The Somali Doctrine
Page 1
The Somali Doctrine
James Grenton
Contents
Part I | Discovery
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Part II | Escape
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Part III | Invasion
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Author’s note
Links to maps of Somalia, Somaliland and the Horn of Africa
About the author
Copyright
Part I
Discovery
Chapter 1
Berbera road, two hours from Hargeysa, Somaliland
16 September 2003
‘Looks like trouble ahead,’ Jim said, pointing.
Nasir leaned forward in the driver’s seat and squinted through his red-rimmed glasses. The orange sun was setting in a clear, darkening sky over a flat, sandy plain. Only the occasional greenish tufts of grass and clusters of small rocks broke the desolate landscape to either side of the road.
‘I see nothing,’ Nasir said.
‘Wait. It’s gone.’ Jim stroked his short stubble. Then he saw it again: a faint yellow light in the distance. ‘There. In the middle of the road. Could be bandits, or militia.’
‘Or a camel boy. Too far to tell.’ Nasir held the steering wheel with one hand and reached behind him with the other to grab the AK 47 on the back seat.
He offered it to Jim, who shook his head.
‘Sorry, I don’t touch those things anymore.’
Nasir shrugged, laid the AK on his lap with its curved magazine sticking outwards and accelerated. He was chomping a ball of qat, the stimulant plant that most men chewed all day in Somaliland. Beads of sweat dribbled down the sides of his wide forehead, over his high cheek bones, and gathered at the edges of his thin moustache.
‘Lock the doors,’ Jim said. ‘Head down. And speed up. May be an ambush.’
Nasir checked the central locks. ‘Do not worry about me, my friend. I’ve been under fire more times than I care to remember.’
They moved closer to the light as Nasir accelerated. Whatever it was ahead, it would soon be a pile of pulp if it just stayed there.
But then it moved, straight towards them.
Nasir shouted and slammed on the brakes, yanking the steering wheel to the right and skidding the car to a halt. Jim’s head smashed against the dashboard. Pinpoints of light sparkled. More shouting. A door opening. He put his hands to his head and felt wetness. He shook his mind back to full consciousness. Everything was tinged dark red.
‘Jim, come, see.’ It was Nasir speaking. ‘There’s a dying man in the road.’
There was a bright light in Jim’s eyes. Nasir was shining a torch at him.
‘You okay?’ Nasir said. ‘Here, come and see.’
Jim scanned the area around them. No sign of anyone and nowhere to hide, so probably not an ambush. He climbed down from the Land Rover, his heavy boots crushing pebbles and sand. He steadied himself on the bonnet and shivered in the cooler evening air after the scorching daytime heat. In the light of the headlamps he noticed a speckling of blood on his light grey shirt, as though someone had flicked red paint onto him. Unconcerned, he walked towards the sprawled shape in the middle of the road that Nasir was bending over.
‘What’s happened?’ Jim said.
‘A white man. In a bad state.’ Nasir was holding two torches: one of them must have been from the injured man.
Jim knelt and placed his ear close to the man’s mouth.
‘He’s breathing,’ he said.
He took a torch from Nasir’s hand and shone it onto the man’s body. The man looked mid-40s. His nose was smashed, with a shard of white bone sticking out. His eyes were puffed up, one of them shut. His cheeks were bruised, with a deep cut down the right one. His shirt was ripped to shreds, with large patches of blood covering a logo that Jim instantly recognised: the U and A of Universal Action over a small globe representing the world. His feet had no shoes, no socks, just a bleeding mass of flesh, as though he’d walked barefoot through shards of broken glass.
The man groaned, semi-conscious but unaware of their presence.
‘Not good,’ Jim said. He put his fingers to the man’s wrist. ‘Weak pulse.’ He stood up. ‘Let’s get him into the back of the car. Here, help me carry him.’
Nasir shuffled backwards.
‘What you doing?’ Jim said.
‘We shouldn’t bring him back. No way.’
‘Why?’
‘Bad luck.’
‘What are you on about?’
‘We don’t know who he is.’
‘That’s precisely why we should help,’ Jim said.
‘I’m sorry.’ Nasir headed back to the car.
‘We can’t just leave him here,’ Jim called after him. ‘This guy needs urgent medical attention.’
Nasir started the engine. Jim sprinted over and planted himself in front of the vehicle.
‘You’re not going to leave without me, are you?’ he shouted.
Nasir leaned out of the window.
‘Get in, Jim. This is none of our business.’
‘I’m not leaving without that man.’
Nasir revved the engine. Jim didn’t budge. For a few moments, they glared at each other like a pair of wild animals. Then Nasir threw his hands in the air and muttered something. He switched off the engine and stepped out of the vehicle.
‘You win, Jim. But I think this is a big mistake.’
‘Leaving a man to die?’
‘Meddling in other people’s business.’
‘This is my business.’
They walked over to the man, who was now unconscious. Jim bent down.
‘Hold under his arms,’ he said. ‘I’ll take his legs. Gently.’
They lifted the man and carried him to the Land Rover, placing him on the back seats in the recovery position. Nasir took a quick look around him, shining his torch into the darkness of the desert to either side of the road. Jim glanced at himself in the vehicle’s side mirror: dark, tired eyes in a chiselled and sun-tanned face stared back at him. He ran his hand through his short brown hair and found it was still wet with blood, which was dripping down the side of his forehead. He tried to wipe it clean.
The injured man groaned from inside the vehicle.
Jim was about to follow N
asir back into the vehicle, when a flash of light caught his eye. It came from the direction they’d come from. Jim squinted. The light disappeared.
‘Hurry up,’ Nasir said from the driver’s seat.
‘Yeah, sorry.’ Jim grabbed the handle to haul himself in. ‘Wait.’ He paused. The light had flickered again. ‘There’s something behind us.’
Nasir leaned out of his window and peered round. The light was stable now, like the headlamps of a vehicle getting closer.
‘Could be an NGO,’ Nasir said.
‘Or could be militia.’ Jim jumped into the back passenger seat and slammed the door shut. ‘Better get back to Hargeysa.’
Nasir started the engine and sped off like his life depended on it. Jim sat in the back next to the injured man. As Nasir leaned over and handed him the torch and the first aid kit, Jim felt a movement next to him. A hand grabbed his and squeezed. Jim looked at the injured man’s face: he was trying to speak. Jim leant closer.
‘You… have… to… help…’
‘That’s what we’re doing,’ Jim said. ‘We’re taking you to Hargeysa hospital.’
After a long pause, the man’s lips moved again.
‘Not me… Help them…’
The man must have been delirious.
‘Who’s them?’ Jim asked.
‘You need to help them… All of them…’
His already faint voice was getting fainter. Jim was finding it difficult to hear him over the roar of the engine. His ear was nearly touching the man’s lips.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Stop them… trust no-one…’
The man’s breathing got shallower and faster. His skin felt cold and clammy. Blood was seeping out of the wounds on his face and onto the seat. Jim tapped Nasir on the shoulder.
‘He’s gone into shock,’ he shouted. ‘How far to Hargeysa?’
‘An hour and a half.’
‘Dunno if he’ll make it.’ Jim leaned forward. ‘Is that vehicle still following us?’
Nasir glanced in the wing mirror. ‘Getting closer.’
The back window was tinted, so Jim rolled down his passenger window and peered out. The vehicle behind had just one headlamp working, but it was gaining fast. It was definitely more powerful than theirs. It got to within thirty metres of them, then held back just far enough to make it too difficult to discern its occupants.
‘Who d’you think they are?’ Jim said.
Nasir said nothing. He was creasing his eyebrows and peering into the wing mirror.
‘D’you recognise them?’ Jim said.
‘No idea, but I don’t like it. They should overtake if they’re in a hurry.’
The injured man clasped Jim’s hand again. His breathing became more erratic, with the occasional burst of semi-consciousness and half-sentences. Every time Jim asked the man what had happened to him, he never got a reply—always the same words over and over again. Jim tried to clean up the man’s wounds using the sterile pads and bandages in the first aid kit. The bleeding stopped, but there were blisters and black marks all over the man’s body.
‘Nasir, look at his skin. It’s all burnt.’
Nasir glanced round. His eyes narrowed and his mouth opened as though he was about to say something, then he looked away.
‘This guy’s been tortured,’ Jim said, his pulse racing. Memories clawed to the surface of his mind. Charred faces. Tortured bodies. Men buried alive.
He shoved the thoughts away.
Nasir kept his gaze fixed on the road ahead. Jim took a deep breath and ruffled through the remains of the man’s clothes. He pulled out an old Nokia phone, the clunky type they used to make in the late 1990s. It was battered and the screen was smashed. Jim tried to switch it on, but nothing happened. He pocketed the phone and kept searching. He found a scrap of paper with writing scrawled on it.
212 Stanley 2pm 23 9
He folded it and put it in his pocket.
Nasir was speaking to someone on his phone. After a while, he hung up and spoke to Jim.
‘I’ve just rung up the team in Hargeysa. They’ll warn the hospital. Is he still alive?’
Jim looked at the injured man. He was still breathing, although with difficulty.
‘Yeah. But for how long, I’m not sure.’
Chapter 2
Hargeysa, Somaliland
16 September 2003
An hour later, they were approaching the scattered lights of the IDP camps on the outskirts of Hargeysa. After the overthrow of the Somali dictator Siad Barre in 1991, hordes of Somalis had fled to relative safety in the newly formed, break-away Republic of Somaliland, while the rest of Somalia descended into civil war. More than 72,000 internally-displaced people—IDPs in development jargon—were still living around Hargeysa in temporary settlements where malaria, cholera and other diseases were rampant.
Jim gazed outside as the Land Rover raced along the dirt paths that cut between the rows of battered huts that made up the camps. Men in ripped pants and tattered t-shirts huddled around the remains of charcoal fires and kerosene lamps that cast eerie shadows. The night air was thick with smoke and dust and the smell of dung. Attracted by the vehicle’s headlamps, swarms of dirty and ragged children ran after the Land Rover as it stormed past, a few unsuccessfully trying to climb onto it as it shot past them. The vehicle behind them, which had followed them all the way, veered off and headed south.
Jim and Nasir arrived at Hargeysa hospital, a collection of brown stone buildings that looked surprisingly new compared to the bombed-out ruins of much of the city. Nasir clambered out of the front seat and ran in, calling for help. A doctor and two nurses in impeccable white uniforms strolled out. The doctor prodded the unconscious man with his finger, pulled a face and shrugged. Jim pushed him aside and signalled to the nurses, who helped him carry the man into the hospital ward.
Dozens of men and women lay on beds, writhing in pain. A stench of decay hung in the air. They placed the injured man onto a dirty mattress on the floor. A doctor took his pulse and checked his wounds.
‘Ain’t looking good,’ said a coarse voice behind them.
Jim and Nasir turned round. A tallish man with a greying beard, silver-rimmed round glasses and a green army shirt was scowling at them.
‘Harry! Good to see you,’ Nasir said, gripping the man’s hand and speaking in an uncharacteristically friendly yet nervous voice. ‘Jim, this is Harry Steeler, UA’s head of security. Harry, this is Jim Galespi. Just started with us as programme funding manager.’
Harry ignored Jim’s outstretched hand. He pushed the doctor and nurses aside and planted himself next to the bed, as though he owned it and the rest of the hospital. He looked up and down the injured man and snorted.
‘What the hell happened?’ he said. ‘You run him over?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Jim said. He glanced round. Nasir had shuffled a few steps backward and was chatting in a low voice to the doctor. Jim turned back to Harry. ‘We found him in this state.’
Harry leant closer to the man on the bed, studying his bloodied face. There was something familiar about Harry, but Jim couldn’t quite place it.
‘Found anything on him?’ Harry said, searching the injured man’s pockets.
‘Not much.’
‘Not much, or nothing at all?’
‘Nothing at all.’
It was Harry’s eyes. He’d seen them before: dark and sinister, distrustful and cold. But where?
‘What a shame,’ Harry said to himself, shaking his head.
‘Sorry?’
‘I was saying what a shame to end up like this.’ He glanced over his shoulder at Jim. ‘So you just found him, by himself, in the middle of the desert?’
‘That’s what I just said.’
‘You have no idea who he is?’
‘Nope. And you?’
‘Never seen him before.’
‘He’s got a UA t-shirt.’
‘I see that,’ Harry snapped.
The
injured man opened and shut his eyes. He tried to say something, but all that came out was a long, desperate moan that sent a shiver down Jim’s spine.
Harry turned to the doctor. ‘Patch him up. We’ll airlift him to Nairobi hospital.’
With that, he spun on his heels and left without saying goodbye. Jim looked at Nasir and the doctor. They seemed relieved Harry had gone. The nurses scurried back to the injured man’s side.
‘Not sure I like that guy,’ Jim said.
Nasir pushed his glasses up his nose.
Jim turned to the doctor. ‘Do you think he’ll live?’
‘Maybe,’ the doctor. ‘No vital organs damaged. We’ll transfuse some blood from the UA stock and fly him out first thing. Now let’s see your head.’
Jim had forgotten about his head injury. The doctor took him to one side and scrubbed the wound with antiseptic wipes.
‘You’ll be fine,’ said the doctor. ‘Not like our man here. Quite an accident.’
‘An accident? Looks like he walked barefoot for miles. That’s no accident.’
‘I don’t know. Looks like an accident to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, the patients need some peace and quiet.’
Jim stepped out of the hospital building and gazed up at the night sky. Stars were shining like small diamonds against a pitch black background. Not a cloud was in sight. A small animal scurried over his feet and hid in a pile of rocks. He breathed in the cool air, feeling a tingle of excitement and anxiety. Excitement at being here, in a new country, doing field work. But anxiety at what he might find, at the warning from the injured man.
He looked around, and felt his heart jump.
Leaning against a crumbling stone wall and drawing on a cigarette, Harry was studying him with piercing eyes.
Chapter 3
Southern Togdheer region, Somaliland
16 September 2003
Fabienne had experienced nasty stuff during her long career as a development worker in Africa. But nothing, absolutely nothing at all, had prepared her for what she was about to see.
The Universal Action convoy rumbled towards the IDP camp, generating a cloud of ochre dust in its wake that glittered in the late afternoon sunlight. Sitting in the passenger seat of the lead truck, Fabienne leant out of the open window and looked at the column of vehicles snaking behind: 10 including hers, their large tyres grinding the desert sand. She reached for her walkie talkie on the dashboard.