by Mike Maden
Since it was likely neither Muwanga nor Harris calling him, Moi snapped off the phone again, but now he was wide awake.
Damn it. It was only 3:22 p.m. He decided to fetch a cold beer from his refrigerator. He padded barefoot across the silken, handwoven carpet toward the tiled kitchen area. The cold marble felt good on his aching feet. He flung open the stainless-steel Bosch refrigerator and yanked out a frosty cold Stella Artois. As he was twisting off the bottle cap, the phone rang again. He took a long swig and marched back over to the phone, slamming the glass bottle down on the nightstand. With any luck, he’d have the fool on the other end of the line in chains before nightfall and a twelve-volt car battery clamped onto his balls.
Moi snatched up the ringing phone.
“Who is this?” As an educated Kenyan, Moi spoke excellent though heavily accented English. Like many Africans, he was conversant, if not fluent, in several tribal languages, but in the polyglot world of Mogadishu, the English tongue was the most commonly employed, particularly among African troops. “This is an unlisted number.”
“Colonel Moi, turn on your television set.”
Moi cursed under his breath. The voice was a white man’s. An American, he guessed. Moi stared incredulously at the phone. “My television set?”
“Yes, the big eighty-inch LCD hanging there on the wall in front of you.”
Moi glanced at his eighty-inch Samsung LCD television, a gift from a local Somali government official in his debt.
“How in the blazes do you know about my television?”
“I know a lot of things about you, Colonel Moi. Why don’t you turn it on, and I’ll tell you all about yourself.”
“When I get my hands on you, you shall learn things about me you wish you did not know.”
“Keep yammering and it’s gonna cost you one million pounds sterling.”
That caught Moi’s attention. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your bank account in the Cayman Islands. Do you want me to tell you the account number?”
Moi frowned. How could he possibly know about that? “Fine. I will turn it on.”
Moi picked up the remote control and snapped on his television. It was linked to a satellite service. What he saw made him nearly crap his camouflaged pants. It was a crystal-clear infrared image of his compound from several thousand feet above.
The colonel quickly pulled on his combat boots and laced them up without taking his eyes off of the screen. When he finished, he approached the television and studied the image closely from just inches away. It was a live feed and he could make out each of his twenty soldiers at their various stations around the compound, even the ones loafing in the barracks. There was even a glowing gray image of him located in his second-story penthouse.
“Satellite imagery. Impressive,” Moi acknowledged. Obviously, the white man had some sort of satellite reconnaissance capability at his disposal. That likely meant he was with the American government.
“What does the CIA want with me? And what is your name?” Moi asked again, but in a less threatening tone.
“I’m not with the CIA. I’m a private citizen. A businessman, to be specific. As far as you’re concerned, my nationality is money, and my name isn’t important.” This time the American’s voice boomed out of the television’s surround-sound system. “And you can turn your phone off now. No point in running up your bill.”
Moi shut his phone and pocketed it. “Then what do you want, Private Citizen?”
“I’ve had my eye on you for a while, Colonel,” the voice on the phone said. “You’re a man of routine, like most military men are. Routine makes men predictable. It also makes them targetable.”
Red target reticles suddenly appeared on each of the men visible in the high-definition video image and tracked them as they sauntered through the compound. Fortunately for Moi, no reticle appeared over his image, at least not yet.
“Not satellite. Predator,” Moi confidently concluded with a smile. Satellites couldn’t target men on the ground like that.
“Bingo. And what I want from you is to deliver the CSB shipment to the refugee camp as you promised, and I want you to do it right now.”
“Oh, so you are a Good Samaritan as well?”
The American laughed. “Me? Hardly. The Good Samaritan gave his money away.”
“It sounds to me like you want the CSB for yourself, Private Citizen. It is worth quite a bit of cash.”
“I was hired to make sure you fulfilled your contract, nothing more. One way or another, the CSB will be delivered today.”
“That is not possible. The Shabaab militia would like nothing more than for me to expose this shipment to one of their terror squads who would either steal it or burn it.”
“There hasn’t been a Shabaab militia unit in Mog in over six months. You know that better than I do.”
“African politics are quite complicated. Since you are a foreigner, I can hardly expect you to understand,” Moi insisted. He kept his eyes glued to the television set. He was glad that his image still wasn’t targeted.
“To tell you the truth, I hate politics, African or otherwise. I’ve lost way too many friends because of it. And we both know you’re stalling. You’re holding the CSB shipment hostage. My employer wants to know why. He’s already paid you to ensure safe delivery of each shipment.”
“I have broken no agreement. The food is safe here with me and will be shipped out when the conditions warrant.”
“What conditions? And don’t hand me any Shabaab bullshit either.”
Moi quickly weighed his options. He could bolt out of the room, but then what would he do? His unit didn’t have any antiaircraft weapons to speak of. If he entered the compound, there was a chance he’d be targeted and taken out by a Predator. But if he could get to his Land Rover, he might be able to escape, but then again, a Predator could easily track that, too.
“Colonel, you’re pissing me off. The clock’s ticking.”
“My apologies.” Moi swallowed hard. He hadn’t apologized to any man in over twenty years, even when he was in the wrong. “My expenses have gone up. There are more government officials to bribe. And the roads are increasingly dangerous. Not from Shabaab, of course, but from street gangs and even those filthy Djiboutis.” He was referring to one of the other AU peacekeeper nations with forces stationed in the sprawling city.
“So you want more money? Jeezus. How much is enough?”
“A question for the ages, Private Citizen. But I might ask you the same. What is Harris paying you? I shall double it.”
“With what?”
“With the money I have in the Caymans account.”
“You mean the one million?” the American asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Or did you mean the three million? There are three accounts in three separate Cayman banks, each worth just over a million. Look.”
Moi gulped when his three separate account statements were displayed on the big plasma screen.
“The only problem, Colonel Moi, is that you don’t have any money. At least not anymore.”
Moi watched the balances of each account zero out.
“You are no businessman. You are a thief!”
“I only returned the money to my employer for your failure to abide by the terms of your contract. He’ll use it to buy more food supplies, which will probably be stolen by some other petty tyrant.”
“Tell Lord Harris that if my money is not returned immediately, I shall order my men to dump the CSB into the ocean, and I shall not let one grain of food pass on to the camps in the future.”
“You drive a hard bargain, Colonel.”
Moi smiled. “Thank you. I take that as a compliment.”
“You shouldn’t.”
Muffled thunder boomed overhead. Moi instinc
tively flinched. He recognized the sound of large-caliber rifle fire and the whir of rotor blades. Moi watched in horror as the plasma screen switched to multiple live video images from several overhead cameras, all of them at much lower altitudes, swooping and careening over the compound.
One by one, Moi watched his men fall, each dropped by a single shot fired from a laser-targeted sniper rifle mounted on one of several Autonomous Rotorcraft Sniper Systems (ARSS)—small, unmanned helicopters. Within moments, all of his men were dead, down, or fleeing for cover.
“Not Predators. ARSS. Impressive,” Moi admitted. He was, after all, a military man. Sniper rounds continued to fire.
“Hellfire II missiles cost a hundred thousand dollars apiece. Lots of collateral damage, too, which is also expensive. I took out each of your men with a single .338 Lapua Magnum cartridge at a cost of just four dollars apiece. It’s important to control costs in business operations, don’t you think?”
Moi stared at the plasma television. He was numb with disbelief. His entire command had been effortlessly destroyed by remote control. Chopper blades beat in the humid air outside of his penthouse. He glanced over just in time to watch a gray-skinned ARSS lower to the level of his balcony. The hovering unmanned helicopter was the size of a pickup truck and it pointed a suppressed RND 2000 sniper rifle directly at him from a turret fixed to the starboard runner. The roar of the rotor blades was barely muted by the thick double-paned glass of the penthouse’s sliding glass doors.
Another image suddenly appeared on the television. Moi watched himself being watched by the ARSS targeting camera. It almost amused him.
“And now it is the paid assassin’s turn to kill me,” Moi lamented.
“I told you, I wasn’t hired to kill you.”
Moi shook his head. “What is to become of me then?”
Another overhead image popped up on the big screen: a convoy of AU vehicles racing through the streets of Mogadishu.
“General Muwanga will be here shortly to take you into custody. I don’t need to tell you what kind of reception you’re likely to receive in his interrogation facility. He’ll also supervise the delivery of the CSB.”
“That fat meddler. Why did he not have the guts to assault me himself?”
“The AU can’t afford another fiasco. Neither can the Western aid agencies. Their donors are getting fed up with all of the corruption. And a pitched gun battle between African peacekeepers over stolen food would only embolden Shabaab and their al-Qaeda masters. So I was hired to clean up the mess.”
“I may yet be able to afford General Muwanga a surprise or two,” Moi boasted. He stormed over to a nearby closet and pulled out his personal weapon, an Israeli-built TAR-21 bullpup assault rifle. He favored the futuristic compact design over the dated but reliable Heckler & Koch G3 weapon system that was standard issue in the poorly funded Kenyan Defence Forces.
The ARSS yawed a few degrees. Moi froze. The giant sniper rifle’s suppressed barrel seemed to be pointed at his head.
BAM! The sliding glass door shattered as the sniper rifle fired. Chunks of glass rained down on Moi as he dropped to the ground with a thud.
“Sorry about that,” the American said. “Had to clean up one last item.”
Moi was confused. He turned around. A splintered bullet hole was carved in the door. Thick red blood oozed beneath it and seeped into the fringes of the handwoven silk carpet. Moi’s last surviving soldier had crept up into the stairwell to hide—and die.
Moi scrambled to his feet, embarrassed, and snatched up his rifle. He detached the magazine from the butt stock and checked it to make sure it was fully loaded.
“How long until the general arrives?” Moi asked.
“Six minutes, judging by his current speed. But there’s an alternative.”
“I look forward to putting a bullet in his fat, ugly face.” Moi racked a round into the chamber.
“If General Muwanga takes you alive, the Ugandan government will humiliate your prime minister, and your uncle will no doubt be dismissed from his cabinet position and will most likely be arrested and executed after a show trial, along with several other members of your family, all of whom have profited from your misadventures. Your name will live in infamy, your family will bear unforgivable shame, and your nation will suffer a loss of prestige it can ill afford.”
Moi frowned with despair.
“However,” the disembodied voice continued, “an arrangement has been negotiated. If General Muwanga finds you and your entire command killed, it will be reported that you and your soldiers bravely died to a man defending a humanitarian food shipment from a Shabaab assault. You’ll be buried with full military honors, and the surviving members of your family will enjoy the everlasting fame of your exploits.”
“My uncle will see through this charade. He will demand retribution,” Moi insisted.
The voice laughed. “Your uncle is the one who suggested it.”
Moi’s shoulders slumped with resignation. He glanced at the ARSS still hovering outside of the shattered glass door. He calculated that a headshot from this range should be easy for the American. Moi’s back stiffened, as if he were suddenly on parade.
“I should be grateful if you would do the honor, Private Citizen. I prefer to die as a soldier.”
“Then you should have lived like one, Colonel.”
Moi wilted again.
“Yes, I suppose I should have.”
He crossed over to his bed. He was tired now. He wished he’d been allowed to have his nap. “You have thought of everything, Private Citizen. I commend you on your efficiency. Your employer should be satisfied with the services you have rendered today.”
“We aim to please.”
And with that, Moi lifted the short barrel of the TAR-21 and placed it in his mouth. He began taking deep breaths to gather his courage. On the fourth inhalation, he found it. The rifle cracked and the top of his skull exploded, spattering blood and brain tissue onto the spinning fan blades above his bed.
Near the Snake River, Wyoming
Troy Pearce was still lean and cut like a cage fighter despite the strands of silver in his jet-black hair. His careworn face and weary blue eyes belonged to a combat veteran who’d seen too much trouble in the world.
“Satisfied, Sir Harris?” Pearce asked.
Sir Harris had watched the entire Somali operation unfold in a live feed while sitting in his country manor outside of London. They spoke via an encrypted satellite channel.
“Perfectly, Mr. Pearce. I trust you had no casualties on your end?”
“That’s why I use drones, sir. The safety of my people is my top priority. Accomplishing the mission is second.”
“Outstanding. Your team has accomplished the mission brilliantly, as expected. I don’t suppose you’d be kind enough to upload that final footage to my intranet server?”
“Did you get that, Ian?” Pearce asked.
A thick Scottish brogue rumbled in Pearce’s earpiece. “On its way now.” Ian McTavish was Pearce’s IT administrator and a certified computer genius.
“Of course.” Pearce was running this mission out of a specially equipped luxury motor home he used on occasion. It was parked on one hundred acres of secluded woodlands next to a rough-hewn cabin hand-built by his grandfather sixty years ago.
Pearce added, “The CSB is scheduled to arrive at the camp by midnight, local time. General Muwanga will contact you directly when it’s delivered. I assume you’ve already made the financial arrangements with him?”
“Yes. I just hope we won’t be employing your services again, Mr. Pearce. Heaven knows the Western powers committed their share of crimes in the past, but it seems that the greatest challenges too many Africans face these days come from the hands of other Africans.”
“I wouldn’t worry about Muwanga. When he finds Moi’s command torn to pieces,
he’ll understand the true cost of breaking his contract with you. With any luck, the word will get around to the other pirates and pissants and they’ll leave you alone.”
“Yes, quite.” Sir Harris chuckled.
“My people will be providing top cover for the relief convoy, and then our contract is fulfilled.”
“Splendid. Thanks again for your service, Mr. Pearce, and your discretion. And please congratulate your team on my behalf.”
“I’ll pass it along. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another matter to attend to.”
Pearce broke the satellite connection and shut down his computer. His highly trained team of professionals on the ground in Somalia already had their orders and didn’t require any further supervision from him. Pearce had other fish to fry.
Literally.
It was just after sunrise. The trout would already be biting. Time to break in the new fly rod.
3
On board Air Force One
It was nearly midnight and they were still an hour away from landing in Denver. Despite objections by the Secret Service over the enormous security risks, President Margaret Myers had attended the memorial service for Ryan Martinez and the Cinco de Mayo massacre victims and their families in El Paso earlier that day.
The galley steward had just cleared away her half-eaten Cobb salad and remained below deck to give her privacy. Her closest advisors were gathered in the West Wing conference center back in Washington. She was currently linked to them on a live video feed.
Myers stood, her glass empty. She had just finished two fingers of Buffalo Trace, her favorite Kentucky bourbon. She was fifty and tired, but didn’t look much of either, even tonight, still dressed in black. Years of swimming and Pilates had kept her frame strong and lean like she’d been as a young girl growing up on a cattle ranch. She still hardly needed makeup, and her dark bobbed hair was colored perfectly.
