“If he’s such a great man, he certainly can be a good leader,” I said. “Why do you want him dead?”
“He would be great leader,” Secretary Ghotta replied sadly. “But he’ll make a better martyr.” With that, he nodded and his soldiers shoved us out.
***
We met Poet9, Curro and the Triplets at our camp thirty minutes later. The boy Abdi was there too, and he solemnly returned Tam’s GPS tracker. We gave a condensed version of events, but Poet9 had already Tetrised most of it together. “Murphy’s Law,” he said with a shrug. “You should have let me shoot Alpha back at Bowna.”
“Wait your turn. I’m first in line,” I replied.
Poet9 had the Triplets on security and one of our Falcos on station overhead; we were safe for the moment.
Secretary Ghotta had lied. No surprise there. We got less than half our gear back. Spare parts, ammo, clothes, boots, food had all vanished. It looked like a pack of starving jackals had torn through our crates. Tam’s Tavor 24 was still there, along with one spare magazine, so was my Blizzard SMG and the Milkor grenade launcher. My submachine gun survived because it was grip-chipped—the firing selector was coded to my palm print—but the scrounger had stripped its optics and laser. And pissed me off even further by putting a long scratch on the barrel shroud.
Somewhere out there, a clumsy young kalash was about to go to war with a five-thousand-euro precision targeting package mounted on his rickety old AK-101. I hoped he missed every time. It would serve him right, gouging my baby like that. At least we got all our Polaris ATVs back.
Between the Triplets and Poet9’s gear, Tam and I re-kitted. We weren’t too worried about weapons and ammo; there’d be surplus lying around once the shooting started.
Tam, Poet9 and I had circled up in a small notch between two hills northeast of the SPLM camp. Curro and Abdi were scrounging for food while the Triplets stood guard somewhere on our flanks. We were ten kilometers south of the Somaliland border on the eve of the largest assault this region had seen in decades, and you’d never know it. There was no gunfire rattling in the distance, no trucks or armored vehicles rumbling by. No VTOLS or helos buzzing overhead. Rains had teased green into the scrub trees, and evening winds were walking through the grass. On my left, the sun had dropped, making the horizon hazy, molten and huge, while on my right, night was rapidly inking the sky in deep color and shadow.
The land around us was quiet. In different circumstances, it would be a moment to hold.
Tam sure didn’t forget where we were. He broke my reverie with a bitter laugh. “As if this shit wasn’t dangerous enough; we’re already in a war, now Eshu International is on the SPLM’s most wanted list.”
“And I trust Secretary Creepy Eyes about as far as I could throw him,” I added. “Which unless it’s off a cliff, isn’t near far enough.”
Poet9 arched one eyebrow. “So why aren’t we driving south? Like deep into Ethiopia? I know a place near Ji Jiga.”
I looked at Tam. “Damn good question.”
Tam looked out over the darkening landscape. He spoke carefully, stretching out the thought. “So you think we outta lay low for a week, let the SPLM and Dhul-Fiqaar slug it out, then make our way to the coast, then back to Belfast. And then what?”
“Tell Hester there were unforeseen circumstances,” Poet9 said.
“And our contract with Dawson-Hull goes in the shitter. Then we—?”
“Ni pedo,” Poet9 scoffed. “Tell London things went squirrley. Por dios, Alpha’s on our ass. Deer Voort hates us. Someone framed the Bunnies for murder. Hell, the Muslim Brotherhood even sent Sia-qa commandos. It’s a war. No plan survives contact with the enemy.”
“Devante, entities like Dawson-Hull don’t have friends—they have interests,” Tam replied. “We’re here because they’re interested in those mines, and they don’t give a shit who dies to get them.”
Tam spread his hands to indicate the countryside around us. “They’re letting Somaliland kill itself. You think they’d give us a pass?”
Poet9 threw up his own hands. “So London goes all Queen of Hearts, we leave Belfast. Hide.”
Tam shook his head. “Off the grid, friends only last as long as the money. And once people know you’ve got an expiration date, they suck it out of you as fast as they can. I don’t want to live what’s left of a short life waiting for a cruise missile to Santa down my chimney.”
He paused. “We have to run this to the end.”
Straddling my ATV, I cinched on my gloves in frustration. “You always fucking say that. You know, I used to think it was almost noble, this ‘honor our contract’ mercenary-ethic, but it feels like you padlocked a suicide vest on me right now. We’re in shit up to our necks. ‘Run, run away—live to fight another day’ sounds like a damn good option.”
Tam nodded. “I hear you loud and clear. Except we do have a contract, and—screw the Honorable Secretary—a reputation to uphold. We bail, we’re alone out in the cold. With everybody pissed off at us.”
I pressed him one more time. “A proverb about a live dog and a dead lion spring to mind.”
Tam got indignant. “You want to leave, I won’t stop you.”
“Don’t go all martyr on me,” I said. “No one’s leaving. I’m just noticing our contract is keeping us from doing what real mercenaries do—save our skin. And that sucks.”
“We’ll get through it,” Tam said automatically.
“That mean you have a plan?” Poet9 asked.
Tam didn’t answer.
“Oh, this is going to be great,” Poet9 sputtered. “We should shoot ourselves right now. Save Deer Voort the trouble.”
I agreed but kept the sarcasm to myself. Tam was chewing his lip, which meant he was nervous. But also that he was thinking.
The sun had set and night was fast wrapping itself around us. Overhead, early stars winked through shredded clouds, pinpricks in a tattered charcoal blanket. Tam’s silhouette turned black against the sky.
He shrugged, trying to sound reasonable. “Best place to hide a tree is in a forest. The U.N. refugee camp at Dhubbato has Peacekeepers, and that means the fighting should stay at arm’s length. At least at first. Plus, it’ll be easier for us to get to Hargeisa the next day.”
Poet9 cocked his head, exaggerated, as if he’d misheard. Then he gave me a look.
I wasn’t sold either.
“Bosnia? Sudan?” I reminded Tam. “A ‘fugee camp is no guarantee. Love might be blind, but war definitely is.”
“And rabid,” Poet9 added.
“And I still think anywhere near Ghotta and the Muharib is a bad idea,” I insisted.
“Damn right it is,” Poet9 concluded.
“I said better chance,” Tam shot back. “Besides, the Garcias are there.”
“So we’re returning Curro…” Poet9 said. “Then what?”
“Don’t know yet,” Tam said. “Something will open up.”
Poet9 stalked over to his ATV without another word. I started my Polaris. “Getting to be a habit, us running to Alejo and Carmen when we’re in trouble.”
“That was your idea last time, remember?” Tam noted.
“I do,” I said. “At least we have someone to go to.”
“They’re on the short list of people I still trust in this business,” Tam admitted.
“That’s because they’re not in this business anymore.”
“Exactly. And you and Poet9 are right: this is some deep, complicated shit. We need head space to think out our next moves very carefully.” He paused for a second, and I swore I heard him laugh.
“Something funny?”
“I was thinking of Fadela. Remember her story about the magician who got caught stealing from the Caliph?”
Fadela ran the neighborhood curry and kabob grill back in Belfast. A wizened, West Bank transplant with a threadbare keffiyeh she swore belonged to Arafat, she bestowed a different story with every take-out order, like a sort of golden years, cigar-smoking, Sch
eherazade. Last time we were in, she laid out the tale of Faziir, a travelling magician who got caught stealing silver knives from the sultan’s palace.
Sentenced to death for his crime, Faziir begged for leniency, claiming he’d discovered the ancient secret of teaching animals to talk. Skeptical, the sultan had ordered him beheaded, but Faziir pleaded all the louder, saying if he had but a little more time, he’d teach the regent’s favorite horse to speak. Then all the world would marvel at the remarkable animal.
Intrigued, the sultan gave him one year. Success meant his weight in gold; failure, a slow death under the knives of black-masked torturers.
Faziir then spent every day in the stable, reading children’s scrolls to the horse, reciting the alphabet, stopping only to take a meal and sleep at night. After a month, one of the guards mocked him saying, “Stop pretending. It’s impossible. Animals can’t talk. Everyone thinks you’re a fool.”
“Indeed, I am a fool,” Faziir acknowledged. “But not even the wisest see the future. War might break out, or famine or drought, and the sultan—weighed with the cares of his vast and prosperous realm—may forget all about me. Allah might take me peacefully in my sleep. Or take the horse. Or…” he added with a wink, “the horse might talk.”
I kept my mouth shut for a moment after he’d finished. “The horse might talk? That’s your plan?” I finally asked.
Tam nodded. Behind me, Poet9 scoffed and thumbed his ignition. I did the same.
Decision made, we called Curro and Abdi down and radioed the Triplets.
The eight of us rode northwest across the warm, windswept plains into a deepening African night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX – Easy Prey
United Nations IDP Camp, Dhubbato, Somaliland
A bright square of morning sun framed a broken, blue plastic crate in the middle of the floor. The words ‘Dental Hygiene Preventive Maintenance Kits’ were stenciled in white letters in a dozen languages across the lid. Alejo tapped it with his walking stick. “At least they took the toothpaste,” he said to Carmen. “I was tired of tripping over this thing every day.”
The Spaniard stood with his wife, Wonli, and Bello in the wreckage of the Medical Tent. Every desk was overturned, every cupboard open and drawer spilled. Torn, empty Euro-Pharm boxes littered the floor. The two dozen cots in the front ward had been stripped of blankets and sheets. Whoever had ransacked the clinic had nicked all the rudimentary surgical tools and equipment, including the old, broken Auto-Doc diagnostic unit they used as a spare table. The thieves had been frantic but thorough. Like a plague of locusts.
Carmen dug a lone roll of surgical tape out from under the bottom of a plastic shelving unit. “They took the medicine locker—the whole thing.” She pointed to a small concrete slab, steel bolts splayed at each corner.
“They know the fighting will be fierce. The general will not go easily,” Wonli said.
“Yeah well, they better hope I don’t catch them,” Carmen growled. “They’ll definitely need first-aid once I get through with them.” She turned to the young Somali man. “They say they’re fighting for their people, but they steal supplies from refugees who need them?”
The former soldier shrugged, uncomfortable. “They’re going against the Duub Cas and its corporate robots. That’s all they see.”
Carmen muttered something decidedly unfriendly, tossed the tape into an empty box, then began feeling under the shelves again. Bello knelt down and joined her.
Alejo surveyed the mess in the front ward. “Where were the guards?”
Wonli’s teak skin flushed. “A girl was screaming. It sounded like rape, so they went to help. Four men with guns were waiting.”
Alejo’s moustache bristled. “Anyone hurt?”
Wonli shook his head. “They were tied up, and someone cut them loose two hours later.”
Alejo sighed and looked over the mess, organizing the clean up in his mind. “None of the cots are broken. We can get people to donate a blanket or a pillow. Nothing will match, but this isn’t a fashion show.” He turned and began walking toward the examination area in the rear of the tent.
“I’ll see to it, Mr. Garcia. Don’t worry,” Wonli said a little too loudly.
Alejo looked back. “And where will I be?”
Wonli looked down and kicked at something with his boot. “Addis Ababa?”
Alejo nodded noncommittally and kept walking.
“I’ve arranged a Lada to take you south,” Wonli called after him. “And papers to help you over the Ethiopian border.”
“Help me with this table,” Alejo called from the back of the tent.
Wonli trotted after him, exasperated. “Dhubbato is not safe anymore. Nowhere in Somaliland is safe. There’s a curfew in all the cities. They say the Hangash are shooting people in the streets.”
They set an exam bench upright, and Alejo began wiping down the padded vinyl surface.
“Are you listening to me?” the Somali asked.
“I heard you.”
“Korfa and Anis can go with you. Bello will help you pack. You’ll be at a U.N. Consulate by nightfall.”
Carmen spoke up from the front room. “We’ll need clean sheets. They’ll need to be boiled first, but what we don’t use for the cots, we’ll tear into strips for bandages.”
Wonli clenched his fists and took a deep breath. “It’s going to get bad. Very bad. There’s little food left. All the markets were bought out or robbed. It will be six hours before the clean water tanks fill back up.”
Bello looked up, incredulous. “Where did it all go?”
“It slipped under the wire with the fighters early this morning.”
“Along with my medicine,” Carmen interjected.
Wonli continued, “Strange, bat-looking drones have been buzzing overhead all morning. Korfa even saw a government Mi-35 fly past.” The Somali paused. “He thinks it was scouting, taking pictures.”
“They have drones for that,” Carmen scoffed. “That’s just scare tactics.”
“Well, it scares me,” Wonli admitted. “General Dhul-Fiqaar knows Dhubbato is full of Isaaq. He’ll use the rebel attacks as an excuse to send soldiers.”
Carmen swatted the notion away, then took Bello to check the storage units behind the clinic.
Alejo crossed over to a window. “I’m hoping the soldiers will be too busy shooting at each other to target us.” He peered into the sky. “Just one Mi-35?”
“So far. So you’ll go?” Wonli asked hopefully.
Alejo barked out a laugh. “No. But you should have Anis and Korfa round up every able-bodied man they trust and arm them with whatever weapons you can find.”
“You’d have grandfathers and children,” Wonli said. “They won’t last a minute against real soldiers.”
“God forbid even National Army conscripts show up. I’m worried about the road gangs and punks. Jackals smell fear, and right now, this place is quivering with it. I don’t want anyone to think the camp is easy prey.” He paused, then swung his walking stick up and pointed it at Wonli. “And don’t write off grandfathers so fast.”
Wonli started explaining the dangers again, practically pleading. Alejo patiently ignored him. “I don’t go anywhere without my wife,” Alejo said. “And she’s not leaving.”
Halfway through this go-around, Korfa ran in. “Visser and his men are here. They’re at the Blue Hat barracks yelling at Colonel Chutani.”
***
The scene at the U.N. compound was one of those tense situations time would only make worse. In fact, it looked like everyone was going to start shooting within thirty seconds.
Colonel Chutani stood at the compound’s entrance, red-faced and sweaty, a section of nervous Pakistani Peacekeepers at his back. Pim Visser was a few meters outside the gate with a handful of scruffy ‘disciples’ lined up next to him. His scarecrow-gaunt frame was rigid with indignation. Assault rifles were unslung on both sides, and Alejo spied too many fingers twitching next to trigger guards.
The Spaniard stepped in between the two men. “What’s going on here?”
Colonel Chutani became apoplectic. “This man won’t let us leave, that’s what’s happening!” He leaned and shouted over Alejo’s shoulder. “Move aside! You can’t stop us.”
Alejo’s hands went up in a gesture of surrender. “Leaving? What do you mean?”
“What does ‘leaving’ mean? Do you not understand simple language?” Chutani huffed.
“I didn’t say you couldn’t leave,” Pim Visser said icily. “I asked about the vehicles—”
Alejo waved the Dutchman to silence. “You can’t leave the camp,” he said to the Pakistani colonel.
“You too? Who are you to barge in this matter?” Colonel Chutani dug a piece of damp paper out of his front shirt pocket and shook it in Alejo’s face. “You fanatics cannot make demands. I have relocation orders from Brussels.”
Alejo ignored the sweaty note and surveyed the field inside the U.N. perimeter. The Peacekeeper contingent was close to frantic, clambering into a fleet of civilian trucks. Rows of white SARKOS exo-armor suits stood like Yeti statues on the backs of flatbeds, while the contingent’s chalk-white Zubr Jeeps and Pandur II armored personnel carriers lined the far side of the yard. Every vehicle hatch was padlocked shut, and the pintle-mounted weapons were locked facing rear and down. ‘Relocation orders’? It was an evacuation if ever he’d seen one.
Alejo blinked, trying to wrap his head around what he was happening. “Where… where are you going?”
“Our orders,” the colonel shook the paper again, “are to cross the border and establish a temporary camp at Degeh Bur.”
Alejo was stunned. “Ethiopia?”
“Is there some other?” the colonel demanded.
“Why Ethiopia?”
Colonel Chutani sniffed. “A soldier does not question his orders.”
“What about protecting the camp?” Alejo’s voice rose.
“A soldier does not—” Colonel Chutani began.
“The Dhul-Fiqaar regime is waging genocide against half the population, the civil war is about to get even hotter…” Alejo stabbed a finger towards the arid countryside. “Gangs of slavers and bandits circle like vultures out there, desperate for any opportunity to raid this camp, and you’re telling me you’ve got orders to abandon thirty-thousand refugees?” Alejo was yelling now.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 20