The Watchman

by Adrian Magson

  Satisfied my position was good, I ran a quick eye over my weapons before taking a drink of water and chewing on an energy bar. It was too sweet for my tastes, and made me thirsty, but it would keep me going for the hours ahead.

  My first sighting of the villa after crossing the Mogadishu road had been a single yellow light flickering in the dark. Beyond it I could hear the sea, a gentle hiss in the darkness. I’d homed in on the light and made my way forward with care, checking the ground every few steps for traps, wires and other man-made obstacles. I’d already seen enough trash lying around to know that the locals weren’t too eco-friendly. Old tyres, plastic bottles, coiled clumps of rotting fishing nets, discarded fragments of cork floats and bits of metal too small, thick or rusted to be used for anything else. Any of these were enough to trip an unwary person. The closer I got to the coast, the more I saw.

  I’d eventually come to a slight dip in the ground on a slope overlooking the villa. It was little more than a couple of feet deep, but big enough for an observation post. All I needed was some cover to go over the top.

  I moved back a ways and gathered a collection of dried branches, then slid into my new home and spread them over me, twisting them together to stop them flying away if a sea breeze sprang up. With the ghillie net over me I was pretty certain I’d be invisible unless somebody actually fell in on top of me.

  Next I dug out some of the sand beneath me with a small trowel, then took out a couple of small plastic bags from my backpack. Disposing of waste in a hot zone observation post can be a problem. Flies will soon zoom in on any fresh matter and attract attention.

  I carefully scraped away at the earth in front of me to give me a better field of observation and to avoid breaking the skyline. Anybody looking up from the building would notice even a slight movement against the sky, but if I had some soil behind me, I would just about blend in. Once I was happy with my field of fire, I sat back and allowed the sun to do its bit drying the upturned spoil to the same colour as everywhere else.

  I checked my surroundings every fifteen minutes, including the villa. The smell of wood smoke was enough to tell me that there were people down there and they were up and about. I had no idea how many, but I’d soon find out if I made the wrong move.

  I used the sniper scope to give the building the once-over. It was a simple villa, vaguely European by design and single level, with a flat roof. The walls had once been plastered but were now showing the inner lining of cinder blocks, some crumbling under the combination of neglect and the elements. Tacked to the back was a small outhouse which I guessed had been used in better times to hold a generator.

  An attempt had been made to build a wall around the property, but any decent blocks had been taken away once the property had been abandoned. The grounds had no discernible border, but ran into the interior beyond where I was hiding, and extended out on to the beach a hundred metres on either side. And there was no cover anywhere. It put a serious dent in any plans I might have had of getting closer, unless I got lucky under cover of dark. But that was a problem to deal with later.

  My sat phone gave a soft buzz. It was Piet.

  ‘Can you talk?’ His voice sounded low and gruff. I couldn’t hear any engine noise, so I figured he was on the ground somewhere.

  ‘For now. I’m inside the target area.’

  ‘You better get ready for company. I took an early dawn flight, to keep up appearances.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘There’s a stretch of track outside Kamboni. You probably crossed it last night. It runs out of the town, then veers directly north, following the border. About four clicks from there I saw a pickup and a group of guys clearing the track. It’s been used as a landing strip before, but not for a while.’

  ‘Somebody’s flying in.’

  ‘Yeah. I hope you got good cover, man; they’ll probably make a fly over first to check it out. These guys are suspicious, believe me.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  It made sense. Fly the SIS personnel in by small plane and truck them to the villa. Anyone else moving in the area, especially in vehicles, would stand out like a camel on a sand dune.

  ‘Where are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Running the fence, like always. It’s what they expect. At most I’ll be twenty minutes out from your position.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t want to get involved.’

  ‘I don’t. But if things go balls-up you’ll be needing a lift. You call and I’ll come pick you up.’

  I thanked him and switched off. It was good to know I had help out there. As I settled down again, I heard the sounds of an engine.

  It was a white 4WD. It came overland from the north-east, drawing a dust cloud behind it, and skidded to a stop close by the villa. Three men got out of the vehicle, and others came boiling out of the building, rifles at the ready and primed for action. When they saw who it was, they waved greetings as if they hadn’t seen each other in years. Another man popped his head out of the generator shed at the rear of the villa to see what the noise was about, and I breathed a sigh of relief. If I’d ventured out of my hide I’d have tripped right over him.

  I counted nine men, all armed. They were dressed in traditional wrap-around skirts and a variety of western T-shirts or the lightweight kameez. With the likelihood of more men on the plane with the SIS negotiators and others on call in Kamboni, it made for a substantial force if anything went wrong.

  An hour later, three of the men came outside and stood talking. One of them checked a big gold watch on his wrist, then climbed behind the wheel and took off in a dust cloud. He passed my position two hundred metres away, heading towards the border.

  Back to where Piet had seen the track being prepared.

  I checked my position and overhead cover. The men in the villa must have got word that the negotiators were on their way in. Time to buckle down and stay still.

  I checked through the scope as the remaining men stood chatting. One of them pointed and said something, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck move.

  He was looking right at me.

  Twenty-Seven

  ‘We are nearly there!’ Xasan turned in his seat and shouted at the two SIS representatives. As he did so, the engine noise decreased and the plane’s nose began to drop.

  After relieving them of their cell phones outside the Crowne Plaza in Nairobi, Xasan had ordered his driver to take them at speed to the airport. Instead of pulling in at the main terminal, they had driven to a side entrance and through a cargo gate manned by a single security guard. The man had nodded them through without bothering to run a security check. After driving a short distance along an access road past a line of warehouses and hangars, they had pulled up alongside a plane with its engines running, puffs of dark smoke issuing from the engine nascelles.

  At a word from Xasan, they climbed out into the acrid smell of aircraft fuel and burnt rubber.

  ‘What the hell is that?’ Angela muttered. ‘A flying horsebox?’

  A chunky, twin-engine design, the plane had seen better times and had the ingrained scars of reddish dust along its undercarriage and on the large rubber tyres and nose wheel. Small repair patches had been riveted at various places on the skin, no doubt concealing incidents in its chequered past.

  ‘Pretty apt description,’ said Tober, ignoring a sharp reprimand from one of the guards nearby. ‘It’s a Skytruck – a variation on the Antonov. They call it a STOL – short take-off and landing. This one’s a Polish M Twenty-eight. Good plane.’

  She stared at him. Was he showing off or trying to take her mind off the idea of going anywhere in this flying death trap?

  He read her mind. ‘I’ve jumped from one just like it – and not because I had to.’

  ‘Where?’ She realized she knew nothing about Tober save that he had an extensive background in Special Forces, and was now employed to use those skills on SIS operations.

  ‘In the States, then Venezuela. They can land pretty much anywhere, a
nd unless the pilot woke up this morning and decided this is the day he wants to die, we should be fine.’

  ‘Quiet! No speak.’ The guard who had spoken before didn’t like being ignored. He pulled out his pistol and shoved it towards Tober’s head, eyes wide with anger.

  Tober looked coolly at the gun, then at the man, and said, ‘OK, Bonzo. Will do. But first go fuck yourself.’

  ‘Enough.’ It was Xasan, holding out a restraining hand towards the gunman. He flicked a hand to make him go away, then looked at Tober. ‘I would remind you, Mr Tober, that you are not the … what do you call it – the lead, in these negotiations. You are here as a courtesy. And the use of obscenities is extremely offensive.’

  He turned and issued orders to his men, and they all filed on board the plane and took seats in the cabin. Two of the guards sat at the back, their eyes firmly on Tober, while Xasan and the other guard took seats at the front.

  The pilot watched them without comment, then turned and got ready for take-off. Minutes later, they were racing down a secondary runway, the airframe around them rattling with the thrust of the engines. After leaving the ground, the plane seemed to hang in the air for too long before levelling off, and the note of the engines changed from desperate to merely urgent.

  Angela watched Xasan. He had his head turned away, but she could hear him muttering to himself. She hoped he was praying. The three guards were made of sterner stuff, although innocence probably gave them no idea of what would happen if the aircraft fell apart in mid-flight.

  As they began to descend, she caught a glimpse of the ground below and, further on, the startling blue of the Indian Ocean. The contrast between the two was vivid: the ground was featureless, a brown-green camouflage patchwork with no visible signs of life, while the sea looked inviting and serene. She thought it was deserted, but on closer examination saw a couple of skiffs close inshore and a group of smaller craft with white sails heading out towards the horizon.

  The aircraft banked sharply, turning inland, and she saw a villa below, standing alone on a bare expanse of land. Several men were standing around, looking up. They seemed neither interested nor excited. They were all armed.

  The plane levelled out and dropped further. This time she glimpsed a sizeable sprawl of buildings in the distance, which she guessed was Kamboni. Moments later, the ground was rushing by, and all she could see was a blur of small trees, brushwood, coarse grass and what looked like dangerously large boulders just feet away from the plane’s wheels.

  The landing was bruising, the nose rearing up at one point, then going down again with a bump. The aircraft fishtailed alarmingly before the pilot brought it under control, but Xasan’s men seemed unaffected, laughing and commenting as they were thrown around in their seats.

  A flash of white through the window showed a large 4WD about a hundred metres away, with a man sitting on the bonnet clutching an AK-47.

  Tober nudged her with his elbow. He indicated Xasan with a lift of his chin.

  The Somali middleman was suffering, his shoulders bowed and lips moving in what could only have been agonized prayer.

  As the plane bumped to a stop and the engine noise decreased, Angela couldn’t help it. She said, ‘Are you all right, Mr Xasan? You don’t look so good.’

  He didn’t respond, but the set of his shoulders told her she had scored a brutal hit.

  Twenty-Eight

  I checked the AK was ready to go and placed the Vektor within easy reach, the safety off. I made sure I had the spare magazines lined up and free of dust and sand. I had a good field of fire and the advantage of higher ground. It wasn’t much, but you work with what you’ve got.

  If the Somalis had seen something suspicious, and came up the hill to find out what it was, I’d have to put most or all of them down before they got here. If I let them get behind me or to the flanks, I’d be dead meat.

  The problem was if they all began blasting away. A few isolated shots would be ignored as shooting practice or high spirits. But any higher than normal volume of fire would quickly attract attention from the town. Give it ten minutes and I’d have more trouble than I could deal with.

  My mouth was dry with tension. I took a sip of water and waited for the men to move.

  A shot whipped over my head, the crack following a split second later. I hadn’t seen the shooter throw the rifle to his shoulder, so I was guessing it was a show-off round. The slug hit a rock somewhere behind me and howled off into space. I ducked instinctively, wondering how they had spotted me, and got ready to lay down a few bodies. Spaced as they were, with no direct cover, it would be a turkey-shoot.

  Then I heard jeers and laughter. What the hell …?

  Another shot went by, clipping the twigs above my head. This time there was a clang and I saw the shadow of a rusted tin can leap into the air and bounce away. Cheers this time, and lots of shouting. But no movement towards me.

  Bastards. They hadn’t seen me after all – they were using the trash around me for target practice.

  I risked a quick look. One of the figures was walking up the slope. He was carrying a large plastic bottle with a bright red label, being urged on loudly by his friends all throwing hand signals telling him where to place the bottle.

  I got ready. He was heading straight for my position. If he spotted me, he’d be the first one down. Then his friends would follow.

  But it would mean the end of the mission.

  I watched as the newcomer struggled over the rough ground, his sandals slipping on the shale, all the time grumbling and muttering back at the other men. One of them picked up a stone and threw it, hitting him on the back, and the others laughed.

  He was young – about sixteen at a guess – and wearing a thin T-shirt and skirt. He wasn’t armed, and I figured he was a general gofer used for menial tasks such as this.

  Gofer or not, he had eyes and a mouth and would shout if he saw me. He got to within ten paces of my hide and hesitated. He was looking for a spot to place the bottle, which I could see was half full of water.

  Then his eyes flickered past me, ran on for a moment, and settled right back on me.

  I breathed easily and centred the sights of the AK on his chest. I was applying the first pressure on the trigger, ready to knock him over, when an ear-splitting roar blasted out of nowhere. Next second the ugly shape of a flying box van passed at about three hundred feet right over our heads, a tremor going through the air and the ground around me.

  The kid gave a shrill cry of alarm and dropped the bottle, covering his head with one arm. If he was anywhere near normal, he was probably pissing himself.

  The men at the bottom of the slope were staring up in confusion, the shooting practice forgotten. Then they started shouting at the kid, urging him to get back down, and began running towards the house.

  The kid didn’t waste any time. He galloped down the slope like a gazelle and within seconds they were all out of sight.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  It meant one thing: somebody important had arrived.

  Twenty-Nine

  James Scheider bit hard on his tongue, telling himself to remain calm. He was in a conference call with CIA HQ in Langley, Virginia, and was just hearing that the promised camera support for the British operation over the Somalia/Kenya border was now in doubt. Across from him, Dale Wishaw winced in sympathy.

  ‘I gave my word on this, Ed,’ Scheider said softly, his words aimed at the console in the centre of the table. Forceful language was unnecessary here, as the unit fitted to this room could pick up every nuance and tone in a speaker’s voice. ‘I agreed that we would give cover for the Brits’ operation. You know how important this is. All I’m asking for is a single Hale.’ The Hale (High-altitude, long-endurance) unmanned drones were most useful where surveillance and reconnaissance missions were required over extended periods in remote areas. Scheider had suggested using one of these craft because he knew there were at least five currently not assigned to any specific pro
gramme.

  ‘Can’t do, Jim. Sorry.’ Ed Biggelow, one of the Langley-based Staff Operations Officers responsible for supporting field operations, sounded calm, even bored, although Scheider was so far willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. He’d met Biggelow a few times, and had an image of a neat, buttoned-down individual who was probably going to get his ass kicked one day by a field officer he’d let down by being too devoted to the rules of engagement. ‘The Hales have been labelled restricted-use only for active operations involving our own field personnel. What you’re describing doesn’t fit that scenario. Our best evaluation is that if we can avoid the use of direct over-flights in the region, we should do so unless and until the threat impact becomes directly counter to US interests. This is an observation mission only. The best we can do at the moment is a Herti.’

  Scheider sat forward so fast, Wishaw thought he was going to propel himself at the console and grab Biggelow by the throat all the way down the wire.

  ‘A Herti? What good’s that, Ed? It’s four years old, for God’s sake and flies like a camel for what – twenty hours max? Hell, it’s not even one of ours!’

  ‘Precisely. It’s British. But this is a British operation, isn’t it? I’m sure they wouldn’t object.’

  ‘That’s not the point. We have Reapers based in the region, don’t we?’ He waved aside Wishaw’s signal to keep his cool. The Reaper was one of the most effective drones available, loaded with cameras and capable of carrying Hellfire missiles and bombs. ‘Dammit, I know we have because I’ve used them! Are you telling me I’ve got to go back to the Brits and tell them I can’t provide intel on the hostages because somebody thinks it doesn’t fit? What happens next time we need their help?’

  ‘Sorry, Jim. That’s not my call. If you have any further intel which pushes this to a higher level, I suggest you take it further up the chain of command. Let me know what you decide.’