The jihad had crumbled.
Now, years later, Sa’ad’s fellow council members pounded their fists at the monthly meetings. They shouted the right verses, but the only real accomplishments were incessant accusations. It was the Jews, the Americans, the Russians, the corporations, the U.N., even the Crusades… They bickered, gossiped, blamed. To Sa’ad’s ears, the Teachers of Islam sounded like a bunch of old women. Worse, any time he, Sa’ad, proposed an actual course of action, they pecked it apart like a brood of chickens.
It had been two years earlier, in the midst of one such meeting, that Sa’ad was struck with a revelation as swift and sudden as lightning.
Once these men had been chosen instruments, burning with the Prophet’s zeal, but they’d forgotten God now. He’d looked around the table into each of their faces and understood this in his bones. They’d grown old and fat, siphoning lucre from Swiss accounts, content in their French villas with their German cars, English liquor, and Russian whores. This was all posturing and nostalgia—their counsel nothing but wind.
Sa’ad realized in that moment that if anything was going to get done, he must be the one. He would restore certainty to their faith—his faith.
The plan dropped into his mind as neat and clear as a blueprint. God would give them new treasure.
Insha’Allah.
The next morning, Sa’ad had begun to work. He’d contacted scientists, geologists, miners—dozens of them. He’d paid their salaries, paid for exploratory missions, for advanced computer models and sonar mapping. All their expenses from equipment to security, to hotels and hookers, came out of Sa’ad’s accounts. He’d sat through hour after hour of presentations, pouring over their charts and diagrams. He’d learned everything he could about extraction, refinement, distribution. It was as demanding as the training camps of his youth—worse because he was much, much older, and this expertise required so much more study.
But as before, by the will of Allah, he’d persevered and prevailed until those same scientists were asking him questions months later.
He hadn’t strayed from the path of the obedient, and today, provided the two men brought good news, the second phase of the plan would begin.
Very soon, things would be simple again.
A soft chime interrupted his thoughts. The agents had arrived.
Sa’ad turned around and watched Hashim Al-Faazi and Muran Mufrih Jamal sweep into his office. “Assalamu alaikum.”
“Wa ‘Alaykum Asalaam,” they replied in unison.
“We bring good news,” Muran continued. “The Professor’s men hold The Mashona Breeze.”
“God is truly great,” Sa’ad exulted. His patience had been rewarded. He held his outward composure. “You are certain of this?” he demanded. “I’ve heard reports of Indian Navy ships in the Gulf. Will they be able to keep it under their control for the full seven days?”
Hashim Al-Faazi made an unpleasant noise in the back of his throat. “They give no guarantees. I’m surprised the little monkeys didn’t blow a hole in the bottom of it by accident.” He crossed the office and poured himself a glass of water from a silver pitcher. “You’re positive backing Hamid and his ragged peasants will work?”
Hashim’s tone was respectful, but Sa’ad noted his sharp eyes glittering, ready to pounce on the answer. “The plan is sound. We’ve gotten this far. We will continue,” Sa’ad replied evenly. “Can we push up the date on the offensive?”
Muran shook his head. “Major Sajiid refuses to attack until the foreign mercenaries arrive. And they’re demanding more of everything: heavy weapons, ammunition, electronic jammers… and always satellite intelligence. The blind one, Ghotta, went so far as to ask for an additional seventy-five million to hire more contractors. They whine like children and complain we aren’t doing enough.”
“We are emptying ourselves for his foul little country. Is he afraid to spill blood?” Sa’ad asked.
“Just that of his countrymen,” Hashim scoffed.
Sa’ad frowned. Back in his younger days in Afghanistan, they’d made do with old Russian hardware and captured U.N. equipment. Every fighter under his command could turn a 152mm shell into an IED in under fifteen minutes. Now they wanted robots and spaceships to do the fighting for them. War was not won by women watching television screens.
Still, one had to work with the tools Allah provided.
“Tell him I will send the money on the condition his men continue to seize the ships we designate. There will be one final delivery of small arms and munitions, and we will provide satellite imagery eighteen hours prior to his final attack. Beyond that, he must make do. I do not want to risk giving the United Nation or the British more evidence against us.”
“Surely they’re aware,” Muran noted. “It’s not difficult to put the pieces together. And the ships—”
“Of course,” Sa’ad interrupted. “They would be more suspicious if we didn’t send aid. However, disrupting the flow of coltan is critical to our plan, and I’m trusting so long as we meet the U.N.’s intelligence estimates, they will be much less inclined to look past them.”
“I wouldn’t even send him the final shipment,” Al-Faazi said. “What do we care if a few more brownies get killed? Less we have to deal with after the coup. The more his forces are reduced, the more dependent he’ll be when the smoke clears.”
Sa’ad had considered this many times. The Hand of Allah (exalted be His name) was guiding these events, so that meant the Professor and the SPLM were part of the plan as well. “Abeed or not, Hamid is a follower of the Prophet. He knows his place. Besides, he will be reeling with victory and swamped by the rivers of blood that have been spilt to get him there. He will jump at the opportunity to invite Islamic Nation forces to help him maintain order and begin rebuilding his shattered country.”
Muran inclined his head. “That is the strategy, honorable one. But can you really trust the man? He’s not only a black, but he was westernized at Oxford. Perhaps his dream is to build universities, not mosques. A little more insurance wouldn’t hurt.”
Sa’ad slapped away the question with a wave of his hand. Now was the time for certainty. “I trust in Allah, Muran. Professor Abdul Hamid is far too indebted to us. We will have our forces in Somaliland seventy-two hours after General Dhul-Fiqaar is toppled.” He paused. “Besides, we have the pieces already in place should he re-think his debts. I’m not worried.”
Tension silted up in the room, but both men nodded. The decision made, there was no further discussion.
Muran broke the silence, trying to bring the conversation on to comfortable ground. “And the mining operations? Will they be complete?”
“God has blessed our labor. Initial excavations here and in Egypt are ahead of schedule. Once they’re operational, and we have the Somaliland mines, we’ll control two thirds of the world’s coltan supply. Keep faith, and Allah will use us to write a new chapter in the history of Islam.”
At that, both Muran and Hashim bowed their heads reverently. Sa’ad watched them and smiled at the simplicity of it all.
CHAPTER NINE – Bet or Fold
UNHCR Camp, Dhubbato, Somaliland
Abdi was fat and happy.
He leaned back, sleepy, his belly stretched full of food. It was worth it, he yawned, all that puking into the rolling ocean, being chased by the Indian Navy. He didn’t think so at first, but the moment he’d climbed aboard the big ship and pointed his AK at those sailors, he knew he’d crossed a line. Sick, dizzy, smelling of filth, it didn’t matter. He was no longer a simple a militia-boy; he’d become a budhcad badeed—a pirate of the high seas.
No one could dispute his manhood now. The roll of Euro bills he’d buried under the rugs in the tent said so. As did the new AK-74 with a wire stock that folded to one side. Ghedi was keeping it for him at the SPLM camp at Biye K’obe, along with a Chinese chest pouch for the clips that was so new the canvas was still bright green with dye and smelled of chemicals. Only a real fighter had those th
ings.
A mob of new recruits had swarmed them when they got back to land, fighting to be noticed, begging for food, bullets, some souvenir from the mighty warriors. Abdi remembered when he’d done such childish things. He shoved past and stared over their heads the way he’d seen older fighters do until a new boy pushed his way to the front of the pack and started popping and strutting like a little rooster.
His name was Dalmar. He was from the Burco slums. His parents had been taken for questioning by the Hangash, the secret police. Three weeks later, they hadn’t returned. There was no news, no food, no sign of them. No hope.
Neighbors and relatives had long run out of pity and extra meals, so the ten-year-old had slipped out of his shanty one morning and walked into the bush. He’d wandered around for five days, living off berries and rainwater, until he’d stumbled upon a squad of militia. The SPLM captain gave him a hot meal and put him on the first truck west for training.
After hearing his story, Abdi handed him his ancient AK-47.
It took Abdi a full day to get from the port of Berbera back to Dhubbato, hitching rides on Highway Three. It was the middle of the night when he finally squirmed under the double fence near the east gate.
He wandered for two hours in a dark maze of rustling plastic and rope, dodging muggers and watchmen, looking for his grandmother’s tent. When he finally slipped inside, she woke up, looked at him, then grunted and rolled over back to sleep. So much for a family reunion.
When Abdi awoke this morning, he found the stains washed out of his new red shirt and a warm wedge of canjeero next to a pot of sweet tea.
He was a dangerous pirate and freedom fighter, but his abooto still loved him.
Later that day, he gave her a handful of brightly colored bills, the ones with the woman’s picture on them. She bought beef, rice, sugar and coffee, and made a feast as if he were the man of the house.
Abdi burped and looked around the smoky tent.
Yes. He was Epic Win.
His grandmother was humming a tune while chopping vegetables, and Abdi watched her through half-closed eyes. He smelled the pot of maraq, beef stew, simmering over the cooking fire and was suddenly worried.
“Abooto, close the flap. We must keep the tent closed.”
“Why, Abdi?”
“I don’t want begging neighbors.”
“But we have plenty, Abdi. Allah has blessed us. Why not share with them?”
The boy shook his head. “Grandma, the smell will bring them like flies, and once they find out we have food, they’ll rob us. They’ll cut our throats for a handful of rice.”
“Paaah! Our neighbors do no such things. They’re nice, and we are supposed to live at peace with those who dwell beside us. Besides, the Blue Hats protect us.”
“The Blue Hats are all calooleey—lazy fatsos. They have tanks and big turtle suits, but all they do is lie in the shade like dogs. Do they stop the Jabibbi gangs or the Al-Shabaab recruiters? No. When the Sahra sisters were molested, they screamed, but no Blue Hats came to rescue them. Only the Professor’s men keep order here.” Abdi thought about his rifle and puffed out his chest just a little. “I keep order here, and I say we shut the tent.”
His grandmother huffed as if it were nonsense but nevertheless shuffled over and zipped the flap shut. “The Spanish doctor and his wife are nice. They give out food and medicine, and no one bothers them.”
“They aren’t U.N., and besides, if it weren’t for Wonli and his crew, all his food and medicines would have disappeared like the Italian doctors. The Blue Hats don’t like him or his wife. He has to pay them to get the supplies. No. Only the Professor can save Somaliland.”
His grandmother waved a big wooden spoon. “Hush, child. Not so loud. Don’t invite trouble.”
“I am trouble.” Abdi flexed his arm muscles. “No one better mess with me.”
His grandmother harrumphed, pointing to the water jugs. “Well, Mr. Trouble, these won’t fill themselves. Go wrestle with a spigot and bring back some water.”
Abdi flopped back onto his cot. “That is woman’s work. I’m a soldier.” He half-closed his eyes and stretched out his feet. “I have another mission tomorrow. Very Important. I have to rest now,” he said airily.
“Hai!” His grandmother came at him. “You, a soldier… soldiers look after their family. Now go before I fan your biscuits.”
His grandmother came after him, thick wooden spoon trembling over her head. “You are a soldier, eh? I’ll give you a fight…”
Abdi jumped up and skittered away.
He circled around the edge of the tent, staying out of reach until he bumped into the empty containers. He was at the tent flap. His grandmother winked, lowered the spoon and turned back to the cooking pot. “Use the number six spigots on the south,” she said over her shoulder. “They’re at the edge of the camp, past the latrines.”
Abdi planted his feet and stuck out his chin, daring her to say something else, but she crumbled spices, stirred, and went back to humming her song.
He glared at her back one last time, then picked up the battered yellow plastic containers.
Outside, dusk had set the sky glowing in molten bronze. Huge fingers of dark cloud stretched in from the north while the warm wind was heavy with cooking smoke and rotting vegetation. An early moon chased the setting sun, peeking over the eastern hills, as pale and thin as rice paper.
“Great,” Abdi grumped. It wasn’t safe to wander the camps alone after dark. To do so weighed down like a donkey by water jugs was even worse.
Abdi started walking, holding the big plastic containers as if they were outhouse buckets.
I am a soldier now. A pirate, he thought to himself. Not some fetch-boy. I shouldn’t have to do this. When I’m a commander with my own militia, I’ll have three boys around at all times to get me whatever I want right away.
He put his head down and trotted faster, weaving his way south. He charged through whirlwinds of playing children, around the bright knots of chatting women, and steered clear of the clouds of cheap cigarette smoke surrounding the men crouched over their Shax boards. He pretended he was on a vital mission and no one could stop him. Ten minutes later, he arrived at Water Station Six.
Abooto was right; it was at the very edge of the camp, beside the double fence, and a grenade’s throw from the highway to Hargeisa. To Abdi’s eye, it looked exposed, strange and naked. Not safe at all.
A bright white U.N. pre-fab shed housed the purification equipment, and next to it, five thick metal pipes jutted up out of a concrete slab, each with a heavy spigot nub at the top. The whole station was in the open because the Blue Hats wouldn’t let anyone pitch a tent within ten meters of the shed.
Nearly nightfall, the queues were short. Abdi counted maybe two dozen others wanting water. Mostly girls, he huffed. At least he didn’t recognize any of them. He set the containers down and sidled a couple of steps away so as to not stand directly next to them. He tugged his red shirt flat and smoothed his hair. “Always best to impress,” Ghedi had told him. A soldier must be the hawk—as fierce as he is handsome.
Abdi looked for the pair of Blue Hats who were supposed to be on guard. No luck. Probably knocked off early or in a nearby tent making a “fast trade” with a couple of girls who needed extra water. He listened briefly for telltale panting and moans, but if it was there, it was drowned out by the shuffle and coughs of those waiting their turn at the spigots. He sighed and kicked the jugs as the line inched forward.
Half an hour later, he was halfway through filling his second jug when someone yanked on his shoulder.
Abdi stumbled, and warm, chlorinated water splashed all over his legs and crotch. Now it looks like I pissed myself, he fumed. People will think I’m a baby.
Abdi wheeled, fists up. “Get off! I am a freedom fi—” but a bony hand clamped on his shoulder a second time, harder this time. He yelped, tried to twist away, but froze when he saw that the sunburned, dirty hand was white.
It began to claw his shoulder like a spider, wadding up his shirt. Abdi looked up.
The man was tall with dusty, threadbare fatigues draped on his skinny frame. He had an old, Type 86 Chinese assault rifle slung across his hollow chest and a faded booney hat that kept the top half of the face in shadow. The lower part was pinched into long sharp angles with a tart little line for a mouth. Behind this grubby apparition, two skinny teenagers pointed AKs at the rest of the water-gatherers. Not a Blue Hat in sight.
A twitch, and the tall man bent forward like a stick breaking. Abdi found himself looking into two fever-bright blue eyes. Something like a smile quivered across the sour mouth.
“Don’t be afraid,” the pale man whispered. “The Lord has sent me to rescue you.”
Abdi screwed his eyes shut. It was Visser, the crazy Dutchman. Fear iced his belly. Please God, he prayed. Send Abooto.
The moment teetered on edge, enormous. Abdi couldn’t move or speak. He stopped breathing.
A shout. “Let him go, Visser!”
Abdi blinked, and everything crashed back into motion.
That wasn’t his grandmother’s voice.
It was the Spanish doctor.
Short and as thick as a bulldog, he stood by the white shed, leaning on a cane. He was alone, unarmed, but Visser’s two skinny boys swiveled and aimed their rifles anyway. His mint-green scrubs proclaimed he was medical personnel, but the look on his face wasn’t a doctor’s look at all; the old Spanish man’s eyes were tight and hard. And he wasn’t smiling.
It took Abdi several seconds to recognize that look; older soldiers had it right before they opened fire.
The Dutchman didn’t turn around; he continued to stare at Abdi. “This is the Lord’s work, Mr. Garcia. I am called to rescue those who are led away to death. And not to cease from delivering those who are dragged away to slaughter. You mustn’t hinder me.”
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 7
