One night over hot tea and a hotter argument, she’d declared it was time the two of them made amends. “Give something back,” she said. “Make a difference.” And he’d agreed. After all, he’d let the crew of Eshu International hide out in their apartment, so he felt responsible for what followed. And more important, he loved his wife. They decided on mission work overseas.
In more ‘post-Barcelona’ weirdness, they’d received notice that an anonymous source had gifted them a substantial amount of Asian-Pacific stock. At first, the two of them thought it was a bizarre joke, some kind of clerical error. After all, neither of them had ever invested in the Asian corporation, and the donor source was strangely untraceable.
They demanded APAC’s Financial Office confirm the transfer’s authenticity. After the third time, an exasperated accountant told them to stop calling and enjoy their wealth.
Wherever it had come from, money was no longer an issue for Alejo and Carmen Garcia.
So, one week after the ‘discussion,’ the Garcias informed their children, gave notice at Lisbum Housing Central, and signed on for a one-year stint with UNHCR, the United Nations Humanitarian Crisis Relief agency. Although they lacked formal training or medical degrees, two decades of smuggling all over the Mediterranean had given them a hefty amount of practical experience. They were snatched up as temp medical aides for a hospital in Morocco after they showed the examining physician how to treat a sucking chest wound.
Alejo was overjoyed. In his mind, this meant twelve months of filling out forms, passing out aspirin and candy, maybe changing the occasional dressing. Couscous, lamb, fresh air and sunshine. And loads of smiling children. Practically a vacation, he’d thought. Carmen would be happy, and that made him happy. No worries.
Wrong.
When Carmen had told the U.N. functionary they would go “wherever the need is the greatest,” the thin man had smiled indulgently. Alejo suspected all the upper-middle class New European Union volunteers said that; most of them would faint if they came anywhere near real desperation—actual poverty. The poor districts in Casablanca were foreign and muddy enough for most Euro-liberals without any genuine danger.
Things were fine right up to the day before their flight. An over-nighted Change in Assignment notice had appeared by courier at their front door. Straight from the UNHCR headquarters, it was twenty-one pages of forms written in bureaucratic speak. It wasn’t until the middle of page seventeen that the name “IDP Camp: Dhubbato” appeared prominently. IDP—Indigenous Displaced Persons. People who were refugees in their own country. People who definitely needed help. He’d never heard of the place.
Google Maps showed a dot by a highway near a mountain. Carmen only shrugged. “God knows what he’s doing,” she’d said and gone back to packing.
Nightfall the following day found them in the shattered, semi-nation in the Horn of African known as Somaliland. A country in the second year of its third civil war in a decade, ethnic hatred between the current government’s Gadabuursi clan and the rival Isaaq had given Somaliland the largest population of Indigenous Displaced Persons on the African continent. Seventy percent were Isaaq clan survivors.
Nearly one quarter of the country’s population was homeless in their own country, and the UNHCR IDP camp at Dhubbato was the largest of three permanent refugee camps that struggled to alleviate the suffering of those 700,000 people. War, wounds, starvation, disease, poverty, crime… the need was enormous and never-ending. The Dhubbato medical clinic was a spit in the ocean.
So much for the vacation.
The camp was indeed nestled in the shadow of the Buur Dubbato Mountain, and it straddled Highway Three, which ran between the capital city Hargeisa to the southwest and the port city of Berbera on the coast to the northeast. Some clever U.N. bureaucrat figured the location would ease transport problems and guarantee timely delivery of supplies. All it really did was ensure lots of ugly, unwanted attention from troops on both sides of the country’s current civil war. Colonel Chutani and his Pakistani Peacekeepers had a full-time job staving off roadside robberies, not to mention shutting down the tire stack and tin roof tollbooths the refugees set up across all six lanes in both directions.
This messy situation went from the pot to the frying pan less than a month later. After two days of ugly street fighting, the SPLM rebels had taken the town of Cadaadley, just forty kilometers east of the camp. The next morning, the Garcias watched all the Italian doctors drag their mistress nurses onto last flight back to Rome, leaving the two of them and ten Somali volunteers to tend seventeen thousand plus permanent refugees.
Carmen dredged up some parable about a little Dutch boy with his finger in a dike. Alejo felt as lost as an octopus in a garage but figured he should keep that image to himself. It was time for courage. God was in control. It always came down to trusting Him, so Alejo figured he’d start there and dispense with worrying. In for a penny, in for a pound.
That was two months ago. The camp’s medical tent had become their new home.
Alejo shot a glance into the supply crate on the floor between them. Sixty, 500mg CiproD one-shots, eight boxes of band-aids, four bottles of aspirin, a jug of chewable multi-vitamins, and several bags of half-melted lollipops. Next to it sat three huge cases of travel-sized toothpaste with hundreds of brightly colored toothbrushes—Blue for the men, pink for the women.
The little boy he’d just seen had a fever of a hundred and one and osteomyelitis due to “traumatic amputation.” The bones in his wrist had become infected after a SAF soldier lopped off his right hand with a machete. What he needed was a regimen of broad-spectrum antibiotics and a myoelectric prosthesis. Not a color-coordinated dental care package.
At least the toothpaste relieved bug bites. The toothbrush would end up scrubbing out AK chambers fouled by cheap Chinese ammo. Not the intended uses but certainly practical. God knows there were enough bugs and AK-47s in Somaliland.
Carmen saw him inventory the box. “When you go, get more CiproD. The latrines in Area B are overflowing again. We’ll be needing antibiotics.”
“Who says I’m going?” he demanded. “Chutani has a severe case of Paki Male Insecurity exacerbated by Short Man Syndrome. He’s threatened by larger men he can’t order around.”
“I’m going to threaten him if he doesn’t release our supplies,” Carmen growled.
“Fine with me.” Alejo replaced the bandage.
“I don’t see what the problem is. Why can’t we get our supplies on time?”
“You know a U.N. emergency parcel’s not a priority unless there’s at least six manifest copies and a committee report.”
“Summer’s only beginning, and we’ve got dysentery outbreaks. I say it’s a priority.”
“Not for them, Carmencita. Ben and Jerry’s and Amazon.com are the only packages that get through fast.”
“Well then, the doctors should package the meds in old Amazon.com boxes.”
“That might actually work until they got rifled through…” Alejo mused.
“How about you pay the monthly visit to Wonderland,” Carmen proposed. “Bring Wonli and some of the boys with you.”
“No, that’ll only make it worse. You know he’s easier with women. Besides, Wonli needs to keep an eye out around the camp. Visser has been sneaking again, stopping people at the dump, asking lots of questions about the SPLM.”
“Now there’s a pest Chutani and his Blue Caps could do something about,” Carmen said. “Use a couple of those big exo suits to boot him out of the area for good.”
“You never know which way he’s going to go, that one. Visser might cringe or he might snap. He believes the mantle of that American in Sudan fifty years ago is on him now.”
Carmen snorted. “Visser is nothing like Sam Childers. Sam rescued children from that Joseph Kony nut. Visser is a goalie for a dart team.”
“Now who’s being insulting? What happened to ‘He’s sincere, just misguided’?” Alejo asked.
“That w
as then, this is now. And now I know he’s a nut with a gun who thinks he’s on a mission from God.”
It was Alejo’s turn to snort. “We say we’re on a mission…”
“Stop right there. We’re helping people, giving out medicine, not kidnapping children.”
Alejo patted the old man on the shoulder and gave him two of the CiproD packets.
“Visser is right though,” Carmen mused after a moment.
“About what?” Alejo blinked.
“About the SPLM using the camp again,” she replied. “More and more boys are popping up inside the fence. A couple hundred came though to get shots last week. I recognized a few, but most I’d never seen before.”
“General Dhul-Fiqaar is on the ropes. The only thing propping him up are the Duub Cas, the Hangash thugs, and British robots. It’s gun drone diplomacy.”
Carmen looked into her husband’s eyes. “There’s going to more fighting. Soon. Isn’t there?”
Alejo pursed his lips and nodded. “Wonli says the market stalls are low on everything—grain, yams, chickens… They’re stockpiling food. He’s heard rumors of trucks sneaking over the Djibouti border at night. And foreign soldiers camping in the bush. They’re planning something big.”
Carmen set her jaw. “We’re going to need those supplies.”
“So, you going to talk to the colonel or am I?”
“I’ll go,” she said. “And if he gives me the brush off, I’ll beat him with that swagger stick he carries around.”
Alejo smiled. He’d seen that look before. God help Colonel Chutani if he tried to stop her.
CHAPTER SEVEN – The Ultimate Zergling Rush
Eshu Export, Belfast Metro Zone.
The seven of us sat in the briefing room, a huge map of Somaliland projected on the wall. Hester was speaking. “General Dhul-Fiqaar might be a psychotic nutter, but he keeps things wrapped up tight.”
“What, like a straitjacket?” Tam asked.
“It’s stable, and stable is workable. All that matters really,” Hester declared.
“Charming.”
I looked up from swabbing the barrel of my Vychlop. “And London’s not worried about PR back blast from associating with a brutal dictator?”
“Cost-benefit analysis. Some bleeding-heart journo connects the dots, the media department will spin it until it drops out of the news cycle. Legal can tie up anything that slips through the cracks with legs enough to get in front of a U.N. committee or world court. Between slap suits and liberal applications of cash, whistleblowers with any lung power will be few and far between.”
I changed out the dirty patch and squeezed three drops of oil on a clean one. “But what’s so important in the bloody nose of Africa that D-H is willing to throw around that kind of weight?”
“Yeah, what’s the benefit in that analysis?” Poet9 sat in the corner, jacked into our servers running post-mission diagnostics on his brain box. “Corporations aren’t in business to be nice.”
The man called Hester nodded. “Of course not. The dark heart of the matter is the coltan mines in the interior—here.” He pointed to a portion of the map in the southeast of Somaliland, near the border with Puntland. “They must remain open. London needs operations and shipments to continue on a regular schedule. The mineral is too important.”
“Named after a jazz musician?” I asked.
“Coltan,” Hester sighed. “Coltan. It’s actually two minerals combined—columbite and tantalite.”
“Dawson-Hull is backing this psychopath for his rock collection?” Tam asked.
“Those ‘rocks’ are the vital component in microprocessors, which means it’s the vital component in everything: cell phones, ePads, computers, communication and surveillance gear, robotics, GPS, ABS brakes, artificial hearts… You name it, every electronic or computer network uses them. No coltan, no technology.”
“Follow the money,” Poet9 sniped.
“Remember when the PS9’s were released? The price of coltan went from ninety-six USD to three hundred seventeen the day after the announcement. That was just a game console.”
“Nice, but that doesn’t explain why London has such a keen interest in those mines,” Tam pointed out. “Why not invest in alternatives, or stockpile the mineral until new sources are developed? Or wait until one of Dhul-Fiqaar’s generals retires him to an unmarked grave.”
“Coltan is in short supply, and even worse, there are very few deposits with operating mining facilities over them. Next ones are under Egypt and Saudi Arabia.”
“Great, another natural resource the Middle East can blackmail nations with.” Poet9 didn’t look up.
Hester frowned, ignoring him. “The Board has made a significant investment in the Dhul-Fiqaar regime over the last five years. London wants their own supply for research and development, not to mention the high-tech manufacturing interests under their umbrella.”
“Under their umbrella. You make it sound almost paternal,” I said.
Hester raised one eyebrow. “I’d remind you that Eshu International is under that covering as well.”
I nodded once and looked away.
“You say this mineral is used in computer processors, which means it’s essential to security and military.” Tam crossed his arms. “All the Mil-sites have been buzzing with rumors of a new tactical drone network that Ballard United is due to roll out next year. Aren’t they a Dawson-Hull subsidiary?”
Hester remained silent, but I raised my hand. “New drone network? Do tell.”
“Latest chrome for the corporate security geeks.” Tam looked at me. “It’s a new gen series of modular, multi-environment military drones. ‘Nemesis’ I think they’re called. Variants are sea, land and air capable, linked not just to a remote operator, but networked to each other.”
The swab came out clean. I flipped the rifle over and unpinned the lower receiver. “Gimmick chassis, multiple bots on a network. So what?”
Poet9 piped up. “Right. But the real flash is supposed to be radical code. Rumor net says it’s bleeding-edge software—autonomous and adaptive. Their little droid brains not only act on their own but can self-upgrade. They share the data with any other drone on the same tactical net.”
“They can talk to each other and learn?”
“Yeah,” Poet9 enthused. “Without human control. The system can analyze opponent actions in real time, then update and communicate tactics to the other robots in their tac-net. That means the second wave can adapt to the threats, disposition and location of enemy units based on the mistakes of the first. A third wave is even smarter. All this is processed by a central synthetic intelligence. It’s swarm theory with a hive mind—the ultimate Zergling rush.” Poet9 was looking steadfastly at Hester. “Feel free to jump in if I miss anything.”
“And this is a Dawson-Hull company?” I asked. “Where’d you hear this?”
“I know a guy,” Poet9 replied. “Fixer in L.A. named Artemis Bridge. He heard there’s even a central computer, a mother hub that will be capable of coordinating every tactical sub-net in the battlespace. Kind of like a cybernetic commander-in-chief. A digital Napoleon or Ghengis Khan.”
The Mexican hacker typed a series of update codes into his brain box. “It’s one thing to be hunted by men; it’s scary as hell to be hunted by a smart machine. No pity, no remorse, no fatigue. Only kill orders.”
“The semi-official name is ‘BEECH’ for Battlespace Enhanced Engagement Command Hub, but the boys in the dark room are trying very hard not to call it ‘Sky Net,’” Hester acknowledged.
“So London wants to have their coltan and keep it too. Keep it in the family,” I stated.
“Son of a …” Poet9 smirked, turned back to the server screen. “I bet that’s what they really call the drones.”
Hester ignored Poet9 but raised his hands in mock surrender. “Ballard United is indeed a conglomerate subsidiary. They cook up everything from infantry small arms and special munitions to armored vehicles and tactica
l drones. London wants to make sure they bring the Nemesis system to production before the end of the fiscal year.”
Tam threw a Spock eyebrow back at him. “Why the deadline?”
“Politics or money,” Poet9 guessed.
Hester acknowledged with a grin. “Politics. Elections are coming up and with constituents’ tolerance for military causalities at an all-time low; politicians want to say they voted to minimize human anguish. Proxy is all the rage. With ‘remote command force multipliers,’ the only casualties are robots.”
“The only friendly causalities you mean,” Tam pointed out. “No such thing as a bloodless war.”
“They want war by X-Box.” I shook my head.
“And we’ll give it to them.”
“Or die trying.” Poet9 cocked his head toward Hester. “You sure have all the milgeek-speak down. ‘Platform, network, modular, force multiplier’… you sound like an arms dealer with a PowerPoint sales pitch.”
Hester cleared his throat. “Yes… I spent some time in Brussels recently with the Conglomerate delegation at the World Arms Fair.”
“Spend your downtime taking in the sights?”
“Taking in things, yes.” Hester smiled.
“So, what’s the real problem?” I interrupted. “Why bring us in at all? Toss your corrupt warlord a bigger piece of the pie and have his henchmen rough up the miners to make sure they keep breaking rocks in the hot sun. That’s the easy solution.”
“As you might have heard, General Dhul-Fiqaar, illustrious leader of the Republic of Somaliland, isn’t noted for his social graces. There’s trouble among the population.”
“Wouldn’t be Africa if the natives weren’t restless.” Tam looked over at me.
“Right. They are so restless, in fact, that an armed rebel faction has sprung up, threatening to overthrow the government and bring reform.”
“What’s the world coming to when people these days just don’t have the decency to stay oppressed by their betters?” Poet9 sighed.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 5
