by Mark Powell
‘Sounds like typical US tactics to me'. McCabe muttered.
‘I just wanted you to be aware the agenda is one that the U.S. wants, not the U.K.’
‘So why are we doing their dirty work then, not just cracking on to get Madden out?’
She smiled. ‘Come now, don’t be so naïve Mark. The Americans want to keep their hands clean, should it go wrong…that and I hear a favor for other dark deeds has been called in.’
‘So, you came all this way to tell me that?’. McCabe knew better.
‘Okay, yes there is something I want.’ She handed over the picture of a man who McCabe recognized as one of his targets.
‘True to form I see, and what favor would that be?’ he said, almost afraid to ask.
She leaned forward again. ‘I want him spared – let him go – pretend you didn’t find him.’
‘Why? And why should I do you of all people any kind of favor?’ McCabe spat.
‘Because I’m asking you; that is all I can say for now.’
McCabe tutted. ‘I have orders, you expect me to let this guy go based on your request alone…no explanation?’
‘Yes I do.’ She stood up abruptly, smiled and left him to consider her words.
After a few moments pondering what his nemesis was up to, McCabe decide to go and join the others – he too needed to relax in the wake of such news.
The sun came up early, cast with a halo of brightest orange, spreading a soft amber glow over the rising morning mist. Not that McCabe and his team gave it much attention. The journey to the plane was taken in silence as each man took the time to prepare a suitable psyche and steady the inevitable pre-mission nerves. As they boarded the cargo plane and took a seat amongst the sacks of flour, rice and genuine aid workers, the adrenaline levels started to rise. In a few short hours, they would be there.
Stowe leant across to McCabe, ‘Thanks.’
‘For what?’ McCabe was bewildered by this sudden note of appreciation.
‘Having me along, I needed this,’ Stowe replied, leaning back in his seat.
‘Don’t thank me, thank Ogilvy. To me you are still a question mark.’ McCabe knew his response would cause Stowe to think.
‘Well at least I know as much,’ Stowe conceded. He turned his head to look out of the small window.
Mooney beamed. ‘Don’t mind him mate…we all know you’re a prick.’
A middle finger was hoisted in return. Woodrow smiled and offered around his pack of spearmint gum. ‘Let’s hope we all make it back’
The returned looks he received made him wish he’d kept his mouth shut.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The town of Hobyo - Somalia
The old C-130 grey Hercules touched down with a hard thud, more on account of the pilot’s inexperience than a reflection of the marquee’s credibility as an aircraft. In fact, the aircraft’s twenty years of service as a mighty military machine in zones of conflict were etched into every rivet and scratch upon its fuselage. Now retired and serving as a cargo carrier for the thousands of starving Somali people until the day the wings finally fell off. The fuselage violently rocked from side to side as the 50 tons of flour and rice lurched against their restraints. Fortunately for those seated upon or leaning against the cargo, it held firm.
McCabe and the others instantly awoke from their shallow shut eye. Mooney stretched out his arms, drew in a large breath and stood up. ‘Welcome to Hell, lads.’
It was a statement that raised eyebrows among his unlikely tourist buddies.
McCabe made his intentions clear: ‘Well, this is it…let’s get on with it, or die trying.’
‘We could always claim we couldn’t find him and laze on the beach for a few days,’ Mooney joked.
‘Yeah, that sounds more like it,’ Woodrow offered.
McCabe knew such banter and joking around was all part of the psyche; downplaying the true nature of their visit and the inherent dangers they would all soon have to face.
As if on autopilot, and while the lumbering giant taxied them to the line of waiting trucks, each man collected his kit. As the huge cargo ramp unlocked and lowered, a searing dry heat and bright light rushed in causing each man to wince before walking down the ramp and out onto the searing tarmac. Within seconds, as if a starting pistol had gone off, a swarm of skinny men and women surged forward and began unloading the provisions before carrying them somewhat precariously balanced upon their heads and off towards the waiting trucks. Stowe noticed the armed guards, who were in fact nothing more than young boys perched like menacing vultures on the tailgate of each truck as a warning to any potential thieves. Ironic, considering they were the real thieves. The food intended for the masses would most likely not even make it to the mouths for which it was intended. Deals had already been struck and the food would be channeled off for black market sale, or worst of all, sustain the pirates who infested the small towns and villages long before it reached the mouths of those who really needed it. The aid workers were not about to get themselves shot by interfering or questioning its destination or the dynamics of how life worked in this part of the world. Their job was to deliver the aid and that was that; it ended at the trucks.
Loud chants and screams erupted as a man, who barely looked as if he could walk, let alone carry the 25 kilo sack of rice he was now absconding with, darted off and headed for the open land to his right. It was as if half the people who had now stopped to observe the occurrence were rooting for his escape, the other half screaming in anger for him to stop and return. In the end, the short burst of 7.62 rounds from one of the convoy vultures settled their ambivalence, sending him to the ground in a pool of blood and shards of shattered bone. The rice from the sack spilled out around him, soaking up the sticky red liquid. In the end the rice had been wasted, they might as well have let him run.
McCabe and the others looked on, eyed each other and carried on walking. Today was not the day to get involved and play hero. Mooney simply muttered ‘fucking savages’ under his breath and continued along the bumpy landing area.
As they reached a battered Toyota land cruiser parked on the edge of the less than perfect runway apron, Mohammed ‘Omar’ Hussein stepped forward. His tanned, leathery, older than his forty years’ face peering out from under the tattered Keffiyeh wrapped loosely around his head. His sparse but white teeth glinted as he smiled at them.
‘Welcome, welcome…come,’ Omar said in understandable and welcoming English. He beamed. ‘My dear friend, McCabe, how are you?’
‘I’m good – and you?’ McCabe asked him, handing over a carrier bag of DVDs Omar had requested. To him they were currency. The cash he would make from copying them and selling them meant food for his family.
‘Thank you, Allah bless you. Now come, we go…’ Omar ushered each man into the Jeep as if not wanting to remain stationary for any longer than he had to.
Looking back, Woodrow observed the now dead man being stripped of his clothes. The rice, that to most people would be tainted, was being scooped up and saved. The price had been paid and the guards gave it no more attention.
‘What’s the plan?’ Stowe asked, knowing full well the response.
‘You and Mooney will get dropped off in town for a spot of shopping, Omar will show us where; but be fast, yeah?’ McCabe raised his eyes. ‘Word that two white guys are buying arms will spread faster than a dose of the clap. Me and Woody here will cover your exit in case things ignite. We then head for Tariku to sort ourselves out as agreed. Tomorrow Omar will point us towards our first target, clear?’
‘Okay clear but–’
‘But what?’ McCabe asked Stowe, as if his instructions had not been clear enough already.
‘Why couldn’t this guy get the weapons ahead of us arriving?’ Stowe reasoned.
‘Simple…no money and to do so would signal he’s not exactly a simple farmer-cum-guide. This guy provides valuable intel for HQ; as such his image has to remain clean.’
The hazy silhouettes of
massive ships anchored off the dusty port village of Hobyo occupied McCabe for a few moments. Most of which he knew were hijack victims waiting for ransoms to be paid. The unrelenting no-man’s land of sand and rocks, sparsely populated with camels and small herds of goats was all they had to look at before they approached and drove into the narrow streets of the main town. Each man wearing an olive green and almost cream Keffiyeh around his head in an attempt to hide their incongruous appearance.
Omar pulled over to one side of the road and turned around. ‘Okay, we wait here; your men go two streets down, turn left into narrow street and shop with red flag outside sell you all you need...okay?’ It was as if he was directing Mooney towards a 7-Eleven for a bottle of milk.
‘Okay, you guys crack on. Buy what we need and in thirty minutes we pull up outside, load up and head off. In case of any trouble you leg it back if you can, if not carry on down the street turn right and head to the next main street. We can grab you there okay. Clear?’ McCabe waited for the acknowledgement.
‘Okay then...on my mark.’ Stowe held up his wrist to synchronize time.
Once done, Mooney and Stowe climbed out and walked off, as though they’d been there a thousand times before, towards the street entrance. Omar remained with McCabe, because to go with Stowe and Mooney to buy the weapons would compromise his own cover. It had to look as if they were just mercenaries, albeit mad ones looking to buy some pop guns for an afternoon’s shooting.
Having rounded the corner Stowe spotted the red flag, which in fact was just a bit of old rectangular cut rag, draped and fluttering in the warm breeze just above the doorway of a corrugated-iron-clad shop just a few yards in on his left. He nudged Mooney to indicate its presence. Streams of people, old and young were now filling the narrow street, and worst of all, looking at them carefully. Both men knew the faster they got out of sight the better. As they pressed their way through the doorway a slight man dressed in a long white cotton robe sprang to his feet to greet them.
‘Welcome, welcome, you American?’ he asked in hushed tones.
‘No Israeli,’ Mooney replied drily. The look he received back was one of uncertainty and surprise.
As soon as Stowe eyed a rack of old, well-used M16s towards the rear of the shop, the tiny man rushed over, pulled one off and handed it to him with a nod and a smile. Meanwhile, Mooney busied himself by pulling out AKs from a large wooden green crate, marked from China, and checking their general state.
‘Not exactly great condition, but I guess it should do the job, right?’ Stowe sang out to Mooney who was now checking over an array of 9mm Glocks.
Stowe took it upon himself to name his new African friend and handed the man a list. ‘Okay, Jonny! here is what we need, okay?’
As if by magic, two young boys appeared, no more than ten or eleven years of age. They scurried off with alarming effectiveness to collect the laundry list of hardware.
Stowe fished out a large roll of worn U.S. dollar bills from his jacket pocket.
‘Still the preferred currency of terror,’ he observed, holding up the cash for Jonny to see. ‘How much?’ He waited for the reply.
‘Four thousand, very cheap price,’ came the first exchange.
Stowe sported a weak smile. ‘Funny man...two thousand and that’s it.’ He withdrew his hand and stuffed the bankroll back in his pocket.
‘No, you need what I have and I have what you need – four thousand or you go, that is funny no?’
The tiny man had suddenly grown a pair and was facing down Stowe on the price. Mooney arched his neck around and laughed.
‘Okay, three thousand’s, a good deal.’ Stowe began to count out the bills in his hand. He could see the old man’s eyes widen at the welcome sight.
‘Okay, three thousand, we have a deal,’ he conceded.
No sooner had the words come out of his mouth, Mooney was out the door and heading towards the street entrance. When he reached it he waved his arm and McCabe fired up the Jeep.
‘Looks like we have the gear,’ Woody remarked.
‘Looks that way.’
McCabe upgraded the situation to red alert. He knew that money had changed hands, and that was dangerous. The shop owner only had to call in the dogs and they would be minus the cash, the hardware and most likely their lives.
It was a fact Stowe also knew. His eyes were now riveted to the shop owner, making sure his every move was tagged.
As the Jeep pulled up outside, Mooney came back in through the door barking orders at the shop boys: ‘Okay move – pack this stuff up and help us load it.’
More hand clapping and the gear, as if carried by a stream of ants, ferried its way to the waiting Jeep. Woody and Omar loaded it in to the rear whilst McCabe remained behind the wheel with the engine running.
Stowe was the first to notice that one of the boys was missing. ‘Where is he, the boy?’ he shouted.
The shop owner suddenly lost his command of English. ‘Sorry, not understand...’
‘The boy, where is he,’ Stowe flitted his eyes around the shop.
“He go home, home,’ the shopkeeper assured him.
‘We have company,’ were the next words Stowe heard. Mooney grabbed one of the AK 47s and slammed home a full magazine. Stowe quickly followed suit.
The shop owner lunged for Stowe’s weapon; Stowe immediately bought up the butt of his weapon and sent him back hard against a wall, knocking over a rack of weapons. The man lay still as if winded and in shock.
‘How many and how long?’ Stowe called out as he hurriedly found and opened a box of grenades.
‘Five maybe seven, armed, black pick-up, 2 minutes,’ Mooney relayed, eyes now firmly fixed on the pick-up truck now approaching at speed and bristling with men and weapons
‘McCabe, you go, we’ll cover,’ Stowe shouted.
McCabe jerked the wheel and spun the Jeep around before tearing back up the street in a cloud of dust and pebbles. Woody and Omar were still closing the side doors as he went.
‘You and me, mate,’ Mooney called and dashed across the narrow street towards the corner of a shop; from where he could cover the approaching truck.
Stowe positioned himself just outside the entrance to the shop, giving him a clear field of view.
‘On me, mate,’ Stowe called out.
‘Roger that,’ Mooney replied and cocked his weapon.
Stowe drew in a slow breath and raised his weapon; flicking the selector switch with his thumb he placed it on automatic. He then let go with a short burst of fire and took out the front tires of the truck, which by now was almost upon them. The impact was immediate, the truck swerved and arched up over the curb, burying itself into the side of a wall. Men spilled out over the road and the people around them scattered for cover, screaming. Mooney opened up with perfect timing and felled two of the men who had made it to their feet. Stowe turned to his left and fired again as Mooney spun around to identify his target. The shopkeeper fell backwards clutching a pistol and drew in his last breath. Looking back at Stowe, Mooney nodded his head and resumed fire upon his main target. In unison, Mooney and Stowe took out another man, the rest dived for cover and returned fire – fire that was so inaccurate if went zipping high above their heads and ricochet off in all directions.
‘Let’s run for it, mate,’ Stowe called out. ‘Plan B, cover me...’ He ran back across the street whilst the truck was peppered by Mooney.
‘On me,’ he yelled and Mooney let out a final burst before turning and following Stowe; both men now hammering it back up the street towards the corner. Stowe reached the main street, darting his eyes up and down to locate McCabe. Nothing.
‘Where the fuck are they?’ Stowe shouted.
‘Back down the other street...he said down and turn right,’ Mooney reminded him.
‘Yeah, and there happens to be a gang of pissed-off skinnies in the way,’ Stowe observed through gritted teeth. ‘Come on – this way,’ Stowe called as he gained his bearings and took off down the sli
ght hill before veering left. Mooney followed close behind.
‘There,’ Stowe shouted. In front of him, about fifty yards, the white Jeep was waiting, engine revving.
McCabe smiled as they reached and jumped in. Spinning the tires in the dirt they sped off.
‘Thought you boys were never going to make it,’ McCabe mused.
‘Piece of cake,’ Mooney gasped, looking around to check for pursuers.
‘Yeah, you made it all right,’ McCabe said, eyeing up Stowe, who had shown he could handle such danger with relative ease.
‘So where to now?’ Woody asked.
‘We head towards Haradheere,’ McCabe came back.
‘But I thought we were heading south to find our first target,’ Stowe remarked.
‘Listen, what happened back there was no mistake. Someone set us up, knew we were coming. Screw the targets we go for Madden clear?’ McCabe scanned his eyes in the rear-view mirror.
‘Fine with me,’ Stowe replied.
‘And me.’ Mooney was in.
Eyes now fell on Woodrow. ‘Yep, whatever you say, lads.’ He smiled.
McCabe nodded at their accord. ‘Settled then.’
Stowe looked at Omar. ‘So, what about him...he could have sold us out.’
‘No, not him. I trust him. Someone far more dangerous I suspect,’ McCabe decided.
‘You sound like you know who?’ Mooney said.
‘I have an idea yeah. But don’t you worry, I’ll take care of her?’ McCabe’s expression said it all.
CHAPTER NINE
London
Harry Ogilvy took the call on a secure line. He listened calmly to the person on the other end and the request to meet at the Caledonian Club in Halkin Street, Belgravia at 10am sharp the following morning. To the internal security people who always screened such calls, the conversation would have seemed ordinary enough, despite the abrupt tone of the caller. The final words spoken just before the call ended caused Harry to raise his eyebrows considerably and bare a pained expression. He set the phone receiver down and eased slowly back into his chair.
