Nautical Strike (The Gargoyle Trilogy Book 1)

Book summary

In "Nautical Strike," Lieutenant Commander James Robert "Bob" Morgan, a CIA analyst with a past marked by sacrifice, is thrust into action when heavy weapons reach Mali's insurgents, endangering American and Allied forces. Motivated by personal loss, Morgan assembles a formidable team, including an MI-6 operative and elite naval special operators, equipped with cutting-edge technology. Their mission: unravel the intricate web of deception surrounding a global criminal organization led by a charismatic CEO and his enigmatic daughter, whose ambitions could reshape the world order.

Excerpt from Nautical Strike (The Gargoyle Trilogy Book 1)

Jerry Biggs, call sign Logan, stood atop the regimental headquarters building and looked west towards the sun setting over the Niger River. Over his shoulder, to the east, lay Gao’s airport. Its lights were the only sign of modern civilization in northern Mali.

Another desert shithole, lovely.

Between Logan’s years in the U.S. Marine Corps and his work as a consultant for Constellis, he’d been in Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Kenya, Chad, Libya, and now Mali. Still, he shouldn’t complain too much; the money was excellent. Way more than he earned as a United States Marine Corps officer. Still single in his mid-thirties, Jerry used that money to enjoy himself wherever, and with whomever, he wanted. His ‘don’t give a shit’ demeanor, tough, cruel features, black curly hair, and stocky build were irresistible to many women around the world.

He particularly liked the ladies he met when stationed at Camp Courtney, Okinawa while on the staff of 3rd Marine Expeditionary Brigade. A bevy of Japanese, Korean, and Filipino women came into, and out of, his life at a substantial rate while out in the Western Pacific.

Just like that little Filipina hottie Bob Morgan married. Wonder how ol’ Bob is doing these days. Hadn’t heard from him since his divorce and return to the boat teams…

Jerry shook his head and took one last look around before headed back into the building and its blessed air conditioning. He headed to the lounge and saw the parachute regiment commanding officer, Lieutenant Colonel Jean-Charles Bethune, smoking a cigarette. Jerry liked working with the Foreign Legion. They were tough, smart, and very professional operators who didn’t take to the politically correct agendas of the other armed forces back in Europe or in the States. The regiment Jerry advised had, until recently, gave the Islamic insurgents, like the Jama’a Nusrat ul-Islam wa al-Muslimin, a run for their money. They’d wiped out several cells in their area of operations. The effort supported the overall French-led anti-insurgent campaign known as Operation: Barkhane. The operation began on August 1st, 2014 in cooperation with five countries, all former French colonies that spanned the Sahel: Burkina Faso, Chad, Mali, Mauritania, and Niger.

Lately, the JNIM has counter-attacked French forces all over the country with results deadlier than expected. The French intelligence folks out their headquarters in Niamey, Niger worked day and night trying to figure out how this was happening and more importantly how to stop the onslaught.

“Bonsoir, Mon Colonel,” Jerry said.

“Good evening Monsieur Logan. How are things outside?”

“Same as it was yesterday. Hot, dry, dusty, and thankfully quiet.”

“Good, I like quiet.”

“Any word from H.Q. on JNIM activity?”

“No, those JNIM bâtards seem to have melted away. Our drones out of Niger haven’t found their base of operations yet.”

“Could satellite imagery help?”

“Maybe. Do you have some handy?”

“Not quite, but I know who to call…”

Explosions suddenly rocked the building, knocking Jerry and Colonel Bethune off their feet. A siren wailed. The Colonel grabbed a radio off his belt.

“Voici le Colonel Bethune. Que se passe-t-il?” (This is Colonel Bethune. What's going on?)

“This is Caporal-chef Vannier. We’re taking artillery and mortar fire and armored vehicles are approaching the fence line.”

The two men exited the lounge and stared dumbfounded at the utter carnage they saw. Flaming buildings lit the compound. Bombs and artillery shells had flattened others. Smoke hung thick in the air, stinging Jerry’s eyes. Outside the fence, they saw five German-built Boxer armored fighting vehicles rumbled towards the gates. Each eight-wheeled vehicle mounted an Israeli-made Samson Mk II turret complete with 30-millimeter cannons, 7.62-millimeter machine guns, and Spike anti-tank missiles. The Boxers smashed through the gates and the surrounding fence. The turret guns spat flame, the detonations thumping loudly, laying down suppressing fire as the rear doors opened. Eight JNIM insurgents exited from each vehicle firing their AK-47s as they moved. Three of the regiment’s Véhicule de l'avant blindé armored personnel carriers attempted to reach the battle, but the Boxer’s Spike missiles made short work of them. Behind the Boxers, additional insurgents poured through the now flattened fence. They used the Boxers as initial cover, then spread out over the base. A single Puma helicopter gunship approached the Boxers, but a sixth Boxer responded. That Boxer was equipped with a Swiss-built Oerlikon Skyshield 35-millimeter anti-air cannon. It thundered once and blew the Puma out of the sky.

Colonel Bethune and Jerry launched into the fight. They engaged the insurgents with their FAMAS Valorisé and M-4 assault rifles, but the heavy fire from the Boxers drove them back into the regimental headquarters. More reports crackled over the Colonel’s radio, sounds of machine gun fire drowning out the Legionnaire’s voices. The insurgents were overrunning French positions with cries for help coming in fast and unheeded. The Colonel looked out the door.

“Merde! Where the hell, did they get those things?”

Logan looked out and saw a swarm of insurgents heading their way.

“Don’t know, but I’m taking as many of those sons-of-bitches with me before I go. You with me?”

“Oui, let’s go my friend.”

The pair opened the door and charged out into a hail of gunfire, firing as they ran. Colonel Bethune received a barrage of 7.62-millimeter rounds and was dead before his bullet ridden body hit the desert floor. Jerry responded with a three-round volley from his M-4, killing the insurgent that took his friend’s life. He knelt down on one knee and continued to fire until his weapon ran out of ammunition. He threw the now useless M-4 on the ground and drew his K-Bar fighting knife, a souvenir from his days in the Marine Corps. He plunged the blade into the abdomen of the first insurgent within reach, a quick zig-zag move disemboweled him. Before the body hit the ground, he was already striking upwards, into the soft palate of the next insurgent, as he raised his AK-47. Moving swiftly towards the third insurgent, his body jerked as several rounds struck him in the torso. He kept going and when he finally fell from the rounds aimed at his legs, he caught a glimpse of eight bodies surrounding him.

Ha! Eight to one, nice kill ratio… 

CIA Deputy Director of Intelligence, Ronald Bailey, strode through the seventh floor hallway towards his office. Seating his tall, athletic frame behind his desk, which held the day’s newspaper and a file folder next to a picture of his family.

“Jags still finding ways to lose,” the Jacksonville native said to himself as he scanned the sports headlines. He’d played corner back for Austin Peay, and he followed the ups-and-downs, mostly downs, of the Jaguars since the team’s founding.

He opened the file and perused the dossier on an operative that, he hoped, was best-suited for the escalating Mali situation, James Robert Morgan.

The file told story of an officer with extensive background in maritime intelligence, naval operations, and both Navy and Agency special operations. An injury suffered while on mission with the Maritime Branch led to his transfer to the Analysis Branch.

“Hmph, allegedly transferred to the Analysis Branch…” Director Bailey said aloud.

Bailey skimmed the rest of the file. It told him that Morgan, on paper, was the man to handle the current crisis, quirky (Morgan’s psychological profile said he was very introverted almost to the point of misanthropy), but very effective. He’d have to see if reality matched the history. The file contained Morgan’s official CIA photograph, taken after his injury that led to his transfer. It showed a young man with a close-cropped head of brown hair with a hazel colored right eye, a patch over his left eye, and a Van Dyke beard. The right side of his mouth curled into what could only be described as a smirk. It reminded him of the 1970s era comic-book hero, the Green Arrow. The eyepatch also gave him a somewhat piratical look.

The Deputy Director picked up the phone and dialed his secretary.

“Coleen, where is Commander Morgan?”

“Virginia Beach, sir. He’s on his two-week active duty period at the Navy and Marine Corps Intelligence Training Center.”

“Please get me NMITC’s commanding officer on the line.”

“Yes, sir.”

We need Commander Morgan back up here as soon as possible.

Morgan sat at his table at his favorite restaurant in Norfolk, Streats. He could have gone to one of the many places on the Virginia Beach oceanfront much closer to where he was staying out at Dam Neck. However, they all had the same problem, too many people. He preferred the smaller, relatively quieter places in Norfolk’s Ghent neighborhood, with Streats being his favorite. After all, they had the James Bond martini on the drink menu. Add in a raisin-free bread pudding du jour, and the results were spectacular.