The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  ‘You always were the smart one Mooney,’ McCabe replied.

  ‘Perfect.’ Stowe jabbed the ground with his stick.

  ‘Basically, we go in today, and pray to God I’m right – so get ready, we leave in an hour,’ McCabe said. He grabbed his kit and headed for a clearing so he could contact Ogilvy.

  Stowe spoke first. ‘You think we can pull this off’

  ‘We have to – or die trying.’ Mooney looked up, having studied the model again.

  ‘Yeah well,’ Woodrow said. ‘I’m not sure this Madden bloke is worth a bullet. Anyway, I’m off to take a leak.’ He got up and wandered off towards a clump of thorn trees.

  Stowe followed him with his eyes until he had vanished from sight.

  ‘You okay?’ Mooney had sensed Stowe’s unease.

  Getting up, Stowe withdrew his pistol from his waistband and slowly drew back the cocking-mechanism, silencing it with his hands. Mooney followed suit, his own weapon now in hand. The soft murmur of a voice reached Stowe and he halted in his tracks, flicking up his hand to signal to Mooney to do likewise. Easing forward another few meters, Stowe caught sight of Woodrow through the bushes; he stood a few meters ahead, talking on one of the satellite phones. Stowe held a finger up to his lips as Mooney drew up behind.

  Woodrow terminated the call, lowered the phone and turned, his eyes widening as he stared down the muzzle of Stowe’s 9mm.

  ‘Easy does it…now what’s up?’ Woodrow asked, signaling with his hands for Stowe to lower his weapon.

  ‘I think you had better explain yourself,’ said McCabe, coming in from behind, causing Woodrow to spin around.

  ‘Okay, easy, all of you. I can explain.’ Woodrow backed up a few paces to keep McCabe and Stowe in his field of vision.

  Stowe sidestepped and held his aim. ‘That’s far enough.’

  ‘I’m not the leak.’

  ‘Yeah, and I’m the fucking Pope, you wanker.’ Mooney moved forward.

  ‘Stand down, Mooney, let’s hear him out.’ Ever the diplomat, McCabe eased Mooney back.

  Woodrow lowered his hands and faced McCabe. ‘I work for the CIA; my contact is known to you; I’m here to ensure you succeed – nothing more. There are those who don’t want Madden alive, but I’m not one of them.’ Woodrow ensured he kept his eye on Mooney, who by now was pacing around like a hungry cat.

  McCabe gestured with the 9mm. ‘Go on…’

  ‘Aziz, although a pirate, is at least not an extremist. Despite what you think, he has his uses…if controlled. Those who want Madden killed are doing it for a reason.’

  McCabe stepped forward. ‘Who is your contact?’

  Woodrow hesitated.

  ‘Who is it?’ McCabe repeated, leveling his gun as a prompt.

  ‘The Rain Angel.’

  McCabe’s pistol connected with Woodrow’s jaw, sending him falling backwards. McCabe was quickly on top of him, raining down punches, before being pulled off by Stowe.

  ‘She knows that it’s someone in MI5, I swear I don’t know any more.’ Woodrow spat out his words along with a few shards of broken tooth.

  ‘I know better than you think not to trust that woman,’ McCabe spat back.

  ‘You want me to whack him, mate?’ Mooney was now towering above Woodrow.

  Pulling away from Stowe, McCabe glared at Woodrow. ‘You had better be telling the truth… or I will kill you myself.’ McCabe then turned. ‘Watch him until I get back.’

  ‘Pleasure,’ Mooney replied.

  ‘I want to hear this, stay with him, mate.’ Stowe went after McCabe.

  Having pulled out the sat phone and dialed the number, McCabe settled himself by leaning against the Jeep. After a few moments of static and clicking, the Rain Angel picked up the call.

  McCabe jumped straight in. ‘Your man, Woodrow, he’s looking down the barrel of a gun right now – what’s the deal?’

  ‘Mark, nice to hear from you.’ Her voice, as ever, calm.

  McCabe waited for the transmission delay to clear. ‘Cut the bullshit, what’s the story?’

  Stowe leaned forward and strained to listen.

  ‘Spare him, he’s useful to you…do not kill him. Call Ogilvy and he will verify I speak the truth. Getting Madden out is all you need to worry about for now.’

  McCabe pondered her words. ‘I’ll think about it. You and I have an appointment when I get back.’ McCabe hung up.

  The call to Ogilvy was as short as it was sweet. He’d kept his counsel about her story, but his advice to McCabe was to go with it. At least they all knew one thing: the CIA were on scene and that meant they could trust no one. Madden remained the priority. For now they had little choice. Woodrow was in, and the truth was they needed the manpower. Then came the last part of his update; they were to spare Aziz, the man the Rain Angel had indicated she wanted to protect. McCabe had said nothing. He knew well enough that any man she wanted to keep alive would have highly questionable attributes. McCabe would make up his own mind.

  ~ ~ ~

  Farid Bashir’s office was nothing more than a small, bare room with distressed and peeling light-green walls displaying black spray-painted slogans of Islamic victory. There was a primitive bed in one corner and a simple wooden table and chair positioned in the centre of the room, strategically facing the door. Farad Bashir stepped out onto the narrow balcony and looked up, shading his eyes from the sun.

  He watched as two helicopters approached from the north. Flicking his eyes downwards for a moment, he noticed his men were running around below like panicked schoolchildren as they prepared for an impending attack. As the two black U.S.-signed weapons of destruction passed low overhead, Bashir felt the thrumming whump whump whump of their rotors. A downward wash of air hit his face, choking him with dust. It was a sight he was used to; he had experienced first-hand the rain of black death they could deliver if they so chose. They normally came at night, though.

  This time was different. It was daylight, late afternoon. He had been warned they would come; a new routine when the U.S. Navy were offshore escorting one of the many convoys of commercial shipping. They would fly inland to make their presence known; habits of the past designed to instill fear. He had to trust that his employer had warned them off, granting him the space to move and carry out his mission. But he still felt a twinge of panic edged with anger; he had deep mental wounds of an attack a few years ago, and often, the Rangers returned to haunt the dark recesses of his mind.

  He had been fighting for Mohammed Aidid in his war against General Boutros in the death zone known as Mogadishu. The U.N. had been brought in, along with the U.S. war machine. Their mission was simple, to drive out the insurgents. On that morning in June, the helicopters came, nine of them in all. A cloud of black death. They had encircled the building where Bashir and his elder, Hassan Awale were holed up on the second floor with fifty other members of their militia. They had been under U.N. siege for three weeks. On the final day, the rockets and shells had finally rained in – all day and all night, savagely killing, maiming and obliterating all but a few in the building. Most of those fled the scene were either shot by the U.N. or later picked off by a ring of rival clan members.

  That was when he first met Aziz; he was a young Somali from the Darod clan who hated anything to do with the Habr Gidr. Bashir had managed to slip through the net by crawling his way through the rubble and dead bodies. He had almost made it when Aziz had spotted him emerging from a neighboring building, bloodied and angry. Aziz had frozen at the intensity of Bashir’s eyes, which carried the message of death. He’d stood there, rooted, as Bashir had slipped away.

  For as long as Bashir could remember, the Habr Gidr had been at war with the Americans. But today they needed him, needed him to do their dirty work. It was time for Aziz to make his escape or face certain death.

  Bashir watched as the choppers grew smaller and quieter before vanishing over the horizon. He turned, went back inside and padded down the narrow flight of stairs and into the street
below. The chatter from his men dissipated and they went back to their work of preparing for an assault. Bashir was ready, and in a few hours The Somali Sanction would have been completed.

  Darkness was always the best time to attack, Aziz knew it. His men had been briefed, positioned, and were dug in. All he had to do now was wait and see who came.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Somalia

  McCabe appeared from behind the Jeep with a half-smile. ‘Get ready to rock, lads,’ he said, keen to step into the anticipated turmoil of conflict. Mooney had seen that look before and knew it was adrenaline-induced.

  ‘Kit inspection in ten minutes. We’re on the road in an hour,’ Stowe bellowed, taking up his second-in-command mantle. Not than anyone needed telling or even appointed him such a position. The shared raised eyes confirmed that fact.

  ‘You heard the man. Let’s go!’ Mooney sang out, smiling as he took the piss.

  ‘Yeah, let’s go. We’ve got to move right now, Mooney.’ Stowe glared at Mooney as if daring him to respond. He didn’t, and each man got down to gathering their kit, packing it away and mentally preparing for what was to come.

  ‘I’ve never seen you nervous before,’ Mooney observed to McCabe, who was busy strutting around.

  McCabe stiffened. ‘Yes, you have, the last time we were in this hell-hole, remember?’ His brow was furrowed in concentration.

  ‘Well, my old mate...’ Mooney got up, paced over and placed one of his bear-like arms around McCabe, ‘it’s what we get paid to do.’

  McCabe nodded; he had anticipated those words before Mooney had opened his mouth.

  The short, fifteen kilometer journey was made on foot, semi walking and semi speed-marching, but stealth was the absolute mode. Each man in serial fashion, weaved their way through the thorn trees, along the dried out streams and across open, barren flats of sand and stone. They each carried kit weighing over sixty pounds, given the anticipated ammo and weaponry needed. For any normal frame, it was a crippling load to bear – not that Mooney made it seem that way. To him it was nothing more than a day sack.

  The arduous journey had been extended by at least three klicks because McCabe had plotted a new route – in case the one he and Stowe had navigated previously had been compromised.

  As the sun set in the east, they reached what was to become their FOP, three kilometers from the pirate camp’s less protected north side. Non-essential kit was hidden and covered with brush; the rest was now packed and stuffed into each man’s belt kit, comprising mainly ammunition. Actions were swift, almost android as weapons were loaded, slung, and thick black camo-paint was applied to the hands and face of each man. The moon shone bright and any patch of white skin would glare like a baboon’s slapped arse, as Mooney liked to put it.

  ‘You look like a fucking hyena,’ Mooney jested as Stowe looked up and the moonlight glanced off his face.

  ‘Yeah, and I bite too,’ Stowe joked back, snapping his teeth.

  Woodrow, on the other hand, was distinctly quiet. It seemed he had nothing to say. In fact, since losing his cover he had all but closed down; a fact McCabe had noticed, which made him wary and question his residual loyalty.

  ‘Okay, radio check,’ McCabe growled into his set. He waited for the call-signs to come back in. One by one each man responded in short, sharp fashion. ‘Let’s get it done. Be safe, and get our man home, okay?’ McCabe rallied everyone around. ‘Well, lads, this is it; no going back now. We go in as planned, extract Madden and leg it out, okay?’

  ‘Clear, clear…clear,’ each man responded in turn.

  ‘Yeah, and if you so much as fart in the wrong place, Woody, I will rip your throat out. Understood?’ Mooney snarled at Woodrow.

  ‘Easy, mate! We all matter now. If we can’t trust each other, we don’t go…is that understood?’ McCabe wanted to be crystal clear. Eyes scanned around. ‘I said is that clear?’ The resounding nods were enough to tell him his point had been noted. Picking up his weapon, he said, ‘Why don’t you and I wander uptown, Stowe?’ McCabe gestured with the muzzle of his M16.

  ‘Yeah…ready when you are,’ Stowe said, moving out behind McCabe.

  ‘I’ll catch you on the other side,’ Mooney called out, but they had already vanished into the darkness.

  It took almost an hour for Stowe and McCabe to tab around in a large arc, navigating a path through the savage thorn trees and sharp stones and coming back in on the north side of the camp. Aside from the odd dog barking and random hints of chatter that floated ever so slightly on the light, southerly breeze, the night was still. The last few hundred yards were covered in short bursts; doubled over, almost squatting down, in order to mask their movements between the scrub. Stowe would move first, take up position on one knee, raise his weapon, and scan the terrain in his field of vision. This allowed McCabe to move up behind him and repeat the same series of fluid movements. As McCabe reached Stowe he stopped dead. Stowe was waving with his flattened hand to the west of their position. Instantly getting down low, they both observed a truck moving through a gate; its headlights swept over the top of them before it turned into a narrow road, heading north-east. McCabe flicked up two fingers, indicating the number of men he could see on guard duty.

  ‘Downtown is in position,’ he updated them over the radio.

  ‘Copy that, downtown,’ Mooney came back, almost instantly.

  ‘Downtown standing by,’ McCabe said. He waited. It took two minutes before the confirmation he wanted in return came back.

  Mooney came back. ‘This is uptown. We’ve arrived and taken our cover position a half-klick behind you just north-east of the FOP, over.’

  ‘Downtown, this is uptown one. Visual on two players,’ Stowe advised them as he eyed two more skinny guards through his night-sight. They were pacing around the camp’s north side gate.

  ‘Roger that, uptown one,’ Mooney came back. Then he spotted the silhouettes of men creeping through the scrub off to his right, about five hundred yards away, and exposed in the moonlight.

  ‘Jesus, who are they?’ Woodrow primed his weapon.

  ‘No idea, but it looks like trouble.’ Mooney kept his eyes fixed on the moving targets.

  ‘Uptown, this is downtown – we have company, over,’ Mooney whispered into his radio.

  McCabe came back in seconds. ‘Who?’

  ‘Hostiles…look like local hitters; twenty or so are moving your way.’ Mooney narrowed his eyes and scanned the images through his night-sight.

  ‘All call-signs hold, I repeat hold,’ McCabe ordered. He exchanged glances with Stowe, who was wondering, like him, what was about to happen next.

  ‘Shit,’ McCabe said, as a loud explosion and flash of orange generated by a motor round hitting the camp’s center made it official: the camp was now under attack. Split seconds later a second round exploded inches from the camp’s perimeter fence, followed by a third, which blew a gaping hole and sent strands of barbwire whistling into the air. Plumes of white smoke swirled around as an array of defensive rounds opened up, felling the first wave of invaders now running for the fences. Aziz was ready and his men well prepared.

  ‘Dhaqaaq, dhaqaaq,’ Aziz ordered, and his men opened up again. As he turned to make for cover a mortar round exploded a few yards away and sent him reeling backwards. He felt the tail end of red hot shards of shrapnel pepper his body. Luckily, two men that had been closer took the full force of the explosion. Their ragged remains now scattered around the compound. Rolling around in the sand, Aziz beat off the burning fragments and sprang to his feet before darting off. He could feel his blood running down his torso and realized they were surface wounds only.

  ‘Ha cabsan, ha cabsan,’ he screamed as rounds zipped past him and smacked into the dirt.

  Bashir stood in the rear of a pick-up, which had been parked up off the track running from the main road some five hundred meters away. He looked on through his NVGs as the first wave of men went in. His eyes scanned the defenses to find a weakness.
The target was surely inside and he wouldn’t stop until his mission was complete. He jumped off the truck and grabbed his automatic weapon, hurrying to join his men.

  ‘Uptown, this is downtown, what the fuck is going on?’ Mooney yelled.

  ‘We’re in the midst of a clan attack. Hold, I repeat, hold,’ McCabe ordered as he watched the crazy scene unfolding in front of his eyes. Bullets were now zipping past only a few yards in front of him.

  ‘It must be that bloke, Bashir,’ Stowe said.

  ‘Yeah, maybe…let’s see how it plays out,’ McCabe came back. As he lay flat on the sand listening to the barrage of mortars and return fire rattle out, the image of the truck that had driven off moments before the attack played on his mind. A loud crack from a round hitting the dirt nearby brought him back.

  Stowe crawled his way over to join McCabe. ‘What’s the call, mate? It’s getting intense out there.’ His voice was barely audible above the screams of wounded and burning men.

  ‘We hold,’ McCabe told him, the image of the truck again occupying his thoughts.

  ‘What is it?’ Stowe asked, sensing McCabe was distracted.

  ‘Not sure; something about that truck that left just before the attack.’

  ‘Yeah, lucky, in my view, whoever it was,’ Stowe replied.

  McCabe nodded, his face emotionless.

  Hearing the onrush of feet on the stony ground, Mooney swiveled to face a man pointing a rifle at him. The lithe Somali had the drop on him but before he had time to squeeze the trigger a dark figure behind him slipped in, cut his throat and dragged him off into the scrub.

  ‘Guess I owe you, thanks,’ was all Mooney could muster, given it was Woodrow who had just saved his arse and dispatched the young Somali.