by Conrad Jones
“He had never met Adid. He told us that Adid had a turn in his eye, which was not much help in this city.”
Young Somali men carried weapons and joined a militia as soon as they were strong enough to carry a gun. Few lived into their teens without sporting scars or war wounds. Glass eyes and facial injuries were commonplace.
“Roger that. Have the bodies been searched?” John Tankersley joined in the communication. He was situated a half a mile away from the scene in the ruins of a derelict building. His colleagues called him Tank, and he was the taskforce’s lead agent. On this particular operation, he was consigned to the backup unit, which consisted of him and four other taskforce members. They had to be hidden. The presence of a seventeen stone white male with a shaven head, accompanied by four heavily armed men dressed as Robocop would not go unnoticed in the centre of Mogadishu.
“The unit are checking the bodies now, but so far we have zilch,” Grace replied.
“It’s your call Major,” Tank said. The city was a ticking time bomb and their presence there would not go undetected for very long. The sound of gunfire had been kept to a minimum by the use of suppressors but heavily armed militiamen in their technicals constantly patrolled the empty streets. If Adid was amongst the dead then his absence couldn’t be kept a secret for very long before his remaining troops realised that he had not returned to his safe house.
“Roger that. Our tech people are analysing the data from the drone. Now that we have the details of the vehicle that he was travelling in, we can trace back through the footage to see where its journey originated,” the Major wanted this mission completed and wrapped up as soon as was physically possible. He was on board the Nimitz-class carrier The Ronald Reagan, and although he had served for many years in the Royal Marines, he had never gotten used to sailing. He didn’t have sea legs at all. Seasickness was amplified on carriers like the Ronald Reagan because they are powered by two nuclear reactors, which drive a huge water turbine. The turbine propels the vessel through the oceans in virtual silence. The sensation of being below decks without any engine noise added to the sick feeling.
The Major was handed a series of aerial photographs and a Tech pointed to the relevant areas on the operations map. The Major assessed the information from the drone and spoke into the coms unit.
“Pilgrim one, I’m sending in a Heli-vac for your unit. You can’t achieve anything more there,” he said.
“Roger that, we’ll be at the rendezvous point in five minutes.” Grace made a circular motion with her right hand and then pointed it toward a narrow street one hundred yards down the road. Her unit moved silently in combat formation toward their extraction point. The dead Somalis were left bleeding in the dirt, and swarms of flies were already feasting on their carcasses.
“Pilgrim two the vehicles started out from a small compound three blocks to the east of your position. There appears to be some activity taking place there,” the Major nodded to the Tech and indicated that he wanted the live feed from the drone patched onto the screen in the command centre. The screen flickered to life and the ancient city appeared on it. The aerial view was segmented by gridlines.
“Roger that, what type of activity Major?” Tank asked.
“It’s difficult to say, but there are a dozen or so armed men in and around the compound. It looks like an abandoned open air Souk with one main entrance gate on its west wall. The gate is being guarded by two men in a technical,” the Major relayed what he could see on the detailed pictures from the drone.
“What is the E.T.A. for the extraction helicopter?” Tank asked. The sight of an American Navy helicopter flying over the city would create mayhem on the streets below. Every militia in the city would call its men to arms. Tank was hoping that its arrival would create enough of a diversion for his unit to take a sneaky look at what, or who was being guarded inside the Souk.
“Six minutes exactly,” the Major replied. He already knew what Tank was thinking. They had an understanding that came from years of working together.
“I need ten minutes at least to get to that Souk before the chopper stirs up a storm,” Tank made a circular movement with his hand and then pointed his fingers to the east. The four-taskforce men moved as a unit to the jagged hole in the building that was once a door. The compacted sandy road had a pinkish tinge to it. The buildings around them had flat roofs and were rendered with yellowed plaster. They scoured the road, and it was clear in both directions before Tank and his men began to slither stealthily between the ruined buildings toward the old market place. At certain points, the road narrowed to nothing more than an alleyway, three yards wide, and the path was strewn with shattered bricks and debris.
“Roger that Pilgrim two, you have ten minutes before the extraction. You’d better get in and out of there before the city comes down on you, check out the souk and then lay low until sundown and then we’ll extract your unit.”
“Roger that, are there any more details from the pictures on the Souk?”
“There are two men with a fifty calibre on a technical at the main gate. The others are either inside, or on top of the walls.” The Major noticed a shadow moving at the rear of the building near the market wall. “Wait a minute.”
Tank moved with his men through the dusty alleyways and empty streets. There wasn’t a single building intact, let alone occupied. This sector of Mogadishu was completely deserted. The families that once lived there, were born there, educated there, married there and ultimately kept the wheel of civilisation turning there, had long since fled the violence.
“There is one x-ray on the north wall of the Souk. I can’t see him fully, so I’m presuming that he’s in a doorway. He seems to be sheltering from the sun, but it looks like he’s a sentry,” the Major explained.
“Roger that. That’s our way in,” Tank clicked the coms unit twice to signal that they were now approaching bandit country, and he could no longer safely speak out loud. He could hear the familiar drumming of a helicopter engine in the far distance. He could also hear the distinctive rattle of AK-47 machineguns. The militias on the ground were emptying magazines of nine millimetre bullets into the sky, despite the fact that by the time they’d realised what it was that was flying over them, it was too late to fire at it effectively. The taskforce man who was at point suddenly froze and held up an open hand, which was the signal to stop. Tank and his unit crouched low and tried to melt into the crumbling brick walls, which surrounded them. The heat was becoming unbearable and dust clung to their sweat covered skin. Tank checked his men visually, all elite agents, and the very best counter terrorist operatives available. They had been trained to fight in extreme conditions and they couldn’t be any more extreme than this. Flies buzzed around their heads looking for a quick meal. His men all made an okay sign with their fingers, to let him know that they had no problems at this stage. The uneven ground and intense heat was putting incredible stress on their bodies. He had to check regularly that everyone was ‘A’ okay. Heat stroke could creep up on a man in this climate, and affect his judgement.
The point man was situated to the left hand side of a ragged doorway. Huge chunks of brick had been blasted away by stray munitions. The point man looked around the opening and then curled his index finger to summon Tank over to his position. The sun was beating down on them through a huge hole where the roof once was. Tank could feel beads of sweat trickling down his back as he slowed his breathing down to a minimum. Sweat tickled his neck and face as it ran from beneath his armoured helmet, and made its way south in tiny rivers across his skin. He reached the point man barely making a sound.
The point man nodded toward the left, and Tank slowly peered around a splintered doorframe. There were two pairs of feet dangling from a wooden platform fifty yards away. The feet wiggled gently and Tank could hear the voices of their owners chattering in Somali. They appeared to be two militiamen sitting on the remnants of a first storey bedroom floor. The front elevation of the building had been destroyed, wh
ich had left the upper floor exposed. It offered the militiamen a good view of the surrounding streets, and an excellent position from which to take out rival militias who ventured into their sector of the city.
The militiamen were in between the counter terrorist unit and the market, and the clock was ticking. Tank pointed to the dangling feet on the left, and then he indicated that the agent who was on point should take care of their owner. He repeated the process with the second pair, indicating that he would deal with them personally. Silently the taskforce men advanced through the rubble of what was once someone’s kitchen. The air was stifling and Tank’s body armour was saturated with sweat as they crept beneath the Somali militiamen. The ancient floorboards above them creaked, and then there was a loud bumping sound. Something heavy had landed on the floor above them and dust billowed down onto the taskforce men. Tank froze and held up his hand, a signal to stop.
The Somali men began laughing and there was another loud bumping sound, which was followed by another avalanche of dust and grit. Two pairs of legs wiggled as the Somalis laughed. Tank guessed that they were throwing stones from the rubble at impromptu targets, unseen to the counter terrorist unit below. He motioned his colleague forward again and they were less than three yards away from the dangling legs when the Somalis stopped laughing. There was an excited exchange of words between the militiamen.
The sound of the approaching Heli-vac was now clearly audible, although it was still far away. The drumming of the engines combined with the staccato of distant machinegun fire had startled the two men, and they were obviously debating what their next plan of action was to be. Tank signalled with three fingers held up, and a silent countdown began. Three, two, one, and the taskforce men moved like lightening. Tank grabbed one skinny ankle with his right hand and pulled down hard. The Somali made a squawking noise as he fell through the dusty air, and he hit the rubble-strewn ground with a heavy thump. Tank was surprised how light the man was. There was barely any resistance. He was on top of him in a flash, his serrated commando knife was hurtling toward the prone Somali’s throat, and then his brain registered several things at once. The man was too light, his clothes were too baggy, his eyes were too frightened and his face was that of a boy. Tank pulled the blade to the right at the last second and it plunged into the compacted sandy floor beneath his head. The Somali could not have been any more than twelve years old. The boy stared at Tank with wild frightened eyes, his mouth was open but there was no sound coming from him. Tank looked around to see how the second Somali had fared. He was lying on his back with his head hanging unnaturally to the side, staring with a lifeless gaze. His tongue was lolling from the side of his mouth and his lifeblood was gushing from a deep rent in his throat. Tank reckoned him to be older, not by much, but definitely not a boy. He signalled to the taskforce men behind him. They moved through the doorway as one slick unit and joined them.
“Tie him up next to his friend,” Tank whispered. There was a look of uncertainty in the eyes of the agent that he’d spoken to. Tank saw it and asked, “Is there a problem?”
The agent knew better than to question an order from a senior ranking officer, especially if his name was John Tankersley. The problem was that on a mission as dangerous and covert as this one, no witnesses could be left behind, no matter how old they were. The agent grabbed the frightened boy and dragged him to where his dead friend was laid. He took a plasti-cuff from his utility strap and fastened it tightly around the boy’s wrists. Tears ran freely down the boy’s black skin, making shiny trails across his grimy face. He was shaking like a leaf. The agent reached across to the dead Somali and ripped a strip of material from his shirt. The young boy knew that it was to become a gag and he cooperated without even a whimper. The Somali militias grew up fast, and this young boy realised that his survival depended on being quiet, not being brave. The sight of his friend bleeding out like a pig in a butcher’s shop confirmed his logic.
“I don’t think that we should be leaving him behind, Tank,” the agent whispered into the coms unit.
“You don’t need to think, you need to follow orders,” Tank hissed back across the coms.
“Pilgrim two, do we have a problem?” the Major’s voice broke into the conversation.
“No problem, Sir,” Tank replied. “Number three was expressing his opinion,” he added sarcastically.
“Number three needs to keep any opinions to himself and get on with this damned mission!” the Major said annoyed that there had been any level of dissent at all. It wasn’t tolerated in the military at all, and the Special Forces units were even more unforgiving. “Are you clear, Number three?”
“Roger that, Sir,” the agent replied. He looked at Tank as he spoke and wiped a thick sheen of perspiration from his face with his sleeve. The look in Tank’s eyes told him nothing. It was like looking into a shark’s eyes, as they gave nothing away at all.
“Check that he’s secured and then we move,” Tank ordered. A second agent checked the bindings, and he added a plasti-cuff tie to the boy’s legs as a final measure. The unit moved out of the ruined building and scurried across the narrow road. There was an alleyway between the buildings opposite. Tank checked the compass on his wrist and signalled the unit to move on. A hundred yards down the alleyway, the walls became higher and offered them both shelter from the burning sun, and cover from snipers. They reached a ruin that looked like it had once been a bakery of some type. There were stone ledges fixed to the walls and two large brick ovens. Beyond through an empty window Tank could see the high walls of a compound across the street.
His unit had reached the Souk and they took cover behind the ruins of a stone bread oven. The helicopter would pass over in a minute, and then the fun would begin.
Chapter Five
The Child Taker
Hayley sat on a folding camping chair. It was made from tubular metal and rainbow striped canvas, and her husband said that you needed a pilot’s licence to erect it. She was reading the story of ‘Puff the Magic Dragon’ to the twins as they dozed off to sleep snuggled up in a double sleeping bag. They had been asleep for at least five minutes now but she treasured the time that she had with her little angels, and so she read on for her own sake while she watched them. The air inside the tent was hot and stuffy, and it was tainted with the smell of the synthetic chemicals that made the structure waterproof. She didn’t like the tent one bit, although the surroundings were fabulous. A squadron of Crane flies were hopelessly trying to barge their way out through the roof of the tent. Occasionally one of the clumsy insects would bounce off the battery-powered lantern that hung from the apex of the tent, and then spiral out of control toward Hayley. She hated insects of any description, but especially flying ones with huge gangly legs. The thought of them becoming entangled in her hair made her feel sick. She lashed out with her children’s book as another hopeless insect hurtled towards her. The insect took a direct hit and was launched into an involuntary warp speed freefall, which ended fatally with a collision against a camping stove.
Sarah opened her eyes sleepily, and frowned at her mother. The flapping pages of Puff the Magic Dragon’s storybook had disturbed her slumber.
“What are you doing, Mummy?” she mumbled.
“Nothing, angel, you go back to sleep,” her mother lied.
“Were you killing beasties?” the little girl whispered.
“Yes, but don’t worry, they’re all gone now,” Hayley chuckled at her daughter’s perceptiveness. There was no fooling Sarah at all, whereas Zak could be gullible. His sibling had been born first, and so she was technically older than he was, which was something she reminded him of at every point of opportunity. Sarah wrapped her brother around her little finger. She was somehow much smarter, not more intelligent, she was just cannier.
“I don’t like beasties, Mummy.”
“No, baby, neither do I.”
“Do you think Puff the Magic Dragon would eat all the beasties up?” Sarah closed her eyes and licked h
er lips, and before her mother had contemplated whether the kindly Dragon in her book did actually eat Crane flies or not, she was fast asleep. She turned her head toward her sleeping brother, and he placed his tiny arm over her shoulder, as if he was protecting her.
“Sleep tight little angels, I love you both so much,” Hayley whispered and pulled their sleeping bag up an inch. The temperature inside the tent plummeted at night. Hayley grimaced at the thought of reaching through the Crane fly squadron to turn the lantern down a shade, but she was saved by the arrival of her sunburnt husband. The zip on the flysheet rasped noisily as he opened it up to gain entry. “Shush, you clumsy man! They’ve only just gone off to sleep.”
“Good because the barbecue is glowing and the sausages are nearly cooked,” her husband clapped his hands together playfully as if he was excited about a plate of charcoaled sausage. Hayley noticed that his hands were black.
“Look at the state of your hands, Karl. I hope you haven’t been touching the food with them,” she scolded him.
