Primal Exodus

by Jack Silkstone

  “How long ago?” asked Kurtz, his voice laced with desperation.

  “I can’t tell.”

  “We’ll need a prisoner,” said Kurtz.

  Kruger sighed. “Fine.” The South African wasn’t one for showing any quarter to the fanatical Islamists.

  Kurtz led the small patrol toward the camp with Kruger off his right shoulder and the two scouts bringing up the rear. His keen eyes spotted a brush hut among the bushes and he raised his weapon. Four men were crouched around a fire warming their hands and brewing coffee. Their guns were stacked a short distance away. He moved forward silently, the red dot of his sight balanced on an Al-Shabaab fighter’s head.

  He was less than a dozen yards away when a stick cracked under his boot. The fighter glanced up, spotted him and reached for his weapon. He had barely moved when Kurtz’s bullet split his head like a melon and he toppled sideways.

  The others died in a hail of gunfire as Kruger hosed them down with the PKP. His weapon sounded like sharp thunderclaps in the still morning air, despite its suppressor. The camp came alive with yelling as the other fighters spread the alarm. Kruger’s belt-fed machine gun continued to stammer as he engaged a pair of men who appeared on their flank. They jerked like puppets as 7.62mm rounds sliced through them, cutting their fanatical charge short.

  Somewhere deeper in the camp an AK barked followed by another as the Al-Shabaab fired at shadows.

  Kurtz gestured to his left and they moved swiftly around a large tin shack. Another fighter appeared, weapon ready. Kurtz squeezed the trigger and he fell backward into the dust with a steaming third eye. Three more men appeared only to be cut down by Kruger.

  As the noise from their shots faded a deathly silence descended over the bush camp. The battle-hardened Al-Shabaab fighters were laying low, listening.

  Kurtz knelt alongside a tree stump. The others found cover and aimed their weapons outward.

  The enemy’s probe came from their right. Kurtz caught a glimpse of movement among the mud huts and makeshift shelters. A moment later he saw a combatant creeping forward. A thumb down and a pointed AK barrel indicated his target to the others and they oriented themselves, lying prone.

  Their camouflage gave them the advantage. The gunmen moved forward cautiously but didn’t spot Kurtz’s team until it was too late. Kruger’s machine gun, supported by the others, cut them down in a hail of lead and steel. Kurtz spotted another target and aimed for his knee. He squeezed off a single shot and a bearded fighter lurched over with a cry.

  With the enemy decimated the team swept forward dispatching wounded men with single shots.

  Kurtz made a beeline for the man he’d downed, his sights aligned for a kill shot. His prey was trying to crawl into thick bushes. The tall German checked Kruger was covering him and grabbed the man’s leg, dragging him into a clearing. A savage punch to the face ensured he wouldn’t resist before securing his hands with plasticuffs.

  As the team cleared the rest of the camp Kurtz spotted an empty hole with wooden bars over it.

  “That’s where they kept the girls,” said Booyah.

  Emotion washed over Kurtz as he imagined their scared dirty faces looking up from the pit. Rage boiled inside him and he stormed back to their wounded prisoner.

  “Booyah, ask him where the girls are.”

  The scout questioned the wounded man in his native tongue with Kurtz standing menacingly beside him.

  After a short conversation, Booyah translated. “He says there were no girls here. I told him not to lie to the green devils or they will cut out his stomach and leave him for the baboons.”

  Kurtz slid his combat knife from his rig and held it in his left hand to reinforce the point. The man’s eyes went wide with fear and words flowed from his mouth like a machine gun.

  “They were here, but word came that the green devils would come for them. He said his chief took them across the border to El Leh to sell them,” translated the scout.

  “To who?”

  Booyah asked the man then looked back. “He doesn’t know the man’s name. He’s a white mercenary.”

  Kurtz’s eyes narrowed as Kruger joined them. “Rest of the camp’s clear. No sign of the girls. This guy know anything?”

  “Ja, we’re looking for a white people smuggler in El Leh.” Kurtz sheathed his knife.

  The Al-Shabaab fighter exhaled.

  Kurtz raised his rifle and shot the extremist through the head. Then he thumbed the mike of his radio. “Toppie, we need a pickup.”

  CHAPTER 2

  TEL AVIV, ISRAEL

  Keila Bachman swiped an access card and entered her office deep within Mossad Headquarters. Striding into the open workspace she shared with her Kidon team she placed a tray of coffees on a conference table and lowered herself into a chair. “Sorry I’m late. Mega queue in the cafeteria.”

  The veteran Mossad agent was dressed in a pencil skirt with a white blouse. It wasn’t her usual attire. An avid athlete her daily dress was usually leggings with a T-shirt. Broad-shouldered with a short ponytail and green eyes she was pretty in an unconventional way.

  Her team left their desks and rolled their chairs across to the table. Keila’s Kidon, or operations team, consisted of six members, including her.

  Abel, a lanky mid-thirties graduate, was her lead analyst. He worked with Jacinta, a middle-aged motherly type and Fahim, a bespectacled twenty-five-year-old male with a fair complexion and flaming red hair. The other two members, operatives Dan and James, were on leave for the next month. James was still recovering from wounds while Dan was recently married and enjoying some well deserved down time with his wife.

  “How did your meeting go with the director?” asked Abel as he reached for his latte.

  “Positive. I outlined the potential in working with Bishop and his team and he agreed to provide additional funding and compartment the project. I’ll report directly to him, and we’ll be the only ones with the complete picture.”

  “That’s good news. It will definitely help keep the dogs at bay,” he said, referring to the poaching of intelligence sources that regularly occurred within the agency.

  “And, with additional resources, we’ll be able to capitalize on the success we’ve already had.” Keila’s team had recently captured a High Value Target with the assistance of a shadowy group of mercenaries operating out of the Emirates.

  “Jacinta, any progress on identifying other members of Bishop’s team?”

  The mother-of-three’s facial expression told Keila that she hadn’t had a breakthrough yet. “None of the other Lascar employees have turned up a lead. According to social media he’s a bit of a loner.”

  “Except for Saneh?” Keila referred to Bishop’s partner and lover, a beautiful woman of Middle Eastern descent with superb espionage skills.

  “Yeah, and all we know is that somewhere in Mossad there’s a sealed file on her,” added Abel. “Did you ask the Director about that?”

  “No. I think it’s best we give him the impression that we’re focused on Bishop and Priority Movements Airlift. I’m not sure if he’s aware of the file on Saneh.”

  “And bringing it to his attention might get the whole project taken off us,” said Abel.

  “Exactly. Now, how are we tracking on Priority Movements assets?”

  “There are a half dozen specialist aircraft listed in their holdings including a LM-100 Hercules, Ilyushin-76 and a Gulfstream ER650,” said Jacinta.

  “And crew?”

  “From what I can ascertain they use Lascar pilots with specialist security from inside Priority Movements.”

  “That’s where Bishop fits in,” added Keila. “Where are we with 8200’s penetration of their communications network?” she asked between sips of her caramel latte.

  Abel was her man when it came to liaison with the Israeli signals intelligence agency. “Making some good progress. They’re focused on mapping the network to identify potential weak points they can penetrate.”

 
“They’ve been unable to break the encryption?” Keila asked.

  “Correct, Asher, the lead analyst, doesn’t want to trip their defenses. They’re going to sneak in through the back door,” said Abel.

  “Good, the last thing we want to do is jeopardize our relationship with Bishop. His access and capability is critical.”

  “Asher also asked if you’re single,” added Abel with a wink.

  Keila blushed into her coffee.

  “First, a hot Aussie and now a charming SIGINT Captain, you’re in demand,” said Jacinta.

  “OK, let’s keep this work focused.”

  “When it rains it pours,” said Fahim.

  She shook her head. “Abel, did they give a likely time frame on penetration of the network?”

  “A week, possibly two. However, they have got some initial reflections that indicate a possible operation running on the Somali Ethiopian border.”

  “That’s interesting.”

  “Yes, I got them to break it off under a separate task number. Didn’t want to put all our eggs in one basket.”

  “Good call.” She clapped her hands. “I’m excited. Once we’ve got access to their communications we’ll be able to truly understand their capacity and put Bishop and his team to work.”

  ***

  ABU DHABI, UAE

  Aden Bishop relaxed on a couch in the living room of his penthouse apartment in Abu Dhabi. The former Australian Army intelligence officer wore a headset and was sipping from a Coopers Pale Ale as he stared at his laptop. His Border Collie, Daisy, was curled up alongside him.

  Dark-haired with a crooked nose and almost black eyes, Bishop looked like he’d been around the block a few times. The man on the other end of the video call, Mitch Freeman, sported a heavy beard and shaved head. Bishop and Mitch were members of PRIMAL, an elite private vigilante organization. Bishop was a field operative while Mitch was the team’s quartermaster and lead pilot. With the organization currently on hiatus, both men had time to work on projects of their own.

  “Mitch, where are you at the moment?” asked Bishop.

  “New Zealand, South Island,” replied Mitch in his crisp British accent.

  “You get down to Queenstown?”

  “I flew into QT and drove out to Central Otago to check out some property for Vance.”

  “The old man looking to retire in the wine country?”

  “Something like that. He bought this old pub a few years back and wanted me to check out the renovations and add a few features. I’d never been to NZ, so I jumped at the opportunity.”

  “Great part of the world, Saneh and I love it.”

  At the sound of her name Bishop’s partner, Afsaneh Ebadi, Saneh to her friends, appeared from the master bedroom dressed in tights, sports bra, and a loose-fitting singlet. The former Iranian operative had long black hair and exotic Middle Eastern features with almond-shaped eyes. Despite being in her late thirties she had a taut, athletic figure. Bishop’s eyes tracked her as she crossed the room. Eight years of emotional turmoil had done little to dampen the feelings he had for her.

  “You guys have fun, I’m off to the gym,” she said, grabbing a sports bag and heading out the door.

  “Things OK with you guys?” asked Mitch, once she had left.

  Bishop shrugged. “I think so. She seems a bit distracted at the moment.”

  “That’s to be expected. It’s a tough time for everyone.”

  Bishop stroked Daisy’s ears. “Tell me about it.”

  “You heard from Mirza?”

  “Yeah, he’s studying law part-time and assisting Sonia on domestic violence and immigration cases. I’d be surprised if they don’t tie the knot soon.” Mirza Mansoor, a former Indian soldier, had been Bishop’s offsider within PRIMAL. When the organization had stood down, he’d moved to London with his partner, Sonia.

  “Good stuff. I’ll have to drop by when I’m next in Blighty. Oh, by the way, I got an update from the shipyard in Siros. Your boat is almost finished. They’re making some final adjustments to the rigging.”

  Bishop grinned. “Sweet, once it’s ready Saneh and I are going to sail it through the Suez and berth it down at the marina. When it’s time to move on we simply up-anchor and the world’s our oyster.”

  “Well, you’re going to be pretty comfortable on a fully automated 112-foot ketch. She’s got all the bells and whistles, and a few extras on the side.” Mitch winked. The former British Ministry of Defence scientist was a master of covert technologies.

  “You ramped up the gym, didn’t you?”

  Mitch shrugged his muscular shoulders and shot Bishop a cheesy grin. “Maybe!”

  “I better not get to Greece and find you’ve turned my baby into a floating fitness center.”

  The Brit laughed. “No, Bish. She meets all your specs and more.”

  “So, when are we going to see you back in the Emirates?” asked Bishop as he finished his beer.

  “End of the month. I’ve got to shoot over to California to check on a few things at the workshop.” Mitch had purchased a private airfield an hour north of Los Angeles. He was in the process of turning the former desert military outpost into a Special Effects facility.

  “Mate, that’s the best retirement plan ever.”

  “Hey, I’ve gotta be able to blow stuff up otherwise I’m going to go insane. Right, I’ve got to love you and leave you, brother. I’ve got a dozen contractors working on Vance’s place and they’re currently unsupervised.”

  “Roger, I’ll catch you soon.” Bishop terminated the call and rose from the couch. Daisy followed his lead and tailed him across to the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the ultra-modern city of Abu Dhabi. From the apartment he could see down to the marina where his ship was soon to be berthed.

  PRIMAL had relocated to the city a little over two years earlier and Bishop hated it. Sleek buildings and shiny malls hid a dark underbelly of greed and waste. It was a city of consumption and Bishop longed to escape it with Saneh, the love of his life. He felt Daisy lean up against his leg and knelt to stroke her ears. “Oh, you’re coming too little lady.”

  ***

  EL LEH, ETHIOPIA

  The engine of a battered, but well-equipped Nissan Patrol labored as it clambered up a slope through thick red mud. Cresting a rise it turned a bend that snaked through dense jungle and emerged into a clearing. The four-wheel drive slid to a halt in front of a grubby concrete-walled building. What had once been a school was now in disrepair. The driver’s side door opened and a heavily muscled Ugandan emerged cradling a compact AK. He eyeballed the ragtag group of rebels standing around the dilapidated structure. “Where are the girls?”

  “Inside,” one of them responded. “With da boss.”

  He nodded and opened the passenger door.

  Ross Krenich stepped out wearing his usual khaki shirt and slacks. “Mukisa, get the kits.”

  The Rhodesian people smuggler waited for his man to pull a rucksack from the rear of the vehicle then followed him into the building. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom he spotted a cluster of scared schoolgirls in one corner of the large room. There were at least twenty of them hunkered together like livestock, rope linking their necks. At the opposite end of the trash and rubble-strewn room a man was sitting on a rusted barrel, smoking a cigarette. Krenich recognized the figure as Dula, the militia leader who’d supplied his previous merchandise. Slight, with a dark scraggly beard and narrow features, he looked like a weasel.

  “Ah, Mr. Ross, back for more of my finest products,” said Dula in heavily accented English.

  “If the last lot were your finest…” He gestured to the women in the corner. “Are these the scraps?”

  Dula dropped off the barrel and flicked his cigarette toward the girls. “We kidnap hundreds. They’re all good.”

  “You’d know.”

  He smirked. “I’ve tried a few.”

  Krenich waved Mukisa forward. “I need to test their blood.”

  �
�What?”

  “The girls, I need to test their blood. The buyers will only pay for healthy ones.”

  His bodyguard opened the rucksack and removed the foil-covered packages provided by the doctor. He handed one to Krenich who tore it open and pulled out the test kit. “I’ll pay double for them. You can sell the others to someone else.”

  Dula considered the offer as he knocked a cigarette from a packet and lit it. “How long will it take?”

  “A day or two.”

  “The price will be triple.”

  “Too much.”

  The militiaman took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Do you know what Ibliisku are?”

  “It’s Somali for devil.”

  “Yes. The Ibliisku have been raiding our camps. They’ve been chasing the girls. The price is triple because we need to move them every day.”

  Krenich held out his hand for a cigarette. “Tell me more about the Ibliisku.”

  Dula lit a second cigarette with the ember of his own and passed it to him. “We don’t know much. They’ve hit three camps and killed dozens of warriors.”

  “They’re after the girls?”

  He nodded. “We think so. They’ve only raided the camps with girls from Mogadishu.”

  “OK, I’ll pay triple. We’ll take samples now and test them.” He took a deep suck on his cigarette. “Meet us here with the girls day after tomorrow. We’ll take the ones that pass. You keep the rest.”

  “Agreed. Payment will be in diamonds.”

  “As you wish.” Krenich finished the cigarette and stubbed out the butt on the side of Duma’s barrel before sliding it into a plastic bag in his pocket. “Can you get your men to line them up? We’ll take the samples and get going.”

  Once the girls were lined up Krenich and his bodyguard moved along them using the sampler extractors to take blood. They marked the cylinders then scribbled a matching number on each girl. As he pressed an extractor against the last girl’s arm she looked up at him with sad eyes. She looked remarkably like one from the previous shipment. Perhaps they were sisters. Pushing the thought from his mind he slid the tube of thick red blood into a foam safety box. “Dula, we’ll see you back here at the school in two days.”