The Somali Sanction

by Mark Powell

  McCabe came over. ‘You okay, Mooney, what’s happened?’

  ‘Yeah, some skinny almost stepped on me. Woody saved the day,’ Mooney told him.

  ‘Shame it wasn’t Terry bloody Madden,’ Woody observed.

  ‘Stand to,’ Mooney bellowed.

  McCabe heard a rattle of fire over the radio. ‘Sit rep, you okay?’ he asked. Nothing but static could be heard on the radio. ‘Sit rep, Mooney, Woody – respond,’ McCabe urged them. The lack of response was not a good sign.

  ‘You want me to go back?’ Stowe offered.

  McCabe stared back at him. ‘Give it a moment – Mooney, come in, over,’ he called again.

  In the screech of static, Mooney’s voice hit the airwaves: ‘Under fire…compromised, over.’

  The rattle of automatic fire could be heard. All McCabe could do was listen and wait. Both he and Stowe observed a few of the invaders turning back. They both knew the insurgents were heading straight for Mooney.

  Four Somali had flagged Woody taking out one of their group and were now returning fire with poorly aimed rounds.

  ‘Cover me,’ Mooney shouted before dashing forward fifteen yards, firing off short targeted bursts of rounds, instantly taking out one of the targets by hitting him centre-mass.

  Woody followed and sprinted past Mooney. Both men knew forging forwards was far better than sitting still and taking hits. Together they had managed to cover fifty yards; then McCabe heard the words he was most dreading: ‘Man down, man down,’ Woody burst in – followed by a short rat tat tat. Then nothing but static.

  ‘Mooney, come in,’ McCabe implored.

  Nothing. McCabe strained his ears to listen. It was as if the turmoil around their own position had somehow faded into a silent abyss, he could only think about Mooney.

  ~~~~

  Mooney threw down his weapon and raised his hands, he knew, that for him, the fight was all but over.

  ‘Ha naga hor imaanin,’ came an order from one of the men now standing over him.

  ‘What you saying, fuckhead?’ Mooney asked the Somali mercenary.

  Bashir emerged from the haze of battle and raised his pistol. ‘He is saying do not resist.’

  Mooney looked up at him. ‘You speak English.’

  ‘Indeed I do.’ Bashir pressed the muzzle of his pistol to Mooney’s forehead.

  ‘Who sent you, hmm?’ Bashir asked, his eyes dark and intense.

  ‘Get fucked, is who sent us,’ Mooney snarled.

  ‘I see, so you want to play hero.’ Bashir cocked his weapon, and took in the fact Mooney didn’t flinch. ‘Last chance, who sent you, Special Forces?’ Bashir snapped.

  ‘Like I said, you can piss off.’ Mooney bored his eyes into Bashir.

  Without hesitation, Bashir squeezed the trigger. The impact at such a close range sent Mooney sideways as a large chunk of his skull exploded into the sand. The single bullet had done its work. Spitting down on Mooney in contempt, Bashir turned, and waved his men on towards the camp.

  The single shot jerked Stowe and McCabe into the probable scenario of events. They knew what it could mean. Minutes later they both spun around as Woodrow appeared and fell between them, panting and exhausted.

  ‘How the fuck did you get out…and where’s Mooney?’ McCabe asked.

  ‘He’s gone, mate. That bastard, Bashir shot him. I was behind him when he went down…nothing I could do.’

  McCabe grabbed Woodrow by the lapels and shook him. ‘You let him get taken alone, you fuck,’ he screamed.

  Stowe parted them both ‘Easy…easy. You want to get us killed, you dickheads? Keep it down. We’ll sort this out later.

  ‘Later is right,’ McCabe hissed, letting Woodrow go.

  ‘Now, let’s get out of here…and fast.’ Stowe turned and they all followed him to find the safety of cover.

  ~ ~ ~

  As the sun came up, the smoldering remains of the camp provided a ghostly backdrop to the cruel revelations of a new dawn. Wild dogs pulled at the carcasses of men while the laments of the critically wounded were silenced with a final round to the head.

  Aziz stood in the center of the compound as Bashir approached him. It was as if the entire fight had been about them; the mayhem was just stage dressing for their own scene of inevitable conflict.

  Bashir spoke first. ‘I told you, my brother, I would be back.’

  Aziz raised his eyes. ‘They are long gone…to somewhere safe.’

  Pausing for a few moments and jabbing at the sand with his foot, Bashir looked around. ‘You see all of this, this waste of life – you think it was for the infidel? No,’ Bashir declared, smiling.

  Aziz spoke, his tone curt and dismissive. ‘You want control of the clans and the ransom payment for the Maddens?’

  Bashir laughed. ‘No, this is not about any of that – this is about you.’

  Aziz was confused. ‘Me?’

  It was the last time Aziz ever spoke. The single shot ended a long running feud. Bashir had done what had come to do. The Somali sanction was complete.

  CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

  40 kilometers North West of Hobyo, Somalia

  Madden could see the intense paralyzing fear in Sarah’s eyes. It was a fear he had not seen before, as if for the first time since their capture she had checked out; all but given up on the hope of rescue. Squeezing her hand gently, he moved his lips closer to her ear.

  ‘I will get you home, I swear it,’ he breathed softly into her ear to reach and sooth her.

  Madden observed her eyes flicker for a moment and then nothing – just a vacant stare. In many ways, in a perverse way during their captive state, he had discovered so much more about his wife; traits he never knew she had. Her inner strength, her determination not to give up and her sense of humor, that in times of stress had shone through. The secretive floggings away from the strangely protective nature of Aziz, threats of rape and poor food had now taken their toll.

  Reflecting on himself, he too felt stronger, he had learned to control his temper and use his mind in ways he had not done before. It was an experience he would, of course, never forget – should they survive. It was an experience he now included as part of his destiny; it was all meant to happen, he thought. Whatever the outcome, he was with his wife and nothing else mattered.

  They had been smuggled out only minutes before the attack, heading to God knows where, but they were safe. Madden had heard the first explosion, and the flash of light had reached the rear window of their escaping vehicle. Madden pondered the words of Aziz, played them around in his head, trying to distill each word in order to analyze its intent. Something wasn’t adding up.

  Aziz had insisted they leave, with no time to even gather what little possessions they had. His men would take them north; it was for their own safety. He had made no further mention of demands for money or deals in exchange for their lives. Why would Aziz care if they lived or died, when considered in relation to the safety of his own clan? Hostages were easy to come by. Madden had heard the camp guards boasting about raids across the border to Kenya and how they could now snag any tourist they wanted. Granted, he was valuable, but Aziz seemed almost cordial, distinctly concerned for their safety.

  Madden caught himself in mid thought, his face frowning the realization of something that now made no sense at all. Aziz was Somali, a die-hard clan member and not a supporter of the Islamic extremists who now populated the South – all hell bent on changing the mind-set of the northern clans. Bashir was his enemy; that was clear. So why had Aziz insisted on Madden broadcasting a ransom demand in the name of the Southern Islamic federation. Madden jerked upright, as if a shock of electricity had surged though his body, which caught the attention of Jamal, one of the more pleasant of Aziz’s men they had encountered.

  ‘Get down please, your safety, please get down.’ Jamal gestured.

  ‘Aziz, is he Islamic?’ Madden asked.

  Jamal froze and pondered the question. ‘No! do not say such a thing!’ Jamal was no
w clearly agitated.

  ‘Why then does he claim he is part of the Islamic Federation?’ Madden continued to probe.

  ‘Get down, I say get down.’ Jamal clearly had no intention of continuing with the line of interrogation Madden was intent on pursuing.

  Settling back down, Madden held the thought for a few moments longer, that there was more to Aziz. He then returned his attention to Sarah.

  ~ ~ ~

  Having moved around all night in the cooler air, a blessed relief from the dry heat of day, the three had managed to avoid detection by Bashir’s men. Two patrols had passed them by, one of which had all but walked within a few feet of their position.

  As the orange dawn arrived ceremoniously, McCabe, Stowe and Woodrow finally located Mooney’s body. His corpse had already fallen victim to the ravages of the hostile environment – sand-blown and the exposed flesh speckled from the activity of savage ants. The sweetness of his blood absorbed into the dirt and sand was a welcome treat for the various insects that inhabited the harsh scrub and vegetation.

  Each man could see for themselves that Mooney had been executed. Half of his head was missing as the result of a near point-blank range shot. McCabe said nothing; he just knelt beside him, closed his eyes and placed a hand on Mooney’s side. It was his moment of silence for a man that was, in essence, his brother. Mooney had been un-stoppable, a man who had been shot many times and survived. But this time he had not escaped death. For such a man to die in this fashion, twisted McCabe’s gut. He silently vowed to avenge him; not as some form of jingoistic pay-back, but his loss was something McCabe felt responsible for.

  Stowe could see the intensity with which McCabe was fighting back his anger; an anger that he knew would explode at some point. It was more a question of who would trigger it.

  ‘Let’s go, Mark; it looks as if the camp is abandoned.’ Stowe pointed in the direction of the camp, signified by plumes of black smoke still puffing into the air.

  Looking up at Stowe, McCabe said, ‘You two go on, I want to bury him.’ He got up and started to take off his belt kit.

  ‘Okay mate,’ Stowe said. ‘Woody…on me, let’s see what we can find.’ Stowe knew enough now about McCabe to tell it was not a matter for debate. McCabe had to do what he had to do and that was that.

  McCabe watched Stowe and Woodrow for a while as they headed towards the smoking camp. He turned, and began to scrape away the dirt and stones to create a shallow trench; first, using the butt of his weapon, and then his bare hands. The sharp stones tore at his fingertips as he excavated the rudimentary grave. McCabe ate the pain gladly, it washed over his remorse as he burrowed and burrowed until it became clear he could get the hole no deeper. He gently rolled Mooney into it, covered his body with stones, then uttered the final words: ‘Take care, big fella. You finally ran out of luck…bet you told the wanker where to stick it. I’ll make sure we all get pissed in your memory. I may join you soon, that’s for sure.’ His face broke a half smile until his anger once again took a grip. Tight-mouthed, he gathered his kit and went off to join the others.

  Stowe stepped respectfully over each body in turn until he reached Aziz. Having seen the photograph McCabe had shared, he recalled the name.

  ‘Well that’s one less of the five we were meant to take out,’ Stowe observed.

  Woodrow tutted and shook his head.

  ‘Something wrong?’ Stowe asked.

  ‘Yeah, I’ll say – this is the one we were meant to not take out.’ Woodrow looked down at Aziz, who now had a hole in the center of his skull.

  ‘Spare him?’ Stowe asked looking somewhat confused.

  ‘Yeah, him.’

  ‘Why?’ McCabe asked as he joined them by the corpse.

  ‘I’m not a liberty to say.’ Woodrow turned to walk off.

  McCabe’s eyes flashed dangerously. Within a second he had Woodrow by the neck and tilted backwards. ‘Listen, you prick, Mooney’s lying under a pile of rocks because you failed to watch his back – and now you want to play games with me.’ McCabe’s eyes were now blazing with an intensity Stowe had never seen before.

  ‘Now tell us who he is, or you die right here and right now.’ McCabe tightened his grip and shook Woodrow.

  ‘I dunno…just that he was to be protected…orders…’ Woodrow rasped.

  ‘Like fuck, you don’t,’ Stowe spat.

  Woodrow held his ground. ‘I don’t, really; I just know he was valuable – that’s it.’

  McCabe released his grip. He drew his sidearm, cocked it and took aim.

  Woodrow stepped back and half raised his hands in defensive surprise. ‘Are you fucking for real?’ he gasped. ‘What the hell are you doing? We’re on the same side.’

  McCabe stepped forward. ‘Push me and you will die.’

  ‘Okay, okay, easy.’ Panic danced in Woodrow’s eyes.

  Stowe edged him on. ‘Speak now, mate or he will kill you.’

  Woodrow spat out what he knew. ‘He was a CIA asset. They used him to help abate the Islamic insurgents who are congesting the arms-trading routes the U.S. need to fuel conflict. That’s all I fucking know.’

  ‘Madden, explain Madden,’ McCabe asked, taking another step forward.

  ‘I don’t know. I swear I don’t. Aziz was told to move them out before the attack – north towards Hobyo. Looks like he didn’t make it.’ Woodrow darted his eyes between McCabe and Stowe. ‘I just follow orders.’

  ‘Bashir, what of Bashir?’ Stowe asked.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve really no idea where he came from.’

  McCabe looked at Stowe. ‘I do – that fucking woman.’

  McCabe flicked back to Woodrow. ‘So, have you been in contact with her?’

  ‘Yes. Yesterday’

  ‘You fucking traitor,’ McCabe spat.

  ‘No – she is on your side. She really is,’ Woodrow reasoned.

  ‘Really? And instigating the kidnap of the Maddens is helping my side, is it?’ McCabe found it hard to believe.

  ‘I don’t know; she must have reason.’

  ‘North you say?’ McCabe asked.

  Woodrow eased his hands downwards. ‘Yes, near Hobyo.’

  ‘Okay, Stowe, lets get after them.’ McCabe lowered his weapon, which drew an instant sigh of relief from Woodrow. No sooner had he done so, a shot rang out and Woodrow fell to the ground.

  McCabe looked down at Woodrow as his last breath slipped past his lips. He turned his gaze to Stowe. And said nothing.

  ‘You have a problem with that?’ Stowe enquired.

  After a brief pause, McCabe smiled. ‘No I don’t. Thanks, you saved me doing it later.’

  ‘Looks like just you and me now – so what’s the plan?’ Stowe asked.

  ‘I’ll contact Ogilvy and let him know what’s happened. Then we finish what we came to do.’ McCabe turned and started back for the Jeep.

  Casting a last look at Woodrow, Stowe followed on.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  London

  Ogilvy seated himself purposely at a table in the corner and ordered a house espresso, served in white china. He looked on as the caffeine equivalent of a slick, West End bartender, decked out in a starched white apron topped off with a black waistcoat, expertly-pulled his beverage. It arrived moments later with two brown cubes of sugar.

  Sipping it to awaken his senses while he waited for his guest, Ogilvy pondered that the world of the intelligence services was one eternally fraught with reactionary fears of national decline. He also knew that it was possible, through the extremes of paranoia they represent, to read something valuable about its more pervasive presence. But what he himself feared the most was that certain people were driven towards politicizing the intelligence services’ mandate, which in turn laid the foundations of a deep state, in which the service would then, in turn, control politics. The news McCabe had given him hours before served to confirm his fears. Someone wasn’t playing with a straight bat. The question that now occupied his mind was, who?
r />   Fashionably late was something she did well; it was almost her modus operandi. The Rain Angel finally breezed in, eyes bright and alert, dressed as always impeccably. She approached Ogilvy with cautious feline grace. ‘Harry, how nice to see you.’ She reached out a hand, shook with Ogilvy and took her seat.

  ‘Likewise. Now I think it’s time for you and I to share our cards – but first…’ Ogilvy sipped his coffee and waved with the other hand for attention. ‘…may I offer you something to drink?’ Manners were a matter of course for Ogilvy.

  ‘Thank you, Harry. Tea, Earl Grey–’

  ‘Lemon and honey right?’ he interrupted.

  The wry smile offered in return confirmed that she had noted Ogilvy’s memory.

  ‘Now, where were we? My men…what’s left of them, have reported in. Aziz, who exactly is he?’ Ogilvy asked, leaning forward to receive a straight response.’

  ‘I do hope Mark is okay?’

  ‘Yes, he is, for now.’ Ogilvy returned to the point. ‘Aziz?’

  ‘You know who he is – else you would not be asking me, Harry. Let’s not joust. You are way too smart to ask questions you already have the answer to.’ Her face darkened a little. ‘Very well, he was one of our assets’

  Ogilvy cut to the chase. ‘But what’s his interest in the Maddens?’

  ‘Better, Harry, much better.’ She paused as the tea arrived. ‘Aziz has proved useful in that he facilitates, shall we say, the safe passage of arms required to fight the insurgents. Certain parties at Langley see it as a service to abate the threat of hard core extremism overrunning Somalia.’ She sipped her tea.

  ‘Jesus, you people never stop do you?’ Ogilvy offered in disgust.

  ‘Oh come now, Harry,’ she cut in. ‘Don’t tell me the British do not fuel certain conflicts to facilitate their own agenda; and you, a fully paid-up member of a colonial nation of plunderers who populated half the globe and enslaved the rest.’