Abdi pushed the rag away; he didn’t need their help.
The three men didn’t move—didn’t speak.
Abdi started to curse but coughed instead, hacking spit and sneezing stringy, gritty snot. The one with the rag gestured for Abdi to take it.
Defeated, he plucked it out of the huge hand and wiped his face. He reached for the cup next and tried to drink, but his own hands shook and he spilled it. The big man helped him, holding it to his lips like he was a child. Abdi hated that, but he drank and began crying again. Then the strangest thing happened. The three men knelt and put their arms around him. A huddle that covered him, their huge arms an unbroken wall. They stayed there in the gathering dusk and held him until the tears were finished.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN – Trouble Comes in Threes
SPLM Camp, near Biye K’obe, Ethiopia
We waited until the two Russians disappeared into the Deer Voort’s tent.
Tam arched one eyebrow. “That’s not good.”
“I should have shot Juggler when I had the chance,” I said.
“No good deed goes unpunished,” he murmured. “But there’s always next time.”
“Didn’t see any byki, but they can’t be far,” Poet9 spoke up. “You think Deer Voort knew?”
“The man’s the grand shaman for ‘Mercs R Us’,” Tam snapped. “Of course he knew.”
“So knowing there’s bad blood between us, he figured hiring them was a good idea because…?” Poet9 inquired.
The three of us chewed on that for a moment. “To keep an eye on us,” I said. “Neutralize a potential threat. Like Tam said, Deer Voort isn’t stupid. Us being in Belfast is an obvious connection to Dawson-Hull. The colonel is contracted to help Hamid and the SPLM win. Last thing he wants is a double-cross.”
Tam nodded. “So they’re here to keep us on task—on our toes. If they come after us, in the thick of it, all GSS has to worry about is death benefits.”
“That cuts both ways,” Poet9 interjected. “Everybody knows Dratshev’s a scum-sucking predator. What if we’re here for them?”
“I’d babysit them with a flamethrower,” I volunteered.
The three of us started walking, and Tam shook his head. “Could be coincidence. We always have to watch our backs. Maybe we’ve been doing this so long we’re getting apophenia.”
“We’re getting what?” Poet9 asked.
I answered for him. “He means paranoid.”
“Yeah, but even paranoids have enemies,” Poet9 noted.
“We still don’t know who D-H’s man is,” Tam said. “Until we do, we watch out six and run whatever missions Deer Voort throws at us. Alpha complicates things, sure, but if this were easy…”
“…then anyone would do it,” Poet9 and I finished.
“Tomorrow’s patrol gets us out of sight, out of mind,” I said. “Just like the colonel wanted. With any luck, Alpha’s going to be tasked to the fight around Berbera or Burco, and we’ve stressed for nothing. We’re smooth.”
“Liso como seda,” Poet9 held up one finger. “Except we don’t have that kind of luck.”
“There is that,” I admitted.
“And if Dratshev has the stones to come after us?” Poet9 asked Tam. “What then?”
“We kill them,” Tam shrugged.
The three of us went to the gate where Captain Sparrow-ski and his band of Jolly Three-Green Giants were still on duty. After liberating a six-pack of Baltika and earning another stainless-steel smile grin, we started threading our way through the bush, past the main SPLM camp, to Curro and the Triplets.
We were skirting the southeast edge of base when I spotted the command bunker. At least that was my professional opinion; large aerials were lashed up in the treetops to extend radio comms, and a half-dozen satellite dishes of various sizes were splayed in an arc behind it. Most of the bunker was underground, and I spied a dozen, thick, lime-green fiber-optic cables twisting through the undergrowth like bright pythons. The entire set-up was tucked under a sloping roof of brand-new Adaptiv panels.
My bet was the Professor was right there inside.
And that’s exactly where we needed to be.
I nudged Poet9. “There’s a couple truckloads of Adaptive right there.”
“Sure as hell is,” he answered. “But what’s up with short, swarthy and suspicious?” The little Mexican pointed at the clearing.
The bunker was heavily guarded. No surprise there. There were two more anti-air sites, the big green golf ball of a Swiss-made Exelis ECM station, and no less than four Tortoise mobile gun platforms dug in at the corners. It was the actual guards that had caught Poet9’s attention though.
Two dozen soldiers were stationed around the bunker to provide area security. All of them wore identical dark olive uniforms with matching body armor and toted advanced Sig SG 660 assault rifles. An officer with long, pointed features was perched imperiously on top of the bunker next to a sniper team armed with a PGM Hecate III .50 caliber rifle.
They weren’t Somali.
Each of us crouched instinctively. “What the hell? Those Arabs?” Tam asked.
“Can’t tell for sure, but they’re from that neck of the greater Islamic woods,” Poet9 answered. “Caliphate technical advisors insist on their own security team maybe?”
“That’s a lot of up-gunned protection for computer geeks. Nope. The prize in that box of crackerjacks is SPLM leadership,” I replied. “Besides, those guys reek of regular army. Catch that salute? See how alert the sentries are? There’s a very formal chain of command.”
“So the Professor doesn’t trust his own people and hires some sheik’s commandos?” Poet9 asked.
“In the spirit of our earlier cynicism, my money would be on the Muslim Brotherhood,” Tam said. “Hester mentioned they’re backing this little revolution, so maybe this is their way of making sure they get a bang for their buck.”
“Sort of like a money-back guarantee. Cute.”
“They’re about as cute as a nest of baby cobras,” Poet9 scoffed.
“Yeah well, it’s the Brotherhood. What did you expect?” I asked.
I looked over at Tam and caught him doing the same thing I had: studying the way the troops were moving, where they were positioned, which ones were in command. In our line of work, it’s automatic. Every place you go, you think about assaulting it, defending it, vulnerabilities, exits, lines of fire… You can’t help it. Maybe we’d been doing this too long.
“Yeah well, trouble comes in threes, so keep your eyes peeled,” Tam finally said.
We got up slowly and headed back to our camp.
The sun was a molten disc melting into the horizon by the time we arrived. The Triplets were walking in from the bush with the boy, Abdi. He looked dirty and drained, and from the streaks on his face, I’d have guessed he’d been crying. I gave Cottontail a puzzled look, but he ignored me. The four of them sat down by a small fire and started talking quietly. Poet9 began digging rations out of one of our crates, so I went over to Curro.
He was bent over a laptop, worry etched across his face.
“What’s wrong?”
He looked up. “I have a problem. My mom and dad are here… in Somaliland.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN – Balaam’s Ass
UNHCR IDP Camp, Dhubbato, Somaliland
Wonli stuck his head in the medical tent. “The Blue Hats are moving out.”
Alejo stopped stitching the machete nick in a boy’s palm. “Finish this for me?” he asked his wife.
Carmen nodded. “Bello will help me until you get back.”
A young Somali woman in a bright red and orange direh rose from a nearby desk. Alejo peeled off his latex gloves and handed her his medical coat. “I’ll sew him tight, Mr. Garcia. Don’t worry,” she said, smiling.
“I never worry with you, dear,” he replied.
Alejo patted the boy’s head, grabbed his walking stick and ducked out the tent flap. Carmen called after him. “And while you’re there, ask abo
ut the new generators for the women’s quarters. It’s been three weeks.”
“I’ll ask,” he called over his shoulder. “But you’d better pray.”
“I do.”
“Pray I don’t smack him upside his head,” he muttered once he’d stepped outside the tent.
“I heard that,” Carmen said.
Wonli waited outside with two other Somali men, Korfa and Anis. The three of them were grinning. “What can I do?” Alejo shrugged.
“Well, don’t hit the colonel, that’s for sure,” Wonli suggested. The other two laughed. Alejo smiled broadly under his walrus moustache and began walking toward the U.N. Peacekeeper compound. The three younger men fell into step with him.
In their twenties, Wonli, Korfa and Anis were former soldiers. Dismissed for being Isaaq-clansmen, they were some of the fortunate ones; many others had simply been executed. They wore civilian clothes now and lived in the camp, but they moved with an alert, subtle menace that warned off would-be thieves or predators.
“How many?” Alejo asked Wonli.
“Two squads of SARKOS suits, a platoon of infantry backed by four Pandur IIs, and a handful of Zubr jeeps,” he answered grimly.
“Too big for a patrol,” Alejo said. “Too small for a reaction force. He’s beating his chest. For who?”
“Visser, I think,” Anis volunteered. “He’s baptizing people in the river.”
Alejo nodded, weighing the information. Finally he said, “That all he’s doing?”
Korfa and Anis kept silent, allowing Wonli to answer. “He’s calling it a revival meeting. Preaching late into the night and having prayer lines. Colonel Chutani insists the services are really recruitment for new fighters. Converts make Hargeisa and Al-Shabaab upset, but rumors of armed Masihi will bring serious trouble. Duub Cas trouble.”
“UNHCR guarantees freedom of religious expression. Within reasonable limits,” Alejo noted. “Peacekeepers are here to insure that. Trouble is, with Visser, he’s probably right. The man wants a private army.”
By the set of their faces, Alejo knew the three Somalis agreed, but they walked the rest of the way without comment.
It was early evening, and the sun was tangled in the tops of the thorny Dhamaajo trees that lined the western edge of the camp. Two hours before, it had been as hot as an oven, but now the air held a hint of the coming night’s coolness and fragrance of far-off rain. Save the buzz of insects, a quiet reigned. The throngs of squealing, crying children were absent. Men squatted outside tents, smoking cigarettes and sipping coffee. Women walked in groups with the huge plastic water jugs on their heads or bustled around fires in the communal cinderblock pits.
The noise picked up again as Alejo and the Somali men neared the U.N. compound. A small crowd was already gathered, and Alejo counted forty people, mostly children, pressed against the fence. They were watching the foreign soldiers and their white-painted war machines roar back and forth across open field beside the barracks.
The four men pressed through the throng until they stood at the front. The three Somalis positioned themselves around Alejo.
The area beyond the chain link was bursting with noise and activity. Soldiers from the Pakistani Peacekeeper contingent milled around in sections, ordered to different spots by their NCOs. Burly jeeps and large eight-wheeled armored transports followed after in small spurts, kicking up clouds of dust and bio-diesel fumes. The place stank of chalk and burnt French fries. To Alejo, it was a wonder someone didn’t get run over.
Near the compound’s main gate, six soldiers in SARKOS gear, large exo-armored combat suits, lumbered like massive robotic gorillas. Painted white with blue stripes on their chest plates and shoulders, the heavy machine guns they carried more than offset the innocuous coloring.
Alejo spotted Colonel Chutani right away. The head of the Pakistani Peacekeepers was standing in the middle of the field yelling orders into the din of men and machines. After several minutes, he spied Alejo looking his way and charged over to the fence.
Colonel Mushtaq Chutani was a pudgy middle-aged man with dark skin, a razor-sharp moustache, and a hairline that was receding so rapidly, Wonli once commented he had enough skin up there to make another face. Accustomed to air-conditioned office, the colonel was sweating all over like aged cheese. Even though the day was cooling down, dark spots had already formed under the arms of his starched uniform. He trundled up to Alejo and the Somali men, huffing for breath and beet-faced.
“Do you see this?” the Pakistani colonel demanded. “Are you happy now? I warn him, and still he pains me with deliberate purpose. He promised he would be no trouble, yet throws me a googly with his dunkings. Now I must employ troops and give Wisser a tight slap he will not soon forget.”
Alejo stared back at the commander. “Do you mean ‘Visser’? Pim Visser? When did you talk to him?”
“Yes, I mean Wisser. We conferred last month, and he promised to be no more trouble. But just like you, he pushes me more and more. Makes demands, stirring up a hullabaloo that I must resolve.”
“Hullabaloo?”
“Yes, a terrible hullabaloo.” The colonel gestured at the men and vehicles behind him. “This is your fault. You people ruin everything.”
Alejo shook his head. “Colonel, what does this have to do with me? Your problems are with Pim Visser.”
“Yes, major problems!” Colonel Chutani waved his arms frantically. “Open your eyes. Does not this tell you there are problems? You fanatics stir up the pot, and I must be the lid.”
“Colonel,” Alejo spoke slowly. “Free assembly is protected in the camps. The man has a few screws loose, but the meetings aren’t illegal. Histrionics and hyperbole are nothing to get worked up about.”
“Wisser is a rabble-rouser. He claims God told him the war is coming to a climax. Yelling that our camp is Noah’s Ark and must be protected.”
The Pakistani commander spread his arms, referring to the soldiers behind him. “We give you food, shelter, water … Are we not enough protection for you, ungrateful people? He is no better than the jihadists with his visions and yelling. Those meetings are recruitment, I tell you.”
Alejo kept his voice level. “Colonel Chutani, you don’t need angels to tell you both sides are building up for another offensive. The SPLM has been advancing for months. You told me yourself U.N. Command alerted you three weeks ago.”
“Don’t twist my words. His fanaticism has gone too far. How do you think Hargeisa will respond to him inciting rebellion, hmmm?” the colonel leaned forward, glowering.
“With all due respect, there’s a civil war going on,” Alejo said evenly. “I think President Dhul-Fiqaar has more pressing matters than a handful of teenage refugees with old rifles.”
“Do not presume to know the counsel of the Somaliland President!” The Pakistani commander shouted. “The Dutchman is a pest, spreading a rash of insolence and dissent.”
“‘A rash of insolence and dissent’?”
“Yes, a burning, itching rash that will spread throughout the camp. I cannot guarantee anyone’s safety if he doesn’t cease his prostituting the masses.”
“Proselytizing?”
“That is what I said!” the Pakistani yelled.
Behind him, gears ground as two jeeps nearly rammed each other. The NCOs were shouting over the hoods. Somewhere, an air horn bleated.
The colonel stuck a sausage finger in Alejo’s face. “See what you do? I must fix another of your mistakes. Do not try my patience much longer!” He stormed off, frothing at the two drivers.
Alejo turned to Anis and whispered, “It’ll be another hour before they get moving. Go to the river and tell them what’s coming.”
The Somali nodded and ran off. Alejo, Wonli and Korfa turned and started back to the medical tent. “I thought you weren’t fond of Visser,” Korfa asked.
“I’m not, but the Lord spoke through Balaam’s ass once, so he might do some good despite himself.”
Korfa’s eyes widened.
“Spoke through his donkey,” Alejo explained. “Besides, I’d hate to see anyone get hurt with Chutani’s men tearing around.”
Back at the medical tent, Alejo asked Korfa to tell any other former soldier he trusted about the Peacekeeper’s reaction to Visser’s riverside services. “They’ll be needed if things boil over,” Alejo said. Korfa agreed, then Alejo and Wonli went inside.
Bello was finishing up with the few headaches and scrapes that remained as Carmen locked up the painkillers and antibiotics for the night. Wonli joined Bello in treating the patients; Alejo suspected more for her smile and the sway of her hips than any clinical interest in aspirin or band-aids. He grinned as the two of them worked.
“The generators?” Carmen asked when he saw her.
Alejo shook his head. “We’ve got bigger problems. Visser is stirring up trouble and the colonel is adding his own spice to the pot.”
Carmen frowned. “What’s the Dutchman doing now?”
“Claiming he’s Dhubbato’s Noah, called to make the camp into an Ark so we can ride out the coming fighting under his protection.”
Carmen started to speak, stopped and shook her head.
Alejo took her in his arms. “Funny thing is, he’s right. Fighting is coming. The SPLM are preparing for one last push. Wonli and the boys tell me they see more men inside the fence every day. They come to see families, say good-bye, buy food and supplies. My guess is it will start any day now.”
“How bad can it get?” Carmen said. “The government is rotten through and through. One big push like you say, and it will fall down, right?”
Alejo took her in his arms. “This is war. This is Africa. Sometimes things get bad before they get better.” He paused. “And sometimes things get worse, and stay worse. Dhul-Fiqaar is a madman. I’m afraid he’ll burn the country down to ash and bones before he lets go of what he thinks is rightfully his.”
“And he still has his dogs,” Wonli’s voice added.
Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2 Page 11
