After several hours of Cisman jabbering, Abdi translating, and Poet9 interrupting, we ended up a dozen kilometers from the SPLM base.
We dismounted to powwow on how to approach, but Cisman started tugging Tam’s hand, pulling him towards the camp.
“How sweet,” I said. “First date, and he’s bringing you to meet the family.”
Tam grabbed a canteen and slung his rifle over his shoulder. “Well, you get to be my chaperone. You too, Poet9. Grab your gear. We’re going to find someone in charge. Curro, stay here with the Triplets and that kid. Keep out of sight. We’ll be back before nightfall.”
“OK, boss.”
Tam made to retort, thought better of it, then nodded to me and Poet9.
Pickets challenged us three kilometers later. A couple of hard-eyed SPLM men with ugly little Ultimax LMGs met us at a small stream. Thank Christ they recognized Cisman. Turns out they’d been watching us with binos for five minutes.
Their fighting position fascinated me. A typical log-reinforced hole covered with branches and vines, and they were using a slab of Adaptiv for top cover. A long rectangular panel, it must have been an armor skirt off an APC or light tank in a previous life. I spotted a row of healthy medium-caliber holes marked by the blackened hexagonal pixels that surrounded them. It was damaged but still remarkably effective. With a truck battery for power, it not only masked the heat signature, but the photo-mimetics made their little bunker blend seamlessly into the foliage.
“Pretty high-tech for a bunch of kalashes,” I noted.
“Smart move,” Poet9 nodded approvingly. “Government drones would have a helluva time spotting anything.”
“Why waste it on a guard post then?”
“Must have enough to go around. Think about it: biggest slice of the mil-tech production pie is India these days. Hyderabad is practically next door. Fab City robot factories run twenty-four seven. Wave enough cash at the right middle-management technocrati, I bet you could pick up mil-spec panels in bulk right off the loading dock.”
The little Mexican surveyed the dense clumps of trees and the steep hills all around us. “Very, very astuto. Bit of digging, reinforced duracrete… Enough of those panels, you could hide a mid-sized town here.”
“Or a military base,” Tam interjected.
“Or a military base,” he echoed.
The SPLM guards explained the way to the base and the “foreigners’ camp” next to it. We jogged off, leaving Cisman with them. He waved good-bye, watching us go with big, sad eyes like a pound puppy no one wants.
“I think you broke his heart,” I whispered to Tam.
“War is hell,” he smirked.
All the private companies hired by GSS had been ordered to set up three kilometers south of the main SPLM base. The more strict Muslims in the rebel army wanted to avoid any ‘corrupting’ Western influences like bacon or beer. Or maybe it was just that freedom-fighter egos bruise easily, and they didn’t want to be reminded they’d hired a bunch of infidels to do the heavy lifting. Either way, the place was separate, with a different feel—tight, orderly, military. I spotted sentries, a perimeter wire, and Poet9 pointed out a cluster of optic stalks that tracked us as we approached. I’d have wagered we were stepping on seismic detectors as well.
A trio of Slavic shaveheads stopped us twenty meters out. Severe, thick-necked brutes with baby-faces and enough firepower to stop a tank platoon, they took their job as seriously as a heart attack. One of them triple-checked our ident-codes while the other two stood weapons ready. All three were decked out in camo-paint and full body armor.
A gravel-faced starshina directed them from a shaded tree, barking out occasional advice and waving a bottle of beer in a very commanding manner. One battered jungle boot on the scratched dome of a Tortoise weapon emplacement, he had a vaguely piratical air, what with a bandana on his head, a mouthful of East-Bloc dental work, and a mirror-shade targeting lens flipped down over his right eye. He gave us a stainless steel grin and a little bow when we passed into camp. The stout barrel of the automatic grenade launcher dipped with his head.
“Nice to see Captain Sparrow-ski is on the job,” Tam quipped.
“I feel safer already,” I said. “I’ll ask the next guy that speaks English where the commander is.”
The GSS commander’s tent was tucked in a grove of musky frankincense trees, guarded by a section of remarkably Caucasian Dutch commandoes and two Chinese Huawei anti-air emplacements. The three of us checked our weapons at the door, then tidied ourselves up. After all, it wasn’t every day you met a legend.
We entered and stood at attention.
Colonel Lars Deer Voort was silhouetted against a giant flat screen studying aerial footage of a Somaliland National Army base that featured several helicopter pads and the distinct ‘short-x’ of a drone runway. Judging by the spread of the buildings, my guess was Hargeisa.
He waved us over with a certain Dutch brusqueness as if we’d been expected us seventy-two hours earlier and we’d kept him waiting. He forwarded the footage and froze it on a shot of the Presidential Palace, Qasr al-Salam, and launched into an explanation without preamble.
“Basically, Somaliland is an absolute goat-screw. General Drooling-Fucker cowers in his playground at Hargeisa while his country goes to shit. Fortunately for us, he harbors delusions of military competence and retains absolute control over operations. Field commanders can’t take a dump without his permission. He’s also looting the national reserves as fast as he can. No surprises on that front, although I imagine his London backers can’t be too pleased.”
He forwarded to a high-altitude image of the capital. The city’s sprawl made a dark brown scab on the dun-colored landscape, while the army base and international airport to the south were laid out with circuit-like precision. Between them, the palace grounds were a perfect, lush green circle.
The colonel continued. “Thanks to his sterling generalship, the Somaliland National Army is blundering around the countryside like a drunk, half the time embracing us like new best friends, the rest of the time throwing everything they got at us out of sheer terror and raging frustration.”
“But not all of them,” Tam commented.
The colonel nodded. “No, not all of them. Hangash police units and those red-beret Duub Cas bastards remain real threats. Evil little shits, they’re the general’s private army—better trained, better equipped than the rest of his force. Hangash captains tend to stay in one spot and brutalize their neighbors. The D.C. commanders seem to have more operational latitude. Again, that’s a mixed blessing. They spend most of their time butchering Isaaq-clan civilians. Seems they want to kill Professor Abdul-Hamid’s entire family, along with anyone who ever knew any of them.”
The colonel paused, blue eyes scrutinizing us. He wanted input.
“Great bunch of guys, Duub Cas,” I said. “It true they’re geared-up out of the corporate closet?”
Another wave of the colonel’s hand and a composite of several pictures of high-tech hardware appeared on the screen. “Mark Four SARKOS suits, Otokar Arma 8x8s, air and ground remotes… They do have lots of toys—and advisors so they can play with them. We’re seeing more and more ground remotes being integrated into national army units every week, but the air wing remains strictly corporate controlled.”
Colonel Deer Voort let out a short sigh of exasperation. “I keep telling the Professor, Secretary Ghotta and Sajiid that the SNA won’t stay stupid forever. One of these days, Duub Cas is going to come knocking with all that firepower, and we need to be ready with an appropriate greeting.”
“What do you have now, sir?” I asked.
“Plenty of man-portable gear and static emplacements like the ones outside. Almost too much. It’s East-Bloc surplus but reliable—RPGs, tungsten ammo, smart mines. It’s the heavier, mobile systems I want. Once the offensive starts rolling, every unit will need coverage, otherwise those Dawson-Hull robots will shred them. You asking because you’re in need?”
>
“No, sir,” Tam replied. “We packed our bags for this trip. We should be good.”
The Dutch soldier nodded approvingly. “Well, I’ll have one of my aides give you the access codes to the armory just in case.”
He nodded to one of his men, who gestured to Poet9 to follow. The two of them left the tent together. “Ammo’s free, so shoot the hell out of any SNA you come across, but equipment losses will be deducted from your fees.”
“Of course, sir. Will do,” Tam answered. “We take a job though, we figure we’d better bring our own tools.”
“Speaking of which…” Those targeting eyes locked onto the three of us. “Rumor had it your crew went dark on the corporate circuit a few years back. Job like this seems below your status. What brings you to Africa?”
“A solid reputation is nice to have,” Tam answered right back. “But you can’t eat it. Things are tough all over, and we’ve got bills to pay. Besides, your payment terms aren’t shabby.”
“You’re still based out of Belfast, correct?” The blue eyes remained fixed.
“Got to lay our head somewhere, sir,” I answered. “Besides, there’s nothing like a pint of Beamish.”
Deer Voort grunted and seemed to accept the answer. “Business like this I’ve learned to appreciate known quantities, particularly in Africa. Honor your contract, and I’ve got your back. Screw me, and I will hunt you down and gut you. We clear?”
“We’ll do our job, Colonel, “ Tam stated evenly. “No need to worry.”
The Dutchman respected that response. “Very well then. Here’s your first item of business.”
He tossed an ePad to Tam. “I’ve got two sections of East-Bloc line grunts assigned for recon just over the border in and around Ceel Baxay. They need a sitter, and you just volunteered. Step off is first light tomorrow morning.”
“Fine. Anything specific you want us to bring back?” Tam asked.
“Any sightings of red berets or remotes.”
“We junked a dozen GUTVs on the way in,” I said. “Nasty, but dumb. The SNA is playing them like an X-Box.”
The colonel picked up an old-fashioned tablet. “Where was this?”
“Ten K northeast of the triple point,” I said. “Brand-new Gladiators, one MCP with R2 Relay deployed next to the MCP. Soldiers must not have read the manual.”
The colonel made a quick notation. “Thank Christ for incompetence. Keep an eye out for any more, and bring the Ivans back in one piece.”
We turned to leave, but the colonel stopped us. “One final question… Is it true you have three schim on your team?”
We turned around. “If we did, that be a problem?” Tam asked.
“If you did, Mr. Song, I’d tell you as troubled as this country is, trauma like N’Kosa Mambi leaves deep scars. Even this far north, a majority of the SPLM rank and file has a bed-wetting fear of the Series Sevens. So if you did, I’d advise you to keep them on a very short leash. Out of sight, out of mind would be best.”
Tam matched the colonel’s gaze. “Thank you for the advice, sir. If any of us do sunburn easily, I’ll be sure to keep them in the shade.”
“Mr. Song, you want my opinion?” The colonel didn’t wait for an answer. “Clean house. All clones are unnatural constructs, but Series Sevens were defective. You might think you’ve got them housebroken, but mental debility means they’re even more dangerous. You know this is a warzone. I have enough problems with Drooling-Fucker’s halfwits and thugs trying to kill me. I won’t be shot in the back. Your reputation grants you one warning and only one. Any hint of trouble, I’ll put them down like rabid dogs.”
“You won’t have any trouble from us, Colonel,” Tam answered and said no more.
Colonel Deer Voort raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the large screen. We’d been dismissed.
We walked out of the bunker and out of the grove of scented trees. Night was creeping into the sky, and the night chorus of insects was warming up. “That sucked,” I said. “Got any ideas?”
“No. We can’t send the Triplets home,” Tam said. “And they’re too damn big to keep under our hat. This is an ugly little war, and we need them.”
“How are we going to hide three massive albino linebackers in the jungle? Gorilla costumes?”
“If it comes to that, yes.” Tam frowned. “Last thing we need is a machete mob coming after them. Or the colonel.” He paused. “You told me once Curro is good at disguises. That hospital in Barcelona?”
“I was kidding,” I said.
“But it worked.”
“Yes, it did.”
Just then, Poet9 shot around the corner of the armory bunker and made a beeline straight for us. “Bad news. Rotten borscht on my six.” He pulled us behind one of the Chinese anti-air batteries.
Seconds later, the two lead members of Alpha Security strode into view.
The first man was Anton Dratshev, the commander. A former GRU interrogator, he was sporting shiny new stripes on his collar. Apparently, he was calling himself a major now. The man had the body of a circus bear and a face as ugly as incest, and he lumbered towards Deer Voort’s bunker wearing a black Stetson cowboy hat, pale Jungle-pattern Kazak-6 body armor, and a SR2 submachine gun on each hip. He looked like a Darth Vader rendition of Gary Cooper.
It took me a few seconds before I recognized the second person. I admit it had been several years since I’d seen her, and that had been at nine hundred yards through a sniper scope, but there was no mistaking her lithe frame, the same high breasts and long legs. She’d Borged herself almost beyond recognition though. She still had a MCU similar to Poet9’s, only hers featured several extra nodes that jutted over a baldpate like a rooster’s comb. Her eyes were gone now, lost behind a full Yagi wrap-around ocular prosthetic, and her left arm and both hands had been replaced with Deka artificials.
Her name was Svetlana Illyanovytch and she was the lead splicer for Dratshev’s mercenary team. Known as “Juggler,” she was the only human on the planet who could hold a candle to Poet9’s hacking ability.
The pair of them were about as welcome in my world as a shark frenzy because as far as life-goals went, their number-two ambition after “more money” was to see us dead.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN – Soldier Dreams
SPLM Camp, near Biye K’obe, Ethiopia
Abdi kicked the ant nest and watched his toes disappear into the mound with a dry crunch. Dust puffed in the air, and the noise made him look around to see if anyone had heard.
Fifty paces away, the older boy, Curro, sat under a tree poking at a laptop, lost in the words on the screen. The three big men who’d taken him out of the tree that morning were unpacking guns, big guns that should have been mounted in the back of trucks. But they didn’t seem to know that so they carried them like rifles. Abdi had never seen men that large before. They were so busy, and none of them so much as glanced his way. The other three, the two bosses and the little guy with the funny head, had gone down to the big SPLM base an hour ago. Abdi might as well have been alone.
Abdi drew back for another kick. Ants seethed out of the hole, spoiling for a fight. They were small and red, the kind that swarmed over your skin and stung welts like a rash. The little fiends were everywhere in Somaliland, and Abdi hated them.
He remembered there had been a nest of these behind his mother’s vegetable garden when he was a boy, how she’d burned the little mountain with kerosene. Ants like these had tormented him for days when he hid in the bushes after the soldiers attacked his village. In Dhubbato, their company was another bit of misery, like the smell of latrines, or thieves, always in clothes, bedding, food, marching over every surface like they belonged there instead of people like his grandmother.
They’d been crawling across Ghedi’s face on the plain after the robots. His cousin’s yellow and green ball cap was still on his head gangsta sideways when Abdi found him. His eyes were half-closed like he’d been smoking—almost like he’d fallen asleep. The gold bars he’d been so
proud of winked in the bright sun, but Abdi didn’t touch them. In war, you could catch death like a cold if you got too near, so he stared at the red line marching on Ghedi’s cheek and didn’t step closer.
He didn’t know how long he stood there, but suddenly Cisman was blowing a whistle. Another boy jumped in, snatched his cousin’s canteen and ran off. Abdi had stumbled away confused. Why was there no time to bury him, to say prayers for Ghedi and the others who’d been cut to red lumps like butchered cows? Why were there no words for brave budhcad badeeds on the high seas?
They were gone now, the soldier dreams, all dead in the tall, whispering grass—far away and lost forever.
Abdi watched the ants scurrying in their crumbled mud fortress and retched at a sick knot in his stomach.
He’d end up back in Dhubbato fetching water for his abooto. No more colored paper money, no more soldier posse, no more boat rides. No one would step aside for him now.
Suddenly Abdi hated the ants for crawling where they shouldn’t, hated the crazy general’s little robots, hated Ghedi for getting killed and making him a little boy with no mother or father who had to live in a tent with weaklings and flies and women, eating other people’s charity. He hated his grandmother for living in that sea of dirty tents, so he stomped and kicked and stomped again until the ants were as frantic as villagers when soldiers come, and the chunks of their walls were a fine dust that caught in his throat, choked his nose, and made his eyes run hot with tears. Abdi danced in the mad swirling and mashed dirt under his heel until he’d cried and crushed and kicked his strength away.
At some point, he realized the ground was flattened and he was standing in a cloud of yellow dust. Abdi wobbled, then fell back on a log, panting. He sat there as the sun dropped behind the trees, thinking of nothing.
He was staring at the ruined anthill when he saw long shadows stretch across the ground towards him. Footsteps made him look up.
The three big men were standing over him, huge with their muscles and pale skin. Their faces copied the same sadness, and silently, each of them stretched out a hand. One held a slab of bread, another a cup of water, and the third a damp cloth for Abdi’s face.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 10