Pirate

by Duncan Falconer

  Stratton watched and listened for a while. But fatigue gradually overcame him and he closed his eyes. He hoped to leave his ears to play sentry for longer. His training warned him to stay on watch and alert but it would have been impossible under the circumstances. He felt confident he would hear anyone approach even in his present state, but if not there was little he could do about it. His back and leg were throbbing and his throat felt like sandpaper. He knew he would drift off to sleep. There were times when things had to be left to fate and the gods.

  Within minutes even the flies couldn’t annoy him. His head eased over to one side and he drifted off.

  The pair of them remained practically motionless for many hours in the shade of the undergrowth. The wind picked up at times and gently rustled the bushes around them. The sun moved across the sky and began to drop down on to the western horizon. A bird landed close by, gave the couple a curious look and moved on. They were dead to the world.

  Bullets suddenly began to tear past Stratton. The air erupted with the sound of gunfire. His eyes were wide with fear as he grappled for the weapon. His face was sweating, his hands bloody and cut. He fired the gun and everything seemed to slow down as he followed the bullet from the muzzle of the weapon. It flew straight towards Hopper, who was on his knees looking directly at Stratton, his blindfold gone, his unshaven face wet with blood and perspiration. When he saw the bullet coming straight for him he began to scream. Yelling Stratton’s name, like he hated the man who had betrayed him. The bullet went into his forehead and punched out the other side. Hopper fell back with the force of the strike and landed on his back where he remained, unmoving, the blood from his head soaking into the sand. And then, like he had become some kind of ghost, he got back up on to his knees and looked at Stratton. The head wound had gone. ‘You missed, you bloody fool. You missed!’

  Stratton sat up with a jolt and grabbed for the weapon that he momentarily forgot he had thrown away. He breathed heavy, sweat running down his face. He quickly glanced around before realising it had been a dream.

  He looked at the girl. She lay in the same position she had fallen asleep in.

  Stratton calmed himself and sat back. Hopper’s image had been vivid. Stratton hadn’t seen the bullet strike the man but he felt sure it had. Doubt suddenly shrouded him. It was possible he had missed. But again he dismissed it, not wanting to face the implications. He assured himself that he had killed his colleague. He had to have.

  Stratton felt his throat. His thirst was painful. He couldn’t see the sun and the evening had come on. He had slept longer than he expected he would.

  As he eased himself on to his knees his entire body cried out in complaint, in particular the wound on his back. Every joint ached. He felt like he had been thrown off a cliff and landed on a pile of boulders. New pains, in his kidneys and his head, were indications that his body was dehydrated. He looked in the direction of the water. Time to get that drink.

  Stratton decided to leave the girl to sleep a while longer. The more rest she got the better. He crawled through the bush to the edge of the scrub from where he could see the water. He checked left and right. There was no sign of danger. He was going to have to break cover at some time. It would get darker yet but he estimated it was enough for him to get to the water and back.

  He moved out, keeping low, covering the open ground in seconds. When he reached the water, he laid down on his belly. It smelled OK although it was hard to see how clear it was. He couldn’t hold back any longer, convincing himself that no matter how bad it was he would live longer with poisoned water than without it. He dipped his face into the cool liquid and gulped in several deep mouthfuls. He immediately fought to control a coughing fit, plunging his head into the water and coughing violently, the noise muffled. He came back up for air and with some difficulty managed to bring the fit under control. The sudden liquid had been too much for his parched throat. A moment later he felt ready for more.

  Stratton made an effort to drink as slowly as he could. The water had a strange taste but he was past caring. It was wonderful to feel it flowing down his throat. When he’d had his fill, he doused his head again, rinsing his hair and washing his face. He could feel the life flowing back into him. It was magical.

  Stratton made his way back to the girl and gently squeezed her arm. She woke with a start and was afraid for a moment until she realised who he was and where they were.

  ‘It’s OK. Everything’s fine,’ he said.

  She took a moment to gather her thoughts, her hand going to her throat.

  ‘Go get a drink,’ he said.

  She got to her knees and headed through the brush.

  ‘Drink slowly,’ he whispered after her.

  He followed, suspecting she hadn’t heard. As he reached the bank, she was already at the water. It was dark enough to almost conceal her from him. She began to cough violently but only for a few seconds as she muffled her mouth. She brought the spasm under control and put her mouth into the water once again.

  He joined her for another drink. It would take several hours for them to recover from the effects of the dehydration.

  When she had had her fill, she sat by the water gently dabbing her face with the bottom of the shirt.

  ‘Better?’ he asked.

  ‘Better,’ she replied.

  ‘You ready for the next phase of this game?’

  ‘The ship?’

  ‘I still think it’s our best bet out of here.’

  ‘What if they search it?’

  Stratton saw the fear in her eyes. It hadn’t been there the day before. The memories of the previous night had clearly frightened her.

  ‘We’ll make an assessment when we get there.’

  She took another drink before rinsing her hair.

  ‘How’re your feet?’ he asked.

  She threw back her hair and sat cross-legged to inspect them. ‘I need to make myself some new shoes.’

  She set about tearing more cloth from the bottom of her trousers and fashioning them into a sandal. ‘Did you kill him?’ she asked.

  Stratton didn’t answer.

  ‘I wish I could have done that for Jimlen,’ she said, like she knew he was uncomfortable with the question. ‘Did you?’ she asked again.

  He believed he had. But he couldn’t be sure.

  ‘Do you feel guilty?’ she asked.

  He flashed a look at her. She was direct. ‘What about?’ he asked.

  ‘You didn’t need to leave him behind when you escaped to search the ship. Why did you?’

  It felt like a punch. ‘The job comes with risks,’ he said. ‘Hopper knew them. You know that too.’

  ‘You would do well in my business,’ she murmured.

  He wondered why she had said that, feeling a tinge of resentment towards her. Like she had an arrogance, talking like she understood all the issues involved. But perhaps it was his guilt again. Something inside of him trying to defend it.

  His ears picked up a sound and he stuck out a hand, warning her to be silent. She froze at the gesture. Then she heard the sound herself. A stick snapped followed by more similar noises. The dull crunch of footsteps in the dry, stony soil became a rhythm.

  If they tried to head back into the scrub, they would most likely be seen. Stratton tapped her shoulder, an order to follow, and eased his way into the water. A reed bed growing out of the shallow water was not far away. They crawled through the water as quickly and as quietly as they could, their hands sinking into the riverbed, pulling at the muddy bottom. The ripples they formed mingled with those created by the gentle breeze.

  They saw a line of men approaching, walking between the riverbank and the bushes. As Stratton made out the dark silhouettes, at first it looked like two or three men. But as the angle changed, the line grew longer and they saw more men. Maybe just less than a dozen. Stratton and the girl moved behind the reeds as the first man reached the bank where they had crossed from the bushes. They lowered themselves until only their
eyes were out of the water. Not great cover but as long as the jihadists didn’t stop and examine the location, they would be OK.

  The first man walked past, his long shirt brushing the line of bushes. The second man stepped close behind. They all wore turban-like headdresses and all but the man in front carried their weapons slung over their shoulders. But as he looked at them, Stratton got the feeling that none was particularly vigilant, each watching the heels of the man in front as they trudged along. They looked like they were heading somewhere rather than patrolling.

  They soon passed out of sight, their shadowy figures melding with the dark bushes and occasional straggly tree. It was going to be a long night.

  11

  Stratton eased himself to his feet, felt the water running through his clothes. He could see no further evidence of the enemy. Time for him and the girl to get going too.

  It was much darker than the night before. Clouds had moved in to shroud the moon and stars. Dozens of small lights flickered in the trees on the lower hills where the Al-Shabaab camp was. A campfire burned on the highest crest beyond. A watching post perhaps.

  Stratton turned slowly around in order to take a look in each direction. When he stopped, he faced the coast, far off out of sight. Lights flickered in the distance. Hand-held flashlights. Moving but too far away to be of a threat to them, at that moment at least.

  His general assessment had been that the warriors were manning all obvious routes through the area. He could imagine how angry Sabarak must have been, not only with Stratton’s assault on the camp and his attempts to kill him, but his subsequent escape. Sabarak knew Stratton was still somewhere in the immediate area and he would be desperate to get his hands on him. Sabarak would also be fully aware of the dangers to his operations if Stratton were to succeed in getting out of the country and back to his own people. That would make Stratton a very high-priority target.

  ‘What do you think?’ the girl asked. She knew the question sounded like an enquiry of the current situation but in reality she wanted to know about everything. He looked supremely confident, as ever, but it wasn’t enough for her. Not right then. She felt in a weakened state and extremely vulnerable.

  ‘I think we’re going to have to take it very carefully if we want to get back to the coast without running into any of Sabarak’s people. He cannot afford either of us to get away from here. He doesn’t know what we know. And that’s what’s bothering him.’

  ‘So what’s the plan?’

  He was eyeing a large piece of broken tree trunk lying at the water’s edge.

  ‘Swim.’

  She looked like she was contemplating the proposal, then nodded to herself. ‘Easier on the feet,’ she said.

  He walked further into the water. It grew deeper with each step. He stopped when it reached his chest and thought the idea through some more.

  He stepped back out of the water and to the log, grabbed hold of an end and took the strain to test its weight. It moved fairly easily considering its size, suggesting it was hollow. He lifted up the end, shuffled it around so that he had it parallel with the water’s edge and gently rolled it in. Bubbles came up as it absorbed the water and it quickly settled, a couple of inches of bark above the surface. He wanted to use it for cover as well as a flotation aid. He decided it would be adequate for both.

  Stratton looked up at the thick, swirling clouds. He wasn’t familiar with the seasons or weather patterns of Somalia but it looked like rain was imminent.

  ‘I think we should stay in the water for as long as we can,’ he said. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly. All she could think of was what would happen to her if they caught her. In truth, she was afraid to even move. But she was even more afraid to stay. It was a living hell. Getting to the coast unseen was only one part of the drama. The worst was yet to come. Getting back to civilisation seemed to be as impossible as getting to the moon right then.

  Stratton took hold of the front of the log and pulled it into the deeper water. The girl followed, taking hold of the log, swimming within a few metres. Stratton lost touch with the bottom and he began to swim easily, one hand on the log, the other pushing the water behind him, his feet kicking gently below.

  They swam the trunk soundlessly into the open water, keeping closer to the east side of the river to put as much distance as possible between them and the bank that the Somalis had patrolled.

  He felt comfortable with the overall plan so far. Walking would have been quicker but it would have left them more exposed. There were risks with the waterborne option but after weighing them all, Stratton had decided it was safer than by land.

  He estimated the beach to be around seven kilometres north. The town was another two or three kilometres west of where the river met the sea. He doubted they would be able to move the log more than two kilometres an hour. Add an hour to walk along the beach. If their progress wasn’t interrupted, that would bring them within sight of the cargo vessels with enough time to swim out to sea, approach the ship from the opposite side to the beach and climb on board before dawn.

  As they swam, Stratton kept a wary eye in all directions. He suspected the jihadists’ efforts to contain the area would be focused on their own side of the water. But he couldn’t afford to underestimate them. The camp was even more visible from the far side of the river, illuminated by a sprinkling of electrical lights, kerosene lamps and campfires. It also looked bigger than he had estimated from the rocky slope above it, spreading much further around the side of the hill. A conservative estimate of the number of men it contained, based on the crowd that had turned out for the executions and allowing for patrols and outlying control points, had to be approximately three to four hundred. He wondered how he would attack such a place, how many men would be required and the best way to approach it. Attacking the camp was certainly something to aim for to destroy the missiles. He wondered if the Yanks or the Brits currently had the appetite for such an adventure. The political and legal ramifications would be obvious. But if they didn’t, many people would probably die. Stratton put his money on them mounting an assault – as long as he could get back to tell them what he knew.

  If an attack did happen, Stratton could only hope that he would be a part of it. If so, he would make a point of finding Sabarak personally and tearing him apart.

  As they progressed along the river, the dense bushes receded from the banks and the reed beds in the water became sparser. That all served to increase their exposure, which was a concern to Stratton. Because one of his contingencies on seeing signs of the enemy had been to leave the water and move into the scrub. That option appeared to be fast disappearing.

  But as he thought, the dark clouds that had been thickening above them throughout the evening opened up and the rain started and came down in torrents. So heavy it looked like the water was boiling, the drops themselves like tiny pebbles hitting them.

  ‘At least the flies have gone,’ she called out above the noise.

  And not just the flies would be taking cover, he thought. He very much doubted the Somalis would remain on exposed watch in this kind of weather.

  ‘Let’s up the pace,’ he called out. There was no telling how long the rain would last and they had to make the most of it. Cover from noise and the disturbance of the water meant they could increase their activity and make as much headway as possible.

  They pounded through the relentless rain, immune to the chill of the water. Soon the river began to widen. They pushed on at a good pace, enough for Stratton to alter their estimated time of arrival at the Oasis. But then they saw the enemy. Stratton wasn’t in the least surprised. The first sign of the jihadists since they began their swim.

  It was a distant light on the west bank.

  He found it difficult to see beyond the banks because the surface of the water was well below the level of the land. The light seemed to be on the riverbank. As they drew closer, it looked more and more like a vehicle heading down to the water.
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  Stratton slowed his efforts and concentrated on it. They might have to get out of the water. The rain pelted them and they watched the vehicle come on. The single light gradually became two headlights as it turned a little more in their direction. When a few hundred metres away, the lights swept over the river as the vehicle made a tight turn to face right at it. The vehicle came to a halt with the headlights shining across the river and illuminating the opposite bank.

  Stratton had two immediate thoughts. The enemy was setting up a control point or the vehicle was aiming to drive across the river. Then he remembered the track he passed on the approach to the jihadist camp, a track that headed in the direction of the river. He was probably looking at the same place. Perhaps the track led to a ford. Maybe it was a local truck, nothing to do with the jihadists.

  They maintained their progress while they still had time to decide whether to pass it in the water or move to the land. The rain continued to fall heavily, providing good cover. In the absence of much scrub on either bank, they would be silhouetted even in the darkened conditions and so the water remained the best option.

  The truck’s headlights went off. Stratton could just about make out its silhouette against the distant lighter skies. He decided to remain on course and keep close to the opposite bank, a good football pitch’s width from the truck at that point.

  No sooner had he made the decision when small hand-held lights appeared in front of the truck. It looked like men had been at the river and had emerged from cover when the truck arrived.

  Stratton weighed the risks, which still remained in favour of the water option. If the people with the flashlights had been watching the river, they would be currently distracted by the truck. Their night vision would also be temporarily disrupted because of their lights.

  The rain continued to come down in heavy sheets as Stratton, the girl and the log closed on the point where the truck faced the river. The noise made by the rain hitting the water continued to drown out all other sounds. They couldn’t hear the truck’s engine if it was still running. Judging by the flashlights, the sentries remained preoccupied with the vehicle. Stratton’s confidence that they could get past unnoticed increased.