by Peter Nealen
“Most of us were Recon, at one time,” I tossed over my shoulder. “It goes with the territory.”
I dashed into the darkened room where my go-bag was sitting next to where I’d slept, grabbed it, and headed back out. By then, the shelling had intensified, and was now a rolling, thunderous roar to the south. These guys were serious.
As I chucked my go bag into the back of the Defender, I took the opportunity to watch Baird’s guys work. I’ll admit, I was impressed. They were smooth, practiced, and showed no sign of panic. Go bags and equipment cases came out of the main house and the sheds and were loaded on their trucks, along with several heavy guns, mostly PKMs and a couple of Pechenegs, and the cases of ammunition to go with them. We got some extra ammo and fuel, as well. Baird apparently wasn’t poor, and he wasn’t niggardly with his supplies, either.
Since we had been pretty much ready to grab-and-go, and Baird’s people weren’t too far behind, our little Mad Max convoy was ready to roll in about forty-five minutes. By this time, we were starting to hear sporadic small arms fire, and the shelling was getting a little ragged. As the last of Baird’s guys came down off the roof, he reported that there were dust plumes closing on the Kenyan positions on the far side of the unnamed tributary wadi that ran roughly east-west through Baardheere to connect with the Juba. There wasn’t much water in it at the moment, so it didn’t afford the defenders much of an advantage. If the LaB were using four-wheel-drives, which they likely were, they’d plow through the wadi without even having to slow down much.
All of which added up to it being time for us to leave.
Baird’s UAZ took the lead, with our HiLux and Land Cruiser pulling in behind him. Another UAZ and two older, open-top Land Rovers took up the rear, each retrofitted with mounts for one of the PKMs and the two Pecheneg machine guns. We turned out of the little staging area that the odd walls of the compound had set up, and immediately doglegged north. None of us wanted any part of the fight that was brewing up to the south.
But it quickly became apparent that we weren’t going to get clear of Baardheere that easily. And it wasn’t the jihadists we had to worry about. It was the Kenyans.
The Kenyan forces had a fair amount of their support base outside the city, ostensibly for the sake of keeping collateral damage down, but also because the city was the target, and the jihadis would have a bunch of Somalis to go through before they could get to the Kenyans’ rear area. Cynical, yes. Hard not to be in Africa.
They also had security forces in and around their rear area, that got a little twitchy when they saw armed vehicles coming north during a LaB attack.
I figure we got spotted by guard posts on the corners of the big supply FOB that straddled the main dirt road heading northeast out of town. We hadn’t gotten more than about a half mile away from the compound when the dust plumes of three AML armored cars came billowing toward us. Worse, an MD-50 helo lifted off from the FOB and started toward us, holding above the AMLs.
Just what we needed. People who were supposed to be our allies, but scared, suspicious, and trigger-happy, coming after us. Fuck this country.
“Contact, right,” I yelled at Jim and Larry, who were crammed in the back of the Land Cruiser. We had a little more room than before, with Imad and Tim riding in the front UAZ, but it was still cramped. “They’re friendlies for now, but I’m betting they’re going to be a little paranoid, so it might not last.”
We could outrun the AMLs, but not that helicopter. I keyed my radio. “Coconut, Hillbilly. You see our friends to the east?”
“Roger, Hillbilly, I’ve got ‘em,” Alek replied.
“Plan of action?” I asked.
“Try talking to them first,” he replied. “We can outpace the armor, but I’d rather not have to shoot down a Kenyan bird if we can help it.”
“Affirm.” We certainly had the firepower to turn an MD-50 to scrap, but that would be pretty counter-productive in this situation. Not to mention we’d probably get a little shot up ourselves in the process. I twisted my head back to address Jim and Larry over the engine noise along with the banging and creaking of the suspension. “Gonna see if we can talk our way through this one, gents.”
Jim just nodded. “Good call,” was Larry’s assessment.
I didn’t hear it, but apparently Alek got through to Baird, and the lead UAZ slowed, coming to a stop in a slowly settling cloud of dust. As the HiLux moved slightly to the right before stopping, I motioned to Rodrigo to steer us to the left. We were forming a loose sort of modified herringbone as we came to a stop. That way we could still be in a defensive position without being too in-your-face about it. We didn’t want to make the Kenyans’ trigger fingers any itchier.
The AMLs rolled up to us and spread out on-line, while the MD-50 swooped overhead in a big circle, going into a tight orbit over us. I looked up through my open window, and saw the door-gunner watching us from behind an HK21. He didn’t have it pointed at us, exactly, but he didn’t have it pointed elsewhere, either.
“All dismounts out,” Alek called. “Don’t get in their faces, but let’s not be timid, either.”
I didn’t need to pass that one on, as all of us except for Rodrigo were already kicking our doors open and pushing out onto the dusty ground. Rifles hung on slings, muzzles angled toward the dirt, gloved hands rested on firing controls.
There was a squad-sized group coming toward us from the lead armored car. They were dressed in either British camouflage or something similar, with light tactical vests, old Fritz-pattern Kevlar helmets, and G3s, except for one, who walked slightly ahead of the trigger-pullers. He carried no rifle, but had a shiny leather pistol belt and flap holster around his waist, and wore a green beret. Officer, no doubt. He marched up to Baird, who was standing a little forward of the group. He was flanked to the rear by Alek and Jason Van Voorhees.
I stayed back with the truck, and Jim and Larry hung back behind me, watching the Kenyans and our rear at the same time. These weren’t technically hostiles, so we kept our stance easy, relaxed.
I kept toward the front of the truck where I could watch, but was plenty glad not to be in the thick of this conversation. I’ve never been much of a “hearts-and-minds” type of guy, and I find the sort of political posturing and give-and-take of these sorts of meetings and engagements more than a little tiresome. Jim and Larry were of generally the same sort of temperament. We didn’t talk, concentrating on keeping an eye out for unpleasant surprises. At least, anything more unpleasant than the rising pall of smoke and dust behind us, continually roiling with the whump of explosives, as well as the sporadic, but increasing, rattle of small arms fire.
The conversation seemed to last forever. The Kenyan officer was arguing vociferously, and Baird and Danny were stonewalling him. Alek was standing in that way that told me he was starting to think about going ahead and shooting these clowns. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but I could make some informed guesses.
We hadn’t been authorized to pass by his command, meaning we hadn’t bribed him, or hadn’t bribed him enough. He had no assurance that we weren’t terrorists, meaning we hadn’t bribed him, or hadn’t bribed him enough. He had orders to lock down everything coming or going around Baardheere, meaning we hadn’t bribed him, or hadn’t bribed him enough.
I kicked a rock as I let my gaze rove again, picking out pieces of cover where shooters might be huddled. It was automatic now, almost unthinking. My mind wandered, sort of, while my eyes scanned. Once something out of the ordinary popped up in my vision, my focus would immediately snap to it, but for the time being, even with the noises of increasingly intense combat coming up from the south, fatigue led me to woolgather a bit.
Damn, but I hated this bullshit. Making nice with greedy assholes who pretended to give a fuck about their country while they really just did their damnedest to line their own pockets, using the chaos around them as an opportunity. Conversely, making nice with the bureaucratic assholes who obstructed operations that could help
their country, just because the latest set of chickenshit boxes hadn’t been checked. I hated all of them. I hated the games. Just let us pass and let us get back to killing assholes.
That’s why I never even thought about being an officer when I was still in. Officers have to be politicians. Enlisted guys just have to make sure their shit’s wired tight, and wreck house. “In case of war, break open glass.” That’s me.
Jim came up to my shoulder, both of us still watching, neither of us looking directly at the other. Jim and I have known each other a long time. He can be wise beyond his redneck exterior, or he can be the utter epitome of “cranky old bastard.” Sometimes, he was both. He also wasn’t terribly consistent about how he came around to either mood. What can I say, he’s old. Says the guy who’s in his thirties, but feels more like he’s in his fifties…
The noise to the south was getting more intense. Sustained automatic fire was now audible, over the continuing rumble of shelling, and the occasional detonations of RPGs. It sounded like lead elements had made contact with whatever defensive positions the Kenyans had in place. From what I’d seen so far, I wouldn’t give the Kenyan defenders a lot of time, but then, I hadn’t been terribly impressed with anybody’s fighting prowess out here.
Jim spat a brown gobbet of dip spit on the ground. That said something about his mood right there; he’d been hoarding his remaining Copenhagen for the last few days. “We need to get moving,” he muttered. “Take a look toward the river.”
I looked over to the west, where the Juba ran between Baardheere proper and B-ur-ae-ore. Sure enough, there were small motor boats coming upstream, positively overloaded with people. I had little doubt that they were LaB shooters. How the Kenyans had let the river go unblocked I didn’t know, but it sure looked like they had. I reached for my radio, but it looked like Alek had seen it as well. He stepped forward and tapped Baird on the shoulder. There was a brief exchange of words, and Baird looked west, then, scowling, pointed out the incoming boats to the Kenyan officer.
The man looked startled, and immediately got on his radio, speaking rapidly and excitedly. His goons still weren’t standing down, though they did keep glancing nervously toward the river, as well as the swelling cacophony of gunfire and explosions to the south. I really didn’t like this. They were scared and probably a bit trigger-happy already, and with the real bad guys closing in on them, it was going to get worse. I traded a quick look with Jim, and he nodded fractionally. He felt it, too. We had to stay calm and collected, and not give these guys a reason to go over the edge and start shooting.
Alek was now standing back from the parley, his hands noticeably resting on the buttstock of his rifle, not the firing control. Baird had his hands spread in a pointedly non-threatening gesture, and Danny was leaning against the hood of the UAZ, his arms crossed, looking nonchalant. It was a marked contrast to the Kenyans.
It also seemed to be lost on them. The officer was looking more and more agitated, and wasn’t calming down with Baird’s reassurances. That was bleeding over to his subordinates. I didn’t see anybody who looked like an NCO; that was a major problem with militaries that didn’t have a solid NCO corps. There wasn’t the practical voice of experience to calm down the connected amateur that was “leading” the unit.
That was when Spider stepped in. To this day, I don’t know what he said, but the officer went very still all of a sudden, just staring at him. Then he waved to his subordinates, turned around, and left.
Just like that.
My estimate of Spider went up several notches.
The officer climbed back into his AML, and they did a reasonable formation turn away from us and back toward the FOB, as the MD-50 roared by overhead, its rotor wash beating at us, the door gunners still not quite aiming their HK machine guns at us. Alek turned back to the rest of us and made the raised-hand circle signal. Mount up. I nodded, and Jim and I climbed back into the Land Cruiser. Rodrigo put the vehicle in gear as I slammed the door, maneuvering my rifle so that I could point it out the open window if need be.
“We good, then?” he asked.
“I guess,” I replied. “They’re leaving and not forcing us to go with them. I’m going to take that as ‘we’re free to go.’”
Rodrigo pointed toward the river. “You guys see that over there?”
“Yeah, we did,” Jim said. “So did the Kenyans, and I’m guessing they figured that those guys are more of a threat than we are, so they skedaddled to get some HESCOs between them and the Lashkar assholes.”
“Maybe,” I said. “They didn’t look too interested in letting us go until that Spider dude said something to the officer. Then they took off like scared rabbits.”
“What’d he say?” Rodrigo asked, as we started bumping across the ground again.
“How the hell should I know?” I replied. “I was back here. Even if I wasn’t as deaf as I am, I wouldn’t have been able to hear it.”
“Who cares?” Jim pointed out. “We’re on our way.”
He had a point, but I couldn’t help but wonder just what was going on with Baird’s lanky associate. It usually takes more than a few words to get a uniformed bureaucrat to shut up and leave you alone, especially in these Third World shitholes. It implied a few things about Spider that made me curious. And yes, a little more suspicious.
We went bouncing and roaring north, rattling over farmland, following the narrow tracks between fields that often weren’t much more than footpaths. It was a painful ride, and I wondered how much longer the suspension on the Land Cruiser was going to last, even as my knees ached from my rifle banging into them. We had to fare pretty far north to find a river crossing; we didn’t want to try too close to the LaB boats. As it was, we were kicking up plenty of dust; they could probably see us heading north. The question, that none of us asked as the noise of our passage was generally too loud and none of us felt like yelling, was would they bother following, or write us off and go after the big prize of the city? I was reasonably certain that they would choose the latter, but it never hurt to be a little paranoid.
Baird’s people already had a crossing picked out and scouted, and we splashed across the Juba where it doglegged to the east, then turned to the northwest and banged out into the badlands. Familiarity didn’t make the roughness of the ride any less painful, I’m afraid.
I kept an eye on the battered, dusty rearview mirror, trying to pick out signs of pursuit through our own not-inconsiderable dust cloud. I couldn’t see anything, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. I stayed tense until well after the low outline of Baardheere and the plumes of black smoke and dust rising into the midday sky above it faded into the horizon.
Then I tried to settle into the battered stuffing of the seat, keeping the increasingly hot metal of my rifle and the vehicle door off any exposed skin, and held on for the ride.
Naturally, we had to stop in the middle of nowhere.
The pitch of the Land Cruiser’s engine changed, and Rodrigo started cursing, before he keyed his radio, and called Alek. “This piece of shit is overheating, we’ve got to stop.”
“Roger,” Alek called back. “All stations, we’re halting for ten minutes. Circle up, Hillbilly’s truck in the center.”
The UAZ in the lead immediately slowed, and the HiLux pulled off to one side. With trucks alternating directions, we soon had a ring of vehicles in the desert, facing out, with the Land Cruiser in the middle. No sooner had we halted than the dismounts started getting out, rifles out and ready. Rodrigo piled out of the driver’s seat, and popped the hood. I took the opportunity to get out, my M1A hanging from its sling, and walked over to Alek’s HiLux. As I did so, I looked around some more. There wasn’t much to see. Miles and miles of rolling red dirt and low brush. There was little other sign of life aside from our little band of trucks.
At least, there was until I turned my eyes south, and saw the reddish plume against the horizon. It was still a long way off, but something out there was kicking up dust, and comi
ng our direction.
I continued the last ten paces to Alek’s vehicle, keeping my eyes locked on that plume. When I reached the HiLux, where Alek had just finished pissing against the front tire, he looked at me and immediately asked, “What is it?”
I just pointed. Alek followed my finger, and squinted. “Somebody’s moving out there,” he said.
“Yep,” I replied. “Any guesses as to who?”
“A couple. And only one fits.” He keyed his radio. “Stand to, we’ve got company.” At this point, he didn’t really have to say anything more.
I joined Jim and Larry moving to the south side of the perimeter. Since we had stopped in the bed of one of the many wadis that made up the tortured terrain of western Somalia, we had high ground to our south, at least for certain values of high ground. It didn’t really afford us any elevation advantage on whoever was coming toward us, but it did offer some cover.
Several of Baird’s guys were already down in the prone against the side of the wadi; little but their heads and weapons would be showing to the south. It was a pretty good position, and the three of us spread out and set in among them. I found myself between a massive black man, who greeted me with a glance and a “What’s up, man?” in a distinct West Texas accent, and a skinny blonde white guy who didn’t even look in my direction, but kept his focus solidly on the south.
I nodded to each of them, and concentrated on setting in, without tearing myself up too much on the rocks and stiff desert brush. We were actually on a slight rise, so we could see pretty well. I had been worried about getting up here and finding ourselves staring at just more brush, or even facing an uphill slope, with visibility that cut off barely a few tens of meters in front of us. It was a relief to see that we had a good field of view for several hundred meters.