CHAPTER THIRTY – Beyond Reason
United Nations IDP Camp, Dhubbato, Somaliland
The clatter of far-off gunfire were followed by three blasts that grumbled in the distance like a rumor of earthquakes. Explosions were constant now, the sky crowded with noise. Alejo Garcia looked east and watched black smoke plume behind a seam of parched hills. War was rolling across Somaliland.
Ten, maybe twelve kilometers. They’re getting closer, Alejo thought.
“God is our refuge and strength,” he recited softly. “A very present help in time of trouble.”
I’d say this qualifies as ‘trouble’, don’t you, Lord?
From the shade of the gatehouse, he eyed the length of Highway Three for the hundredth time; thousands of men, women and children were flowing across the broken blacktop straight towards him.
What started as a trickle at dawn had turned to a stream, then a flood by noon; people fleeing violence. A dark river under a blistering sun, their fear clung to them like sweat, as palpable as rotting fruit, their hope reduced to the bright rag bundles they balanced on their heads. All of them rushing to the only safe place they knew: the white jeeps and rickety chain link of an already overcrowded U.N. refugee camp.
Most of them were on foot. Some pushed wheelbarrows or drove donkey carts. Rusted pickups puttered and honked through the crowd. Alejo saw an ancient tractor wreathed in diesel smoke bouncing down the median, loaded with people and swinging bales. One man had hitched the back half of a yellow Renault to a scrawny horse. He twitched the reins from the back seat. Many were driving flocks of cattle and goats on the packed gravel beside the road, trying to preserve what little wealth and status they had. Alejo shook his head: some of the details were mid-twenty-first century, but the scene was as old as war itself.
Wonli poked his head through the door wearing a dark blue U.N. armor vest over a Hawaiian print shirt, a brand-new Herstal rifle tucked under his arm. “More problems.”
Alejo sighed and ducked out into the blazing sun.
“Sufficient unto the day is the trouble thereof…”
The flow of refugees had clumped up to a standstill a few paces outside the gate. A dozen guards had yanked a large group of civilians—several families—aside and shoved them against the fence. Their meager luggage was broken open at their feet; tin pans, brass, and bright cloth strewn in the red dust. Opportunists darted in to snatch what they could, but most of the mob stood back, some horrified, others in hard approval, most simply watching. The guards ignored the looters, shouting a single phrase at their captives over and over, jabbing at them with rifle muzzles. The children clung to the fence with tiny hands, wailing. The women were on their knees, pleading. Their husbands screamed back at the guards, wide-eyed and desperate, covering their families with scrawny arms.
Alejo got closer. The guards raged louder, rifles up, every second slipping another step past reason. Alejo felt murder crackling in the air, a deep panic metastasizing through the crowd, back down the column of refugees. He saw a guard’s face twisted in hatred, a woman’s contorted in fear, tears on a girl’s smooth cheek, slim brown hands clasped, begging. Fingers tightening on triggers.
He rushed, stumbled in between the two groups. “Stop!”
A single shot cracked like a whip, and dirt puffed at Alejo’s feet. The crowd screamed and surged back. Wonli threw one of the guards aside and yelled something in Somali.
The weapons dropped a fraction, the guards’ faces smoldering and hungry. An older man with a white beard and a face like weathered leather skull began jabbering, spitting at the civilians lined against the fence.
“What’s he saying?” Alejo asked Wonli.
Wonli placed himself between the guard and Alejo, his back to the older Spaniard. He translated without turning around. “He says these people killed his family. Slaughtered his village.”
Alejo looked over his shoulder. “These people?”
“They are Gadabuursi. The general’s clan,” Wonli explained. “He says that makes them responsible.”
Alejo looked again at the weeping children, pleading mothers, the blanched faces of the fathers. “Gadabuursi… how can he tell?”
Wonli opened his mouth to speak, then shut it with a shrug.
The guard yelled again and raised his rifle.
Alejo stepped forward. “Tell him if he shoots, he and his whole family are out,” he roared. “I’ll put everyone he knows and loves outside this gate and lock it.”
Wonli hesitated.
Alejo locked eyes with the guard. “Tell him!” he snapped.
Wonli began speaking. The man spit once more but lowered the rifle.
Alejo let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “Good.”
He surveyed the guards, then the haggard faces of the refugees on the road. “Here’s the new rule,” he shouted. “This camp is open to everyone: Isaaq, Gadabuursi, Darod… anybody. In here, there’s only Dhubbato, only people trying to stay alive. People who need each other. Anyone who doesn’t like it can leave now. Understand?”
His voice carried over the crowd. Alejo was shocked at the force of the words, as if some internal pressure had propelled them, sent them like arrows into the gnawing mass of terror and hysteria that had been festering since the first bombs fell. Wonli translated as he spoke. Few in the huge crowd understood English, but the meaning was clear: Dhubbato was safe. They were welcome.
When Wonli had finished, the guards lowered their weapons completely and stepped back to let the people enter. A murmur of relief rippled through the crowd like a splash of cool water.
Alejo spied Korfa in the crowd and motioned him over. “Tell the guards to start sending them to the field behind the U.N. compound. When that fills up, we’ll start along the west side near the fence. OK?”
Korfa dipped his head. “Yes, boss.”
“Stop that. I’m not the boss.”
The young Somali was puzzled for a moment. “Yes, you are,” he said, then ran back to the gate.
Wonli stepped close, smiling, but his eyes were worried. “They keep coming. Where will they fit?
“They’ll have to pack in.”
“Food and water?”
“Break open the U.N. stores. It’s not much, but it’s a start.”
Wonli craned his neck and looked down the road. The column of refugees stretched as far as he could see. “Enough for one day. Maybe.”
Alejo pointed to a drove of goats grazing in the nearby scrub. “Half. That’s the price of admission for anyone with livestock.”
At first, Wonli didn’t understand. “Half?” he scoffed. “You want the herdsmen to give half their flocks? That could get ugly.”
More explosions rumbled on cue. Black smoke veined every skyline like poisonous trees. “It’s ugly out there.”
Alejo raised one eyebrow. “No one is forcing them to stay. They can take their animals and their chances somewhere else. “
Wonli stayed put, unconvinced.
“I know it’s a lot,” Alejo admitted.
“A gift for your generosity they understand, but to confiscate half… they will not like this.”
“I don’t like it either,” Alejo said. “But we’re between a sword and the wall here.” He paused. “Tell them it’s zakat—charity for the poor—if that helps. If not, they can keep walking.”
Wonli grinned. “Well then I’m certain those good Muslims will be honored to assist the ummah in a time of trouble.” He whistled to several of the gate guards, waving them over, then turned to break the news to the nearest herdsman.
Alejo heaved a sigh of relief and started back toward the relative cool of the gatehouse.
He glanced up as he walked. That’s enough trouble for today, right?
The sky stayed silent, hard and hot. Alejo pursed his lips.
No?
He looked over in time to see four young Somali women stagger and fall in a heap. No one stopped to help. Exhausted, focused on their own surviva
l, the other refugees flowed around them like water around a rock, a river of humanity following the path of least resistance. The women sat there silent in a torrent of brown legs and sandaled feet, blinking and dazed.
As he approached, Alejo realized what he took for dark headscarves were actually bandages, soaked with blood. The women’s oval faces were pale, parched from thirst and shock. One had blood dripping from her fingers.
“I caawi!” he shouted. “I caawi!” Help.
Several Dhubbato women came running and began to speak softly to the four girls. As Alejo knelt, he looked up to see Curro emerge from the crowd.
Alejo reached out to touch the bleeding girl’s shoulder. She stared back in shock. “What are you doing here?” he asked his son.
“I heard there was a problem. I came to help.”
“Then help get them to the medical tent. Tell your mother and Bella I’ll be there as fast as I can.” He jerked a thumb toward the gate. “I just can’t say when.”
Suddenly, the young woman grabbed his shoulders. She started rocking back and forth and babbling in frantic Benadiri.
One of the elderly Dhubbato women began to translate. “She says you must do something. They’re killing everyone. Even the babies.”
“Who?” Alejo and Curro both asked.
“Bloody men.” The woman paused as the girl sobbed. “Soldiers. ‘Please’ she says. You must do something.”
“Was it SPLM? SAF?” Alejo pressed. “What color uniforms?” He looked at the older woman. “Ask her if she saw markings on the trucks.”
The woman relayed the question gently, but the girl buried her face in her hands and wept.
“Shahiba jackals?” Curro suggested. “Taking advantage of the chaos to loot and scoot?”
“‘Loot and scoot’,” You learn that from Jace?”
“Poet9,” Curro said.
“Figures.”
The older women were helping the girls up, leading them away. Alejo rose. “Ask her where. Where did she see these soldiers?”
The girl murmured something and pointed toward the highway. The older woman nodded once, then stared at Alejo. “Back along the big road. She says they are coming here. Coming to kill everyone.”
The air chilled for the blink of an eye.
“I’ll go,” Curro said.
“You’re not going anywhere except to the medical tent,” Alejo replied.
“Something happened to them. You have to recon the threat, see if it’s real.”
Alejo snorted. “‘Recon the threat.’” He started for the gatehouse. “Poet9 teach you that too?” he called over his shoulder.
Curro stood his ground. “You know I’m right. If soldiers are coming, you need to know who and how many.”
Alejo spun on his heel, ready to scold his son and send him back to the safety of the medical tent with his mother. A young man stared back at him; a man in camouflage fatigues, lean, tan, with a pistol on his hip and a hard fire in his eyes.
Alejo choked up, words suddenly gone.
“You’re in charge of the camp now. It can’t be you,” his son continued. “Give me a couple jeeps, Wonli and a dozen men. That’s more than enough.”
Alejo didn’t reply.
“Dad, we’ll stay buttoned up. Everyone will think we’re U.N. It’s just a quick run down the road. We’ll skedaddle if anything happens.”
Skedaddle… Alejo shook his head. As much as he hated to admit it, Curro was right. He nodded slowly. “Don’t tell you mother.”
Curro pumped his fist in victory.
Alejo pointed at his son. “Three jeeps, a Pandur APC, Wonli and two dozen men.”
Curro laughed the way he used to when he was a boy. “Whatever you say, Papa.” Then he ran off to tell Wonli.
Alejo Garcia watched his son leave, praying the God of Heaven and Earth would watch over him jealously.
Hoping Eshu International had taught him more than jargon.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE – Heading Downrange
Presidential Palace. Hargeisa, Somaliland.
“Carajo!” Poet9 slammed down the handset. “I still can’t reach Alejo.”
“Keep trying,” I said.
Poet9 cast a dubious glance around us. “Sky is soup. Everybody and their mother’s got an AK and a Huawei jammer in this hell-hole.”
“Leave it,” Tam ordered.
Poet9 and I looked up. Even the Triplets turned and stared at Tam. Driving all night through a war put all of us on edge, but the Garcias were the closest thing to parents they’d ever known.
“So why are you being such a dick?” I asked.
We were south of Hargeisa in the gated suburbs that bordered Dhul-Fiqaar’s presidential estate. Home to the big man’s relatives and government cronies, the neighborhood reeked of diverted foreign aid and international graft. And cordite. The fighting had passed through sometime before dawn, and the six of us had tucked behind one of the ruined Club-Med McMansions. A Bentley burned in the driveway. Daylight was smothered by low clouds and fire smoke, and the thump of heavy mortars carried through the bruised sky. The presidential estate was two streets and a golf course away.
Tam pointed. “We’re walking into a dog fight, and you want to know why I’m keyed-up? Fuck you very much.”
“We have to help them,” Poet9 insisted.
“We did help them,” Tam retorted. “Al and his flock have ammo and gear now, thanks to you.”
“What about the Duub Cas?”
“Guess that’s between them and God. We’ve got our own fight right now.”
I bit my tongue before I answered, “You know Ghotta’s playing us, right?” I asked. “We’re dead the second the Professor buys it, whether we slot him or not.”
Tam scowled. “Of course I know.”
“And we’re still going?” Poet9 asked. “Not that I’m bailing on you, but if we’re walking into certain death and dismemberment, I wanna know we’re on the same page.”
I ignored Poet9 and faced Tam. “We’re really going to kill Hamid?”
“I don’t know yet. We’ll see.” With that, Tam snapped on his helmet, cranked up his ATV, and took off down the street.
It took a second, but the five of us followed.
***
According to Hester’s files, Qasr al-Salaam—The Palace of Peace—was a lie. It was the most lethal three thousand acres on the African continent.
Tam and I left Poet9 and the Triplets somewhere around the ninth hole. We went ahead to find Major Sajiid while they hung back to hack into the SPLM tactical-net and lock our Falcos on a dedicated channel. We didn’t want any unpleasant surprises, and Tam wasn’t about to toss our UAVs into the rebel drone pool. If the Garcias didn’t warrant a drone, there was no way in hell Major Sajiid would. Besides, there was no sense poking the hornets’ nest parading our three fugitive clones in his face.
In all the confusion, I doubt now anyone would have noticed.
Live through enough of them and you realize each battle has its own vibe, a dark and feral music, composed in unique measures of terror, rage and animal cunning. But some… some are particularly jagged. Chaotic. The scene at the edge of the estate was a lunatic’s symphony.
The first symptom was the media. Not the usual pack of scruffy embeds from obscure blog-zines—the big players were out in full force: WNN, EuroNet, JSC…
Procurement had leased an entire platoon of South African Ratels for satellite vans. The thick, V-hulled IFVs could withstand most small arms fire and the occasional IED. A steel bouquet of two-dozen uplink dishes bloomed down one side of the street, while private security brutes with network logos across the back of their tac-vests formed a perimeter. A big blue KRB food truck was offering three-cheese soufflés, vegan paninis, and cappuccino. The Pulitzer brigade was off to war.
Reporters scurried around wearing white ‘Media’ fritz helmets and artful dirt smudges. Techs checked teleprompters as the camera crews jockeyed for position, checking ambient light and angles.
A pudgy WNN tech saw us and ran up, panting. “Speak English?”
We nodded.
“Wanna make a quick five-hundred?”
“Sorry?” Tam said.
“Five hundred for five minutes work.” He wiped his Google glasses on his T-shirt. “Bitcoin, Euro, New Kong dollars… whatever you want.”
His eyes flitted back and forth to both our faces. When we didn’t answer, he leaned in conspiratorially. “I need you to blow something up. You guys are soldiers, right? You can do that?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean you got grenades, C4… whatever the hell it is that goes boom.”
“You want to pay us to blow something up?” Tam said slowly.
The guy waved his hands, startled. “It’s just a garage. No one lives there. Look, all the good spots are taken. We’re live in five and my face needs a backdrop. I need it authentic.” He paused. “There will be flames, right?”
“Authentic,” I said.
“Yeah, ‘live from the front lines’… You know.”
Tam nodded farther down the street. “The front lines are right over there.”
“Hey, contract stips we keep a thousand yards from combatants. Besides, they’re shooting over there.” He gazed at us meaningfully. “A thousand. But you have to sign a receipt.”
Tam and I exchanged glances.
“And you can be in the shot, run past like you’re chasing someone. Don’t worry, I’ll pixelate your faces. Trés cool.”
We walked away before I ‘pixelated’ his face.
We found the first of SPLM army at the end of the block, concentrated across from the southwest edge of the estate grounds. Officers and NCOs were running around, shouting orders into radios, at soldiers and passing vehicles. A row of limbless men screamed outside a makeshift aid station—the golf cart recharging depot. The dead were stacked in bloody piles on the fairway. Swarms of Dragonfly and Switchblade drones buzzed back and forth in the pall like frenzied bees. The dust and smoke were fog-thick, and the air tasted like hot ash and coppery blood. I got this queasy, vertigo feeling as we approached. Like the world was tipping over, everything perched to slide off sideways.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 25