Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2

by Patrick Todoroff

  Now that every eye was on him, Dhul-Fiqaar raised his voice and, jutted his chin out defiantly. “Forty years ago, the Isaaq parasites ruined this country, lapping up the infidel bribes. My people were little better than slaves while Somaliland was whored out to the West. But Allah decreed the Gadabuursi would rise up and drive a stake into the heart of that corruption. When they least expected it, we showed them we were far from weak, did we not?”

  The general turned to his guards. Their eyes gleamed with ugly pride. “No, Mr. Brenton, weak blood is our problem—the Isaaq, our true enemy. You tell your London directors I am better suited to diagnose Somaliland’s ills than computers and satellite pictures.”

  He looked at the Duub Cas soldiers again. “And I will apply strong medicine to heal our problems.”

  Knowing their cue, the secretaries applauded.

  Hugh Brenton gathered his thoughts. He couldn’t tell if the general’s rant was over or in intermission before a second act, but his mind scrambled on how to interject some sanity into this situation without it devolving into a shootout.

  He took a chance.

  “Your Excellency, have your military commanders informed you concerning the recent defeats?”

  General Dhul-Fiqaar growled at Secretary Jalemdie. “What defeats does he refer to?”

  The man kept his eyes down and whisked through several screens on his ePad. “Ahhh… there have been some minor setbacks. Nothing really. Umm… there is a report a Duub Cas unit on a relocation-assistance sweep in the town of Bowna was recently attacked.”

  Dhul-Fiqaar smiled. “So the vermin don’t give up without a fight. That’s not news.” He looked at Hugh Brenton. “Don’t you English have a saying about cornered rats?”

  “They were wiped out,” Secretary Jalemdie mumbled.

  “Of course they were. They should know better.”

  “No, your Excellency. The Duub Cas. Almost the entire company was killed,” Hugh Brenton interjected.

  The general’s already round face appeared to swell larger. He glared at Jalemdie for confirmation, who bobbed his head.

  “You have more news?” Dhul-Fiqaar asked thickly.

  Another screen, another nervous swallow. “Also, an army convoy was ambushed several nights ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Highway Three, at the Duraal Bridge, near Dhubbato.” Jalemdie’s voice quavered.

  The general’s eyes narrowed again. “Near Dhubbato… the U.N. camp?”

  “Yes… yes, your Excellency.”

  For a few precious seconds, Brenton thought the gravity of the SPLM threat might finally have penetrated, but when Dhul-Fiqaar spoke again, he realized it was wishful thinking.

  “Lies. Propaganda!” the general snapped. “Always the Isaaq want to undermine my rule. Always they are jealous, grasping after my country’s riches.” He shook his head ruefully. “Am I not merciful, allowing charity and humanitarian aid? I give the U.N. land, let them fly their planes and helicopters. Even allow Blue Hat soldiers. Yet my kindness is twisted against me.”

  Dhul-Fiqaar shook his head knowingly. “The Isaaq have hidden in those tents ten years, pleading for sympathy, spinning lies of ‘genocide’ and ‘ethnic cleansing’ to the world. They cry for the camera while they plot against me, waiting to strike. But Allah be praised, I have uncovered their schemes.”

  General Dhul-Fiqaar pointed a thick finger at Brenton like a pistol. “I am not blinded by a soft heart like you Westerners. You give food and medicine, hoping to cure the disease, but it is never enough.”

  He waved toward the holo-table and brought up the 3D map Brenton had seen on his previous visit. This time, Somaliland’s four major cities were marked in blue, while the United Nations refugee camp at Dhubbato was a patch of white hatch-marks circled in red—very much a bulls-eye in the center of the country.

  “I am many things to Somaliland, Mr. Brenton: president, general, father, and prophet. That is the burden of leadership. The Isaaq are a rot in the body of my country, and now I must be the surgeon who operates. I must cut out the poison before it can spread further. Do you understand?”

  Brenton froze, an amiable smile on his face. Looking at the projection of the miniature IDP camp, he understood three things, things he’d always suspected but had hoped would prove false. First was that General Goma Dhul-Fiqaar wasn’t merely unbalanced, he was barking mad. Second, if Dawson-Hull hoped to salvage anything from this fiasco, he—Hugh Brenton—would have to employ every corporate asset at his command, including the BEECH prototype A.I. The Nemesis drones would be unleashed at full capacity. Better to ask forgiveness than permission. He’d explain it to the board of directors later.

  And third, his man Hester needed to contact those Eshu International mercenaries straight away. They must strike hard, and they must strike now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE – The Horse Might Talk

  SPLM Camp, near Biye K’obe, Ethiopia

  The ‘stockade’ was an empty storage bunker nested in a small hill, complete with thick concrete walls, high ventilation slits and two sliding blast doors scabby with rust. A pair of bored soldiers and a fat padlock rounded out the security. Our escort shoved us in, yelled something at the two guards, then screeched the door shut. The doublewide entrance was the only way in or out.

  Inside, low half-walls divided a long room into stalls, each wide enough for a dozen regulation fuel drums. Lingering diesel fumes started burning a raw patch in the back of my throat. Like a scene from a bad movie, a line of bare light bulbs completed the picture. At least we weren’t cuffed anymore.

  Tam looked around. “Charming accommodation.”

  “Don’t think anyone is here for an extended stay,” I said. “The view is shit, and room service sucks.”

  Tam kicked one of the flaking metal doors. The clang echoed off the back wall. “See Dratshev and Sveta? Cats that swallowed the cream.”

  “Told you we should have shot them when we had the chance.”

  “Next time. I promise,” Tam allowed. “You got an idea on how we’re going to get out of here?”

  “I’m still working on how we got in here.” I began straightening myself up. On the way over, Deer Voort’s men had patted us down and turned out our pockets. I had nothing left but lint and a paper napkin. “Tell me again why we knowingly walked into this goat-screw?”

  Tam hopped up on a rotted fiberboard pallet and peeked out one of the narrow ventilation slits. “Running would be like broadcasting a confession. Deer Voort would put a bounty on our heads, and with all the heavily armed assholes around, bolting seemed like a stupid thing to do.”

  “Deer Voort has been eyeing us from day one,” I said. “He’s goes all skinhead when it comes to clones. And he’s not a fan of the fact that we come from D-H territory.”

  “Lots of people are afraid of the Triplets.” Tam looked at me. “But you believe he had those kalashes crisped and laid out like that? That’s serious loathing.”

  “Since when was bigotry rational?”

  “That’s Silence of the Lambs devious. Someone planned that display—someone who knows the history.”

  “Right. Someone who knew the Triplets were here and is evil enough to do in a dozen locals for window dressing,” I finished. “So either the Prince of Darkness is doing temp work for GSS, or it was Alpha.”

  Tam frowned. “So did Deer Voort use Alpha or did Alpha play Deer Voort?”

  We left the obvious unspoken. Our ‘jail’ was probably bugged a dozen ways. There were only two reasons to frame Eshu International: someone had evidence of the real reason we were in Somaliland and was going to expose us later, or someone was throwing wrenches out of spite. I dreaded the first, but I figured the latter. Occam’s Razor said all things being equal, the simplest solution is usually right. Besides, Deer Voort wasn’t the kind to waste time on formalities; if he was aware of our contract to kill Professor Hamid, we would have been hauled in front of a firing squad instead of tossed in this hobbit hole.r />
  “‘Revenge is a dish best served cold,’” I recited. “That’s a Russian idiom, right?”

  “Sounds terribly British to me,” Tam replied.

  “You know what I mean.” I slapped the damp concrete wall. “My guess is Alpha played Deer Voort to get us cuffed and stuffed in here.”

  Tam gave a wry laugh. “What happened to us being the ‘Saviors of Bowna’? That’s got to be good for at least one cake with det-cord in it?”

  “Recipe’s tricky. Oven keeps exploding,” I said.

  “Fickle public.” Tam paused then added, “Speaking of the Triplets. We need to get word to them.”

  “Like you said, we’re short on friends all of a sudden.” The boy Abdi was probably already hidden away somewhere with Poet9 and the Bunnies, and while the Ukrainians from the Legion wouldn’t stick a knife in our backs, but they weren’t going to stick their necks out for us either. No one was riding to our rescue; we were going to have to make our own opportunities.

  The clamor swelled outside, loud voices in front of the bunker. My mind initially dismissed it as pre-battle pep talk, but palpable rage was filtering in through the thin windows.

  I stepped up onto the pallet Tam had used. The ventilation slots were ground level with the top of the hill. I sucked in the cleaner, humid air and craned my neck for a view of the entrance. I immediately wished I hadn’t.

  Four older men with bright blue Muharib Guard patches were arguing with our guards, a mob of SPLM regulars behind them. Everyone was pissed, and armed, and looking uglier with every sentence. Those that weren’t shouting were staring daggers at the bunker. The scene screamed ‘lynch mob,’ and seeing as Somalis had a history of dragging bodies through the streets, it looked like if they couldn’t get the Triplets, they would settle for us. A kalash spotted my face and yelled.

  “If you’ve been holding out on a 007,” I said to Tam, “now would be a good time to fess up.”

  “Sorry, old chap.”

  “Explosive underwear?”

  “Left ’em back in Belfast.”

  I watched the older Muharib push past the guards, the militia right behind them. I jumped down. “Then short of a cruise missile strike, I’d take Alejo and Carmen right about now.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re going to need a miracle.”

  They were shouting in front of the doors, and I could hear our guards’ determination eroding fast. There was a thud and rattle, then someone pounding. Rust flakes and dust fell in the poor light. My stomach clenched as the air closed in.

  “Tam…” I said.

  “Don’t say it. I know.”

  “OK.”

  The doors squealed as they were wrenched open, and the mob surged in. Hands grabbed us, punched, pulled, kicked. Then there was a shout as the Muharib yanked us out into a crowd of feverish, angry faces.

  My hands were wrenched behind my back and tied tight. Tam and I were shoved down and made to kneel in the dust. The world went musty burlap as a sack came down over my head. I hunched, expecting blows—or a bullet. Then a rifle butt made everything dark.

  ***

  Pain woke me up.

  That and someone throwing ice water in my face.

  A small room swirled into focus. A shed or hut of some kind. A single LED lantern hung on a peg on the wall across from me. Tam was in a chair beside me, cuffed, wet and groggy. Four soldiers, the Muharib Guard who’d dragged us out of the bunker, stood over us, pistols in hand. A fifth man, slim and in a suit, with a hint of grizzled white hair, watched from the shadows. Dark, wrinkled hands folded in front of him, and there was something odd about his eyes.

  He leaned forward when he saw I was awake. I blinked until his features resolved—deep creases under a liquid mercury gaze. It was Secretary Ghotta. Professor Hamid’s second-in-command.

  “This a SPLM version of a trial?” I croaked out.

  “Why? Do you have something to confess, Mr. Manner?” the secretary asked.

  Dangerous line of questioning. I clamped down on any anxiety before it could leak out and changed the subject. “I’m not telling you where the Triplets are. So shoot me now and get it over with.”

  Secretary Ghotta came and stood in front of us. His face was dark, almost purple skin, grooved like wormed wood. He bent down and peered at me with his blank, silver stare. “You would talk. Everyone does eventually. It’s biology”

  Then he slivered off a grin for me. “Luckily, you’re going to be released. Not interrogated. You appreciate that, yes?”

  My lip and half my face was swelling up. “Of course I do,” I slurred. “It would be so much easier to believe if I wasn’t tied up.”

  He ordered one of the Muharib to cut our zip cuffs, and blood started flowing back into my hands. I carefully spit blood and phlegm to my side, away from the secretary’s shoes.

  Tam spoke up, less respectful. “You arrest us. You let us go. If you didn’t have guns pointed at me, I’d say you were confused.”

  “A misunderstanding, I promise. I’m here to clear things up,” Secretary Ghotta answered smoothly.

  “Clear things up?” Tam asked. “Message seemed obvious. Does the Professor know about this? Or Deer Voort?”

  He waved the thought away as if it were trivial. “A leader is required to take a larger view, a strategic view of events. I didn’t think your arrest was a sound decision, especially on the eve of an offensive. The Professor agreed. After all, summary execution would cause the rest of your kind to rethink their commitments.”

  “Our kind?” Tam asked.

  “Mercenaries,” he said and clapped his hands.

  The four Muharib hoisted Tam and I to our feet.

  The secretary smiled again, a little too wide for my comfort. “So, these men here will escort you out of the camp. Your equipment has been collected, along with your vehicles.”

  A rifle stock to the head tends to knock the wiring loose, but this scene wasn’t adding up. “What about Al-Kuul? The murders? You’re releasing us, just like that?”

  “The troops’ anger must stay focused on Dhul-Fiqaar. Not wild rumors and ancient history.”

  Tam shook his head. “Colonel Deer Voort sure as hell didn’t think it was a rumor. The man wants our heads on a stake. And he’s not the kind of guy to give up easily.”

  “He insists your men are guilty, yes,” Secretary Ghotta allowed, “but Professor Hamid is not convinced. So I suggested an investigation.”

  “What’s there to investigate? We were reconning Wadabariis,” Tam exclaimed. “Deer Voort knows that. Our real-time reports prove it for God’s sake.”

  The older Somali held up both gnarled hands. “I believe you. But we don’t have time for formalities. Everything will be cleared up after our victory over the regime.” He smiled again. “Trust me.”

  I was alert enough by then to be totally unconvinced. “And our arrest? Shoot-on-sight orders?”

  “Men are tense on the eve of battle. Superstitious. Commanders can’t be seen as weak. The colonel took action. Consider it … theater.”

  I felt my bruised jaw, a loose tooth. “Theater?”

  “Theater,” the secretary replied. He pointed to the door. “Now go. My men will escort you. Once you’re clear of the camp, they’ll give you a flash drive containing the appropriate de-scramble codes and passwords. You must be in Hargeisa once the offensive starts.”

  “Hold on,” Tam said. “You want us where?”

  Secretary Ghotta frowned. “At Qasr al-Salam thirty-eight hours from now,” he answered brusquely. “The Presidential Palace is the symbol of the general’s regime, and our number one target. Your team will rendezvous with the Muharib Guard elements leading the assault. GPS coordinates are on the flash drive. Be there, on time. Meet only them.”

  His reasonableness had transformed into something hard and reptilian. “This is a chance to continue with your mission,” the secretary continued. “Do you understand? It would be a shame if I was unable to rescind
the shoot-on-sight orders, yes?”

  “We don’t respond well to threats, Mr. Secretary,” Tam countered. “Especially obvious ones.”

  Secretary Ghotta gave a hard laugh. “This isn’t a negotiation, Mr. Song. Eshu International is bought and paid for. I want you to do the job you were hired for… back in Belfast.”

  Finally, I connected the dots: he was Dawson-Hull’s replacement. Ghotta was the traitor.

  Still speaking to Tam, he waved the Muharib forward. “Unless your reputation of reliability is just a marketing tag-line?”

  Tam bristled and opened his mouth to answer, but I stepped between them. “Never pegged you to settle for thirty pieces of silver. Especially British silver,” I said carefully. “Sajiid know you order his men around?”

  Secretary Ghotta’s weathered face turned toward mine. “Major Sajiid is a soldier. These men are soldiers. Soldiers follow orders.”

  “So you fight alongside the Professor for years, build up a real shot at victory, only to sell him out now?”

  Secretary Ghotta’s face remained impassive, the Yagi implants swirling like dollops of luminous cloud. “Harun Abdul Hamid is a great man,” he said heavily. “But for all his qualities, he cannot to see beyond his own vision. As a mercenary, you understand the real world runs on power, not principles.”

  Those words coming from Ghotta’s lips, I expected the Irony Police to kick in the door. I was incredulous. “You think the Professor’s idealistic, so you cut a deal with Dawson-Hull?”

  “Revolutionaries make poor statesmen. The ideals that spark great revolutions cripple great nations,” the secretary snapped. “Harun refuses to face certain ugly necessities.”

  I was about to ask where treachery was on the ugly necessity list when raw emotion struggled across the older man’s face. I stayed quiet as he reigned it in.

  “Our cause nearly died many times but for Hamid. He gave us hope again and again when everything seemed lost.”

  “Already speaking in the past tense?” Tam remarked. “Your war isn’t over yet.”

  Ghotta answered with an empty smile. “I have confidence in your abilities.”