by Greg Barron
‘“Come with me,” he said. I was frightened, but with Othman beside me I walked to within shouting distance of a delegation from the other party. Most of the time I liked Othman — once or twice he had even let me sit on his knee and stroke his beard — but he was very fierce and I was worried that there would be a fight.’
‘Why didn’t you run?’
‘Because I was trying to prove that I was no coward. I counted just two camels but no cattle with the other group. They were poorer than us, but even so, unexpected encounters had to be undertaken cautiously while the two groups established their relationship to each other. A blood feud might exist, and those involved would either fight or avoid contact. Now and again a full-scale gun and knife battle would erupt with casualties on both sides.
‘“My name is Othman Adam Arale,” Othman shouted. “I am of the Darod people.”
‘The leader of the other group replied, “I am Mohammed Abdullah Mohammed. We are Marehan people, come for the promises of the great revolutionary leader of Somalia, Siad Barre, who will take us to a land where grass grows higher than a man’s head.”
‘Othman frowned. The other group were interlopers, and now talked this crazy talk. We had heard of Siad Barre. Somalis, no matter how remote, love politics and converse on the topic at every meeting. Barre and his men had started a revolution and taken over the country. In the normal course of events this would affect us nomads little.
‘“You have not heard this news?” the Marehan asked us. It was a difficult situation for Othman, who could not admit ignorance, yet neither could he resist his natural curiosity. “I will come forward in peace and you will tell me more of this.” While the women and younger children still looked at each other, the men came together and exchanged miraa.’
Marika nods understanding. ‘Go on, please.’
‘The marehan told of trucks gathering at the village of Sinadogo, to the south, taking all those who wanted to escape the drought to the coast, where grass grew so lush that cattle became too heavy to walk. I, for one, was ready to pack up and go that very moment, but Othman would never make a hasty decision.’
Marika was transported by these images of a harsh nomadic life, comparing it to her own. ‘I just can’t imagine it — owning only what you could load on a few camels. It must have been hard for you.’
‘Yes, but we did not know it then.’ He pauses. ‘Shall I go on?’
‘Of course, please do.’
‘We did not share a fire with these newcomers for they had no blood relationship to us. Instead Othman pushed our group onwards, but I noticed a subtle shift in direction towards the village of Sinadogo. The marehan maintained a course parallel and a little behind. In the evening I took responsibility for the livestock and searched in vain for grazing. Here the land was flat beyond belief, with no trees to relieve the monotony. The sand was pale crimson, dotted with lighter rocks. I tried to imagine what this other, promised, landscape might be like, where grass grew as tall as a man — surely a place of such richness would support hundreds of cows and thousands of camels, and the beasts would breed with a will. Young livestock would thrive and a man would become wealthy. Going to the coast in Siad Barre’s trucks was a good thing to do, I decided, and was determined to tell Othman what I thought, whether I got cuffed for the presumption or not.
‘Days earlier my mother had traded a brass medallion for a small bag of rice. We ate it boiled in a cup of precious water — a handful of food each, unflavoured apart from a strip or two of dried camel meat. It was only enough to sharpen hunger, and the baby cried. In general Somali babies are not weaned until their third or fourth year but my mother lost her milk after six months, and camel milk and solid food had sustained the little girl since. I admit that I had little interest in the cloth-wrapped bundle.’
A change comes over Madoowbe, as if he has retreated into some kind of trance, his voice a monotone. ‘The little girl was too young to play with, or to work. She stayed with my mother always. At the conclusion of supper I moved next to Othman and told him that I thought we should go in the trucks, or soon we would starve to death. It was true. Even if one day the drought ended it might well be too late. Besides, once we lost the livestock we were as good as dead — our animals provided almost every need: shelter, milk, meat, transport; my clan lived parasitically on them.
‘No one spoke around the fire for a long time; even my mother was so wary of making an irreversible decision that she stayed silent. Othman unsheathed his bilau and whetted it on a stone, then stropped it on a leather. When he had finished he shaved a path of hair from his arm, grunted and sheathed the dagger. “We will walk to Sinadogo and find out more,” he said.
‘I was pleased with the decision. It was the sensible thing to do. But as I slept that night I thought of all the things we might find if we went to the coast — I had heard of the ocean and wanted to see it. I thought often of the pastures and fat cows. More than anything else, I wondered if there might be a school. I wanted to learn.
‘When we reached Sinadogo we found that the trucks were real. Many other people were going also and when we sold our livestock they fetched little because everyone was trying to sell and no one had any money because of the drought. When we reached the coast we found no pasture, only camps full of people like us.’
Madoowbe’s eyes become bright, and a smile touched his lips. ‘Yet there was a school, and I went there. I learned to read, and before long I was one of the best students. My mother and Othman wanted to return to their tribal lands, but I would not go. They went with my baby sister and I stayed.’
Something occurs to Marika — that Madoowbe’s story is perhaps more pertinent than it appears. In a moment of insight she understands why Sufia’s photographed face seems familiar to her. ‘Your baby sister,’ she says finally, ‘her name was Sufia, wasn’t it?’
Madoowbe nods slowly. ‘Yes, that was her name.’
‘And that is the woman we seek? She is your sister?’
Madoowbe’s head sags, and for some minutes he does not speak. ‘I have followed her story over many years. I took a position at Dubai assuming that she would be there, with her husband. I was wrong.’ His voice drops. ‘I only pray … that she is safe. That we find her before something irreversible happens.’
Day 5, 21:00
The Special Forces troops arrive on the flight deck in a dusty green Sea King helicopter, squat and workmanlike, piloted by men who look almost alien in their flight suits and headgear. The aircraft hovers while an earthing tube is lifted from the flight deck to the aircraft in order to discharge static electricity before any part of the airframe touches the deck.
The new arrivals carry backpacks and dull black automatic rifles; quiet and calm, they stack their equipment in neat piles.
Simon walks down to B deck to watch, standing beneath the twin barrels of the Oerlikon guns. He turns to one of the crew. ‘They’re commandos, I guess?’
The lad looks at him as if he has just committed sacrilege. ‘No way, mate, this is the Royal Navy. SBS. Special Boat Service. They eat commandos for breakfast.’
‘Oh, of course. Forgive my ignorance.’ Simon has heard of the SBS, but never seen them in the flesh. They look fit, and competent.
The chopper lifts off and turns into the northwest. The twenty-four SBS men spread out over the flight deck and quarterdeck, pumping air into black inflatable boats from a compressor hose. Each vessel has its own outboard motor that appears to be made of plastic. Assembling the vessels takes less than an hour, and afterwards the men sit in three circles and eat C-rations, talking among themselves. A davit is deployed to lift the boats down into the water, a process that draws a crowd of spectators. Soon after, the first of the SBS men descends the ladder and takes his place at the bow of one of the boats. The others follow with the same lack of fuss.
Simon stands at the edge of the flight deck to watch them go. He has a strange, knotted feeling in his belly, a shared anticipation of danger perhaps, adm
iration for men who are about to pit themselves against the sea and an unseen enemy.
One man walks up close. He is about Simon’s height, yet broader across the shoulders. He wears a black skivvy, dark pants and a gun belt around his waist. His face is painted black with grease. In his arms he carries a submachine gun.
‘The two girls,’ he says, ‘one of the lads was saying that they’re yours. Is that right?’
‘Yes, they’re mine. Hannah and Frances.’ He tries to smile, and not to let his voice crack. ‘The nicest two kids you’ll ever meet …’
‘We’ll bring them back for you. If it’s possible — we’ll bring them back.’
With no fanfare, no announcement, the remainder of the group disappears over the side. The boats motor off, almost inaudible. Soon they are no longer visible. Simon turns to see that Captain Marshall has come up beside him, also staring at the blackness into which they are disappearing.
‘It’s a waiting game now,’ Marshall says. ‘Those fellows are controlled by their own base up at Poole — we’ve got nothing to do with it. Just do your best to relax.’
‘OK, I’ll try, anyway.’
Back in the ops room, Simon moves up next to Matt, who looks at him as if he is terminally ill. They all know, are all anxious for him, and the feeling warms his heart.
‘Can we watch them on the radar?’ Simon asks.
‘No. They’re invisible. Sorry.’
Simon runs a hand through his hair, surprised to find it sodden with sweat, wondering how he can get through a night such as this one.
Day 5, 22:30
Many things can invade and occupy a man’s mind as he ploughs through an unfamiliar sea, particularly when he is heading towards events that might include his own death. PJ has several superstitions — routines that he has developed over the years. One is to empty the magazine of his SIG-Sauer handgun and reload the cartridges in reverse order, sometimes doing this several times before the trip is through. The other is to delve into his pockets and catalogue everything he finds there in his mind.
One packet odourless chewing gum, four pieces left. One rolled-up tissue. Swiss Army knife, genuine; present from Aunt Dianne. The knife, unlike the aunt, has since proved invaluable a thousand times.
Scanning ahead, the horizon seems darker than before, and PJ slips on his AN-PVS7 night-vision goggles. The island is dark and shadowy, with a lick of white spray at the base of the cliffs.
‘There it is,’ he whispers to himself, and focuses his mind on the mission at hand. Kill or capture Saif al-Din and bring back the three female hostages. Either task would be difficult enough, but the two, taken together, make the exercise much harder.
The engines are silent apart from water pushing through the telltale and steaming out into the sea. This silence accentuates the slap of water against the hull, and the muffled thump as the flat bottom hits the chop.
‘Check bearing.’ They are trained to take nothing at face value, to reconfirm everything.
‘Check zero-two-five degrees.’
The dark cliffs loom ahead, and the roar of crashing surf grows louder. Just beyond the breakers, PJ waits for a set to pass through, picking the last roller in line and accelerating to hold position just behind the crest, hugging it all the way in, watching it break into a wall of white fury, riding on through among the boulders.
Something tugs at the hull, and he holds the grab handles with white-knuckled hands as the bottom of the boat nudges a bed of rounded rocks. A wave smashes into the transom, soaking them from behind. Tension and anticipation morphs into real physical fear. Even now, a man could die — drown; be pounded on the rocks. For all they know there are weapons trained on them from the shore. This is the moment of exposure, when there is no going back, no way of hiding.
The team disembarks together, leaping over the sides and dragging the hull up beyond the reach of the waves, into the deep darkness under the cliffs, securing the bow lines to the base of a palm, and turning to watch the others come through. The leading two boats manage the landing without incident, though Charlie section, coming up last, misjudges their set and are pounded by a bigger wave as they attempt to drag their inflatable clear. Members of the other two teams grasp the sides and lift the vessel beyond the tide.
Captain Pennington’s blackened face moves close to PJ’s, identifiable only from the voice. ‘You ready, Johnson?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then lead on.’
PJ turns and makes the universal symbol to move, the two men assigned to watch the boats glumly waiting — this is not a popular post.
Neither is PJ’s. He is the point man — roving ahead of the others. He knows the statistics. The average life expectancy of a man in his position after contact with an enemy has been calculated at seven seconds. Sometimes he imagines, in detail, what those seven seconds will be like — wondering if he will hear the gunshot that kills him, or whether his senses will be already destroyed by the bullet that travels faster than sound through flesh and vital organs.
One of PJ’s great skills is with maps — even as a child he pored over globes of the world and topographic charts of the English countryside. Every confluence of contour lines suggested a ridge or gully to explore and every stream an adventure — fallen trees to balance on; stones to hop across; tadpoles to collect.
Even though he had just thirty minutes to study the charts of the island, each rise and fall is stamped in his mind. Already he has picked out the safest and easiest route to the top of the cliffs, and is not surprised to find a track there, worn smooth over the centuries by the feet of fishermen and drifters. Tracks are always a risk, and as he moves on he studies the terrain, always with the barrel of the HK probing ahead of him.
Twenty metres up, he halts. Something has caught his attention, nothing he can put into words; an object too regular to be natural. Kneeling, he sees the trip wire through the night-vision goggles, stretching across the track and into a black plastic sensing device with a stub antenna.
The adrenalin in his blood, having subsided since the landing, surges again until he has to force his breathing back to a regular rhythm. The threat of upcoming conflict becomes a certainty. Pulling a compact aerosol can from a pouch at his side, he sprays the wire and surrounding earth with a fluorescent liquid that lights up through the infrared goggles, yet is invisible to the naked eye, even in daylight. Stepping over the wire he moves on up the slope.
At the summit he uses gorse-like foliage for cover while he scans the foreground. There is no room for error here — his life and those of his comrades rely on attention to detail. PJ uses eyes and ears in the search for anything unusual: voices; a muffled cough; the clink of steel, or the distinctive shape of a weapon.
Minutes pass. Every landscape has its peculiarities and it is important to understand them in order to recognise the unusual. A few minutes of briefing has prepared him for the plant life here, most notably the dragon’s blood tree, with its bunched branches held high like a fist and the sap that runs red from both trunk and exposed roots.
The soil, pale pink, is studded with bulbous desert rose plants, some of which rise two metres from the ground. The landscape is surreal, unforgettable, so alien it might be Mars or Venus.
PJ comes back up to his knees, and waves the others on. Still alone, in front, he sets off across country, following the route he has chosen around the island’s lone peak. There is a path, but the sensing device was a potent warning to avoid well-trafficked areas. The cross-country alternative is not difficult, and will make for a less hazardous journey.
A small animal scurries away in front of him, moving from left to right. PJ covers it, out of habit, with the HK, but it is soon gone. Again he waits, making sure that it was not spooked by a third party. After two or more patient minutes he moves off, stopping to scan unusual geography, likely sites for booby traps, or signs of men lying in wait.
The space between two twisted dragon’s blood trees looks suspicious. PJ scans th
e area several times before his gaze falls on an unexpected series of spider web strands near the ground, seeming to hang in midair with nothing to hold them in place. He drops prone, and in that position sees the wire just a few inches from his eyes, having been used by the web-spinning spider to anchor the silk. He stops dead, eyes moving along the wire to the end, recognising the M18A1 Claymore anti-personnel mine.
Jesus Christ. I nearly laid down on the damn thing.
PJ knows just how effective the seven hundred steel balls propelled by C4 explosive would have been in tearing his legs and abdomen to shreds. Turning, he signals to the man behind to wait.
The tripwire is at ankle height, extending perhaps five metres across the clearing. PJ crawls along the length of it, to where it terminates at a twig embedded in the earth, then back again, settling on his haunches next to the mine, taking off the goggles and removing a tiny LED flashlight from a pouch. Dismantling a mine using night-vision goggles is not something he wants to try.
A dark shape comes up beside him. Don. ‘What’s up?’
‘Claymore.’
‘This is the real thing, then.’
‘Yeah. Here, hold this.’ PJ flicks on the torch and hands it across. ‘Higher, hold it higher. Fucking hell, I hate these things.’
First, arm at full stretch, he disconnects the firing wire, then removes the blasting cap. Only then do the muscles in his arms, legs and face relax. Standing, he gathers the tripwire, bundles it up, and throws it away to one side.
Captain Pennington slithers up out of the darkness. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Bloody mine. No more doubt though. They’re here for sure.’
‘We’ll find some cover,’ the officer says. ‘You go on and check out the huts. And for God’s sake, be careful.’