by Neil Howarth
Fagan looked out at the young faces shining in the reflection of the flames, fear evident in their eyes. They stood in a small group, gripping each other’s hands. They were looking at Fagan to save them.
That fact scared him more than the rebels did.
The children were tired, they should already be in bed, and he was about to lead them out into the unknown. But he had no choice. They had to get away from here, or they would all be dead by morning.
They headed out of the camp. Fagan took the lead, then James leading the children, and Father William bringing up the rear. The land rose gradually, and Fagan had to keep the pace slow enough for the children to manage, but after a couple of hours, they were already exhausted. James had a child on his shoulders and was carrying another, Father William had two children clutching him as he helped them along and Fagan had picked up a young girl who looked as if she was about to drop.
“We need to stop and rest.” Father William had made his way up from the rear. “The children cannot go much further.”
“I can see that. But we have to get far enough away before we can stop.”
“Is this not far enough?”
Fagan looked at the little crew. The priest was right. They were exhausted.
He handed him the little girl. “Wait here. I’m going to take a look around, see if I can find some shelter.”
The moon was out, full and bright and he could make out the landscape. Low flat hills ran away into the darkness and sloped down to where the mission burned in the distance. Thorn bushes were scattered across the hillside, and an outcrop of acacia trees looked like they might provide the cover he was looking for. Ten minutes later he had rounded up the children and the priest and had them huddled beneath the trees. James shared out the blankets, one between two, sometimes three. Then he doled out rations of the rice and water. Fagan did not want to risk a fire, so the children had to eat their food cold and make do with the blankets and their shared body heat to keep warm.
Fagan sat up against a rock in the chill of the evening keeping watch. The evening breeze brushed gently across his face, wafting in the light scent of eucalyptus. He had no blanket, but he had suffered worse. He couldn’t help thinking, was this what my training had prepared me for? He had always seen himself making surgical strikes into enemy territory, charging into battle. Not saving kids and hiding from the enemy.
He didn’t realize then, but this would be the noblest thing he would ever do.
Something moved in the darkness.
Fagan gripped the CAR-15, the sound suppressor was already fitted. He slipped his finger onto the trigger and took up the pressure.
Father William stepped out of the darkness. He held a mug in each hand.
“Coffee?” He handed Fagan one of the mugs.
“I said no fires.”
“It is alright. James knows how to build a small fire without drawing any attention. Enough to warm some water, that is all. And the children needed it.”
Fagan sipped the coffee. It was not Starbucks, but he had to admit it tasted wonderful.
“Do you approve?”
“Yes, Father.”
“Please, call me William. I feel we’re going to be friends.”
“You have a crystal ball?”
“Something like that.”
“I hope it sees us getting out of this.”
“Speaking of getting out. What is your plan?”
It was something Fagan had been giving a lot of thought to, but the options were not great.
“It depends on the rebels. If they have really cleared out, we should wait here. When headquarters realize my team is missing, which is way past due, they are going to come looking. But they are unlikely to come in the dark. More likely they’ll come in force in the morning. I have a colored smoke flare in my backpack. When I see the helicopters, I’ll let it off.”
“And if the rebels have not cleared out?” William asked. “If they see the flare, they are likely to come after us. Will they reach us before the rescuers do? You said the rebels had SAM missiles. Even I have heard of them. Won’t that be a problem for your helicopters.”
“If the rebels are down there, I won’t let off the flare. It’s too dangerous. The Kenyan border is not too far. We could make it in three or four days.”
“Do you think these children can make a three or four day hike?”
“The key is not to be tracked. If we can do that we don’t have to move as fast.”
“Do you think they will track us. Maybe they think we’re all dead.”
“It depends if they are specifically looking for you.”
“Why would they do that?”
“I get the feeling you are no ordinary priest. My boss told me that the order to bring you out came from on high, from the Vatican itself. It’s a known fact that security in and around Mogadishu, especially around the UN groups, leaks like a sieve. If word of it got out, the rebels would see a big ransom on offer. Which means they’re looking for you and they will keep looking.”
William chewed on his lower lip. “Perhaps I should give myself up. If they ensure the safety of the children, I am sure the Holy Father will pay them whatever they ask.”
“These rebels won’t think like that. They will kill us all and just leave you to bargain with. They will see that as the simplest option.”
The priest nodded. “I was afraid of that. If we have to make it to the border what will we do for food and water?”
“We live off the land.” Fagan smiled at him. “You’re a priest, you should know about that.”
“Yes, but I don’t have a bottomless basket of bread and a wine bottle that never empties.”
“This isn’t the desert, though it’s pretty parched out there. Animals are surviving, so there is water out here, we just have to find it. And those animals, we can hunt them for food.”
“Yes, but we have people hunting us too.”
“The secret is to stay a step ahead of them.”
The priest sipped at his coffee saying nothing.
“So how did you come to be out here?” Fagan asked.
The priest stared into his mug and shrugged. “I worked in the Vatican as the Holy Father’s Private Secretary. He had plans for me, but so did I.”
“I said you were important.”
“What does important mean? I may have been in the Vatican, but I was still a priest. I insisted that the Holy Father give me two years in Africa, to allow me to be a real priest, just for that short time. After that, I promised I would dedicate myself to his cause.”
“And he agreed?”
The priest’s handsome face creased into a smile. “After a little, persuading.”
“I get the impression you can be a persuasive man.”
William shrugged but didn’t respond. Fagan kept quiet and let him continue.
“Things went well at first. We opened up the mission and started a school for the children. But we are not just about religion and saving souls. We had volunteers, teaching the local men how to find water, and plant crops that can survive out here. We also had a clinic to treat the sick. Sister Eileen is a wonderful doctor.” He paused and silently crossed himself. “Was, God rest her. When all the troubles started, our volunteers left. I cannot blame them. They were farmers, not soldiers. I should have insisted that all the Sisters leave at the same time.”
“But you were not to know what would happen, and besides you stayed.”
“I had already been out at the mission for a year and a half when the world caught fire. I knew I had only six more months. Then I would have to go back to Rome. These people here needed me. I hoped I could see it out. But it was not to be.”
Father William sat in silence sipping his coffee. He finally looked up, a slight smile on his face.
“Fagan? That is an Irish name? Are you a Catholic?”
“Are you going to make me take confession?”
William’s smile broadened. It lit up his handsome face. “Th
at depends.”
7
Jubaland Region, Somalia.
The rebels were not going to make it easy.
Fagan could see them down in the mission. According to his brief, these were the Ras Kamboni Brigade, an Islamist insurgency group who would not take too kindly to a bunch of Roman Catholics squatting in their territory.
It was barely light. He had left while it was still dark and made his way back down the hillside. He hid behind a rock outcrop, peeking through a gap in the rocks. He could make out a group of fifteen.
The leader was obvious. The man stood with his hands on his hips barking out orders. He wore camouflage fatigues, a maroon beret, and dark aviator sunglasses. He focused much of what he had to say on one man, tall and skinny with a rag tied around his head to protect him from the sun. The leader was clearly angry, and pointed towards the hillside. He waved his arms and the whole group headed in Fagan’s general direction.
Fagan was less worried about them. He was more concerned about the man out in front, the one who the leader had been yelling at. Fagan knew he was the danger. It was evident in the way he moved, the way he studied the lie of the land and the ground in front of him.
The skinny one was the tracker.
Fagan rejoined the priest and the children and led them higher into the hills, keeping to the hard ground, each step taking them further away from the Mission, further away from rescue.
They had a problem. The search team would be following the GPS locator on the Black Hawk's black box flight recorder. It was designed to withstand both the fire and the impact of the crash, so he had to believe it would be working. At first sight, they would assume the whole team had perished. When they moved on to the mission, they would find the devastation there, and again, assume the worst. It would take them days to discover that he was not in the helicopter, by then it would probably be already too late. The painful truth was, when they moved away from the Mission, no one was coming to look for them - apart from the rebels.
Fagan made his decision and brought the group to a halt. He gave Father William the compass and a bearing to follow, then let him and James take over and lead the way. Fagan hung at the back covering their tracks and watching for any sign of their pursuers. He sat down behind a rock, trying to get some shade from the sun which was already sweltering hot. He pulled out his water canteen and took a measured swig. He was trying to preserve it. He knew they had to find water soon. They just needed to get clear of their pursuers.
He had a good view of the hillside and valley below. He was hoping the rebels might get tired and give up. But from what he had seen so far they would keep on coming. He had that uneasy feeling that their leader knew what he was looking for, or rather who. If he knew who the Priest was, knew that it was the Vatican who wanted him rescued, he would also know of his value, and he would not be giving up.
Which left him with only one option.
This seemed as good a place as any, to wait. A crease between two rocks gave him a place to aim through while keeping in cover. The CAR-15 sub-machine gun was not a sniper’s weapon, but it did have a range up to about 600 yards firing the Remington 0.223 cartridge. If you knew what you were doing. He hoped that all his training on the firing range had ensured that.
He caught the movement as they emerged from the trees into a narrow gully that ran up the hillside to where he lay. The skinny one, the tracker, was in the lead, the others crowded in behind. He stopped and crouched, studying the ground. Fagan had been clearing their trail as they went, but he had begun leaving a few tell tales signs here and there, including the point where the tracker was now squatting. A few scuffed footprints in the dirt - children’s footprints.
He had a reason.
The tracker spoke to the leader who looked up into the hills towards where Fagan was hiding. Fagan was planning on two things. They didn’t know he was up here, but more than that, they did not even know he was in the picture. As far as they were concerned all the rescuing force had died in the fire. Hopefully, they would think they were pursuing a priest and some children. It would make them considerably less cautious.
The tracker made his way up the gully. He was moving in long, loping strides, with little caution, his eyes scanning the ground in front of him. That was a good sign. He was not expecting trouble. The leader was in the pack following close behind, surrounded by his faithful cohorts.
Fagan wanted them in close. He let the tracker get well up towards his position, which meant the whole group behind were within striking distance. The CAR-15 had a small optical sight, nothing special but at this range, it was quite adequate. Fagan could see the tracker’s face clearly through it, even the sweat on his face and neck as the sun rose high in the sky. He could have easily taken him out at this range, but the tracker was not his immediate target. There was an old saying,
Cut off the head, and the body dies.
He hoped so.
He held the stock into his cheek and sighted through the scope. His senses heightened from the adrenalin pumping through his blood, and he could smell the sharp aroma of the gun oil. The target was clear in his sight. He squeezed the trigger almost without thinking. The CAR-15 coughed in his ear. He was shooting downhill, and despite his compensation, the bullet hit slightly high. Which is why he aimed for the center of the chest. It struck the leader in the throat. The force of the impact lifted him off his feet. He was dead before he landed and slithered down the rocky track. Fagan took the tracker in the middle of his skinny back, as the man tried to scramble back down the gulley. The zealots were blasting their weapons in all directions, but they had no real idea where their attacker was. An added benefit of the sound suppressor was that it also suppressed the muzzle flash. Fagan took out four of them before the rest broke and ran.
He hung around to make sure they had really disappeared then headed out after William and the children. It took him an hour to catch up. He found them resting under the shade of a thick acacia tree.
“Is everything okay?” William asked. “We could hear shooting.”
“I had a small encounter. I think I’ve slowed them down.”
“Maybe it’s best if I don’t ask for details.”
Fagan smiled but didn’t respond.
“Are they coming after us?”
“Not this group.”
“Does that mean we’re safe now. Can we go back? Maybe we can make contact with your search team.”
“I wish that was the case. But we can’t take that risk.”
A point that was drilled into him back in SEAL training.
You can hope for the best but always plan for the worst.
He had to assume there was a larger group out there and they knew of the prize. They were not going to let their quarry escape so easily.
8
Jubaland Region, Somalia.
They spent the night in a grove of acacia trees and set out early. There had been no sign of their pursuers. Fagan kept them to the high ground. The going was more difficult, but he knew they would be less easy to track. Their pursuers would be more careful now, they had no idea how many of them were armed, but they would see from the ones Fagan had taken out of the last group, they were dealing with professionals.
He had seen a patrol down in the valley earlier in the day. He saw the dust first then a couple of open back trucks emerged from the cloud, with heavy machine guns mounted on their rear. They were known as ’Technicals’, the guerrilla fighter’s vehicular equivalent of the AK47. Half a dozen armed men clung on to the back of each one.
But they were down there. If they wanted to come up here, they would have to come on foot.
This time he made sure their tracks were covered. With luck the rebels would expect them to head for the nearest border point, so he had set James leading the group on a more southerly route. It would take longer, but hopefully be safer. Or at least that was the plan.
But when your luck runs out, it tends to dump you head down in the deep shit.
/> Fagan was making his way back to the group and came over a rise when he saw them. A small band of rebels had the group surrounded. They had separated out William, the grand prize, and they had James on his knees in front of the children, who were hugging each other and crying. A man had a gun to James' head and was shouting at him in a language the Fagan did not understand.
Fagan knew if he went in shooting anything could happen, James would be the first to go, and the children could be injured or killed in the firefight that would undoubtedly follow. Maybe the rebels would turn their guns on them at the outset. Out here he was too far away to be effective. He needed to get in close where he could control events.
There were four of them. Fagan checked around, but he could see no others.
He called out, waving his arms, then stood there with his hands above his head until they saw him. Two of them ran towards him, shouting and firing their weapons into the air.
Fagan walked forward towards them.
The two men reached him, still shouting. From their gestures they wanted him to get down on his knees, but he ignored them and kept on walking.
The CAR-15 was hung around his neck, and the first one pulled it free while the other swung his AK-47 at Fagan’s head. He ducked and took a painful blow on the arm as he tried to protect himself, but he finally did as he was asked and dropped to his knees. They found the SIG and took that. The leader was calling to them from the main group, and beckoning with his arm.
Fagan got to his feet and walked in with his hands above his head.
The man holding the gun to James head, probably the leader, abandoned him and gave Fagan his full attention. “How many are you?” He shouted in passable English.
“Six,” Fagan said. “Plus me.”
“Where are they?”
“On patrol, looking for you.”