Terrorist: Three Book Boxed Set

by Phillip Strang

  In two years of marriage, that was to be his method of intimacy. She had stopped complaining and crying, but he still appreciated the violence and subjugation.

  She bred daughters, two in number; healthy and attractive, but they were females nonetheless. They were no use to him. He was worse than the father he despised – at least he had had a son.

  Despondent with his life, Abacha saw the need for change. ‘I am going to join with Boko Haram. They are committed to Jihad.’ Mullah Ibrahim was impressed when he announced his intentions.

  It was two months later when he made contact with the insurgents. He was an ideal candidate, genuinely devoted to their cause, although not yet fully aware of their brutality. A cruel man, his treatment of his wife and children attested to that, but he had never shown them the brutality that he came to appreciate with Boko Haram.

  ***

  ‘We will attack a school in the next two days,’ Ismael, his commander, had announced.

  Abacha, now armed with an AK47, the weapon of choice for terrorists the world over was ready. He had trained extensively, not killed yet. This was to be his initiation into the world of barbarism committed in the name of religion.

  He was ready, confident, and full of religious fervour. In the distorted views of Boko Haram, criminal and violent activity, justified, wanton and meaningless cruelty, encouraged, and infidels maimed, murdered and raped deemed acceptable.

  ‘It’s a boarding school for about fifty girls,’ continued Ismael. ‘They are Christian. We will attack at night. We go in fast, ram the gate, and encircle the compound either with vehicles or with men, but do not harm the girls; they will serve another purpose.

  ‘Those in charge are of no value to us. Either they die during the attack or we will kill them before we leave.’

  It was late at night when the insurgents entered, with Abacha in the lead vehicle. Still yet only a foot soldier and yet to be bloodied in battle, he was nervous, but it did not show.

  A female, of about forty years of age, dressed in a nightgown ran out from one of the buildings. ‘Stop, leave us alone,’ she screamed.

  Nervous and unpredictable, he levelled his gun and shot her repeatedly. Others rushed out, including some of the teenage girls.

  ‘Halt the shooting,’ shouted Ismael, firing a rapid volley from his AK47 into the air. ‘We want the females alive.’

  Quickly, the school was subdued, the teachers taken to one side, and the girls bundled into the back of a truck, suitably restrained and crying.

  Those teachers that were female and not too old and grizzled were hustled into one of the schoolrooms and raped by all the soldiers in turn. Their throats cut, the school burnt before the attackers left.

  He had enjoyed the experience. He was now bloodied, and the raping of the others, he felt was not a crime. It was a blessed activity condoned by his God.

  The schoolgirls they had been taken were separated on arrival at the camp. Those of some beauty sold off to an Arab trader while some of the others, sold across the border into Cameroon or Niger as brides.

  The least attractive, raped, abused, and forcibly converted to Islam kept for as long their captors wanted and then traded off. Sometimes, a pack of cigarettes or some additional bullets was sufficient payment for a human.

  In the next six months, there were to be another three attacks. They all followed the same style; Abacha enjoyed them equally. Now a formidable fighter, he consolidated his power as second-in-command to Ismael.

  The final attack suffered a significant fatality; Ismael had taken a bullet to the chest. It was a foolish shot from one of his soldiers. Some of them, trigger happy and stupid, no more than children in age and mental capacity, and far too dangerous to be holding a lethal weapon.

  ‘Mustapha, stop firing or you will harm the females. They are not to be injured.’ Ismael had shouted his last command.

  Mustapha, barely sixteen was on his first mission. Amongst a group of stupid men, he was the most stupid.

  He swung around to accede to Ismael’s command. In his inexperience, he failed to release his finger from the trigger of the AK47 he was holding. Ismael received a direct hit; he was dead before he hit the ground.

  Abacha, a natural leader, took command of the group. Total loyalty from all that served with him was required; any deviation or dissent was not countenanced. Shekau, a surly individual, good with a gun, had answered him back when he had given a command he did not like. He would forever walk with a severe limp after the savage beating he received from four of his colleagues on instruction from Abacha.

  His group were frightened of him, although he was always generous in giving out the Christian schoolgirls at the conclusion of a successful raid.

  The Arab trader would pay well for an attractive virgin. He never knew where they went, although he assumed their fate was not pleasant. Not that he cared particularly; he always managed to keep a pretty one for himself.

  ‘The more you resist, the more you will suffer.’ He hoped they would fight; it always gave him the greater pleasure.

  ‘Please respect me. I am a virgin; it will shame my family and me.’ They always made the same statement. He did not care; they were only a female, and if they resisted, he would hit them into submission.

  A cruel man when he joined the fundamentalists, his transformation to brutal did not take long.

  Chapter 5

  ‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. And may we always be mindful of the needs of others, for Jesus’ sake, Amen.’

  None knew that Pastor Zebediah had given his last blessing for the meal that had been placed in front of them. Kate had proven herself to be an adequate, if menu-limited cook; it was chicken and rice again.

  It had been almost four years to the month since Zebediah, Mary and Duncan had arrived at their final home. Four years of striving, frustration, and ultimately contentment. In one violent assault, a group of people so alien to their beliefs and behaviour would replace it with savagery and barbarism.

  ‘Not chicken surprise tonight, Kate,’ Duncan joked.

  ‘What do you mean? It is chicken.’

  ‘I know, just joking. Not having chicken would be the surprise.’

  The mood was jovial ‘I’ll give you camel tomorrow and then you will have something to complain about,’ Kate replied light-heartedly.

  It was soon after that the friendly ambience was shattered. It was Duncan who first heard the revving engines and the shouting outside the compound.

  He quickly jumped up as the metal gates to the compound were ripped off their hinges.

  ‘We’re under attack,’ he shouted.

  His military training had let him know what was happening. The others remained where they sat. Kate’s face went as white as a sheet.

  ‘Allahu Akbar!’ the people on the vehicles shouted as they came roaring into the compound. The lead vehicle, a beat-up dual-cab Toyota pickup, drove straight to the front of the main building, closely followed by a couple of old and battered Toyota Land Cruisers. All the vehicles were old and in need of maintenance.

  ‘Run to the back of the compound,’ Duncan shouted. ‘We need to get a message to the police.’ Had he looked up into the sky, he would have seen the red glow from the burning police station. The terrorists had passed by there on the way to the compound. They had already killed five that day, the police at their station, their throats slit.

  ‘There are at least twelve, heavily armed,’ he continued. ‘Stay out of sight and remain calm. None of you will stand a chance if you attempt to reason with them.’ Duncan took control of the situation.

  There was nothing to be gained by gentle words. His time in Iraq had prepared him for the situation; he knew the calibre and the resolve of the attackers.

  He reasoned that, if he could isolate one or two of them, then he would be able to even the numbers. A gentle and passive man, he would resort to what he knew well: how to kill.

  ‘Surround the main buil
ding,’ Abacha, the leader of the attackers shouted in Kanuri, the predominant language of the region. ‘I want them unharmed.’ He was not worried about the killing of anyone, but he didn’t want any suitable females injured or killed. He had been told there was a white woman of unique charms and beauty; she would be his prize.

  He was tired of reiterating commands to a motley group that was only controlled by his strict discipline. After so many killings around the countryside, they had become a lethal if degenerate rabble.

  In the main building, Mary had grabbed hold of Zebediah. She was barely functioning. Helen, stoic, had jumped up. After so many years on the street, she had toughened herself to numbness. She was used to drunken hooligans on their way home, banging dustbin lids to wake the homeless, beatings from perverted customers blaming their lot in life on her. She had even had a gun thrust in her face once when the client had the need of her but not the money.

  Kate, poor sensitive Kate, had entered a childlike state. Her feet were crouched up under her on the seat in a fetal position, looking for words to console and someone to hang on to.

  ‘Get behind me and aim to rush out the back door if it is clear,’ ordered Duncan. ‘They will come in through the front door.’ He had found a hefty piece of wood near the fireplace. It was ideal for his purposes.

  ‘Come on, you bastards,’ he shouted. ‘I’m ready.’

  He made a rush for the assailants as they bashed the door down. The first intruder’s head entered through the door arch. With one massive swing, Duncan brought the piece of wood down on to his head. The assailant collapsed to the ground. He did not move; dead with one blow.

  ‘Kill him!’ Abacha screamed. Duncan’s reaction was unexpected. They had assumed there would have been minimal resistance and the capturing of the Mission would have been a simple, straightforward affair.

  ‘One down, now for the others,’ Duncan inflamed, was transformed; the man of peace and charitable goodwill had become a man of death. A second assailant and a second swing and another was waylaid and on the ground. This time, it was not a fatal blow, and the Boko Haram fighter raised himself groggily from the ground and retreated in haste, his arm severely broken by the force.

  ‘Two of them will not trouble us,’ said Duncan. ‘I need a weapon; a piece of wood is of no use.’ Years of military training were coming back to him. The second assailant, with his gun arm broken, had dropped his weapon outside the door. It was near.

  I could kill all of these ill-disciplined and illiterate murdering thugs if I could reach that gun, he thought to himself.

  He moved forward rapidly to grab the weapon when he took a bullet to the chest.

  ‘I’ve hit him. Grab him!’ Abacha shouted.

  In Iraq, Duncan would have worn body armour, but here he had none. The wound was not fatal, but it stopped him and he collapsed to the ground.

  ‘You bastards will pay for this.’ It was an empty statement. There was nothing he could do and there would be no assistance from the others in the Mission.

  ‘Drag him into the open,’ Abacha, enraged and violent screamed. The first fighter who had died at Duncan’s hands was one of his best fighters.

  Duncan muttered incoherently as they dragged and pulled him to the centre of the compound. Screaming was beyond him, the blood loss sapping his strength.

  Abacha took the first shot, and then the others indiscriminately emptied their AK47s into Duncan. His death had been quick and gruesome.

  ‘Check who else is in the building,’ Abacha shouted.

  The attackers, following his command, rushed through the open door where, moments before, Duncan had valiantly attempted to protect his colleagues. Quickly they spotted Helen and Kate.

  ‘Get your filthy hands off me, you dirty bastards.’ Helen had experienced abuse and violence before in her past and screaming for help had been the best deterrent.

  Quickly tied up, groping hands all over them as they were restrained, Helen and Kate were powerless to stop their disgusting behaviour. If the insurgents were enamoured of Helen, they were beside themselves with Kate; her whiteness, her blonde hair, her slim and lithe figure had thrown them into distraction. They, with their bravado, were quickly discussing who was to be the first to enjoy her, and where, and when, and how many times she would need before she would be satisfied.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Kate cried and screamed, tears running down her cheeks.

  ‘They won’t listen, don’t resist,’ said Helen. ‘They’ve killed Duncan. They will do the same to us.’ She had resigned herself to their fate. It was now about survival.

  ‘Please leave me alone, I am not that kind of person,’ Kate, a quivering wreck pleaded. ‘My father will reward you.’ Their captors were now in a fever pitch of groping and prodding. If she had understood what they were saying, she would have been totally ashamed and confused.

  Helen’s initial outbursts of rage had subsided. Her background of abuse, whether by her own hand, or by some fat, smelly and booze-infested man who had bought her off the street had ingrained a behaviour of detachment.

  She had very quickly fallen back into that state of mind and, whereas unable to assist the others, she was able to handle the current situation. There was nothing they could do to her that would invoke a response, or a cursing, or a reaction.

  ***

  In their excitement of having discovered Helen and Kate, the Pastor and Mary had been overlooked.

  ‘Please, do something,’ said Mary. ‘Go and talk to them. Let them know that we are peaceful people only trying to help.’ She was irrational, somehow believing that Zebediah could bring calm to the situation.

  ‘My talking to them will have no effect,’ he replied. ‘They have already killed Duncan.’

  ‘Are we going to die?’ she asked.

  ‘I do not know. We must believe that whatever happens is the Lord’s will.’

  ‘I will not live without you,’ she said.

  Zebediah knew that, without him, she had no purpose. How he was going to salvage anything from this disaster was beyond his comprehension. All the years in Africa and miraculously they had experienced very little trouble, apart from the inevitable bouts of dysentery, malaria, and the endemic corruption and pilfering that plagued the continent.

  ‘Check the building for others. There must be more here,’ Abacha commanded, although he had to fire a gun in the air for his fighters to take notice. The men still rejoiced in Duncan’s death, and Helen and Kate interested them far more than looking for others.

  Three of the attackers searched the other buildings in the compound while five entered where Duncan had been standing five minutes previously. Zebediah and Mary had attempted to exit through the back door, but they were quickly cornered and captured.

  ‘May the Lord bless and forgive you,’ Zebediah spoke. ‘As-salamu alaykum.’

  A traditional Islamic welcome served no purpose and their age did not garner any special treatment. They were roughly dragged outside in a similar manner to Helen and Kate.

  The Pastor was whiplashed across the face with a pistol, held by an unpleasant, lame-footed individual with no teeth.

  ‘Infidel! That is for your heathen religion.’

  Mary was mortified and intervened when he went to take another swing. ‘Leave him alone, you unpleasant little man.’ She was too much of a lady to swear.

  Her strength of character had confused ‘no-teeth’ and he ceased to hit the Pastor. The insurgents, for all their violence and hatred of anything Western, still maintained a degree of civility towards an elderly woman, regardless of the fact that she was a Christian.

  Zebediah sensed they would not harm Mary, and that they would possibly leave her behind when they left the compound. He had to save her.

  ‘Forgive them for they know not what they do.’ He was desperate to save her. ‘Mary, you must protect yourself. They will not harm you if you stay calm.’

  Zebediah had determined that he needed to focus their anger towards him. H
e had to direct their violence at him, and hopefully abate any further killing. Duncan was gone; Helen and Kate’s fate, unknown. It was only Mary that he could help.

  ‘Jesus suffered for his faith. I can do no less,’ he said to Mary.

  ‘Stay with me. They will not harm a servant of the Lord,’ she pleaded.

  ‘These people do not believe in our Lord. To them, we are heathens, infidels. We are of little interest to them. I do not believe they will harm you, though.’

  He quickly kissed her on the cheek and made a bolt for the chapel. They fired as he ran, but he avoided the bullets and entered through the front door.

  From the sanctity of the chapel, he called to Mary. ‘Please do not resist, do not aggravate the situation. Save yourself. I love you.’

  ‘Let me go. My place is beside my husband.’ She was distraught.

  ‘Set their house of religion on fire. It is an affront to Islam,’ commanded Abacha. ‘If the old man stays inside, then he will burn with it.’

  No-teeth found some petrol cans close to Duncan’s Bedford truck and threw the petrol liberally around the chapel’s porch. It was old, mostly wood and tinder dry. It would burn with ease.

  ‘Set it on fire,’ Abacha shouted.

  ‘I will do it.’ No-teeth enthusiastically applied himself to the task.

  Some old petrol-soaked rags, a few matches and the flames started to rise. They quickly spread to the roof.

  Psalm 23 could be heard emanating from the chapel. It was a favourite of Zebediah’s.

  The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

  He maketh me to lie down in green pastures:

  He leadeth me beside the still waters.

  He restoreth my soul:

  He leadeth me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,