Fegan described cases that involved a number of hijackings, one that included the Pope, and another that ended with the rounding up of a gang of Al Qaeda that had purchased a Canadian airstrip and had plans to hit targets across the border. He warned others of the World Trade Center bombing in 1993, the Oklahoma City bombing in 1994 and the Olympics’ bombing in Atlanta in 1996; however time ran against him before he could get a handle on it. “You win some, you lose some,” he always said.
When the pair settled on the tarmac they were met by one of the staff of drivers that regularly escorted the diplomats to and from the airport. He identified himself as Ath-ibn-Dawood.
“Call me Ath — everyone does.” He spoke in nearly perfect English with a curious Scottish accent. Ath said he would drive them to Baidoa where many political representatives were meeting that day. He explained that he had learned English on a tanker a decade ago when he accepted the job and then found he was the only African aboard. A Scott took him aside and tutoring him was a laborious task as the Scott did not understand a word of Kinyamwezi, nor did anyone outside of his village.
Robinson inquired about all the air traffic and the activity at the far end of the runway. Ath admitted he did not know however many rumors, most of which had no foundation, were always floating around the streets of Mogadishu. “They may be Russians,” he surmised. “I saw them on TV and they spoke of offering assistance to our country.”
The Digil and Mirifle clans battled the streets for turf. The Digil were most ruthless. He explained, “They kill anyone they find at night in the streets — often for rites initiation. I see many bodies in the streets each morning and am careful to stay on the main highway.” He pulled a Helwan 9mm out from under the seat and showed it to the pair.
He allowed Fegan to handle it. “This is the standard police issue for Egypt.” Fegan spun it around as though he was Roy Rogers waving a cap pistol.
“Hey — be careful with that thing, Fegan! Point it somewhere else.” Robinson pushed the barrel in the other direction.
He checked the chamber and snapped it shut. “Yeah, it’s loaded.”
Ath placed it back under the seat. “It is a three hour ride to Baidoa. If you wish, I have pillows in the back and it will make your ride more comfortable.” Robinson agreed as he was tired from the long trip and thought he might rest a bit. Robinson reached behind the seat and grabbed a pillow and saw that weapons were hidden underneath. He wondered if Ath was a gun smuggler. It was not his place to question. He was in a third world country that was apparently the Wild Wild West of Africa. It was a far cry from the formal diplomacy of the UN, the Kremlin and the White House.
An hour later Robinson awoke from a light slumber with a start. “We’ve got a problem.” Fegan shook his shoulder. A gang of armed militia blocked the road with two old Chevys and waved rifles in the air.
Robinson was not alarmed. “We should pull over. It is probably a check point — perhaps an escort to the president.”
“Phht! It is the Digil. They will kill us if we are foolish enough to stop!”
Fegan needed no prompting. He grabbed the rifles in the back, handed one to Robinson, powered down the window a crack and wondered, “What is your plan Ath?”
“We are not stopping for any reason. Shoot to kill!”
I will annihilate the Somali swine. I spit on them.
General bin Hanbal focused the barrels on the binoculars and found the grain warehouse that sat in Baidoa. A Camel 9 hung from his lower lip and the smoke drifted off in the light breeze.
The Ethiopian army had crossed the border into Somalia with a militia that included three Panzer IV German tanks left over from WWII armed with 75mm howitzers and nearly 150 light armored vehicles. His scouts had informed him that the Somalia parliament, the I.C.U. and Prime Minister Sharmarke were still inside. His tanks would reduce it to ruble and his light armored division would move in to finish off any survivors.
Unfortunately his men had run into a rogue Al-Shabaab militia training camp on the little used gravel road and they had lost two hours of precious time in a fire fight. His mission was to destroy the grain warehouse and the occupants, then retreat back to the border without being discovered.
The Somalia government will be crushed for all time. Ethiopia will overrun the country in a week long before anyone has any idea of stopping us. He took a last drag and crushed the cigarette beneath his boot.
A crooked smile crossed his lips.
Ath slowed down the Suburban to a crawl as he approached the “check point.” He lowered the window and smiled as though he were an unsuspecting tourist. The gang of Digil relaxed for a brief microsecond.
That was more than enough.
Robinson and Fegan powered down the windows. The Suburban came to life spitting up gravel while the trio fired a hail of bullets at the adversaries. Ath jerked the Suburban to the left and sent a pair of Digil thugs sailing into the air while Fegan poured bullets into those unfortunate enough to be standing on the right.
He slammed on the brakes stopping inches from the pair of Chevys that blocked the road, and then raced backward while still firing at one who had jumped onto the hood. He saw that he was about to be shot through the windshield and fired a shot of his own, splintering the glass. Robinson unleashed his Zastava thirty-nine mm machine-gun on a trio that jumped from the shadows. Bodies had not yet hit the gravel — some fired wildly into the air like drunken marionettes — then fell dead still clutching their weapons.
The sound of a cricket hiding in the parched grass filled the silence.
Ath stepped out onto the gravel. “Do not get out of the car,” he spoke in a murmur almost inaudible. He walked over to the bodies with a Helwan 9mm in each hand and pumped bullets into the carcasses. One came briefly to life and pointed a rifle. Ath kicked it aside and pumped a bullet into him without missing a beat.
Robinson stepped to the gravel the Zastava slung at his side and adjusted his Ray-Ban Warriors. He pulled the corpse from the windshield and flung it to the ground. His eyes caught a motion off the side and he pumped a bullet into a Digil that still had some life left in him.
“Are you alright?” wondered Fegan as he stepped out on the other side while surveying the landscape with his KT 90 Rutger.
The pair brushed off the dust that had settled on their suits and straightened their ties unfazed by all the violence — just another day at the office for former CIA. “Yeah, it’s like making love to a beautiful woman — it’s something you never forget. It will be one bang-up of a report for Landenberger.””
“Maybe you can send him a postcard and write ‘Wish you were here.’”
Chapter Eight
Admiral Mahdi searched the sky from the deck of the Limburg while he talked into the phone with the negotiator. He thought he saw a speck on the western horizon and brought the binoculars to his eyes. Ah good; this will be over shortly. There had better be no tricks. The chopper with the ransom was going to make the drop without touching the deck. The crew and the captain were ordered to the deck where they would be visible from the air and told to sit quietly while his B-Wasy’s pointed AKM assault rifles in their direction.