“I have you in sight. Come in as we discussed. No tricks or everyone dies.”
The Aerospatiale SA 341G Gazelle hovered over the deck and a rope was lowered with a brief case attached. Mahdi figured the Fourth Airmobile Brigade had loaned it out for the one day mission. His B-Wasy’s detached the briefcase and examined the contents.
“It is as we discussed,” said one.
Mahdi waved off the chopper and watched as it disappeared over the horizon. The sun was setting and they would soon be jetting over the waters headed for the mainland under the cover of darkness.
Prime Minister Sharmarke shook hands and embraced each representative as they took turns signing the Russian pact. “May Allah be with you,” he said as he greeted each one. Most chose to stay and chat over coffee and sweet rolls and others, who signed earlier, were now departing.
Sharmarke was endeared by all. He was a gentle person who often called his fellow citizens his “brothers” and “sisters” and all children were “his children.” He had none of his own and his wife had died in one of the refugee camps in ’03 with a fever. He felt very much alone and found that the political life provided solace and gave purpose to his life. He abhorred violence, never carried a weapon as did many of the others, and felt that Allah would protect him until it was “his time.”
One of the guards that had been posted at the door came running into the room shouting, “THE ETHIOPIANS ARE ENTERING THE CITY! RUN FOR YOUR LIVES!”
Pandemonium ensued as everyone pushed toward the exits. Suddenly the walls erupted and the roof began to collapse. Screams filled the air as 75mm howitzers pounded the metal structure.
Sharmarke and Al-wzai survived the first blast and ran toward the door as the roof came down around them. Al-wazi was a few steps ahead and found the door and dove to the gravel while the world seemed to crumble behind. He turned to offer Sharmarke a hand, however he was not there. The building was a shambles and his friend was inside.
“May Allah help us all.”
The sound of artillery fire could be heard over the next hill. From behind, Robinson heard the unmistakable sound of choppers racing overhead toward the commotion. He looked up in time to see a squadron of Russian Mi-28A’s mounted with 30mm Shipunov 2A42 cannons and in an instant they were out of sight and over the hill.
“Baidoa is ahead!” shouted Ath. “Something really big is going on I’d bet.” He raced the engine to the top of the hill and slammed on the brakes at the top, bringing the Suburban to a screeching halt in a field of lavender flowers that stretched endlessly down the hillside. Everyone jumped out in time to see a militia at one end of the town wielding rifles and RPG’s. Tanks were pulverizing one end of the town, particularly a large metal building that had figures streaming out and running for the hills.
Robinson spotted the leader who was smiling like a demon that had deceived God, while the tanks continued the assault. He pointed here and there directing his troops to shoot the helpless inhabitants as they ran for their lives in sheer terror. He signaled to one of his men to toss him a rifle and he shot an old man in the leg as he tried to make it up the hill. The figure fell to the ground and quickly rose to his feet and began limping toward the apex. Another shot followed to the back and the man fell lifeless, then tumbled down the hill.
My God — is that the grain warehouse?
It was a scene of unadulterated horror that would etch in Robinson’s mind forever. Several of the figures were on fire and they ran for their lives into the war torn farmland where they fell to the ground screaming. Women carried babes in arms and were riddled with bullets and fell to the gravel in bloody heaps.
The parliament is in there; the leaders of the country! Who in the world are these butchers? The Somalis are not my people, but the inhumanity of it is beyond comprehension. He remembered the pleas for help that fell on deaf ears at the UN only a day or two before. He felt an urge to run down the hill and shout at the top of his lungs to stop this horrible indecent evil act.
Did they not realize what they were doing?
Of course they did.
He felt hatred fill his heart as never before. As more fell to the butchery, Robinson fell to his knees tormented as though his soul had fallen into the pits of hell. “MY GOD! SOMEONE MUST STOP THIS!” he cried.
Abruptly the dozen or so Russian helicopters unleashed a volley of anti-tank missiles that instantly exploded the trio of tanks setting them on fire. More choppers followed behind with rockets and 30mm fire that decimated a dozen of the jeeps and trucks. The troops ran for the paucity monkey bread trees and ditches, then began returning fire with little effect, as the Russian helicopters surrounded the perimeter.
Abruptly the Mi-28A‘s stopped firing.
Robinson calculated that a command must have been given to the choppers to withhold fire as it was apparent they were firmly in control and could wipe out the remaining forces in short order. They hovered — these silent machines of death — like vultures waiting for a signal to feed upon some helpless prey.
Kill them — they are merciless murders and deserve nothing. Kill them! Kill the murdering scum. Robinson made the Sign of the Cross and asked God for forgiveness of his impure thoughts.
Fegan muttered, “May they rot in hell.”
A white flag was shown and a voice echoed from one of the choppers. “You are surrounded. Throw down your weapons and come out with hands over your heads.” The choppers hovered for several minutes in a temporary standoff and no one showed themselves.
That sounds like Kuznetsov. What in the world would President Kuznetsov be doing here?
“You have one minute to surrender!” echoed from the chopper.
That either is Kuznetsov or someone that sounds an awful lot like him.
Another minute passed and another command was given. “Send out your commander. We need to negotiate a truce.” A minute later three figures appeared with a white flag from behind a burning tank.
Robinson instructed the driver to drive slowly down in the middle of the field and waved a white handkerchief out the window while they approached. He told Fegan his suspicion and needed to know if he was correct.
A pair of the Mi-28A‘s turned and briefly focused upon the incoming Suburban, apparently regarded it as no threat, and turned again to face the Ethiopian troops.
Robinson and Fegan found themselves entering the truce area, a burned out wheat field, where a pair of figures emerged from a chopper dressed in black suits and Ray-Ban Aviator’s. He instantly recognized the Russian president and Vissarionovich strolling up to the opposing figures that were still bearing a white cloth. A third figure with an easy gait joined them dressed in a Russian military uniform. Robinson imagined he was probably a general from the plethora of medals that grazed his chest.
President Kuznetsov spoke from the side of his mouth. “Houston Robinson, it is a small world — out for an afternoon stroll?” He smiled and extended his hand never missing a step.
Robinson and Fegan caught up to the Russian dignitaries. “I was passing by and thought I would see what the entire ruckus was about,” announced Robinson vigorously shaking the hand of both dignitaries and General Dimochka Sergeievich, Russian commander of the African forces.
“You will see very soon, my comrade.”
Moments later they confronted the Ethiopian commander accompanied by two soldiers.
“I am Kuznetsov, President of Russia,” he announced and introduced the quartet that now surrounded him.