sanderson emerged from the passenger side and softly ordered the driver to stay put, turned round and signaled behind him. The back door opened and Schmidt dressed in civilian clothes stumbled out. The two scrambled into the van where Schmidt pulled out a Ziploc bag.

"You got everything?" Shughart asked the medic. Schmidt squirrelly gave the affirmative.

"Now, listen to me carefully," he laid out a small glass bottle and two sterile syringes, "this sedative is extremely potent. Actually, this is a rohypnol-based pre-anesthetic. We normally give this to patients prior to their procedures, so I'm prepping this now because judging by Miss Davies' height and weight if I give her too high a dose she might go into a coma or her heart will stop altogether. As for Mr. Kellner, I'm giving him the average because we're not supposed to see cameramen." Schmidt shrugged and recapped the hypodermics. Sanderson nodded, taking them.

"Thanks Schmidt." He thumped the Ranger twice on the back causing him to rock forward. For the medic it was a bit overwhelming being in the presence of the Deltas. D-Boys. Dreaded D. The pros. This is what being a Ranger was all about, he'd heard Sizemore babbling over Risk. They transcended rank, were beyond the hoo-ahs and brass. Who wanted a couple bars on their lapel when they could be living out adventures like in Waddell's novels! The guys seemed okay, at least in Schmidt's opinion. The Deltas never said a bad word to him, or to just his face. But Kurt knew that the D-Boys did get occasionally pissed with his friends especially when it came to training exercises and battle sims, never mind the missions they'd already run. His pals like Sizemore, Ruiz, and Smith were caught craning their necks round to see what tricks they had up their sleeves instead of doing their job and covering them. He and Grimes made a pact during their flight over and that was to fuck all else and keep their guns up and backs to the wall. Hah! Easy for Danny to say, he'd spend the entire assignment in the office listening to his Aerosmith tapes with a half dozen fans going 24/7.

But not everyone was impressed with the operators. Clay Othic, for one didn't like how they'd show up their Ranger training by giving them ' pointers' and making light of their duties. He and Specialist Eric Spalding seemed to have agreed on that entirely and have been inseparable. Then again, ' Little Hunter' Othic's jealousy could come from the D-Boys ' realistic training' sessions by commandeering a Black Hawk and returning to the hangar by sundown with big game like wild boar, antelope, and gazelle for a surprise cookout. The only big game trophies he had under his belt were the carcasses of a few rats that have overrun Mogadishu since the country hadn't had a regular trash pick up in recorded history. He and Spalding rigged up a clever trap made up from two Evian water bottles, some trip wire from their booby traps, and MRE leftovers. They'd have a regular night watch up in a hide on the rafters so all they would have to do was listen and wait. After the telltale SNAP was heard, their mission was a success. Spalding being the more superior marksman would take their ' game' behind the hangar and resolve their rat infestation. Othic recorded all of this in his journal.

"Well, you don't have to worry about that staying fresh," he pointed to the syringes, "they have an excellent shelf life. Please understand for someone in my position that I hope you don't have to use that, because if Captain Steele finds out I will be pulling night watch duty hanging from my balls. So no offense."

Gordon laughed. "None taken kid." Another uncomfortable pause.

"Good night." Schmid felt the air in the cramped van get so thick he had to get the hell out of there. And being amongst these mad, warmongers didn't make things any easier. Yup, med school was looking better every time. The Anglia sped off taking Schmidt back to the hangar.

* * *

Hoot pedaled the dusty terrain, the Red Cross' floodlights getting brighter and the jeep nowhere in sight. "This is Kilo 11, approaching position."

*This is Kilo 10, we receive you Kilo 11.*

"About damn time," Wex groused, Busch just laughed. Wex had Hoot in view and watched the Texan sluggishly dismount his bike and adjust the strap of the camerabag across his chest.

"Kilo 11 out." Hoot walked his bike up to the feeding center and walked right into the open door. Minnie The Moocher blared over the boom box with dozens of people drunkenly gyrating to the jazzy tune, there was a queue coiling to the makeshift bar that consisted of three large coolers stocked with alcohol, soft drinks, and water. The table was laid out with junk food, a punch bowl, stacks of napkins, and plastic cups. A banner draped above it read ' GOODBYE MOGADISHU' . The media had set up shop at this particular feeding center because it was one of the few that saw a good part of militia action for their photos and feedback. This was also where Davies and Kellner were rooming to have easier access to the market instead of the enduring functional hotels in the city where their fellow correspondents stayed. Hoot leaned his bike against the few empty wall spaces and plopped down on a rickety chair.

"That's smart, man!" Hoot was taken by surprise when a tall, California blonde guy appeared ripping the caps off a six pack of Rolling Rock longnecks.

"What?!" Hoot roared back over the blast. The blonde gestured to the ten speed with his bottle opener.

"The bike! I said that's clever!" Hoot nodded.

"Thanks!" The tape changed and I'm Just a Baby in This Business of Love started up. The two men resumed speaking in normal tones.

"Let me guess," the blonde handed Hoot a beer, "they just sent you in."

"Pretty much." Hoot took a grateful pull off his beer. The blonde pointed to the laminated AP ID tag clipped to one of the many pockets on Hoot's khaki vest.

"Where were you before, or you straight from the home office?"

"Home office."

"You're in the shit now dude!" The blonde scoffed.

"I like it hot."

"Sucks be to you then, babe." A voice purred behind Hoot. The Delta sergeant turned round to face a redhead with misty verdant eyes in spray painted white jeans and a purple blouse knotted above her navel. He smiled.

"Gibson," he stuck out his hand. She took it.

"Maxine," she pointed to the blonde, "and that's Trip."

"Howyadoin'." Gibson shook his hand. In the van Gordon threw a pencil over his shoulder.

/We ain't gonna get shit done./

"It's official." Maxine announced.

"What is?" Trip asked.

"I just spoke to Dickie-boy," she tipped her head to the dance floor, Hoot leaned over for a closer look. A couple in the center undoubtedly tipsy making fools of themselves to The Mask soundtrack. "Imelda ain't showin'."

"Fuck her then," Trip sipped his drink.

"' Imelda' ?" Hoot inquired.

"Lise, or whatever the fuck she's calling herself these days." Trip held up a pack of Marlboro's to Hoot, he took one. Maxine lit it, and Hoot thanked her with a grin.

"Said he dropped her off on Marehan right after the broadcast. Blew off our most gracious invitation to a party that's technically in her honor." Hoot nodded most fascinated.

/Keep it coming sweets./ Shughart revved up the van and bolted towards National.

"Salad's next on her hit list." Trip commented. "I swear to God, she's not fazed in the least by bullets!"

"Why should she be?" Maxine winked and took a sip from Hoot's beer. "They're party favors at all Davies family jamborees." Trip shook his head.

"I don't care if she's billeted on the Liberal-Democrat ticket, the mere mention of combat sends her chomping at the bit to leap into the fray. That Green Beret blood juss kickin' in!" Trip puffed out his chest and saluted, looking positively idiotic. "' We ain't makin' cornflakes here motherfuckers!'' " Maxine guffawed.

~You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise…~

"They're playin' her song." Maxine said. Hoot continued to watch the couple dominating the dance floor. It was Kellner and a bottle blonde dressed in khaki shorts and a white baby doll he recognized as BBC correspondent Victoria Butterworth. They were rocking out to the beloved oldie, and he wondered how old Kellner was. He looked like he should be hanging out at some Los Angeles skateboarding ramp kitted out in a black Meatloaf T-shirt, jean shorts frayed at the knees, red Converse sneakers, a string of African beads round his neck and a baseball cap turned backwards that read ' ERACISM' . Under the brim jutted his stubby black ponytail.

~…You fooled me with your kisses

You cheated and you schemed

Heaven knows how you lied to me

You're not the way you seemed

You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise…~

"Can't blame her though," Trip sighed. "But we're done here." Hoot looked questioningly at him. "Shipping out over the next 48 hours. If not, our insurance premiums go sky high." He cackled.

"And a l'il interesting tidbit has been floating around the sand dunes," Maxine began, "the Italian and British embassies have been evacuating their people on the quiet."

"That is an interestin' footnote." Hoot said. "Will Imelda be joinin' y'all?"

"Are you kidding?" Trip looked aghast. "The only way she'd be willing to leave is in a big pine box. Besides, if she is hot on the heels of Aidid's top political advisor her station manager wouldn't have it."

~…I thought that I was in heaven

But I was sure surprised

Heaven help me, I didn't see

The devil in your eyes

You look like an angel

Walk like an angel

Talk like an angel

But I got wise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise

You're the devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise

Oh yes you are

The devil in disguise~

Things were not looking up and the contingency plan would have to be carried out. "Hey conga line!" Trip shouted and joined the row of linked reporters circling the room to Cuban Pete. Kellner and Butterworth whirled about, cheek-to-cheek doing an exaggerated tango dancing to their own off-key voices.

"~And we have music, all right

Tearing the night

A song

Played on a solo saxophone

A crazy sound

A lonely sound

A cry that tells us

Love goes on and on

Played on a solo saxophone

It's telling me

To hold you tight

And dance

Like it's the last night

Of the world~"

Kellner twirled Vicki away watching her spin into the conga line. Richard whipped off his cap and mopped his brow grabbing a bottle of Poland Spring. He approached the hookah on a plant stand and as he took a few puffs he caught a glimpse of the activity in a corner of the room in the dark glass urn. Maxine claimed Hoot's knees and pecked him on the end of his nose. He tickled the small of her back. The margarita clouds parted and Richard took a good look at Hoot, panic welling up. The vibes weren't feeling right anymore.

"So where you from, Gibson?"

"Fort Worth. You?"

"Clearwater, Florida."

"Nice place, huh?"

Maxine shrugged. "If you're into swamps."

/I've been in a few./

"So tell me Gibson from Fort Worth, have you ever made love on a beach with bullets flyin' over your head?"

"There's a first time for everything." /Maintain radio silence, and fuck you all!/ In the jeep Busch cracked up, Wex swore up a blue streak. They dawdled for about an hour until departing arm in arm as the merriment wound down. Richard trailed behind them keeping his distance not going farther than the flag pole watching the lusty pair vanish in the direction of the waves. In the black expanse Richard heard the faint motor of the jeep tear off. Not good. Not good. Not good.

~Hawlwadig Road, September 6 8:18 A.M.~

Lise left one of the balcony doors open catching a nice sea breeze during the night. The floor was swept clean and Howa brought her up a bucket of heated water to wash in. Lise folded up the cotton sheets and left them on the mattress. She seated herself at a mismatched plastic chair and table set to apply her make up and review her notes while waiting for Richard. Waadi was the only person who knew the location to the new place his younger brother, Assad, and his other militia friends were staying. If their info was reliable, Salad would get the prime time slot. The two-storey building was made of clay, whitewashed in pink with chipped green shutters and doors. Waadi's candy shop and hamburger stand was ground level always bustling, serving the customers was his wife Howa and they lived in the flat above with their brood. The children were at school so it was thankfully quiet save for the sounds of grilling below. Lise stood out on the balcony and watched the morning shopper commute clog the streets like a backed up aorta, and across the way was the Olympic Hotel. This was the Africa she knew so well. This was the place that Hemingway and Conrad preached to her closeted in a nook of her grandfather's house. It was almost picturesque, the way it was supposed to be unspoiled by foreign hands. Almost.

On the street Delta had dispersed. Hoot had showed up around 3500 at the rendezvous, a Cheshire cat grin from ear to ear. Wex shot him a dirty look before going back to the USA Today sports page. Armed with cameras, knapsacks, AP tags clipped to shirts or dangling from their necks, and their .9 mm's tucked away they took to the streets in two man teams: Wex and Busch; Shughart and Gordon; Hoot and Sanderson. Jeff strolled down the sand swept street, a Nikon around his neck ignoring every armed skinny giving him a second glance. He was a 6'1 ½" semi-serious body builder, you do not fuck with him, he will fuck with you. They let him be. He loitered around the Olympic Hotel rapt with a group of militia enveloping a smaller group of unarmed men exiting the front doors, climbed into a brand new red SUV and the militia piled onto technicals and took off. Lise opened up the other balcony door and watched the clan leaders and their bodyguards vacate the market. She propped her elbow up on the ledge, fist to her temple. Jeff turned round and looked up. He saw Lise's smile in profile as she watched some kids run down the street waving sticks. He lifted the camera to his eye and shot. Her wheat-gold and cocoa powder hair sparkled in the sun. She wore what looked like a white tank top with a frill going down the middle, Jeff hoped it was a nightie.

/Look this way… look this way… look this way… look this way…/ As if he willed it, Lise caught him in the corner of her eye and looked down at him. She almost crammed her fist into her mouth to keep from laughing at this tall white guy waving at her to come down. She knew better.

"Come here." Jeff mouthed hand signaling. Lise signaled back.

"No you come here." Jeff threw his arms up so wonderfully preoccupied that he didn't see Kellner walking down the other way and go into the shop. The cameraman greeted Waadi who poured him a glass of tea and pointed to the stairs. On his way up he waved to Howa and took a sip from the glass, promptly making a face. He was a Maxwell man, not Tetley's.

"Yo, chief!" Lise turned from Jeff whose second vain attempt to entice her down to Richard standing in her doorway. "Tea, milady. What are you doing?" Lise waved to shoo him back into the hall.

"Stay there," she hissed. Going back to Jeff she smiled and shrugged. "Sorry," she mouthed. "Bye." And went back into the bedroom. Jeff cursed kicking the dirt, but stopped short when something came to mind.

"What the hell is going on? What the fuck-!" Lise pushed Richard to the threshold of the balcony where they could get a view of the street without being seen. Jeff walked a few paces down to meet Hoot popping out of a doorway.

"I spy with my little eye, Special Forces." She picked up his arm and waved his hand. "Wave to the nice Delta-man." The coals in Richard's stomach began to smolder thinking back to last night's party. Luckily Lise hadn't seen his tortured eyes, or all hell would have broken loose. "C'mon, we've got work to do. Isn't it sick how these guys just stand out? The unit should really work on that."

* * *

Lise and Richard waddled down the street weighted down with a hemp bag containing 65 lbs. of khat to the van parked deep into the bowels of interconnected alleyways behind a militia patroned brothel.

"Did Waadi leave?" Richard asked.

"Yeah." They hefted the sack into the back and slammed the doors.

"So where is this place?"

"Somewhere on 21 October Road. Waadi said he'll call us to give directions, if we get the okay." Richard started the engine, exited the alleyway and chugged down Hawlwadig. The van made a turn onto Armed Forces hoping there would be less congestion when Richard looked into the rearview mirror and saw a battered blue van with white Arabic graffiti make the same turn as he did. Lise rooted through her bag for a fresh audio tape, and Richard continued to keep quiet. Nothing surprised him anymore.

* * *

There was only one thing worse than paper work- stake outs, Hoot mused. They had regrouped back at the hangar under their tents after two weeks of shadowing this crazy lady and all they had to show for it were dozens of photos of Lise, Kellner, militia or Somalis they spoke to and reports. But even this most crusty vet couldn't help but admire the woman's tenacity and ingenuity. And adding to this problem was Jeff's subtle behavior changes, especially since he unnecessarily dropped some cash at the market haggling with some old vendor over a box with French writing on it that suspiciously looked like Belgian Gold Coast Chocolate. He worked it like only Hoot's granny could at the church bazaars, and he'd seen worse crap on display there. "So what do we know?"

"That she has a taste for exotic junk jewelry," Wex remarked at a photo of Lise at a trinket stall purchasing a thick amber bangle. Gordon shuffled through a notepad.

"Let's see… Her full name is Elise Davies, age 27. She has been working the war desk at CNN in D.C. since she left the Associated Press two years ago. She occasionally makes some ink with The Washington Post." Shughart picked it up.

"She's been here since the Marines pulled out in May staying at the Red Cross Food Distribution Center with CNN cameraman Richard Kellner, 32. He was the station manager for KBSC in Boise before relocating to Washington."

"She's made several contacts after her initial arrival in Mogadishu," Wex said, "but she dropped them all when one of the militia's little messengers brought her to the candy store on Hawlwadig."

Busch continued, "His name's Waadi, not militia but one of their biggest suppliers and growers of khat. His younger brother Assad is militia and it's safe to say that if she's getting her foot in the door of Habr Gidr Enterprises then he is her man." Sanderson studied a group of drying black and white shots of a gutted office complex on 21 October.

"So I take it this is where Mr. Assad and his board of trustees conduct business?" Jeff had joined Randy and Gary shortly after they reported seeing her gain access. The CNN van approached the complex behind a small hill where Lise pulled out her compact, and leaned out of the passenger window directing it towards the sun. A circle of light reflected on the concrete, Lise lowered it until it fell on a narrow cellar window close to the dying, brown grass. Minutes ticked by until a side door corroded by rust and bullet holes was thrown open. Lise smiled when she saw Amir, the 11-year-old messenger waving them in. Lise smoothed his hair and handed him a Giant Crunch bar with the strict instructions to share with his siblings. Hauling out the khat, Amir helped them divide equal portions for the men inside as per their agreement. Having a little extra provided a crutch for the fighters, since the clans monopolized it. Leaders would dole out the drug in the late morning, where the fighters would chew it getting it into their bloodstreams so that by mid afternoon the peak of their cycle would hit and they would be ready for combat. Khat, a stimulant akin to cocaine was ingested in its purest form, a weed whose roots tend to stain the teeth of militia a freakish black-orange. It gave the men that daring to pick up weapons and begin butchering, sometimes unprovoked. But by sundown the fighters would crash miserably.

Paying their weight in khat, Lise and Kellner got around much easier than Sanderson or the rest of the team had thought. He tapped his lips with a pencil eraser. One of the fighters inside had a cousin who was the assistant of Aidid's chief spokesman, Abdi "Queybdid" Hassan Awale, the assistant being his food taster. The info was solid, and it only set her back a few more stalks of khat to meet this cousin who could possibly get her in touch with Awale and may lead her to Salad. The meeting would take place in three days, had Awale or Salad been there instead then to hell with Garrison's orders Delta would have been on them faster than flies on shit! Negotiations were still underway to determine the safest place to meet, so Delta had options: 1) They could sit on this keeping Garrison in the dark until discovering the meeting place and tune in. 2)Persuade Garrison to deploy them on a mission should they learn if Salad would surface and bring everyone in. 3)Wait until after the meeting and just bring her in. 0400 hours the following morning, Delta plunged back onto the street.

~Hawlwadig Road, September 19 1:22 P.M.~

At the last possible minute, the meeting was held at the bombed out American embassy. Ibrahim was simple enough to get along with, but a shrewd representative. Mr. Awale would be more than happy to relay Miss Davies' message to Mr. Salad for an interview request- if he also would be allowed to make an appearance. That would be under assessment. Ibrahim skipped out of the embassy, confident that his leader would get his 15 minutes of fame too. At the K4 traffic turn Lise and Richard debated, then rang Stu on the satellite phone leaving a message on his office voice mail with the scanty details of the next Somali warlord profile. They ended up right back where they started, the Bakara Market. Lise wandered round checking the time on her marcasite and turquoise watch, she'd hoped to waste time before she went back to Waadi's but it was going slow. Sweaty bodies milling around made the equatorial heat less tolerable, Lise cursed forgetting to bring a scarf or elastic ponytail holder. She hung her cat's eye shades on the scoop neck collar of her rust silk tank, over it was a black shirt made of a sheer material with sleeves rolled to her elbows, a peacock feather print flare skirt fell to her knees, and brown leather slingbacks keeping her feet cool. The amber bangle clacked against her onyx and jade bracelet on her right arm. Richard was somewhere behind, lost in the thick of things. He had two cameras round his neck and his cap brim turned to the side dressed in torn jeans and a white Andy Warhol Elvis portrait T-shirt. A thick silver chain clipped to a belt loop secured his wallet in his back pocket, he'd seen Hoot once more by the fish stalls with his bike holding up the wall. He had on a pair of red tinted Oakleys, so Richard was uncertain as to what he was staring at.

"Richard!" Lise called out, she pointed to her watch. "C'mon!" He said nothing and ran after her. A stampede of little sandaled feet came crashing out of the candy shop and collided with the man whose pockets overflowed with gold. Waadi's five children attached themselves to Richard who happily handed out Werther's sweets and was pulled into their back yard to play. Howa greeted Lise warmly and went to prepare the tea, Waadi stepped out from behind the grill and joined Lise at one of the plank tables. "Well Waadi," she playfully beat a melody on the table, "it's payday!"

"Yes, yes it is Miss Davies." Howa brought out the tea and a cloudy glass goblet of Mammoul biscuits, a sweet cookie filled with date paste. Waadi filled their jelly jar glasses to the brims and Lise produced an envelope from her purse.

"Y'know, you deserve a footnote Waadi. Without your assistance I wouldn't be nearly as close to getting Aidid on camera." Lise took a sip, Waadi spread his hands.

"Anonymity has its virtues, Miss Davies."

"Now, we should talk about making arrangements for next time." Waadi drew his lips in tight cutting his eyes away. "Waadi?"

"It is impossible," he whispered.

"'Impossible'? Waadi what-" their eyes met and Lise saw the terror in his otherwise placid exterior. She opened her mouth but snapped it shut when a bunch of mooryan indolently strolled by in animated conversation, slapping each other's shoulders chewing khat. They waited until they were down the street to resume speaking. "Were you threatened? Were the children-" she pointed in their direction when he lifted a hand to quiet her and shook his head.

"Not yet."

"Waadi, listen. You know I have been straight with you the whole time. When I spoke to your people, it ended up on TV just as I said."

"I have seen this."

"So rest assured when I say that we're CNN, not CIA." Waadi folded his hands one atop the other.

"Maybe so. But what of your friends?"

"My what…?" Waadi screwed his eyes up indicating for her to look in that direction. Lise turned her head slightly and saw Wex and Busch on the second floor veranda of the Olympic Hotel facing the opposite direction. Busch leaned his chair on its hind legs against the wall, his Islanders cap pulled down low over his damp mop of shaggy curls. He was dressed in white Bermudas, a Lakers jersey, and a Hawaiian shirt. Wex stood, hands clutching the railing, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Lise could make out a blotchy smudge at the corner of his left eye spreading to his temple behind his shades. He looked comfortable in khakis and a short sleeved white pinstriped shirt. Lise gulped down her tea and slid Waadi the envelope before departing. He opened the flap and counted $700 dollars, Miss Davies was honest and knew that it could get her killed in this world. So he prayed that those American men that he'd seen hanging around for the past week would send her from Somalia before the evening prayer.

* * *

"Can't catch me! Can't catch me!" Richard chanted, Waadi's children racing after the cameraman in a crude game of tag. A single half naked olive tree stood in their barren yard, it was pitifully ignored as the children enjoyed the charred fire bombed shell of a Chevy that had been there long before they could remember. After they dog piled on Rich he propped himself up on the razed car's trunk, his shirt sticking to his back. The rear window was blackened but intact, and while he fixed his hair Richard was able to make out the faint image of someone in the alley adjacent of them. Behind a wall pockmarked from shelling and poor English graffiti sitting on a trash can was Gordon. He clapped his hands to get the kids' attention. "Okay kids, gather round! Gather round!"

He took his time explaining the new game they would be playing: hide and seek. Richard took the eldest, Jamila and brought her to the tree instructing her that she will have to cover her eyes and count to ten to let everyone find a hiding spot and she would have to find them. It was agreed that this new game sounded fun and they should try it. Jamila covered her eyes, turned to the tree trunk and began counting. Her siblings scrambled, Richard collected his cameras and went into the house. After a few tense minutes of watching Jamila hunt around for her brothers and sisters Howa called her children into the house for lunch. Gordon saw the other four kids jump out of their well-concealed hiding places in the car, which he assumed they also used during firefights.

*Kilo 13, this is Kilo 11. Come in.* Gordon's earbud transmitter crackled with Hoot's voice.

"I receive you Kilo 11," Gordon spoke into the ultra sensitive mic pinned in his shirt.

*Talk to me Gordy.*

"Kellner was in sight with the kids goofing off in the yard, but he disappeared into the house a few minutes ago."

*How do you mean ' disappeared' ?*

"As in he went into the house and hasn't come back out."

*The kids?*

"Waadi's wife called them inside." Hoot still at the fish stand itched to blow something away.

*What were they doing, Kilo 13?*

"Whatever kids do, playin' a game!"

*Such as?* Gordon backtracked to Kellner talking to Jamila then getting his shit together before high tailing it out of there.

"Oh Christ!" Gordon tore off.

*Kilo 12-*

*I'm on it!* Shughart said. Hoot left his position, mounted his bike and made a beeline for the van on the side streets of Via Lenin and Armed Forces.

* * *

Lise pushed through the market trying to avoid walking too fast, at the same time looking over her shoulder for Busch and Wex. She had to work her way through automobile and donkey-cart traffic to keep moving, but Lise knew better than to think she could shake Delta. Only one of her eight cousins retired from the deeply covert laid it out for her bluntly should she run into any on assignment: they got all bases covered. She found herself under the tent of a house ware hawker trying to duck behind the hole ridden flaps.

"Hsssst!" Lise jumped when she heard something behind her. "Hsssst!" It was coming from a cluster of rolled oriental carpets reeking of mold and old hemp rope.

"Lise!" Richard was hidden behind the carpets with a fern leaf in front of his face.

"Richard! What the fuck are you doing?" He was about to retort but yanked her behind the carpets. "What's the matter with you?"

"Sssh!" He put a finger to his lips. "Chuck and Lee three o'clock!" Richard pointed when Shughart and Gordon walked by. Squatting down Lise felt bereft of oxygen and tried to calm down. Were they being tailed? Did anyone beside Waadi know? But most importantly, why?

"We can't stay here."

"Obviously!" Richard snapped, Lise slapped a hand over his mouth.

"Not so fucking loud!" She removed her hand. "We gotta move, get back to the van."

"How? What if there's more of them?"

"There are more of them!" The cameraman went pale. "Now's not the time for that," Lise cautiously left the carpets and checked a side street that went along in the opposite direction to where they were headed. "C'mon, we're going this way."

Richard grabbed her wrist. "But the van's parked behind that whorehouse! That way goes to National, we'll have to walk halfway around the city!"

"That's the point!" She hauled him up by the scruff of the neck and fled.

* * *

A sweaty Hoot pulled up to the van, Sanderson let him in. "Griz and Busch sighted them up on National. They're taking the scenic route." Hoot splashed a bit of water from the bottle Jeff handed him on his face.

"So what do you wanna do?" The two soldiers stared at one another pointedly, their quandary hanging between them. After a while Sanderson nodded.

"You're right, let's take 'em in." Hoot got behind the wheel.

* * *

Gary and Randy were having a hell of a time keeping up with the news lady and her sidekick. Lise hadn't looked back once but felt their presence overwhelm her so when they turned into another alleyway she refused to take another step.

"Why are we stopping?" Lise ignored Rich digging through her purse.

"Can't… find… my goddamn lighter!"

"Excuse me?!" Rich looked down the street, and as expected, saw no one. Randy and Gary were at the end of the alley behind the walls on either side of the entrance.

"Maintain positions," Randy said.

*Roger.* Busch answered. Giving up, Lise spotted a crate despoiled by wood rot, kicked off the newspaper making the chicken feathers on it fly, and sat herself down.

"Y'know if I don't sit for a minute, I'll start screamin' and we're all going to die." Richard lit himself one and tossed his lighter to Lise. "Thanks."

"Keep it. I got a dozen more back in the truck." They smoked in silence and flicked the butts into the dirt.

"Yo, Rich."

"Yeah?"

"Free piece of advice?"

He threw his arms up. "Why not."

"Don't run. If Delta perceives you as a threat they will shoot you." He puckered his lips as if to say 'what' but just pointed down the alley.

"So you're saying that Surfer Dude and Pee-Wee are packin'?!"

"' Surfer Dude' ?" Gordon mouthed to Shughart.

".9 mm pistols." Lise lit up another cigarette.

"How can you tell?!"

Lise grinned. "That's the whole point asshole."

"You mean they're not carrying their, y'know… big shit?" Lise looked at him incredulously.

"That would defy the whole purpose of covert operations."

"No! That's not what I-" Richard threw his hat violently into the wall behind him.

"It's their sidearm, for God sakes!" Richard sat Indian style on the ground and toyed with his hat. "CQB. Close Quarter Battle…." But Lise was talking more to herself than her friend.

"Y'know, now more than ever do I not want to know what you get up to during family reunions." Lise guffawed. "I don't get it, why do they think that we'd be a threat? Why are they doing this to us in the first place?" Lise lolled her head to one side, in her peripheral vision she could just make out a tiny corner of Shughart's Yankees jersey sleeve.

"I suppose General Garrison follows my work more than I anticipated."

"Thought that your dad had that honor."

"You know what they say about war wounds."

Richards laughed. "Yeah… I remember reading this old transcript from one of his last interviews. Y'know, the one with Diane Sawyer?" Lise nodded.

"I know."

"So what was the snafu between him and gramps back in ' Nam?" This time Lise laughed mirthlessly.

"Did you know that Green Beret is just another term for ' gun-toting nut' ?"

"So who isn't like that in your family, despite the difference in uniform that is?" Lise crushed out her cigarette against the crate.

"Choose your poison: straight jacket or coffin? Listen Rich, a man can only take so much. And when you've heard nothing but nationalistic propaganda from someone all your life you might do something drastic like dropping out of college to join the Peace Corps protesting the draft. Then you stumble into this little journalism thing because you keep a pretty good diary of picking up body parts in Khe Sahn, meanwhile you're hooking up this CBS guy with the best beer and shrimp this side of the Mekong who happens to think it might make good press. But to make things more complicated you got your old man in Da Nang under some tent commanding a Special Forces unit, and screamin' that his son is frightening the good, clean American people with carnage tales instead of being in the trenches where he belongs."

Suddenly the world shrunk, Lise having aired out her entire family's notorious history of death out on the frontlines, suicide, or slow spiral into insanity. But she had hoped if either of those idiots shadowing them heard this second gen military brat's feelings about the armed forces she illustrates in everything she has written would have a bit of leniency.

"Look, don't think I don't know how they feel about this new administration. For us this is an overdue change, because of men like our commander in chief we can do our jobs. Leave it up to guys like Garrison, everything but the Right to Bear Arms would be suspended."

"Actually," Richard interjected, "I don't vote. I never get what I want in the end." Lise threw her head back and laughed as did Richard. As they recovered from their giddiness Rich shook his head, disbelieving that Lise talked about something so personal at the worst time. "Lise, you and I can afford to look at the big picture because that's in the job requirement. In theirs, they can't, and you know that better than I do." Lise nodded knowing why men chose this life had reasons that no one could understand. Whether or not men gave or took their lives it was over. It was something she was unwilling to go through again, but since that morning on the balcony something told her she was fucked if she didn't get out of the Mog soon.

"I just… I can't…." She whispered.

"What?" Lise rose up and slung her purse back over her shoulder, she beckoned to Richard who looked at her questioningly. Lise took his arm and began to walk.

"We need to reach the van," her voice was above a whisper.

"I've been saying that." They continued to walk slowly to the end of the alley and around the corner then stopped.

"When we get out of the alley, we're going to split up and meet at the van." Richard goggled, staying silent because he would be the one to scream

"What do you mean, split up? We're gonna miss each other!" He ground out. Rich was skating on thin ice, Lise clawed his ear with her French manicured nails.

"If you stay put how will you miss me?" It was too painful to nod.

"Ahh… I see your point." Lise freed him, Richard's head snapping back. They went as far as a courtyard and took off in separate directions. Gordon and Shughart saw Richard heading for another shantytown of ramshackle sheds made of scrap sheet metal, cardboard and trash, Randy went after him. Gordon saw Lise run back down National and pursued her. The cameraman jumped through houses, scooted under chicken wire fences until coming upon a main road able to duck into the mob. Randy, unable to draw his weapon was frustrated when he saw Richard vanish. Lise bolted through open doorways and running out the back entrances, got lost in a caravan, and finally came upon a cab whose driver was taking a cigarette break. She let herself into the back and flashed the driver a Ben Franklin who then tossed his cigarette and started the car.

Richard was forced to lay face down at the bottom of the donkey cart, almost crushed by the sheer weight of the junk that was collected nearly did him in. He leapt out just as the driver approached Hawlwadig, he could walk it from there. Richard felt his heart decelerate when he saw the van and threw his hat inside. He was about to light up again when Wex materialized from the back of the truck.

"Mr. Kellner?" Rich turned around and spat out the cigarette.

"Holy fuck!"

"Hey Rich, let's take it easy… we only want to talk to you man." Busch came from around the corner. The Deltas didn't seem threatening, but Richard was not taking any chances.

"Fuck this! I ain't selling my soul to the man!" He threw his camera bag into Wex's chest and tried to make a break for it, but Busch tackled the slender cameraman. While Busch wasn't as tall as his teammates, his girth of well-proportioned fat and muscle made up for it. Richard held his own putting up a struggle, managing to knee Busch in the gut with little success. Busch had Richard pinned down long enough to twist his arms round his back and lugged him to his feet where Wex took him down with a well placed kick to the femoral artery.

"Sorry man." Busch said. Wex took the groaning man's feet.

"You take that end, I got this." Randy showed up as his two friends lowered Rich to the ground near the CNN van.

"You got him?"

"Yeah," Wex said.

"What about this?" Randy asked jutting his thumb at the van. Wex unclipped the keys from Richard's belt loop and opened up the back doors before tossing them to Shughart.

"We take it," Busch said and they loaded into the van. Once they got settled in the back, Shughart started the engine.

"You got the-" Wex started before Shughart threw him the syringe. "Thanks." Slapping his arm to pop a vein Wex put Richard to sleep. "Sorry."

Lise saw the whole scene play out crouching behind a stack of wicker baskets and could do nothing but watch them drive off. It was too hot to go back to the market, and she could run a risk walking the street alone. The Red Cross was a couple of miles but if she started now it was possible she could get out of the city before anything could happen. Lise arbitrarily chose a direction and beat the pavement. She avoided every alleyway and kept up with the crowds, but gunfire from Taariq's booth rang out and she lost her nerve. Lise zigzagged like a pinball bouncing from one corner to the next, down one alley, up another street until she jumped into the front entrance of a deserted tenement and kicked the door shut. She put her hands over her ears and screamed. Huddled in the corner Lise watched the plaster and dust particles fly as the sun arched from one side of the sky to the other. She heard faint movement on the other side of the door and scrambled up the unstable wood staircase, tripped over a loose tile and went crashing to the floor hitting her head. Dizzy, Lise forced herself up determined to find another way out.

There were several one-room apartments, their only occupants were the vermin she saw skittering away. With her finger Lise pushed open the doors to check the rooms, they were empty, she looked around the landing once more. That was her mistake. Sanderson came out from behind the door and grabbed her, clamping one hand over her mouth and the other arm around her waist.

"Hoot!" He bellowed up the other stairway. Appearances were deceiving, and Jeff was having a little difficulty trying to keep her still. Lise fought to wrench her body from his and almost made it when she was able to slam his back against the wall.

"Right! All right!" Hoot uncapped the syringe, Lise's pupils contracted as she watched him test it. Her loud grunt at Hoot sounded something along the lines of, ' Fuck you Delta' . He didn't bother looking for a vein, just injected her and after a few minutes Lise's breathing tapered and her vision smeared. She sagged in Sanderson's arms and the last thing she felt was Jeff's fingers brush against the blossoming bruise on her forehead.

TBC