Shift Tense: Eshu International Book 2

by Patrick Todoroff

  “That’s just mean,” the Alejo agreed.

  Armory stores now available, we fit the Triplets with black U.N. Riot gear: kev-flex coveralls, Coors Tek ceramic armor, helmets with full visors. It was like squeezing linebackers into Darth Vader costumes; it wouldn’t hold up under scrutiny but judicious use of camo-grease and Velcro straps did a passable job for quick glance.

  At a distance of twenty meters. At night.

  Alejo’s sidekick, a former soldier named Wonli, met us while we were down in the camp. He’d organized three hundred men into a makeshift security force, and the U.N. armory turned briefly into an open-air market as the mob ransacked it for equipment and weapons. Men haggled, shouted, hooted as they bartered over spare kit like helmets, tac-radios and binoculars. After two hours of chaos and commerce, a motley collection of grandfathers and grandsons stood in a swirl of ochre dust and cigarette smoke dressed in desert-pattern chocolate-chip camo, bright African prints and MARS body armor. Armed with the latest FN Herstal SCAR assault rifles, we christened them the ‘Bushveld Festival Posse’. All that was missing was a stage show and vuvuzelas.

  Tam and I had made sure the ammo bins in every jeep and APC were filled. Alejo and Wonli topped off the fuel tanks. There were barely enough men who knew how to drive, and none of the vehicle-mounted weapons were heavier than a general purpose machine gun, but the defenders had bite to their bark now. Would to God it would be enough if any bottom feeders turned belligerent.

  ‘Belligerent’ was definitely the word of the day. The sound of distant small arms fire had been crackling like background static all day, while out of the south, the coarse thunder of distant artillery muttered and belched. Fat black helicopters buzzed through the sky like huge wasps, pregnant with rocket pods and bomb racks, not so much flying as beating the air into submission. Several times, we heard some small, malevolent species of drone tear past, smoke-plumes rising in their wake. Back up on the mountain, Tam, Poet9 and I spent the last dregs of the afternoon listening to the gossip of war carried on arid desert winds.

  We’d been assured over and over that the SAF—the Somaliland Armed Forces—were on the verge of collapse, out of the fight. Judging from the special effects, however, they’d definitely changed their mind. The Professor’s rebels were paying for every kilometer, and the three of us hunched there, under the granite overhang, were plotting to step smack into the middle of an ugly situation that had abruptly turned malignant.

  Listening to those far off rumbles, I couldn’t help but wonder if any angels were appearing in the midst of all that killing. Sure as shit people were praying.

  Jet-scream scorched above the clouds for a second time that hour. We all peered up. Back in Belfast, Hester had sketched out the bare minimum on Dawson-Hull’s new tactical A.I. system. With its fancy drones, smart code, and hunter/killer protocols, he told us they were in-country as a deterrent only, leverage for the peace talks. After all, he’d lectured, the Nemesis UACVs were prototypes, untested, and hugely expensive ones at that. London lusted after the coltan but had enough assets in play to keep their new toys from getting scratched.

  Apparently somebody didn’t get the memo: the Nemesis drones were definitely in play and putting the hurt on the SPLM.

  I eyed the IFF transponders on our ATVs yet again. Olive drab, rubber-armored blurt boxes twice the size of a brick, they had four, fat-finger antennas that squirted a continuous ‘Don’t shoot here’ signal. The electronic dog tags hanging from our body armor supposedly extended a safe-zone up to a hundred meters from the boxes—give or take.

  “Hundred meters—give or take?” I’d asked. “That’s a little… vague, don’t you think?”

  “Things get hairy, best snuggle up,” the little Irishman had replied.

  “And if the transponders get shot?” Poet9 had interjected.

  Hester gave him a blank look and shrugged. “Find cover.”

  Our electronic umbrella may have looked good on paper, but combat is dangerous enough without hanging your ass on cheap, mass-produced electronics and some C++ cubicle code-monkey’s sub-contracted recognition ware.

  Poet9 read my mind and started loading his ‘Snowcrash’ jammer program into his Ono-Sendai deck. Ever practical, the Triplets each grabbed a Balor anti-air tube. Cottontail hefted the stubby missile launcher. “Two things you can’t have enough of,” he suddenly recited.

  “Guns and money,” Flopsy and Mopsy finished, and the three of them broke out laughing.

  Tam and Poet9 looked up, surprised.

  “Wasn’t me,” I protested.

  “Gotta keep them away from Abdi then,” Poet9 cracked. “Kid’s a bad influence. Next thing you know, they’ll be skipping class and starting fights.”

  Turned out Ghotta’s flash drive was legitimate. Rebel unit dispositions, main lines of advance, lists of intended targets, timetables and more popped up on Poet9’s laptop screen. A strategic data goldmine. We even had the SPLM communication algorithms and pass codes. It was everything Eshu International needed to skulk their way to the Presidential Palace south of Hargeisa in time to get shot at.

  “That’s tempting,” I pointed at the screen. “Given all the fireworks, I bet the Dhul-Fiqaar’s generals would cough up a few million for this data.”

  “At least,” Tam noted.

  Poet9 raised an eyebrow. “And we’re not doing that because…?”

  “Because London has a specific agenda,” Tam answered.

  “I get that,” Poet9 said, “but decapitation of the SPLM solves everyone’s problem, right? A little vital info, a couple Tomahawks lased in on rebel command, and BOOM, we’re going home.”

  “Except London wants Ghotta alive at the end,” Tam said. “And Dhul-Fiqaar’s idea of precision-guided munitions is carpet bombing.”

  “Ghotta is London’s ace-up-the-sleeve,” I added. “After this little donnybrook, Dawson-Hull can dangle him every time Dhul-Fiqaar strays off script,” I mused. “In fact, if Ol’ Silver Eyes plays it smart, London might just decide he’s the better bet in the long run.”

  “Then maybe Hester gets to deliver Dhul-Fiqaar’s ‘early retirement’ package,” Poet9 noted brightly.

  “Yeah, but if we’re really lucky, they’ll kill each other out of spite long before we get to that point,” Tam added.

  “Here’s hoping,” I said.

  “I’ll pray,” Poet9 snickered.

  Evening came, and the sun dropped like a man diving into a foxhole, dragging a sullen, agitated night right behind. Explosions continued to sear the skyline. We packed our ATVs to the sporadic flare of JDAMs and the cascading flash of rocket barrages. Poet9’s scanner squawked with frantic chatter and tinny butchery. All across the country, men were killing, dying, being forever ruined under the incandescent fists pounding in that terrible darkness.

  Eshu was back down to six; Abdi and Curro would stay at Dhubbato. The boy had a grandmother somewhere in those tents. Enough of his childhood was stolen already; he certainly wouldn’t find it in Hargeisa with us.

  Curro decided to help his parents. He was fast, smart, capable… he’d proven that a hundred times over. We trusted him. No question. But where we were going, what we were about to do, required something else: a killer’s heart. That was the one thing Curro lacked, and we didn’t want to give him one.

  He embraced each of us, gathered up his body armor, Kriss carbine, along all the gear we could spare, and walked away with his mother and our little red-shirt scout. I watched the three of them disappear down the dark road towards the bustling mass of shadow and lights that was the refugee camp. I was happy for him, along with something that felt strangely like homesickness.

  The sound of 105mm thunder broke into my thoughts, and I turned back toward my ATV.

  Alejo had stayed to help us pack. He pointed toward the ripple of explosions. “I knew General Dhul-Fiqaar wouldn’t go easy, but that is brutal.”

  Tam shook his head. “It’s only raising the butcher’s bill. Hamid is rolling
with every rebel he can find, and he’s got Deer Voort’s heavy weight GSS-mercs to take the body blows. His craziness-for-life better have a couple aces up his sleeve if he wants to get out alive.”

  Ammo belts rattled and slithered as the old Spaniard passed them to Tam. “You’re one of those aces, aren’t you?” he asked quietly.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Don’t get clever now,” he snorted. “You’re here to eliminate the Professor.”

  Tam Poet9 and I gazed at him in silence.

  “What?” he demanded. “If you told me, you’d have to kill me? Please.”

  I set my Blizzard down on the hood of the Polaris. “You know we’re not going to say anything, so why ask?”

  “Tell me you’re not working directly for that mad man.”

  Tam rolled his eyes, and I shook my head.

  Alejo nodded, a stout, dark form against the bruised night sky. “London then.”

  Tam and I kept packing while Alejo stared at us.

  “What?” Tam finally asked, exasperated.

  “Think about what it will mean,” the old Spaniard said. “The consequences.”

  “It’ll mean we get paid,” Tam said tautly.

  “I’m talking about Somaliland’s future.”

  Tam smirked. “Isn’t that in God’s hands?”

  Dark or not, I saw anger twitch across Alejo’s face. “I’ll let that slide—you being young and stupid.”

  Tam started to retort, but the old Spaniard stared him down. “Dhul-Fiqaar is a butcher. Professor Hamid is the only real hope this place has had in fifty years. If you’ve got to kill someone, you’re killing the wrong man.”

  Tam stepped forward, eyes hard. “Hey, you quit this life after your angel and orphan episode. I’m not telling you how to bury your guilty conscience in refugees, so don’t tell me how to do my job, OK?”

  Alejo glared back, unflinching. “I’m not burying anything. I know what I am. I just had the courage to admit it. What about you?”

  “What about me?” Tam snarled.

  I stepped between them, hands raised. “Whoa… settle down, you two.”

  Tam stalked away. “Why don’t you toddle back to your Mother Theresa act and leave us alone.”

  I ignored Tam and focused on Alejo. “Sorry.”

  Alejo’s teeth were set, but he waved my apology off. “Been there. I understand.”

  I tried to explain. “The brute arithmetic is London wants their minimum daily requirement of coltan.”

  “So why don’t they let this mess sort itself out and buy from whoever wins?” he interrupted.

  “Point,” I conceded. “My guess? They could care less who runs the place so long as they get it. But right now, they have very definite ideas how to get those rocks, and we’ve been hired to implement them.”

  “Implement.” Alejo spit out the word. “You’ll initiate the collapse of a country.”

  Tam was still simmering. “Somaliland has been circling the drain for half a century,” he said from across the fire. “You said as much yourself. For all you know, London’s cash infusion will turn this shithole around—Dhul-Fiqaar or not.”

  Alejo’s gaze went from me to Tam several times, something burning on the tip of his tongue. But he held back. Then he gazed down the slope to where Poet9 and the Triplets were packing the last of the gear. Soft laughter and grunts drifted up on the breeze.

  The old Spaniard let out a sigh. I saw him discard whatever was bouncing around in his head. “Tell them I said good luck. I’ll pray for you,” he finally said.

  Then he turned and walked away.

  ***

  What’s done is done, I know, but while Poet9 rode point with the Triplets, Tam and I rode in freighted silence. He’d botched it with Alejo. I knew it and so did he, and driving through the night towards serious trouble, I worried we’d all regret it.

  Using Ghotta’s flash drive, Poet9 skirted us past more immediate grievous injury: a artillery-delivered minefield, two full-out firefights, and a feeble SAF ambush. Six hours later, we were watching Professor Hamid’s rebel army enter Hargeisa.

  The upper stories of several tall buildings were already blazing, and sirens bayed in the pre-dawn dark. We could make out the whistle-bang of rockets and the snap of machine-gun fire echoing down the narrow streets, the flaring lights indicating progress or stiff resistance. Close your eyes you’d almost think it was Chinese New Year. Except urban combat is a dogfight in a closet, and Hargeisa was getting uglier by the minute. Short of a cease-fire or a tactical nuke, they’d be brawling in those streets for weeks.

  Our destination, the Presidential Palace, was another thirty-three kilometers to the southwest. We fired up Ghotta’s data once again, and Poet9 worked out a route around the gruesome celebrations.

  Five minutes later, Poet9’s scrambler squealed twice, and Hester’s voice came on. “You lads have good news for me yet?”

  “How did you get this frequency?” Poet9 came back.

  “Trade secrets. So?”

  Tam grabbed the handset. “Not yet. Been busy.”

  “Get to it. Where are you? Ach, never mind. I see.”

  “How the fu—?” Tam began.

  “The transponders, you daft twat. Now get a move on. Our sources say Hamid and the Muharib step off in sixty minutes.”

  Tam glanced up at the box strapped to his Polaris’ roll cage. “We’re working on it. Things went fluky yesterday.”

  “What kind of fluky?”

  “The ‘Deer Voort wants us dead’ kind.”

  “You must be doing something right then. Man’s a right bastard. Don’t get your knickers in a twist though. Hamid sicced him on Berbera. Port defenses will tie up a chunk of his GSS boys for days. All you really have to watch are your Russian pals and those Brotherhood bodyguards.”

  It bothered me, Hester so intimate with our circumstances. Another hitch in my step.

  Tam interrupted the Irishman. “Yeah well, Alpha probably has our old job, and the Egyptians are all over the Professor like week-old underwear.”

  “Quiters whine. Winners find a way.”

  Tam’s voice choked in anger. “There’s hard and then there’s impossible. Don’t forget the SAF, and whatever the general has for a welcoming mat…” The Presidential Palace was the most fortified acreage in the entire country. Not only did Dhul-Fiqaar have a brigade-sized security force, the grounds were riddled with the latest hi-tech defensive systems.

  “Fecking hell, man. I know. That’s why I’m sending diagrams of the defenses right now,” Hester countered. “I’m not a complete reptile.”

  “I doubt that,” Poet9 muttered but flipped up the monitor on his Ono-Sendai.

  Tam raised an eyebrow inquiringly. Poet9 nodded ten seconds later. “Where did you get all this?” Tam asked.

  “Suffering Christ, you’re thick today,” the little Irishman moaned. “We installed it.” There was a pause, then Hester’s light brogue continued. “Don’t say I never gave you anything. You’ve got locations of the area denial weapons, minefields, exact GPS of underground trunk cables and electronic hubs… it’s all there. Even floor plans for the main house and out buildings. That scrawny gangbanger should be able to do something with it.”

  Poet9 made a spitting noise, fingers blurring over his keyboard. “He says ‘Thanks’,” Tam said.

  “One last.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’ve got those transponders charged and your e-tags on, right?” Hester asked.

  Tam fingered the thick circular fob in his vest. “Of course.”

  “Keep ’em juiced up. In case you haven’t noticed, Director Brenton took some liberties deploying regional assets. Those Nemesis bat-bastard UCAVs are on the loose.”

  “We heard ’em,” Tam said dryly.

  “Yes well, newsflash: he activated SkyNet too. BEECH is operational and fully autonomous. No humans in the loop. The SPLM is now being hunted by machines.”

  The six of us all glanc
ed up at the night sky as we absorbed that bit of information. “What about global backlash?” Tam asked incredulously. “I thought Dawson-Hull was your kinder, gentler, soul-sucking multinational that avoids public relations nightmares.”

  “You know who wrings their hands over the way a war should have been fought? The winner,” Hester answered. “The losers are too busy being dead. The director wants the coltan. End of story.”

  Tam was chewing his lip. “I don’t think you can trust Ghotta,” he said.

  There was another half-second hesitation before Hester answered. “One WOG at a time. Slot the Professor and let us handle the rest.”

  “You got any ideas on how to get close to SPLM command in the middle of an assault?”

  “I’m not asking, Mr. Song. These are words from on high. Get it done. I don’t care how. Qasr al-Salam is a tough nut, but not that tough.”

  Dawn was creeping into the eastern rim of the horizon, competing with artillery bombardments. “How do you figure that?”

  Hester hacked out a nasty chuckle. “Because Dhul-Fiqaar, in his infinite bigotry, just ordered most of his Red Beret thugs to do some housecleaning.”

  “What?”

  “Instead of guarding the capital and his psychotic ass, brigades of Duub Cas and Hangash units are on their way to smear some refugee camp.”

  I felt gut-punched all of a sudden. “Which one?” I called out, already knowing the answer.

  Hester’s answer came through the tiny speakers. “Dhubbato.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  Hester heard me. “You should thank Christ,” he said. “The mad fecker just made your life easier. Less of those Red Beret chimps means a lot less metal zipping around looking for a home.”

  Poet9 stopped typing and looked up at Tam when he spoke. “We got friends there.”

  “Where?” Hester asked.

  “The camp. Dhubbato.”

  Tam didn’t say anything, but Hester did. “Well, warn ’em if you can, but stay on task. Finish this by nightfall. At the latest. Got me?”

  “Got it,” Tam acknowledged.