by Greg Barron
‘Later perhaps,’ he says, ‘if they do not catch us, and if we do not ride into another minefield, then perhaps I will tell you.’
‘More minefields?’
‘Yes, of course. They are common in this area.’
‘Where are we heading?’
‘Northwest. She was last seen in that direction. We must look there.’
‘How will we get away from the shifta?’
‘There is one way: ride faster than they do.’
Marika is silent for a moment, conscious of the closeness of their position, his body pressed against her back, his arms extending from around her body to hold the reins. ‘What if our camel is slower than theirs?’
‘Getting away will not be possible.’
Stinger is constructed of four propfan equipped discs joined at the middle. The energy comes from a hydrogen fuel cell housed in the centre just above the camera. Sitting on a simple launch pad on the flight deck the entire gadget is assembled and prepared in just a few minutes.
At a command from the operator, who moonlights as a computer technician, the fans spin and the thing levitates from the deck, buzzing ominously. Controlled by a laptop computer, it swoops, dives, and hovers in a short sequence of operational tests. The device reminds Simon of the Golden Snitch from the Harry Potter films of his youth.
The buzz rises in pitch and in an instant, the machine is off and away, rising to an incredible height at which point the pale blue painted underside is no longer visible.
‘That’s the beauty of it,’ Marshall says. ‘At two thousand feet no one can see the damn thing from the ground. Can’t hear it either. Come on, we’ll get a better view on the screen in the ops room.’
The LED backlit screen shows a bird’s-eye view of the ocean from what Simon judges to be around three thousand feet.
‘Be handy for fishing,’ someone says.
‘Don’t even joke about it,’ Marshall warns. ‘Before they pretty much wiped out the bluefin tuna, skippers were using these things to find the schools.’ He turns to the technician in control of Stinger. ‘How much flight time have we got?’
‘Twenty-two minutes’ power remaining. At this speed it should be plenty.’
‘Change bearing eight degrees north.’ Matt orders adjustments as he tracks Stinger’s path towards the island.
‘Course corrected.’
Simon can only guess the speed at which Stinger travels, but within five minutes the outline of the island appears ahead. He recognises the basic features from the flat topographical image that Marshall showed him earlier, but it looks very different. He finds himself praying. There is something dark and forbidding about the place. From a distance it looks uninhabited and drab, as if there is no vegetation at all.
Stinger moves closer, revealing steep cliffs, and waves rolling in, breaking on the rocks. Simon notes the small natural harbour, yet no real detail from that height.
‘OK,’ Marshall orders, ‘put Stinger on a holding station there.’
Now Simon understands the design of the MAV better: the ability to hover, almost motionless, for long periods. The image slows and becomes better defined, focused on the huts above the natural harbour. Even at that height, they are visible. A smudge of smoke emanates from what must be a fire.
‘Now. Zoom us in.’
Watching the screen gives Simon a feeling of vertigo; the unpleasant sensation of freefalling towards the earth at warp speed. The huts and surrounding landscape enlarge. Objects that were just specks become boulders, or human beings or bizarre trees that look like no other Simon has ever seen. The huts themselves are makeshift structures built of driftwood and flotsam, roofed with palm fronds.
‘There’s a group of men to the bottom left,’ Marshall says. ‘Enlarge them please.’
Simon scarcely dares to breathe as the camera zooms in. Are they merely fishermen, or something more sinister? The dress is certainly not military, but standard Arab garb that could mean anything.
‘There,’ someone shouts, ‘that man has a weapon. You can see the muzzle.’
The vertical view makes positive identification difficult, but another of the men has his rifle slung, but levelled. ‘That’s a definite,’ Marshall says, ‘looks like an AK-style assault weapon.’
‘That’s it then,’ Simon hisses, ‘they wanted proof, and we’ve got it.’
Marshall shakes his head. ‘Simon, just about everyone in this part of the world carries a gun.’
‘Even fishermen?’
‘Even Avon ladies.’
‘Fourteen minutes’ power remaining,’ warns the technician.
‘God, if only we could see inside those huts.’
Marshall takes a call on the sat phone and walks to the back of the room while Stinger covers every square metre of the encampment. The other item of interest is a tarpaulin-covered area to one side that might be a trench, possibly hiding more powerful weaponry.
Coming back, Marshall holds one hand over the phone. ‘I’ve got Fleet on the line. They’re still not convinced. Want us to have a look at the harbour. See what’s there.’
The field of view drops back, giving Simon the uncomfortable feeling of rising through the air, and Stinger flies until it is centred over the harbour. Down again, camera zooming in until it focuses on what looks like a crude but solid dock, and another hut, this one more substantial than the ones above. Again there are men. Two of them, lounging in the shade. If they have weapons they are not carrying them. There is no boat in sight.
‘Nine minutes’ power remaining, sir. We’ll need most of that to bring Stinger home.’
Marshall talks back into the phone, then. ‘OK, bring her back. There’s nothing else to see.’ He looks across at Simon apologetically.
As the screen view changes, moving out over a white-capped sea, the general attention of the room wanders. The crew talk among themselves. Only Simon continues to stare.
Without warning, the view on the screen rocks as if shaken and Stinger turns somersault several times. Simon’s first thought is that it has run out of fuel prematurely.
‘What the hell?’ someone blurts out.
Marshall’s face displays a new tension. ‘What’s going on?’
‘It’s a plane, sir, just about cleaned Stinger up.’
‘Get us a view of it, hurry.’
The camera scans from side to side until it picks up a fast-receding aircraft, floats visible below the fuselage. A faded blue stripe extends for the full length, and heavy struts support the wings.
‘Hell, a float plane. Cessna 7045 by the look of her. What’s it doing here?’
‘They didn’t even see Stinger.’
‘She’s going in to land.’
As the camera swivels back down to monitor the Cessna touching down, Simon sees the long white wake of a power boat on course to meet her.
‘Six minutes’ power remaining. We’re going to lose Stinger.’
‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll buy you another one for Christmas. Stay on station. Stay for as long as you can.’
The chartered float plane touches down on a ruffled sea, propeller buffeting in a crosswind as it turns. Saif al-Din sees the RIB waiting for him, ready for pick up, carving through the waves and wind chop.
Readying his few possessions, he waits at the door. There is no time to waste, not now, with Rabi al-Salah at such a critical stage. When the plane comes to rest, Saif watches the RIB motor closer. The man skippering the boat, a Pakistani called Inzaman, is a devout and reliable man, but still a relatively inexperienced seaman, and the hull bumps hard against the floats, prompting a bout of swearing and abuse from the pilot.
Saif waits for his opportunity, then steps across, almost losing his footing on the gunwale, gripping a rail hard as Ibrahim accelerates away. Settling into a seat, he focuses his mind on what he has come to do. Two tasks, both important. He had, in fact, been already on his way out here when the call came through for the kufr girls to be terminated. Saif would carry out the
task without regret. If Zhyogal considered the death of the girls necessary then he would not flinch at the task.
The main reason for the journey to the island would not be so easy to resolve: two factions within the mujahedin here had developed a fitna, a division.
Although members of al-Muwahhidun, these men are drawn from different nations but also from different schools of Sunni thought. These schools are known as madh’hab, and each bring to Almohadism their own interpretation of the main principle of tawhid: the unity or oneness of God.
Most of the mujahedin were educated in the Maliki madh’hab, following the teachings of the scholar Malik ibn Anas. This is the dominant African form of the religion, based on the practices and beliefs of the Salaf people of Medina, Mohammed’s first kingdom.
Four men on the island, however, are of the Shafi’i school, followers of Muhammad Ibn Idris ash-Shafi’i, with its greater focus on the Sunnah, the collected observations of Mohammed’s actions during his life. There are subtle differences in prayer and outlook between the two madh’habs.
While all regard themselves as al-Muwahhidun, above and beyond their madh’hab, this greater belief was interpreted with the eyes of one brought up in a particular madh’hab. Those of Shafi’i origin on the island see themselves as more devout than the Maliki, and this belief was pointed out to the others. A discussion came to blows. Mediation will be difficult.
As the RIB comes up on the plane and surges away across the surface of the ocean, Saif gives his approach to the matter serious thought. He must act first to solve the crisis. Then he will worry about the kufr girls.
Marshall stands. ‘Gentlemen. We are in business. According to Fleet that man who just transferred from the float plane is none other than a terrorist wanted by law enforcement agencies across the world. We have new orders pending.’ He turns to the bosun’s mate. ‘Pipe the crew to defence watches. Assume NBCD state. One condition Yankee.’
Simon cannot sit still. Stinger shadowed the RIB almost back to the island before it dropped into the sea. There is no doubt now. He gets up and touches the captain’s shoulder. ‘Do you mind if I make another call? It’s very important.’
‘Of course. Go for it.’
Simon carries the handset outside and punches in the number. Tom Mossel answers after a couple of rings.
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’ Simon breathes. ‘That just got off that float plane. The terrorist you’re after.’
‘Yes.’
‘Promise me you’re not going to vaporise that island.’
There is a pause, then, ‘You have my word. We’re going to do this the old-fashioned way.’
The haboob storm comes from deep inside Ethiopia, howling and shrieking, collecting sand and dust as it rakes through the gullies and across the plains of the vast Ogaden Desert. Madoowbe shows Marika how to use the hijab for its original purpose — wrapping it tight around her face to keep the sand out, exposing just the lenses of her sunglasses.
‘The haboob is both good and bad,’ he says. ‘The shifta will not find us, yet we will not find our band of nomads, either.’
‘What do we do?’
‘Keep heading north and west, and hope.’
‘How do you know we are heading in the right direction?’
‘If I keep the wind on my left hand, we are going the right away.’
‘What if the wind changes?’
‘Then we will go the wrong way.’
The air is so thick with particles that to open an unprotected mouth is to let it fill with dust, to expose an eye means temporary blindness. Only under protective layers of linen can Marika breathe, and only through the desert sense of the camel will they live. Above the moaning wind she hears the clatter of the wooden bell around the animal’s neck.
Whether from exhaustion or the recent escape from extreme danger, Marika begins to feel relaxed. The blanketing sand is soothing, protecting them from any possible danger, for surely no enemy will find their way through it. Madoowbe’s body is close against hers, and there are pressure points she can feel on her back.
Marika lets herself fall back against him perhaps another millimetre, enjoying the sensation, closing her eyes and letting the movement of the camel rock her away into a kind of half sleep. The darkness has been complete for some hours, and still the sand and wind continues. They ride on, together, into an endless darkness.
‘You said you were going to tell me about yourself,’ Marika prompts, snuggling back, closer still. His hands circle her abdomen, still holding the reins, fingers linked.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Of course I do. You’re a fair old enigma, if ever I’ve seen one. For a start, tell me what Madoowbe, your nickname, means?’
‘Madoowbe means black — my skin was very dark at birth. My full name is Libaan Khayre Istar — this is how Somali names work: Libaan is my own name; Khayre the name of my father; and Istar, the name of my grandfather. I saw each rarely, for my mother remarried twice.’
‘So, Libaan — if that is honestly your name this time — why are you here? Why are you risking your life here with me?’
‘I have to go back a long way to explain that.’
‘We have plenty of time. I don’t reckon this night will ever end.’ The statement is heartfelt. To Marika, there is no east or west, and therefore no hope of sunrise or dusk. Just endless darkness.
Madoowbe appears to slow the camel down, as if he is thinking. Finally he starts talking, and at first Marika doesn’t dare breathe in case he stops.
‘When I was about twelve there was a drought. We wandered far in search of grazing, and rarely met other families. Now and then, however, we chanced a meeting with another family near a well or oasis. While the men pooled resources to dig through the sand for water, we boys were given responsibility for our few bony cattle. I remember how proud I was, on one occasion, when I found a hollow with some pasture and watched our beasts fill their rumens with sweet grass.’
Marika tries to picture the scene. ‘So you were the hero?’
‘Yes, until a boy from the other family, Raage, heard of my windfall and brought their cattle to the place. There was no question of sharing — we had to fight for it. The boy was older and stronger than I was.’
‘What does Raage mean? It sounds like the English word for anger.’
‘That naanays means delayed at birth. Anyway, work on the well stopped and the two families came to watch us fight — for above all things, a Somali loves to fight, and if he can’t join in himself then watching others do so is a good second. Raage walked towards me with bunched fists, and my knees trembled. At the last moment I turned and ran all the way to where my mother stood. She shooed me away, shamed, as they all were.’
‘You poor kid,’ Marika says.
‘My family left the place — no one would talk to me so I walked alone with one camel. When I went too close, Othman, my mother’s husband, who had killed men for laughing at him, cuffed me on the ear.’
They cross a drift of sand, then descend into a deep gully where the dust flies less furiously. Madoowbe stops the camel and signals for it to kneel. Marika struggles to shift her weight sideways, finally dropping to the sand.
‘What are we doing?’
‘We have travelled a good distance. There is no point going further now that we have found a protected place. Here we will rest until the wind drops.’
In the deepest part of the gully is an overhanging stone ledge. After they have crawled inside, the camel drops at a signal from Madoowbe, creating a barrier between them and the storm, sitting so close that the animal smell is almost overpowering. Strangely, it lies with its head flat on the earth, turned in and away from the storm so that it appears to be watching them.
When they have settled Marika looks across at Madoowbe. ‘So what happened — did your family forgive you for not fighting?’
Madoowbe appears not to have heard her at first, instead producing a sharp knife. She does not ask wher
e he acquired it. Taking a tin mug from the saddlebag he incises a vein in the camel’s leg and fills the vessel with blood.
‘Drink,’ he says.
‘You’ve got to be kidding? Camel blood?’
‘Your responsibility is to find this woman, Sufia, and you cannot do that if you die of thirst and hunger. This is not a matter of your preferences, of your likes and dislikes. You have a job to do — you must sustain yourself for the task. That is what a warrior does.’
Taking the mug, she drinks, finding the dark liquid sickly warm, but somewhat tasteless. When she has done so, Madoowbe refills the cup, drinks, presses his forefinger against the cut to stop the flow, then returns to the story.
‘Within a few days I was able to bask in my mother’s affection once more — she was a beautiful and imposing woman, around six feet tall, light brown, with a smile that drew stares from men wherever we passed. Our subclan suffered not their women to cover their faces. Othman, also, though he scowled, did not object to me taking my place with the others, and even allowed me a little dried meat from our meagre stores.’
‘So how did you finally leave them? I take it you had no education at this point?’
‘That is correct. We stopped at noon that following day and sat in the shade of the camels, while Othman argued with my mother about our direction. Many men would not deign to hear a woman’s opinion, but my mother was a desirable, strong-willed woman, and had borne enough sons from three different fathers to have stature. My mother said that she had seen lightning far to the west the previous night. Rain might have fallen and, walking in that direction, there was a chance we might reach fresh pasture in a few days or a week. Othman disagreed, wanting to continue heading more to the south on the traditional route of the clans. His reasoning was that we had followed lightning many times before, only to be disappointed. The remaining cattle would not survive a long trek. Neither had convinced the other by the time we rested so we continued in a vague westerly heading that seemed as good as any other. In the late afternoon I spotted the dust of another family group in the distance, and our paths converged. Both groups stopped, and we looked at each other warily, trying to see if either recognised a member of the other. I remember that Othman took out his bilau, checking the edge with his thumb. He grinned and I caught his eye.