Rotten Gods

by Greg Barron

  Sufia’s voice remains level. ‘Not three men. Three swine. A service to humanity.’

  Marika forces a smile. ‘They’re not going to let us get away too easy, but I wonder if they know their master is dead?’

  Sufia’s eyes shine like pools. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I am a friend, I assure you.’

  ‘Is this about my husband?’

  ‘You could say that. Do you know what he has done?’

  ‘Ali is a good man; the best I have ever known. Whatever he has done is the right thing in the circumstances.’

  Marika swears as the front offside wheel strikes a rock. ‘A few billion people might disagree with you on that one, but we’ll let it pass for the moment.’

  Again the machine gun fires.

  Sufia’s voice is defiant: ‘If you have come here to get me to divert Ali from the path he has chosen, then you have wasted your time. I believe in him, and I believe in what he has chosen to do — I have watched him grow in anger at the apathy, the political games of the West. I will not stop him.’

  One of the pursuing vehicles closes on them, accelerating out onto the flank, heavy machine gun crackling. The flash of gunfire sears across the desert, a long flame lighting the area like a strobe light, or fireworks.

  Marika swings the wheel with all the strength in her shoulders, feeling the vehicle begin to lose control, then shudder, as Madoowbe returns fire. ‘Hell,’ she says, ‘this is no fun.’ Looking across at Sufia she sees that she is calm, her face showing no sign of fear. Nerves of steel, Marika decides, either that or just no bloody imagination.

  ‘Look out, ahead,’ Sufia calls.

  Marika turns just in time to see a hillside looming, wrenching the wheel hard in response. ‘My mother always wanted me to be a hairdresser,’ she says. ‘I can tell you that curling hair looks like an attractive career option right now.’ She hears healthy laughter, and glances across to see Sufia giggling into her hands.

  ‘You are very funny, do you know that?’

  ‘So are you if you can laugh while we’ve got a couple of truckloads of thugs on our tail.’

  The vehicle skids out of control, slewing sideways before straightening, and as they accelerate, Madoowbe gets another burst away. Marika sees the flash of a petrol-fuelled explosion in the mirror as one of the technicals explodes. ‘One down,’ she cries, and her hands relax on the wheel. From what she can see there is still one other vehicle behind, but the driver is wary, keeping his distance, relying on short bursts that tell on the metal frame of the vehicle. It looks to her like Wanami sitting beside the driver, but the distance is great enough that she cannot be sure.

  A drift of sand covers the track ahead, and Marika takes it at speed, the wheels spinning as she pours on the power, knowing that keeping up momentum is crucial. All the time the pursuing vehicle draws closer. The gun hammers.

  ‘Take him out, for God’s sake,’ Marika encourages Madoowbe, shouting through the open window. One of the headlights shatters. ‘Good shooting.’

  Sufia opens the glove box and starts rummaging through.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Just seeing if there is anything useful in here.’

  Marika glances across as Sufia takes out a dull, globular object the size of a cricket ball. ‘Hell, that thing belongs in a museum.’

  ‘It’s heavy. What is it?’

  ‘An old kind of grenade — a Mills bomb. First Gulf War vintage at least. You’re taking your life into your hands just picking it up.’

  ‘How do you use it?’

  ‘See that lever at the side?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Hold it in, then pull out the ring.’

  There is a metallic snick as she does so.

  ‘Keep holding that lever or it will go off.’

  ‘How soon?’

  ‘Five seconds, I think.’

  ‘So if I drop it out the window it will go off in five seconds?’

  ‘Yes, no — maybe. Give it a try and see what happens — just get the bloody thing out of here, it’s making me nervous.’

  Marika watches Sufia hold the grenade out the open window with one hand, releasing it a few moments later. The driver of the following vehicle must see it fall, for he swerves off the track.

  The subsequent explosion rocks even the F100, and the effect on the pursuing technical is devastating, taking it out in a funnel of flame and dust. From what Marika can see through the mirror, the explosion tears through one side of the cab, tipping the vehicle onto its side. Men spill out into the sunlight.

  ‘Well done,’ Marika cries, ‘that got the bastards off our backs.’

  Abdullah is beyond nervous. There are so many things that can go wrong. The plan is simple, but years of experience have proved that simple plans are best. Turning off the corridor, he moves into a lunch room that has become a barracks. Inside, fourteen men clean rifles and side arms, strapping on Kevlar vests. The room smells of sweaty fear and tension. The chatter stops as he enters.

  These are elite Dubai Special Forces troops, one of five platoons attached to the centre for preventative security. Dressed all in black, even the helmets with their shallow brim at the front, they carry FAMAS assault rifles, reliable and proven weapons, most with cut-down, folding stocks.

  The men look up when he clears his throat, a few persisting with the nervous activity. ‘I am sorry to interrupt your preparations, but I would like to speak, if I may.’ Every eye locks onto his, and Abdullah knows the gravity of what he is about to tell them. ‘There are no second chances. No back-up plans. This will either work or it will not. As you know, I could have had any elite team in the world brought in. I did not for two reasons. One is that the terrorists on the inside have eyes everywhere. A foreign task force would be too obvious if we tried to bring them into the centre. The militants would know something is happening and might behave unpredictably. The second reason is that I hand-picked you people because you are the equal of any soldiers in the world. You come from Dubai and I think that’s fitting, because this is our problem, and the world is watching. Also, most of you are Muslim, and it is important for the world to see that we do not support the malignant legions that have misinterpreted the word of God and bring terror to our world.

  ‘If that room goes up we cannot bring those people back. The plan is not difficult to understand. Our sniper takes out the man with the trigger unit. The door opens. In goes the tear gas. You men enter through the door and take out every militant in sight. On the positive side, they have had even less sleep than you, and won’t know what’s coming. They have ingested large doses of drugs to stay awake. The advantage of surprise is now ours. They will panic. You need to put them out of action before they recover.’ Abdullah looks around the room. Every eye is locked on his. He feels a wave of something — admiration, even some envy. These men are about to put their lives on the line. They are trusting that things will happen the way he says they will. He goes on, ‘At oh-two-thirty hours we’ll move into position. At oh-three-hundred the operation will commence. Any questions?’

  No one says a word, and Abdullah turns to leave. Surprisingly, before he goes, one of the men approaches him, touching him on the shoulder.

  ‘Forgive my presumption, sayyid, but will you pray with us?’

  ‘To do so will be an honour.’

  Men put down their weapons and they kneel together on the carpet, their voices deep and harmonious. The prayer is short, taken from Surah 7:196. My guardian is God, who has revealed the Book. He is the guardian of the righteous …

  The prayer concludes with a round of embracing and handshakes. Abdullah walks back to his office, filled with a poignant mixture of pride and dread.

  Once there, closing the door behind him, he moves to the window and stares out at the power station. There, in a platform little bigger than his prone body, waits Corporal Hani Nawaf, apparently the best rifle shot in the Dubai military, having won the prestigious Sheikh Salamah Musa’id Trophy f
or three consecutive years. On a tripod beside him is a Barrett M107 .50-calibre sniper rifle, possibly the most accurate long-range small armament in history.

  The round in the chamber carries an armour-piercing projectile capable of smashing a hole through the armoured glass window of the complex. The next, following a fraction of a second later, will deliver a high explosive-tipped shell, designed to explode inside Dr Abukar’s body, tearing organs and tissues apart, killing him instantly.

  Abdullah goes to his seat and sits, head in his hand, thinking of his horses, two mares and a stallion, kept out of Dubai at the riding club. He realises just how frightened he feels. He thinks of his mother, missing her.

  A shiver racks his body, and at that moment all he wants to do is ride away on the back of his stallion, into the desert, never to return.

  They step out of the vehicle together, legs cramped from the drive and ears humming from the engine noise. They sit in the spidery late afternoon shade of a broad acacia tree. The sand here is impregnated with rubble; coarse and abrasive.

  Sufia is almost motionless, uncannily fresh for a woman who has spent a day as a captive and a night as a fugitive. ‘Thank you for coming to get me,’ she says. ‘Dalmar Asad is a bad man and I would have killed him myself if the opportunity had presented itself.’ She turns to Madoowbe. ‘We haven’t been introduced as yet, but I owe you a debt of gratitude.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Marika says, eyeing each in turn. ‘Sufia, this is Madoowbe.’

  For the first time she sees the Somali woman lose her poise.

  ‘Really? That is your naanays?’

  Madoowbe nods.

  ‘I once knew someone of that name. Are you of the Darod clan?’

  Again he indicates assent.

  ‘Your family name is not Libaan Khayre Istar?’

  ‘It is indeed.’

  ‘Then you are my older brother?’

  ‘I believe that I am.’

  This is not the first time Marika has been present for a reunion of family members long separated. Once, she helped a friend track down the mother who had adopted her out as a child, and agreed to be present at the reunion. Again she sees the slow awakening of joy, for, although she is young, Marika has learned that one’s relationship with family is one of the few worthwhile pillars of this life.

  The tall, regal Somali woman grips her brother’s arm in both hands and weeps. His head falls to her shoulder as if to hide that same expression of emotion. Then, pressing their faces close, they rub noses, the gesture intimate and touching.

  Marika, embarrassed, walks to the technical — removing and checking the two rifles, sitting them on the tray next to Madoowbe’s weapon, half listening while she does so.

  ‘As I grew,’ Sufia says, ‘you were like a ghost in the family — always there in our memories and dreams. People would say, “Do you remember when Madoowbe did something or other?” Sometimes my father, Othman, would grow angry that you were gone. “He should be here to help us, not have abandoned us like he did.”’

  Madoowbe stares at the ground. ‘What happened to them? What happened to my mother?’

  ‘The warlord Mohammad Farrah Aidid shot them both. I was thirteen.’

  Marika turns to look at Madoowbe. He lowers his face, but there are no tears. A wave of sympathy wells up from the pit of Marika’s heart. Cry, damn you. Cry! she wants to shout. There is no point hiding your feelings. She wants to place her arm around his neck and soothe him. Instead she ducks back through the open front door of the technical, flicking the key to look at the clock.

  Just twenty-four hours to the deadline. There is no time, not even for family reunions, yet what can they do? The technical has a radio, a short-range UHF set, useless for long-distance communication.

  Marika walks back to the siblings. ‘I hate to break up the party, but we have to make contact somehow. We’re low on fuel. Any ideas?’

  ‘American satellites pass over all the time,’ Sufia points out. ‘They use infrared photography. Light a signal they can recognise. Use gasoline — it will show up easily from the sky.’

  ‘Good thinking — but what’s something that might be clear to them? How will they know it is us?’

  Madoowbe murmurs, ‘Just the letters U and N? They should understand that.’

  Marika thinks for a moment. ‘Yep, we can do that.’ Moving to the rear tray of the technical she drags out an empty orange plastic jerry can. ‘Here, help me siphon some petrol into this.’

  Once the vessel is full Marika moves out into a clear patch of desert, spilling the petrol in neat, even lines. When it is done she creates a trail back to a safe distance, then rifles through the vehicle’s glove box, finding first a Zippo-style cigarette lighter with no fuel, then a yellow box of Kifaru matches from Kenya.

  The first match fails to strike, but the second flares on the first try. When she drops it onto the sand, wet with petroleum, flames scorch down the trail. Reaching the main pattern, the heat forces her to step back. A heavy but brief cloud of black smoke rolls skyward.

  Looking at the result with satisfaction, Marika smiles as she imagines the boffins sitting in their dark room studying this anomaly in the remote Ogaden Desert, scratching their unimaginative heads, arguing among themselves. This image alive and well in her mind, she walks back to where Madoowbe and Sufia stand close together, talking.

  ‘That’s the best we can do,’ Marika says, ‘now we need something to eat. What, I have no idea.’

  Madoowbe grips the door handle. ‘I’ll go through the cab. There must be something.’ Moments later he emerges with a canvas haversack, heavy with tins. ‘These were behind the seat.’

  Marika squats beside him and they go through the booty together. A box of 7.62mm ammunition, but then something far more desirable. ‘You beauty! Beef and onions. Spaghetti and meatballs. Hell, I’m salivating.’ Using a knife blade she cuts around the lid and levers it sideways, passing the first to Sufia, then another to Madoowbe.

  ‘Are you going to heat it?’

  ‘The second one, maybe,’ Marika says. ‘This one won’t touch the sides.’

  The next surprise is a warm aluminium can, much of the label bruised off from rattling against the other tins. Enough remains to reveal the contents as Keroro beer, brewed in Kenya. Marika pops the tab and takes a long swallow. ‘I dunno if it will take off back home, but it sure tastes good now. Even as warm as toast it tastes like honey.’

  She passes the can to Madoowbe, who shakes his head. Sufia also refuses.

  ‘God, what a bunch of teetotallers! Looks like I’ll have to finish it myself.’ She eats three tins of food before sitting down, holding her belly in both hands. ‘That’s better. Pity there’s nothing sweet. I could do with some sugar.’ She grins at Sufia. ‘Ice cream maybe.’

  Sufia smiles back. ‘Now that is one thing from America that I miss very much. Chocolate ice cream.’

  ‘Mmm, choc ripple.’ Marika sits back on the sand. There is no remnant of the flaming signal apart from the heat haze rising from the scorched sand.

  ‘How long do you think it will take them to react?’ Madoowbe asks.

  ‘I have no idea. All we can do is wait.’

  Standing, stretching, nerves on edge, Marika says, ‘The flames barely lasted ten minutes; what if that was between satellite runs? How often will they pass over Somalia?’ She turns back to look at the vehicle. ‘If we’re going to do this, let’s do it properly. Let’s get a real fire going.’

  ‘There is nothing to burn but the spare tyres.’

  ‘There’s a lot at stake — we can’t sit here until we rot. What if they take their pictures with normal film rather than infrared? Our flames might well be missed.

  ‘It is not yet dark. A column of black smoke might be dangerous. Drawing attention to oneself can be fatal in the desert.’

  ‘What choice have we got? Come on. Get the rest of the petrol out of the tank.’

  Using a wheel brace from the tool box, Marika unbolts the
spare wheels from their mounts and piles them fifty metres away from the camp.

  ‘Can I help?’ Sufia asks.

  ‘You bet. Get everything you can find — oily rags, plastic bags — and stack ’em up. Anything that will burn or make smoke. We’ve got just one more chance at this; we might as well make it work.’

  Madoowbe walks towards the pyre with the jerry can half full, bouncing against his leg as he walks. ‘This is all there is left.’

  ‘Pour it all on.’

  Back at the vehicle Marika uses a knife to cut away the seat upholstery and pulls wads of stuffing from the inside. ‘Light it now,’ she calls, tossing the matches to Madoowbe. As she works at the seats there is a concussive thump as the pyre goes up. By the time she has gathered another armload of combustibles the flames lick six metres into the air. Clotted black smoke rolls skywards.

  The heat is so intense they have to stockpile materials nearby and wait for the inferno to recede, standing back to watch as the flames peel the rubber from the tyres, releasing further dark vapours, exposing the radial layers beneath. Marika feels her anxiety increase. Now they have well and truly signposted their location.

  ‘I’m probably now the biggest polluter in Somalia,’ she says, half joking.

  Madoowbe raises an eyebrow. ‘The most visible one, in any case.’

  ‘We’ll be out of here before anyone catches up with us,’ she says. ‘Dalmar Asad’s men will be on foot now. I doubt they will follow. They must all know that he is dead.’

  Still searching for ideas, she uses the child’s method of dragging a stick through the sand to form giant letters: RABI ALSALAH PICK UP REQD.

  ‘If that doesn’t get them interested, nothing will,’ Marika says, but her voice is high with strain. She paces backwards and forwards near the vehicle. Madoowbe never strays far from the heavy machine gun on the rear of the technical, stripping back the breech block and cleaning it until not a speck of dust remains on the metal, lubricating it with clean engine oil from the dregs of a plastic bottle of Castrol.

  As the sky darkens, the fire is all but exhausted and, in a last effort, Marika takes the jack from behind the seat and they remove one wheel after another, adding the tyres to the fire, leaving the vehicle embedded in the sand like another war relic.