Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2

by Patrick Todoroff

  SPLM commander, Professor Harun Hamid, looked away from the huge map to Colonel Deer Voort. “I want to meet them.”

  Colonel Deer Voort shook his head. “No need, sir. I’ll have them on the next flight out of the country. They were reckless. They endangered the Ukrainians, and they alerted every government unit within fifty kilometers of Ceel Baxay. Raven footage shows border security is already beefed up along the Adwal province.”

  Professor Hamid picked up an ePad and began scrolling through the Bowna debrief report sent by the Ukrainian Legion officers. “You sent them there,” he said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, sir, I did. I take full responsibility.”

  An image of trampled bodies filled the tiny screen, but Professor Hamid looked up. “Are you standing at attention? Stop it.” He waved at the giant map. “Dhul-Fiqaar and his corporate allies would have to be in a coma not to know we’re preparing for an offensive.”

  He held the ePad up. It showed another grainy picture; Bowna from a main road, buildings battered, smoldering. More bodies. Infamous red-beret Duub Cas heaped in the foreground. “I doubt this put us in any greater danger.”

  The Dutch soldier frowned. “Still, this was a recon-only mission. They had specific orders to avoid contact. They violated operational security.”

  The elder Somali set the ePad down. In the past four decades, he’d witnessed that particular species of atrocity many times. Once was one time too many, but tragically, the repetition had turned any sense of shock into a perpetual undertow of mourning. Only danger now was the riptide.

  He’d been a child the first time. His village, his family. Herded, butchered like cattle. Just like Bowna.

  Except then, no one had come to the rescue.

  “And they did… until it was obvious what was going on,” the Professor stated. Then he looked directly into the Dutchman’s eyes. “Colonel, I find it hard to believe you would have taken a headcount then driven away. Am I wrong?”

  Colonel Deer Voort hesitated, then shook his head slowly. “No. No, you’re not.”

  “Thank you,” he smiled. “I knew there was another reason I hired you.”

  He looked at the map again with its colored blocks shifting like game pieces, then back at the thumbnails on the ePad. “These men stopped genocide. Word has gotten out, and that makes my men happy. It gives them hope. Perhaps we can use Bowna to draw attention away from our main line of advance?”

  Colonel Deer Voort took his cue. Professor Hamid was right; he’d have done the same thing. The SPLM was paying him to oversee the entire operation, not command individual units. The man signed the checks, and he wanted to meet Eshu International. So be it. The Dutch soldier shelved his concern. He could deal with Eshu later if need be.

  “Yes, sir, of course,” Deer Voort said. “The Adwal incursions were a diversion anyway. I’ll have all militia cells in the province step up activity and make Bowna look like the start of something larger. That should hold the president’s attention.”

  “Excellent idea.” Professor Hamid turned back to the wall map and thumbed through the ePad to the next report. “Have those Eshu men come to my bunker at 1300.”

  “Of course.”

  ***

  Tam and I were escorted into the Professor’s quarters after having been searched, scanned and re-searched by a dozen very large, very irritated Egyptian Sia-qa commandos. Their commanding officer, a sharp-faced captain with a Saddam mustache and a cratering of acne scars, glared at them and fingered his pistol the entire time.

  “Nothing like Middle-Eastern hospitality,” I said. “I love baba ghanoush, don’t you?”

  Tam grunted as two soldiers patted him down again. “Gah. These guys are going to ask me out to dinner next.”

  Rat-Face snapped at his men, and they frisked faster.

  “You’re not their type,” I replied. “And I doubt their chaperone there is big on cross-cultural exchange.”

  “He waves that wand at me one more time, I’ll jam it sideways so far up his ass, he’ll be a walking ringtone every time he goes down the street.”

  I glanced over at the Egyptian officer. “Couldn’t make him any grumpier.”

  The Sia-qa finally stepped back, disappointed they didn’t find anything more lethal than a toothpick. Rat-Face buzzed us through a second door, where we were met by more guards. This time, four Somali men in full carbon nano-tube body armor carrying advanced Steyr assault rifles. The distinct cable-weave panels rippled like braided black water when they moved.

  Tam and I exchanged glances. Nano-tube vests could stop rifle rounds but were as expensive as hell—full suits cost a fortune. Between those suits and the Steyrs, the four of them could stop a platoon. Apparently, the Somalis’ trust in their Muslim brethren didn’t extend to the inner sanctum.

  Another scan, another pat down, then we were escorted to the SPLM commander’s office.

  I guess I was expecting the usual ‘turban, wild eyes and long beard’ guy. Perhaps a gold-plated AK-74 with a white and crimson United Caliphate flag tacked up for a backdrop. A kind of Al-Jazeera sound stage for newscasts and decapitations. I’m not sure. I will say our first face-to-face with the leader of the Somaliland People’s Liberation Movement was anticlimactic.

  Professor Hamid sat behind a simple, sparse folding table. There was a steel-blue Getac B500 series military laptop, several ePads, a single stack of printouts, and a scattering of flash sticks. No AKs or turbans in sight. A large Google-Earth photo of Somaliland was on the wall behind him. He looked up as we entered.

  He was short, unassuming, with graying hair, brown skin and a complexion as smooth as polished wood. Except for the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes and the grizzled hair, he might have been mistaken for a younger man. Might have been until you looked into his eyes.

  Hester’s brief back in Belfast, the World News Nets, not to mention the local government propaganda all had me anticipating the martyr’s gleam—that odd light of fanaticism uncluttered by doubt, fueled by hatred and self-righteous purpose. Instead, I saw weight, a sorrow so subtle, it was almost subterranean. There was a gravity at his core that, despite his size, made him unarguably present in the room. It was easily missed if you were consumed by your own agenda, but once detected, it was impossible to ignore.

  Professor Hamid rose, came around the table and shook our hands. “As-Salamu Alaykum.”

  “Waleikum-Salam,” we answered automatically.

  The Professor looked past us at the guards. “You can go. Shut the door on your way out.” They hesitated. “I’ll be fine.”

  There was a long pause, then we heard the door click behind us.

  “Security. Always suspicious,” he chided softly.

  “Well, there is a war on,” Tam said. “Sir.”

  “So I’ve heard, Mr. Song.” He crossed back behind his desk and nudged an ePad towards us. After-action pictures of Bowna scrolled across the screen. “This was you?” he demanded.

  No foreplay with this guy. We nodded.

  Both Eshu and the Legion had filed reports via encrypted tightband on our way back to the SPLM base. The Legion officers kept wanting to rehearse our stories, glossing over a good chunk of the battle’s specifics while buffing us all squeaky-clean and recon-sneaky. Tam refused. There was no way the eyes-in-the-sky had missed our little intervention. “Tell the truth,” he’d told them. “Deer Voort will have your balls in a vise when he finds out you’ve lied. Contract severance will be the least of your worries.”

  The thought of lost income must have put the fear of God into the Ukrainian officers; they had their NCOs craft a scrupulously detailed blow-by-blow account. If anything, they made doubly sure to lay responsibility at our feet.

  Word of the Bowna was all over the SPLM base by the time we got back. Deer Voort had ordered us confined to our camp, pending investigation. No guards, but if we left, we figured there’d be a posse of kalashes on our trail. No doubt with Alpha leading the hunt.

  “Look
s like our intervention went over like a flock of dodos,” I noted.

  Poet9 was repairing pieces of the BLADE jammer. “London will have an aneurysm if we get severed. No more ‘corporate umbrella’ for us.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Tam said. “Can’t undo it now. There was no way we were playing tourist to ethnic cleansing.”

  “We’re with you,” I said. “But if Deer Voort boots us out, London will go Code Red, no matter what Hester says about their reluctance to ‘tarnish the corporate image.’ They need Hamid entertaining his virgins in Paradise so they can grab those mines.”

  “We sit tight and see how this plays out.” That was all Tam would say.

  The ePad screen flashed on the Professor’s desk: bodies crushed on the plaza, a demolished SARKOS suit, burning buildings, raging survivors holding up soldier’s heads, bloody machetes, wailing women… photos from a vacation in Hell.

  The Professor repeated his question.

  Tam cleared his throat. “We did what we could. They started hours before we got there.” His voice was sharp.

  “You disobeyed orders, risked your lives and twenty-four others attacking a Duub Cas company. Why?”

  “If you’d been there, you wouldn’t be asking,” I answered. “No disrespect, Professor.”

  The leader of the SPLM met my gaze. “None taken. And I have been there, Mr. Manner.”

  Tam leaned forward. “Then why are you asking?”

  Instead of replying, Professor Hamid tapped at the Getac’s keys and started reading aloud. “Tam Song. Former North Korean military, Branch Five Special Operations unit. Active during the Reunification Drive. Deployed in espionage operations against Asian-Pacific interests in Osaka and Sapporo. Listed as ‘Missing—Presumed Dead’ during the Taiwan Incursion of 2045. Resurfaced two years later as principal for Eshu International. Belfast, U.K. Zone. New European Union.”

  “Jace Manner. Canadian division of North American Armed Forces. Extensive cross-training with American Delta Force. Deployed for Siberian Incident in 2040, in Third NAAF Pacification Unit in Detroit-Windsor-Cleveland Metro Zone 2041 to 2043, and with the Rapid Response Force in Taiwan late ’45. Discharged that same year. Emerged as second principal at Eshu International in late 2046.”

  He looked up. “You’re soldiers who abandoned service to your countries to trade those skills for profit.”

  Tam coughed, interrupting him. “We already know this, sir.”

  Professor Hamid stared at us. “The Dawson-Hull Conglomerate is the primary corporate entity in the U.K. region. Operations contract or not, Deer Voort thinks your loyalty is suspect.”

  I had a flash of Tam and I on our knees in front of shallow graves, Steyr muzzles pressed to the back of our heads. “If you’re going to fire us, just say so,” I said. “We came here to do a job, not debate our allegiance.”

  Professor Hamid waved my statement aside. “Mr. Manner, certainly you understand my caution. Private military contractors like yourself comprise almost two fifths of the armed forces in the world these days—nearly forty percent. Huge multinationals like Asian-Pacific and Microsoft Systems International can deploy brigade-strength security forces that rival most nation states. The highest bidder can order entire armies that operate with virtual impunity save the legal restraints stipulated in their contracts. For people like me, mercenaries are an unfortunate necessity. I don’t stand a chance in this war without them. Nonetheless, you’re ambiguous creatures, the bastard offspring of chaotic times. And as a man commanding an army in a civil war, and a devout Muslim, soldiers whose ultimate loyalty is mere money are cause for concern.”

  Tam and I stayed silent.

  Professor Hamid’s brow furrowed. He gestured at the Bowna images. “Even more disconcerting are mercenaries suddenly acting on principle. It’s a genuine anomaly. This has me wondering what manner of creatures you really are.”

  Tam spoke into the awkward space that hung over the desk. “Does it matter?” he asked. “Soldiers… mercenaries… the people of Bowna didn’t care about the difference. If it helps, we’re both—mutant bastards, like you said. But wanting a paycheck doesn’t mean we traded away our humanity.” Tam raised his hands in surrender. “Look, Professor, if you’re not happy, we’ll be out of here in twenty-four hours.”

  Professor Hamid scrutinized us for a moment, then leaned back. “Quite the opposite. I want you to stay.”

  Tam blinked, looking as astonished as I felt. “Come again? If you’re not dismissing us, why are we here?”

  “I’ll speak frankly, Mr. Song. Just because I’m Muslim, that doesn’t mean I’ve traded away my mind. You met my Sia-qa guard?” he asked.

  “Swarthy guys that strip-searched us?” Tam asked dryly.

  “That would be them. You also know who backs the SPLM,” Professor Hamid continued.

  “We do.”

  “Then know I am not so naive as to believe the Brotherhood’s assistance comes without heavy obligation. Allah is indeed merciful and compassionate, but my fear is that Riyadh would replace Hargeisa. Tyrant in a different time zone. Yet I’ve come too far, and I am in too deep to stop. Like mercenaries, the Brotherhood’s assistance is vital.”

  “From what you’re saying, you’re right. We aren’t all that different,” Tam agreed. “Except when you pay us, we go away.”

  That earned us a weary grin. “I’m not fighting this war so my country can be absorbed into the Greater Islamic Caliphate. I fear we would be indentured under new masters, and history shows tyranny in the name of God is a far crueler burden than mere servitude.”

  I shook my head. “This is all fascinating, but I don’t know what you think Eshu can do, Professor. We’re nobody’s savior.”

  He leaned forward, eyes suddenly intense. “The survivors Bowna would disagree, Mr. Manner. No, you didn’t rescue them all, but you tried. You did something. You acted.”

  “It’s a big step from one little town to Egypt, the GIC and the tides of history,” Tam said. “We pull triggers, and we came to Somaliland for a job. All we want is to stay alive and enjoy the paycheck when it’s over.”

  The Professor nodded absently. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Song.” He pointed toward the ePad images. “A true mercenary would have walked away.”

  Tam leaned over and tapped the screen off. “The thought crossed our minds. Believe me.” He looked hard at the older Somali. “Just how do you think my team and I can help you? Specifically.”

  “The final chapter on this war is coming. I believe Allah has willed our victory. President-General Dhul-Fiqaar will fall, but the moment he does, a hundred hands will reach for my throat. I need allies—people I can trust.”

  “Us?”

  “Yes. There’s a Somali proverb that says the hunter cannot snare with a trick his prey already knows. You and your team are unknown. I need you to be an ace up my sleeve, as it were. With your permission, I’d like to transfer Eshu International to my Muharib Guard.”

  Tam and I were stunned for the second time in ten minutes. The Muharib Guard was the SPLM elite, commanded by Tokpah Sajiid, Hamid’s right-hand man. Our real objective was being handed to us on a silver platter by the Professor himself. It would be child’s play to arrange an ‘accident’ once we were close.

  But the Muharib Guard was high profile, too obvious. And what about the hatred for the Triplets?

  I spoke up. “There’s also a proverb about not walking into a snake pit with your eyes open. One good deed doesn’t make us saints. You really think we’re going to take a bullet for you?”

  “I understand you have no love for me or my country. You fight for money, which is why I’ll triple your rates. But I think you also have honor, Mr. Manner, Mr. Song. You respect commitments higher than your appetites. I need such men on my side.”

  I tried to wrap my mind around his offer, but I could practically hear the gears churning in Tam’s head. We’d be fools to refuse, but the Triplets were the sticking point. Granted, we were in a warzone, but there
was no way either of us would risk them unnecessarily. Tam read my mind and spoke.

  “We have Series Sevens on our team, Professor.”

  Professor Hamid remained silent. He’d undoubtedly heard all the rumors, the horror stories about N’Kosa Mambi’s clone soldiers. Nearly a decade later, most Africans still had bed-wetting nightmares about the huge, pale soldiers. Pretoria Series Sevens were the main reason cloned combat troops had been outlawed by international treaty. And we had three of them—the last three.

  “Were they with you in Bowna?” he finally asked.

  “Yes, sir. They destroyed the last SARKOS suits.”

  That brought another minute of silence.

  “How did you… acquire these clones? I thought they were all destroyed.”

  “Jace and I were working protection on a friend’s boat, running the Aden Blockade in ’51. We found them half-dead in a coastal town in Tanzania. We smuggled them out, and they’ve been with us ever since.”

  Professor Hamid nodded. “So you rescued them as well?”

  Tam shrugged.

  “For profit or compassion, Mr. Song?”

  “What?”

  “Did you rescue the clones for the bounty?”

  “No. They were starving. Hunted. We couldn’t leave them.”

  The Professor nodded, decision made. He reached for a phone. “I will tell Colonel Deer Voort you’ve been transferred and your pay rate increased. And don’t worry about your clones; we will figure something out. They are under my protection. Major Sajiid will brief you tomorrow.”

  Professor Hamid tucked the ePad away and began tapping at his laptop. We’d been dismissed.

  ***