Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2

by Patrick Todoroff

  I sprayed lube in the Vychlop’s chamber and racked the bolt back and forth. “Who’s leading the rebels?”

  “More importantly, who’s backing them?” Tam asked.

  Hester thumbed through to another tab and a collage of images snapped up on the screen. “The SPLM—Somaliland People’s Liberation Movement—reportedly receives substantial support of weapons and funds from their Islamic brethren out of Egypt and the Saudi peninsula, specifically from the Muslim Brotherhood. Solidarity against the infidel and all that. The support goes beyond munitions and money. Lately there have been reports of high-tech intelligence, including satellite reconnaissance, encryption codes and communication.”

  “Petroleum and hatred. Middle East’s two main exports,” I snorted.

  Tam ignored me. “That shows a very serious commitment. Looks like the ‘Caliphate Council’ is up in arms over their oppressed Muslim brothers in Africa.”

  “I doubt it,” Hester frowned.

  “So do I,” Tam answered. “Who’s the bush demagogue?”

  “The SPLM is led by a charismatic nobody. A former university professor named Harun Abdul Hamid. Profile says he grew up in the veldt being brutalized by his neighbors during the current Isaaq/Gadabuursi blood feud. His entire village, including his family, was wiped out when he was in his mid-teens. He fell in with Al-Shabaab, fell neck deep in the horseshit of the Prophet’s winged mount and saw the light. Went to a madrassa, graduated to terrorist camp in Yemen, then Medina University. All on the Saudi dime. He endured the racist vitriol Arabs and Persians usually level against their brown brothers. Studied two years at Oxford, then returned to Somaliland saying Mohammed had sent him to bring his country into the greater Islamic fold. Real Bin Laden complex. It’s all in his profile.”

  “So again… what’s the problem here?” I asked. “A sudden influx of cash is usually sufficient to cool most religious fervor, especially the third-world impoverished type.”

  Hester shrugged. “Wagged that bone already. General Dhul-Fiqaar offered him a ministerial post and a share of the mine profits. He sent the government delegation back with their hands and feet chopped off.”

  “Ouch. Talk about coming back empty-handed,” Poet9 muttered.

  Tam looked over. “Really? You went there?”

  Poet9 raised his hands. “Sorry, mano, it’s the anti-virus software talking. I’ll shut up now.”

  Hester continued. “I’m told London then approached him with a luxury, self-imposed exile package on the French Rivera. He almost killed our delegation. Bottom line is that Abdul Hamid won’t be bought. Typical fanatic’s logic: death is a promotion, and until that glorious day, he won’t rest until the general is toppled and the people are free to serve the Prophet.”

  “Shari’ah law is so liberating,” I said.

  Tam looked at me. “Oh, you’re starting now?”

  Hester clicked on a map of Somaliland and expanded it. Color-coded areas were filled in around the cities and along the Ethiopian border. “The SPLM has been gaining momentum over the past year. They have with pirates in the Gulf of Aden, which only adds to their reputation. And their funds.”

  Another series of images popped up on the monitor, this time a satellite view of the Gulf of Aden, along with several pictures of a massive ocean-going freighter. Hester pointed to the ship. “There’ve been a string of boardings recently, despite the U.N. patrols. The pirates strike at specific vessels when the U.N. security is farthest away.”

  “Luck?” Tam suggested.

  The compact Irishman shook his head. “Once is an accident, twice is coincidence, third time is actionable. Someone is feeding them real-time intel. This ship—” he expanded an image “—the Mashona Breeze out of Yemen, was captured four days ago. The pirates are making the usual ransom demands, but what has the Board’s knickers in a twist is that the ship was under contract to us, Dawson-Hull Conglomerate.”

  “Someone at the port is selling the manifest data to the pirates. I’m shocked,” I deadpanned. “Your point is…?”

  “The Mashona Breeze is carrying a major shipment of coltan for Ballard United in Chennai. This is the fourth such interception.”

  “So much for secrets,” I noted dryly.

  “Exactly,” Hester replied. “We’ve got the Indian Navy chasing the bloody thing all over the Gulf.”

  “And you think it was the Muslim Brotherhood that tipped off Professor Hamid and his buccaneers to the shipment?”

  “Yes,” Hester said. “No other way those pirates could pull a stunt like that four times in a row.”

  “So, we going to the Medieval Kingdom?” Poet9 asked. “The Egyptian sand plays hell with my brain box.”

  “Not the Sandbox… Somaliland, East Africa. Nicking that freighter was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back. Regime change interrupts business. It’s been decided the Professor is getting too big for his boots. On the verge of winning the war, being hailed as a savior, he’s too much of a nuisance. London wants you to shift tense on the problem.”

  “Sorry?” Tam asked.

  “Render Professor Abdul Hamid a former nuisance.”

  “Why not nuke ’em from orbit? It’s the only way to be sure,” I asked.

  “London wants a scalpel, not a jackhammer on this one.”

  “Why? Wouldn’t be the first time a mega-corporation has interfered with a country’s internal affairs,” I countered.

  Hester accepted that. “I’m all for Major Eames and Corporate Security Services giving the SPLM a good kicking, but the world media has gotten wind of General Dhul-Fiqaar’s hatred for the Isaaq. Rumors abound—genocide, forced relocation, cholera at the U.N. refugee camps. Ethnic cleansing exposés win Pulitzers, and London doesn’t want blood on their diamond cufflinks.”

  “So how does Eshu fit in this jihad versus McWorld death match?” Tam crossed his arms.

  “You’re going to usher in a change in leadership.”

  “Really?” I laughed. “You make it sound easy.”

  Hester held up a hand to explain. “Our agents have been in contact with one of Sajiid’s lieutenants. He’s willing to step up.”

  “Who?” Tam asked.

  Hester shook his head.

  “Come on,” Tam said. “You’re not going to tell us?”

  “Dark Room thinks too much information would distract you. Concentrate on slotting Hamid; let them worry about the heir apparent.”

  “I don’t like that,” I said. “Blind sides invite trouble.”

  “It can’t all be bunnies, hugs and muffins, Jace.” Hester winked at me. “Once you’re there, I bet you’ll figure it out.”

  “So London has found someone they can bribe, but do they trust him to stay on his leash?” Tam asked suspiciously.

  “No,” Hester answered. “But one thing at a time. Right now, the Board thinks he’s their best option.”

  “So you want us to stroll in, put two in this cleric’s turban and slip out. While there’s a war on? Walk in the park, this is.” I turned to Tam. “I’m thinking ‘no’ on this one. Too many ways to be hung out to dry.”

  Hester interrupted. “A bit of credit, please.” An image of the arid Somaliland countryside popped up on the screen. “The war is at a standstill. The SPLM is prepping for a final offensive they can’t lose, but they can’t win either.”

  “The Professor knows his fighters can’t go toe to toe with the National Army’s heavy weapon systems. So he’s contracted Global Strategic Solutions to do the heavy lifting.” A picture of a soldier appeared on the monitor.

  I’d have put his age at sixty, but the man looked like he’d stepped straight out of a Boeremag Aryan Nation promo-vid. Even weighed down by body armor, he stood tall, ramrod straight. He had a tan, chiseled face set under a blonde high-and-tight, and he gazed into the camera with blue eyes that were as bright and clear as a targeting reticle—and about as sympathetic.

  Poet9 sat up. “¡Caray! That’s Deer Voort.”

 
; Colonel Lars Deer Voort was the most famous soldier on the planet.

  During the North American Narco-Wars of 2051-52, the Dutch colonel’s unit had been contracted by the U.S. Department of Homeland Security to guard a stretch of the Texas border. A week into their deployment, narco-terrorists attacked a Corpus Christi elementary school, killing twenty-eight adults before fleeing back across the border with forty-nine hostages—all children.

  While the Waller Administration held a press conference denouncing the kidnapping, Deer Voort went after the kidnappers.

  After four days of bloody fighting, the colonel and his men had rescued all the children unharmed. Half his company had died doing it, but they’d wiped out over three hundred cartel gunmen and leveled the Mexican town of Piedras Negras. Deer Voort and every surviving member of his outfit was given honorary U.S. citizenship by a unanimous act of Congress.

  The Mexican government declared them PNG and secretly issued shoot-on-site orders.

  So much for the International war on terror.

  Hester let the image soak in. “To win, the SPLM needs to take the cities, specifically the capital Hargeisa and the port at Berbera. They know that, which is why Deer Voort has been on a hiring spree. GSS is paying big money for experienced crews.”

  “Experienced crews like Eshu International,” Tam said.

  “Right, and that’s your in. There’s a lot of E.U. and former eastern bloc outfits like Pistris, Oryel, and Alpha heading to Somaliland for a slice of the pie. London wants you to mingle with the herd and get in-country.”

  I raised my hand again. “We just went a couple rounds with Oryol, remember? And we’ve got serious history with Alpha.”

  “Where was this? How long ago?”

  “Black Sea, about three years back doing a blow and go for Asian Pacific. Several oil platforms went up, took a bunch of Russian byki with them.”

  “They ID’d you?” Hester looked puzzled.

  I shrugged. “Yeah, well, they didn’t take all of them when they blew.”

  “So let’s just say we didn’t part on the best of terms,” Tam finished.

  “Well, that’s just one of those things you’re going to have to deal with—if it arises. The contract truce should keep down the obvious attempts to knife you in the back.” Hester looked back at the screen.

  Tam looked at me. “What are the chances we’ll run into any of those no-necks?”

  I rolled my eyes. “With our luck? It’s almost certain.”

  Hester pressed on. “Once you’re in-country, you’ll have to work your way close to the rebel command.”

  “Then what?” Poet9 asked. “The Savile Row suits have any preference as to this professor’s final disposition?”

  “London stipulated Professor Hamid should have a fatal accident. What that looks like is left to your imagination.” Hester glanced at each of us in turn. “In case you’ve got a bad case of ‘thick,’ you realize the rest of the command structure needs to stay intact, right?”

  “So carpet bombing is out?” Poet9 asked innocently.

  “What if your Somali Judas is playing you?” I demanded. “Waiting for the right moment to spill everything and win Hamid’s undying gratitude? Got a back-up plan?”

  “Imagination and initiative—two of the most prized qualities in skilled operators,” Hester smiled.

  “That means we’ll be on our own,” Tam translated.

  I looked over at him. “Of course. ’Cause if this were easy, then anyone could do it.”

  Hester unplugged his data-pad. “Oh, I’ll be around, but I’ve been given my own ‘to-do’ list. I’ll lend a hand if I can, but…”

  “You’re always a big help,” Poet9 commented without feeling.

  “So let me get this straight…” Tam spoke up. “We’re staging the death of a fanatic rebel leader so his traitorous second-in-command can cozy up to the brutal dictator and enable him to continue a genocidal war on his own people while raping his country of natural resources. Am I right?”

  “Absolutely spot on,” Hester said. “It’s the lesser of two evils.”

  “What’s the greater evil in this equation?” I asked.

  Hester thought for a moment. “For us? That anyone other than Dawson-Hull gets their hands on the coltan mines.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT – Certainty

  Riyadh, Saudi Arabia

  The Burj Buraq was more Disney palace than office building; sixty-eight arched and elaborate stories of soaring white steel and green glass walls ornamented with enormous laser-cut aluminum Islamic calligraphy. Each letter four meters tall, the Prophet’s scimitar-edged words wrapped the top fifty floors in a filigree of industrial-sized, sacred graffiti that shimmered silver against the mirrored jade of insulated glass.

  The tower had sprouted up on premium city-center real estate in the late thirties, bankrolled by then Saudi heir apparent, Mutaib bin Abdul-Aziz. The last gasp of a dissolute dynasty and their dwindling petro-empire, Mutaib was killed nine months after its completion, stoned by a Hajj-mob in Mecca while his bodyguards looked on. Flashy, modern, largely empty, it was a monument to the House of Saud’s self-indulgence and grandiose denial.

  Downtown Riyadh spread out around the Burj Buraq with a bleached, desiccated organization, as if someone had blasted a modern interpretation of dinosaur bones clean with a flamethrower. The noon sun was high and furnace hot. Bentley and Lexus SUVs slid silently on the roadways, scurrying out of its blast. Heat djinns shimmered in the skyline. Inside on the tower’s fiftieth floor, Sa’ad Aziz Haamad looked out a window and waited.

  His agents were late.

  He rubbed his tired eyes underneath his glasses. Patience, the Turks said, was the key to Paradise. All things come in time, and that included his men. He sighed and considered the window again.

  A huge metal slash divided the pane in front of him. It was the back of the fifth letter of the second verse of the eighty-second Surat. Al-’Infiţār. The Cleaving of the Sky. The passage had anchored him in a time of severe trial decades ago, hiding in Afghanistan’s Korengal Valley.

  In the name of the merciful and compassionate God.

  1 When the heaven is cleft asunder,

  2 And when the stars are scattered,

  3 And when the seas gush together,

  4 And when the tombs are turned upside down,

  5 the soul shall know what it has sent on or kept back!

  6 O man! What has seduced thee concerning thy generous Lord,

  7 who created thee, and fashioned thee, and gave thee symmetry,

  8 and in what form He pleased composed thee?

  The air around Sa’ad was lemon cool, scented with jasmine, but the Prophet’s words scorched his mind like a desert wind.

  Yawm ad-Din. The Day of Judgment; that great and terrible day when Allah (praise be to Him) separates the just from the wicked. Sa’ad had clung to the absolute finality of the vision all those years ago, had prayed fervently that he’d witness its coming with his own eyes. Now, as a much older man, he understood it was another thing that would come in its time.

  But Sa’ad had to be honest with himself; he had to admit he’d been hungering for that day in ever-increasing measure these last few years. Not simply as a good Muslims should. Of course, he wanted to see all creation finally bow to the One True God. He’d often pondered what it would mean when Allah finally banished evil and restored Paradise. Like any true believer, he desired the ultimate vindication of his faith. All that was well and good—a pillar of his devotion.

  No, most of all, Sa’ad yearned for it because that would be the day the Almighty made things simple again.

  Simplicity. Certainty. That was his craving.

  Gone would be the nagging doubts. Gone would be the weak and unbelieving, the gray areas and compromises. The whisperer’s incessant fog of confusion and deceit would be swept away. No more would Allah’s servants stumble in the shadows, scraping, begging, waiting, wondering, hoping, praying. No more humiliation, frustrat
ion, and complications.

  This was the deep ache that had driven him these last few years—a restoration of certainty.

  The way it had been before the Paris bombing. Before the Purge.

  Every current member of the Shura Council had fought jihad in the old days, first against the Americans, then against the mongrel U.N. They’d rejoiced together when Na’ilah Aswad had detonated her nuclear bomb in Paris outside the American Embassy, bringing ruin and judgment to the Great Satan and its allies. How they’d shouted praises, falling on each other, weeping for joy. Far more devastating than the felling of the Twin Towers, the “Bride of Allah” had delivered a crippling blow to the Adversary. Surely final victory was at hand.

  Less than twenty-four hours later, they were fleeing for their lives; weapons discarded, trousers soiled, eardrums broken and bleeding, the taste of dust and bitter shame in their mouths. The West’s reprisals came down like the Fist of God. Their fury was overwhelming. Sa’ad and the others cowered in caves, crept into cellars in city slums, skulked on rural melon farms wearing laborers’ rags. For months, they lived in constant fear of cruise missiles and commando raids. They saw their captured brothers tried for war crimes at The Hague and executed. Sa’ad never learned the exact death toll, but he knew the Mujahideen had been decimated. The few survivors threw away their turbans, shaved their beards, buried their rifles, prayed in secret, and hated.

  In the years immediately following the Purge, they watched the Westerners build nuclear power plants, scores of them. The Japanese rolled out new electric engines, solar, wind, geo-thermal technology. Within ten years, the Western nations cut their oil addiction by half. Another decade, by half again. No longer did scores of Congressmen and parliament members line their pockets and toe the line when OPEC spoke. The flow of oil slowed to a trickle. So did the flow of money.

  Old debts and favors forgotten, the bureaucrats who’d lapped like dogs at their feet refused to let them in their offices, stopped returning phone calls. Gifts, pleas, threats were returned, denied, denounced. When the former fighters finally got together again, no one cared. Gone was the pride, the wealth, the power of former years. It all vanished like a ghost at dawn.