An ancient air-conditioning unit wheezed in the window, struggling to keep the temperature at an acceptable level. An air freshener and ionizer battled the city smell. At the sight of the pistols, the two guards leveled their submachine guns. The Arabs halted in the doorway, suddenly cautious.
The older Somali man rose and waved the guards’ weapons down. “Assalamu alaikum.” He bowed. The officer beside him rose and followed suit.
The taller Arab recovered first. He pushed his guard’s pistol down and nudged him onward. The man stepped forward, holstering his gun before placing his briefcase on the table. It snapped open to reveal the brushed aluminum and sparse lines of German electronics. He punched several buttons and scrutinized a small screen as a low electronic hum filled the air. He nodded after a moment, closed the briefcase, and stepped back.
Only then did the taller one remove the white cloth ghutrah. “Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam,” he answered. A round, pleasant face smiled at the Somalis. “I am Muran Mufrih Jamal, and this is Hashim Al-Faazi.”
The smaller Arab inclined his head and uncovered a dark, sharp face as fierce as a hawk. “I greet you in the name of the Prophet, may peace and blessings be upon him.”
The older African bowed again. “Charles Ghotta, secretary to Professor Hamid. This is Major Tokpah Sajiid, commander of the Muharib Guard. Thank you for coming. Please, sit.”
Al-Faazi and Jamal sat, leery as Secretary Ghotta placed two glasses in front of them. “Something to drink? Tea or mineral water, perhaps?”
The Arab delegates didn’t touch the glasses. Al-Faazi leaned forward, scowling. “Your eyes—”
“They are unusual,” Jamal interrupted. “We were unaware of your… disability, Mr. Ghotta. Your remedy is most unusual.”
“Unorthodox, you mean.” Secretary Ghotta poured himself a glass of water, nodding. “I apologize if I offended you. I was a second year university student when Dhul-Fiqaar came to power. During the Purge, he ordered the Somaliland National Army to drop phosgene on Isaaq villages. Mine was one of them. My eyes were burned away.” He set the pitcher down and smiled. “I was one of the lucky ones. These are actually my third pair. Yagi implants courtesy of Médecins Sans Frontières.”
Jamal dismissed the thought of offense with a wave of his hand, but Al-Faazi stared with an equal measure of horror and contempt. “I would rather be blind than allow infidels to install their devices in me.”
Ghotta inclined his head. “Life is fraught with testing and sorrow,” he said levelly. “But it is Allah’s will that I serve Him in this capacity. These devices have enabled me to do so. I can only pray to remain faithful and endure all the trials that come before me each day.”
“I admire your resolve, Mr. Ghotta,” Jamal said cheerfully. “Allah is indeed merciful.”
“They are an abomination,” Al-Faazi muttered.
“A necessary evil perhaps,” Jamal spoke over him. “It is an honor to meet with you in person, Mr. Ghotta, Major Sajiid. The Muslim Brotherhood only regrets we must do so secretly.”
“By the will of Allah and the Brotherhood’s generous support, the time of secrecy is nearly over.” Major Sajiid finally spoke.
Jamal smiled. “May it be so. How may we be of service?”
The major looked at Secretary Ghotta before continuing, “The war is coming to a successful conclusion, Masha’ Allah. I need to confirm the extent of the Brotherhood’s tactical support for our final offensive.”
“We also need to discuss the matter of diplomatic recognition and financial assistance during the regime transition,” Secretary Ghotta added.
“You couldn’t go through the usual channels?” Al-Faazi demanded. “What was so vital that you insisted on a face-to-face meeting?”
Charles Ghotta turned to the smaller Arab. “I also have some questions about the last mission we undertook for you.”
“You failed to get the ship?”
Liquid silver eyes rested on Hashim Al-Faazi. “No, not at all. Our men control of the Mashona Breeze—for the moment.”
“For the moment …” the small Arab said. “We told you to hold that ship for seven days.”
“I understand that.”
Al-Faazi sneered. “Then what is the problem? Did we not track it for you? Did we not relay the precise coordinates once it reached the Gulf? Are we not allowing you to keep the ransom for your cause?”
“Allah’s graciousness springs through you.” Ghotta smiled calmly. “Now that you mention it, the ransom is an issue. The company is refusing to offer a settlement.”
“And that is our concern?” Al-Faazi asked. “You Somalis are the pirates.”
“That vessel was bound for Chennai, but rather than hearing from an adjuster at Lloyd’s, yesterday, the Indian government demanded its immediate release. All cargo and crew intact.”
“Paah,” Al-Faazi scoffed. “Hindu xawalaat. One week is too much to ask?”
“I’m told no less than three Indian Navy frigates are on their way,” Major Sajiid interjected. “Our soldiers are brave, but a handful of them won’t be able to hold a giant cargo ship against such firepower. And the frigates undoubtedly carry Special Operations boarding teams. It appears the Indian government wants that vessel back—and quite urgently.”
“As I said, that is not our problem.” Al-Faazi snapped his fingers. “What is your next question?”
The two Somali guards tensed at the insult, but the secretary spread his hands and continued, “The SPLM diverted military assets to take the Mashona Breeze for the Brotherhood. We did so out of respect and recognition for your generous support over the last three years.”
Jamal interrupted before Al-Faazi could answer. “We are God’s humble servants, duty-bound to help the faithful wherever they are in the world, Mr. Ghotta.”
“Truly God is good. Indebted as we are to you, you must understand how damaging it is for the SPLM to openly engage in acts of piracy, particularly now when we’re seeking international recognition. This single act provoked such a strong response from New Delhi that Professor Hamid is concerned we have been thrust in to a very precarious situation.” The secretary paused. “That we are completely in the dark as to why troubles him even further.”
“And what does Professor Hamid expect us to do?” Jamal asked. “The Brotherhood responds to the needs of the ummah wherever they can, but responsibility is a two-way street.”
“If you want our men to hold the ship for seven days, they need a deterrent,” Major Sajiid declared.
“A deterrent?”
“A show of strength,” he continued. “Tooth to give the Indian Navy pause. A series of Royal Saudi naval patrols. Or several pods of Egyptian amphibious drones? Anything to delay them until your deadline has passed.”
Jamal shook his head. “No. Our support, while hardly covert, cannot be perceived to cross certain boundaries. As it is, how your men intercepted that particular ship raises certain questions.”
It was Secretary Ghotta’s turn to lean forward. “Then I have certain questions myself; what is so important enough to make the Brotherhood demand we hold the Mashona Breeze to the point of death?”
“That is none of your concern,” Al-Faazi snapped. “If Allah wills your soldiers die, they die shahid. Is that not enough?”
“It is not unreasonable to ask what would make martyrdom so enticing,” Major Sajiid retorted. “This is war. I send men and boys to their deaths, but I will not throw their lives away.”
“Unreasonable…” Al-Faazi sputtered. “If it were not for the Muslim Brotherhood and Riyadh’s money, your movement would be buried in a shallow grave somewhere in the bush,” Al-Faazi stated. “You owe us. Not the other way around.”
Muran Mufrih Jamal placed a hand on Al-Faazi’s shoulder before he could speak again. “Our intelligence services knew the shipment was important, yes. But they did not know exactly why. Who can divine the minds of reprobate infidels?”
“I find it hard to believe the Mukhabarat could pinp
oint the ship in the middle of the Gulf of Aden, but be in the dark as to its cargo,” Charles Ghotta countered.
Jamal rolled his eyes and heaved a sigh. “My friend, our agents are superb, but they are not omniscient. Do not lose sight of your noble goal, brother: a nation freed from the grip of Western decadence and corruption. Dedicated to the glory of Allah. The Dawson-Hull Conglomerate would make Somaliland a British colony once again, with General Dhul-Fiqaar as their puppet. Trust Allah when we tell you your men have struck at the heart of their plans.”
Ignoring Al-Faazi’s glare, Major Sajiid focused on the taller Arab man. “Right now, our plans are for an all-out offensive that, by the will of Allah, will end this war. All our effort, all our resources, are bent to that, not single cargo ships in the middle of the ocean.”
“Allah is ever a provider,” Jamal spread his hands beneficently. “Order your men to be strong and keep the ship moving. Give us as much time as you can, Major. I assure you the Brotherhood will compensate the SPLM for any diverted resources.” Jamal moved on. “Tell us more about this final offensive. Your reports indicate the SNA is on its last legs.”
Secretary Ghotta and Major Sajiid weighed the Egyptian’s statement for a long moment before the major finally answered, “Yes and no.”
He made a complicated gesture with one hand, and the Arab bodyguards started as a 3D holo-map bloomed across the table surface. “The Somaliland National Army has all but given up the countryside. Instead, consolidating in four main cities—Hargeisa, Boorama, Berbera, Burco—and patrolling the roads that connect them. Here, here, and here.” As he pointed, small red flags appeared and several highways were highlighted vivid yellow. “Of course, they control their bases, the naval academy, police stations, and the airports. Only the vile Duub Cas—the Red Berets—and Hangash secret police units venture out in strength. And only then to attack Isaaq towns.”
“What is the Professor’s strategy?” Al-Faazi demanded.
“Two fold,” Major Sajiid answered. “Half the SPLM militia will concentrate outside Hargeisa and Berbera.” Green flags started appearing outside the capital and the seaside city. “We need the port intact, as well as the Internet, television, and radio stations. Once the signal is given, these militia cells will strike to seize them. At the same time, our remaining units will launch on two axis of advance from staging areas inside Ethiopia.” A pair of wide green lines moved across the map from a table edge.
“We want to isolate Dhul-Fiqaar as quickly as possible. Lock him in place,” Secretary Ghotta added.
“Will that not make him desperate?” Jamal asked.
Secretary Ghotta pointed to a spot outside the capital of Hargeisa. “We expect him to make a final stand at the Presidential Palace.”
Al-Faazi arched his eyebrows. “Why?”
The secretary’s silver eyes tightened. “They always do.”
“And the military bases?” Jamal pointed. “The airports? What about these Red Berets? The Duub Cas?”
“And the Hangash death squads?” his partner added.
“Both remain a threat,” the major agreed. “Our concern is with Dawson-Hull satellites providing real-time intelligence and advanced weapon platforms like tactical drones and SARKOS suits. SPLM regulars won’t dislodge them.”
“So you have no answer.” Al-Faazi curled his lip. “Your offensive isn’t final.”
Major Sajiid leaned forward. “Professor Hamid has made them a priority target.”
“But how will you eliminate them? You said your regular troops aren’t up to the job.” The small Arab smirked.
The major opened his mouth to respond, then caught himself. Secretary Ghotta answered for him. “Professor Hamid understands they are a priority. That’s why we have hired private military contractors, ones with high-tech combined arms combat experience. They’ll be the sharp edge that pries Dhul-Fiqaar’s murderers out of their holes.”
Al-Faazi glared at the highlighted locations on the map display. “I care nothing for such dogs, but hiding behind infidel mercenaries won’t bring victory.”
Both Secretary Ghotta and the major stiffened. Jamal blurted something in Arabic—short, sharp. Al-Faazi sneered and didn’t answer.
Jamal spread his hands toward the two Somali men and dipped his head in apology. “My brother is zealous for Allah’s victory over the unbelievers. How can you trust mercenaries? The general will make counter-offers.”
“We have engaged Global Strategic Solutions to coordinate all foreign military personnel,” the secretary replied.
“The Dutchman, Deer Voort?”
Both Sajiid and Ghotta nodded. Jamal and Al-Faazi exchanged a look that held both grudging respect and a hint of concern.
“Is there a problem?” Major Sajiid asked.
“No,” Jamal answered quickly. “GSS is a… wise choice.”
Major Sajiid swallowed before going on. “We think so too. That is why we have requested another seventy-five million in financial assistance. Colonel Deer Voort insists we need more firepower if we are to stand a reasonable chance of success.”
Both Arab’s frowned. “Always more money? Do you think we conjure it from a lamp like some genie?” Al-Faazi asked. “Your revolution is getting expensive.”
“More than you realize,” the secretary countered and held his gaze.
“If we provide these additional funds, what is Professor Hamid’s timetable?”Jamal asked.
Major Sajiid made another motion with his hand. The holo-map blinked off, the expanse of blank table suddenly stark and large. “You understand I cannot go into detail, but if additional funds and supplemental weapons are provided soon, we will move to the final phase of operations in thirty days.”
Jamal grimaced. “What ‘supplemental arms’? Are the regular shipments through Djibouti not on schedule?”
The Somali major placed a flash stick in front of him. “This is a complete list, but aside from the extra money, we will need real-time satellite reconnaissance of all SNA positions forty-eight hours prior to the jump-off.”
Al-Faazi eyed the flash stick as if it were a bug or rotten vegetable peel. “What else?”
“Dawson-Hull has been sending new types of robotics and remote systems as part of their military assistance program. Somaliland is a testing ground. With corporate security “advisors” providing command and support, this technology gives even SNA conscripts an edge against our troops. The Duub Cas slaughtered the entire town of Taleh last week. They used robots from ten kilometers away, laughing as they watched it all on screen.”
Intent on convincing the two Arabs, Major Sajiid continued, “My field commanders need active countermeasure arrays—frequency jammers, short-term communications viruses, decrypters, even chaff and flare dispensers. Anything that will disrupt the drones’ tactical network. We also need more shoulder-fired Igla-S MANPADS for the aerial drones and RPG 32s to take out the tracked gun platforms, and SARKOS-suited troopers.”
Jamal nodded to one of his guards, who leaned in and scooped up the flash drive. Then the two men stood up, signaling the meeting was at an end.
Jamal wagged a finger at the Somalis. “The Western infidels are cowards, sending machines because their men cannot face you. I fought against them and know this in my warrior’s heart.” He placed his hand on his chest. “I will relay your requests to the Shura Council,” he continued. “Tell Professor Hamid, may Allah bless him with victory, the longer your men hold the Mashona Breeze, the more favorable the council’s response will be. I pray Allah shields them with his Hand, but whatever happens, they must not lose courage. Remember, the Muslim Brotherhood stands with you in this jihad.”
He turned toward the door. “Now you must weigh which is more important; a handful of men or your nation. Fi amaan-illaah.”
The Somalis bowed. “God’s protection to you as well.”
Jamal leaned over the table and shook hands with Secretary Ghotta and the major, but Al-Faazi merely nodded once before wrapping t
he ghutrah over his face.
Major Sajiid turned to speak with the two Somali bodyguards, but Charles Ghotta watched as the two Arabs departed bearing the future of his country. His eyes were luminous and unblinking, and he knew in his bones that if he survived the war and the Professor won, he’d have to work twice as hard to keep it out of their clutches.
CHAPTER FOUR – Red Flags
The Presidential Estate, Hargeisa, Somaliland
Hugh Brenton was growing more troubled by the minute.
He stared out the limousine’s window as the pearl-white Audi eased through the gates into the Presidential Estate. There were no less than eight black T98 Kombats surrounding them. The chunky Russian SUVs had met the two Dawson-Hull limos at the airport and herded them on the highway. Equal parts blatant and unnecessary, the general nevertheless insisted on making a big show whenever his “British friends” came to visit. With continuous drone support overhead, Brenton knew his security detail could fend off anything short of an armored assault. The escort added nothing except unwanted attention. Today, the massive slab-sided jeeps thundering alongside brought to mind the image of a pair of Victoria’s Secret models thronged by Russian mobsters: a little convoy of pale curves flanked by brute intimidation and barely concealed lust. Hugh found the display tedious and immature.
It wasn’t the last-minute urgency of the meeting that bothered him. As a director, and his corporation’s designated “cultural attaché,” he’d met with Dhul-Fiqaar and his cronies a dozen times in the last four months. Like a recurring migraine, there was a constant need to reiterate the finer details of the assistance package to the Somaliland government. Carrot-and-sticking obstinate associates, unpleasant as it was, was part of his job.
It wasn’t that this would be his first visit to the dictator’s compound either. He’d been briefed in-flight on the layout and knew things about the house and grounds the general himself wasn’t aware of.
No, his anxiety didn’t stem from tiresome repetition or the new location. It was Hugh Brenton’s imagination that tormented him; a sort of mental chain reaction that was gradually ratcheting his blood pressure through the roof.
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