SHIFT TENSE
An Eshu International novel
Patrick Todoroff
Shift Tense. An Eshu International novel
This edition is a compilation of the previously published novellas Red Flags, Soldier Dreams, and Angels
©2015 Patrick Todoroff
ISBN: 978-0-9896361-3-1
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author/publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictionally, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Dedicated to:
Ishmael Beah, Emmanuel Jal, Grace Akallo, and the thousands of other children whose youth has been stolen by war.
For my Mom,
who took me to Bruce Lee movies
and introduced me to William Gibson.
“The future is already here – it’s just not evenly distributed.”
– William Gibson, The Economist, December 4, 2003
PART ONE: RED FLAGS
“Mars is not an aesthetic God.”
– Confederate Commander John Brown Gordon, at Shiloh.
CHAPTER ONE – Mini Puka Boy
Somewhere on the Gulf of Aden
Abdi was sure he was dying.
His head was dizzy, loose on his neck like a door with one hinge. His stomach clenched with every wave, every jump and roll the boat made. He had nothing left to throw up. He felt empty, as crumpled as a paper sack. Surely the angel Azra’il stood ready to escort his soul above the skies.
Thirteen years old, he couldn’t remember ever feeling this bad before.
It had started the second day out at sea. He’d spewed hard bread and goat over the rail, and after that, he couldn’t keep anything down. The older soldiers, all SPLM men, had laughed, dubbing him “Mini Puka Boy.” Now, they sang out the name whenever he came near and wouldn’t let him sleep in the bunks below. Instead, they shoved him toward the ‘puke nest’, a makeshift tent on the bow made from an old tarp and big coils of greasy rope. There, they said, he could vomit over the side whenever he wanted.
Veteran pirates, the older fighters were full of advice, telling him it would pass on the fourth day, that he must stare at the sky not the ocean, claiming that smoking jaad or chewing khat would make him hungry, make the seasickness stop.
But nothing helped. The shakes, the weakness, only grew worse the farther out into the Gulf they went. Three days later, all he could do was lie on the deck like a limp rag.
Last night, one of the SPLM men, the one with the dirty pink rubber hand, brought a bowl of mishaari and spooned the corn mush into his mouth. Abdi managed five bites before it went all over his boots. Pink Hand gave up in disgust, and the older soldiers had cackled even louder. Abdi didn’t even have the strength to get mad. He simply curled up and bit his lip when he wanted to moan.
He had felt better, briefly, earlier that morning. He’d woken from the metal stock of his old AK-47 digging into his ribs. Shifting, groping in the dark, his fingers had found a half-filled tin cup beside him. One of the younger boys must have brought it sometime in the night. The water smelled dusty, but Abdi sipped its coolness and managed to keep it down.
The world was silent save the low wind and the soft lapping of waves. He’d actually managed to stand for a minute or two, steadying himself on the rails at the very front of the boat.
The Gulf had been spread out around him like a great dark field while the stars shone like hard, bright sparks; a thousand thousands of them spilled across the dome of heaven. Wobbly and stretched thin, Abdi had nevertheless sensed something vast in that moment. Perhaps that was what the Hand of Allah felt like.
He must have fallen back to sleep because the sun was high when he opened his eyes again, and the water tasted like boiled sweat. His gut was in knots once more, so he lay there under the tattered blue tarp and tried to muster up hatred for the captain of this torturous voyage.
His cousin Ghedi had lied to get him on board; Abdi was sure of that now.
Ghedi had found Abdi at Dhubbato with their grandmother. Like most other members of the Isaaq clan, the massive U.N. refugee camp was the last safe place in Somaliland. Teeming, filthy, filled with crime and poverty though it was, at least the Hangash, General Dhul-Fiqaar’s secret police, or roving units of elite Duub Cas, the Red Beret Regiment, couldn’t come and slaughter them at night. Not with so many Peacekeepers watching.
Abdi’s cousin was shahiba, a gangbanger, and Ghedi ran with a crew of other Somali teenager boys, all of them orphans, angry, and Isaaq. A year ago, they’d gotten their hands on some old army rifles and started calling themselves the “Harimacad,” the Cheetah militia. Soon after, they’d disappeared into the bush to join Professor Hamid and his rebel Somaliland People’s Liberation Movement.
Then, all these months later, Ghedi had barged into their tent as if he’d only been gone a day. Mouthing big talk, he claimed he was no longer shahiba; Professor Hamid had made him a very important man. A captain. Abdi was suspicious, but Ghedi wore tiger-striped fatigues and had two gold pins on his shirt collar. And he flashed a huge wad of Euros. That was very different.
His cousin boasted that he and his militia had been ordered to go on a secret mission for the SPLM. But he needed more men. Was Abdi interested? Ghedi promised a handful of bills and an AK-47 if he came. A real gun, a man’s gun, all for a quick boat ride, he’d said.
Abdi hesitated. Then Ghedi had pulled out a nice red shirt. Almost new. It could be Abdi’s right there and then as a bonus.
That clinched the deal.
Abdi looked down at his new shirt now, all foul and puke-stained. Ghedi had bedeviled him. If he’d known the truth about being a budhcad badeed, he’d have grabbed that shirt, kicked his cousin in the stones and run as fast as he could.
Now it was too late.
His cousin had promised those things because this was his first time pirating, and he wanted to impress the SPLM men by bringing his own fighters along. Lying wacaal.
Abdi was going to tell their grandmother about this swindle the second they got back to shore. May Allah bring that day quickly. The thought of their grandmother beating Ghedi with her old belt strap like she used to raised a smile on his cracked lips.
A sudden wind shook his little tent, and he peered out across the deck of the pirate ship.
It was one of four that had been towed out to the deep water by a much bigger boat. An old twelve-meter, Italian fishing boat whose name was long-buried under layers of paint, the nets and winches had been replaced with battered Dushka 12.7 heavy machineguns. The motors were new and strong, however, and Abdi had heard them growling in the back. Originally meant for fifteen men, almost two dozen were packed in for this trip—thirteen SPLM veterans and ten of Ghedi’s Cheetah militia.
Twenty-three fighters, five days, the hot sun, endless slapping waves, the stink of diesel, bodies, and vomit… this was misery. The Dhubbato camp was better.
Waiting made everything worse. Abdi couldn’t understand why they didn’t just attack one of the big cargo ships right now. The SPLM men said there were dozens of them passing through the Strait of Hormuz every hour. Pick one, fire the engines, and converge on the massive target like jackals on a buffalo. P
roblem solved.
Unless the Russians or Indians had a frigate nearby, all a pirate had to do was circle a few times, fire off a RPG, then go aboard. The men said the shipping companies paid most ransoms within a week. The trick was not to ask for too much. The executives figured pay-offs were cheaper than delaying the cargo. That way, no one suffered.
Abdi couldn’t have agreed more. Even getting shot at was better than getting bounced around and roasted like peanuts.
But no. Ghedi insisted his mission had come from SPLM headquarters, from Professor Hamid himself even. They’d wait, starving, vomiting, baking, until a certain ship came by. The Mashona Breeze. No other would do. Ghedi even had a laptop that sent him messages and pictures from planes high in the sky.
Abdi doubted the commander of the entire rebel army was emailing orders to his cousin, but he was pretty sure the dozen fighters had come along to make sure Ghedi carried them out to the letter.
The boat jumped, and Abdi swallowed sourness at the back of his throat. No more after this. Insha’ Allah, he prayed. Please. Only dry land from now on.
Abdi shut his eyes and let his head roll with the motion of the Gulf. He’d dozed off when a burst of rifle fire stuttered loud and close. He sat up, his heart in his throat.
Ghedi stood on deck, rifle in hand.
“It is time!” he shouted. “The commanders has sent the signal to me. The ship is close. We must go—go now.”
Ghedi ripped another burst into the sky for effect. “Crazy fast. Quick. Quick!” he screamed. “The revolution needs us, and we will not be late.”
Abdi heard ammo belts clinking and the clatter of bullets being chambered. Brown, shaved heads scurried to pull the anchor. The motors throbbed deep and low.
Thank Allah, Abdi thought and sank back. Then he saw Ghedi staggering towards him.
Abdi tried to stand, but a wave hit, and he fell back, tangled in his frayed blue tarp. He flailed, swept it aside and looked up. A shadow was there; his cousin standing over him, red eyes and little captain gold badges shining.
The fat muzzle of Ghedi’s AK-107 was pointing down at his chest.
“As Captain Boss, I order every badass gangsta have his finger on the trigger.” A grin, filled with stained and crooked teeth, decorated his face. “A dog that refuses a bone is not alive. Are you alive, little soldier?”
Abdi nodded.
Ghedi jerked his gun up and fired into the air. Abdi flinched. His cousin laughed.
“We are the fierce lions of the sea!” he screamed. “We will bring this Mashona Breeze down. Strike a blow for the people of Somaliland.”
The motors roared from the back, and as the boat swung north, bucking in the waves, Abdi’s stomach knotted tighter with each passing second.
CHAPTER TWO – Tinker Bell Payload
Merger of Baltic Nations. Latvian Coast. 50 kms south of Ventspils.
Pitch black at two a.m. A winter storm was shrieking off the Baltic Sea. Swarms of ice chips pinged off my faceplate like glass slivers, their abrading note keening through the skeletal, metal frame of the crane I was hanging from—upside down.
Fifteen meters of empty, angry air below, a single I-beam at my back, and I couldn’t move a muscle. Just dangle there, tucked and tight like some giant origami bat battered by the wind.
Shit.
We had twenty minutes to extraction. Tam had me climbing up to provide top cover when this Russian KA-50 ‘Werewolf’ assault chopper materialized right above me. Evil bastard dropped out of the sky so fast I slipped in my rush to disappear.
That’s why I was hanging off a rusty ladder with all my gear slipping down, blood rushing to my head, clutching eight clunky kilos of Vychlop .50 caliber sniper rifle to my chest and trying my damnedest to look like a piece of machinery.
Sometimes I hate my job.
Rotors snarled over the wind, suspicious and sadistic. The prying white of a searchlight snapped on. Hard shadows lurched all around me.
One minute.
I blinked away eyespots and exhaled slowly. Devious gusts pushed me back and forth. My armored vest slipped another inch and gathered under my chin like it wanted to choke me before it slithered over my face and fell off.
Two minutes.
My arms started trembling, and my knees protested from being locked around the ladder rung.
Three minutes. The searchlight still probed.
My shoulders were glazed stiff with ice, and my stomach muscles burned. Despite the cold, sweat ran inside my helmet off my neck and into my eyes.
The shadows expanded, and the shredding sound closed in. Loitered.
Four minutes. Five.
Sometimes I really hate my job.
Then, as fast as it came, the ’copter darted off and started hunting over the trees lining the dirt road from the town. The engine roar faded, the wind came back, and my heart started again.
“Oh, oh. Oryol is sumamente pissed,” Poet9’s voice sang in my headset.
“The explosion woke up the whole damn place,” Tam snapped.
“You told Mopsy to stop the van.”
“I didn’t mean with a rocket launcher.”
“Well, there must have been eight Ivans in it.” Poet9 tried to sound reasonable.
Tam sighed. “Which is why that Werewolf will be back. They’re not sure we’ve left yet.”
“Hey,” I gasped. “Can I… move now?”
“Oh… yeah. Sure,” Tam answered.
I unfolded and climbed up to the platform I’d been standing on a few minutes before. I wiped the ice off my faceplate and tugged my armor back into place. “Up or down?” I asked.
“We’ll need the Finger of God if we get company calling again,” Tam answered. “But with that beast flying, you should find cover on the ground. The Triplets have rockets. They can watch the road. Be ready to help Curro hustle the ladies onto the boat as soon as it arrives.”
“Roger that.” I started climbing down. “Speaking of the ladies…”
Curro’s Spanish lilt came over my headset. “They’re safe under the dome with me. Daughter’s a bit scared, but Mom’s got it under control. We’re ready when you are.”
Curro was hunkered down under a thermal-masking pop-up in a clump of trees about twenty-five meters from the beach. The ladies were our mission objective: the wife and young daughter of a Ukrainian micro-robotics engineer named Gratsev. He’d slipped his RSC Energia minders two weeks before while attending a Microsoft Systems International symposium on nano-systems in Washington State. Seattle must have looked like the Promised Land after a five-year posting on the Siberian steppe, because Gratsev vanished into the Olympic Mountains without a trace. His defection blew the Russians’ fuse. Part of Gratsev’s exit package was assurances he’d be reunited with his family, so they’d shunted his family off to an abandoned Baltic resort under guard as chips for hard bargaining to get him back.
A good reputation isn’t always good to have because the Americans came to our employer, the U.K. multinational Dawson-Hull, and requested Eshu International specifically. Gratsev was a keeper, they said. Could we get his family out?
They must have paid a steep price for our services. The bonus money was absurd, the incidentals allowance huge, but that’s how Eshu International had ended up hiding on a Latvian beach near an abandoned fishing pier in the middle of the night during a winter gale being hunted by Russian security services.
Things were perfectly smooth until an unscheduled patrol had turned our swift and silent extraction into a smash and grab.
I stepped off the last rung, my boots crunching on gravel. A siren started wailing in the distance. Campus security must have seen the van, checked the apartment, and connected the dots. I jogged along the beach, away from the crane, keeping one eye on the road from town. “The Ravens up?”
“Oh yeah,” Poet9 breathed. “All three. Carrying surprises too.”
“Not again,” I heard Tam say. “Modifications void the warrantee.”
“
You’ll love it. Pure genius,” Poet9 answered.
I took shelter behind a tin-roof shed near the longest of the three piers. “So where’s our ride?”
More sirens, and lights came on in distant windows. “Coming,” Tam said. “I sent the ‘ready’ signal.” I could almost hear his finger stroking the trigger.
“Oh, muy bueno,” Poet9 snorted. “Can anyone say ‘blue screen of doom’? D-H should have let us do our own exit instead of relying on the Microsofties. We have a perfectly good STAB of our—”
“You’re not helping,” Tam interrupted. “Curro, I’ll call once we see the boat. Stay under wraps until then. No heroics.”
“Si,” he answered.
I’d just wriggled into a decent spot out of the knifing wind when Cottontail’s voice sounded out. “Contact. Two vehicles approaching on the dirt road. One truck and one SUV.”
“Raven Two has three more vehicles less than a kilometer behind ’em,” Poet9 added.
Tam was up and sprinting toward the Triplets. “Activate mines. Engage vehicles when ready,” he ordered. “Poet9, maintain the Raven feeds. Jace, watch the road, but be ready for that boat.”
“Roger that,” I replied.
Tam plunged into the tree line. I ran to a small rise next to a garage. More like a trash pile, it wasn’t the best position, but it gave me a little height, and some sickly scrub brush provided a hint of cover. Most important, I had a clear shot up the road. I watched Poet9, his massive Walther in one hand, lug the Ravens’ boss box over to where Curro was hiding, then flicked on my rifle’s optics and sighted on the approaching headlights.
A small Korean cheap-jeep blossomed in my scope. Light-colored, it charged toward us, bouncing and swerving like a thing possessed. The Russian muscle wanted their principals back. Behind it, an old Mercedes panel truck struggled to keep up. The jeep slewed around the bend spraying sand, righted, then shot forward straight towards the first pier.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 1