Dangerous Alliance, page 12
Four lights blinked from the shore.
On. Off.
Repeated three times.
Harbi used a battery-operated spotlight to repeat the sequence. A final flash from the shore indicated it was safe to approach.
The boats veered toward the signal. In the shallows, the pilots cut the engines, allowing the crafts’ momentum to carry them to the beach. Men hopped out and used ropes to pull the boats closer.
Once the human cargo exited, the boats were pushed from the shore. Reaching deep enough water, the pilots restarted the engines and headed out to sea to await the signal to return.
Harbi and his men trudged across the soft sand, climbed a steep dune by grabbing small bushes, which had somehow managed a foothold in the barren landscape, until they reached a row of waiting technicals.
Everyone onboard, the lead technical departed. The others followed at one hundred-yard intervals to keep out of the dust clouds churned up by the vehicles ahead. They reached a narrow asphalt road and turned left toward Mombasa.
“The potholes are worse than hitting the waves with the boat.” Harbi ground his teeth against the jarring. “Is it possible to miss the larger ones?”
The driver glanced at Harbi and grinned. “You suggested this road because there isn’t much traffic. Now you know why. Have you forgotten?”
“Ugh.” Harbi’s head connected with the roof as they rammed through a series of deep depressions gouged in the washed-out road. “How much farther?”
“About three kilometers. We found an abandoned barn. Should be able to keep prying eyes away.”
The driver turned off the road, back into the sand. He drove toward the shell of a barn, the lone headlight showing two wooden poles shoved into the ground, holding a pair of doors closed. He hopped from the vehicle and removed the poles, allowing the doors to swing open.
Back in the Toyota Land Cruiser, he pulled inside, followed by the other vehicles. A man jumped out of the last SUV and closed the barn doors, propping the poles back in place. He entered through a narrow side door as Harbi inspected the interior.
“Perfect. No one would suspect anyone to hide here.” He glanced up and studied the myriad of stars through the rafters. He turned to his men. “One hour rest and we disperse to our targets.”
***
The convoy neared the New Nyali Bridge. Two Kenyan police officers lounged in chairs on the far side of the bridge near their guard shack. They stood as the vehicles drew closer, hands reaching to their pistol belts.
The lead vehicle ground to a halt, scant feet from the officers. Dressed in the uniform of a senior Kenyan police officer, Harbi jumped out of the vehicle. The officers snapped to attention, quivering.
Harbi glanced at their wrinkled uniforms and smelled beer on their breath. “Why were you drinking on duty? Your appearance is appalling. Give me your names.”
“I am—”
While Harbi kept the officers occupied, two of his men crept behind them. After one identified himself, Harbi’s men used handmade coshes to render them unconscious. Bound and gagged, they were hauled inside the shack. Once hidden, Harbi’s men replaced the officers on the bridge and waved the convoy forward.
The final SUV remained on the bridge. 3M jumped out, carrying a backpack. Two others joined him, each with an identical bag.
“Come, while the others tend to their attacks, we’ll prepare our surprise.” 3M grinned at the others. “A farewell boom for when we leave Mombasa.”
***
The remaining four technicals continued in a convoy until they reached Jomo Kenyatta Avenue. The first three vehicles turned right toward their targets, while the final one swung left to weave through the streets near the Oceanic Hotel. Although still early in the day, pedestrians scurried about as family-owned shops opened.
People ducked their heads into pharmacies, grocery stores, and others, seeking purchases. The street filled with the various aromas of food cooking.
One of Harbi’s men complained. “All we ate was old bread made from weevil-infested flour. How I wish we might stop to get something, anything, hot to eat.”
“At least you had protein with your bread.” The driver laughed. “If we stopped now, more people might recognize us later. We want to hit our targets and leave.”
“I know.” The first man sighed. “Still, I’m hungry.”
The vehicle screeched to a halt by the traffic circle near the Stragglers Cricket Club. Two men jumped out of the back, one hauling a mortar tube and the other laden with a heavy burlap bag containing rounds and headed to a nearby bus shelter. As soon as the men were clear, the SUV continued toward the water, turned left on Mama Ngina Drive and parked adjacent to the golf course, the Oceanic Hotel in view across the fairway.
The remaining men set up a second mortar in a sand pit. The driver called Harbi. “Eber (zero) this is Kow (one). In position. Over.”
“Kow this is Eber. Wait for my signal.”
“Haa (yes).”
***
Two of the technicals approached Mombasa’s industrial area near the Kilindini Harbor as Harbi’s vehicle crossed over the Makupa Causeway, proceeding to Moi International Airport. Their destinations: the Kipevu Power Station and the oil storage tanks.
Harbi’s SUV raced along the road running parallel to one of the airport’s runways. They stopped near a copse of stunted trees. His radio crackled.
“Eber this is Labo (two). Ready. Over.”
“Labo this is Eber. Wait for my signal.”
“Haa.”
“Eber this is Saddex (three). Also in position.”
“Okay.”
Harbi and his team set up their mortars. One was positioned to bracket the taxiway leading to the runway. The other was aimed at the terminal building. Ready, Harbi took a deep breath and exhaled. He grabbed his radio and keyed the mike. “Fire!”
Whoomph.
Mortars shot from the tubes. Harbi noted the impact of the first one—missed the apron but hit the runway, creating a small crater.
The second mortar round landed on top of the terminal. Glass shattered and screams carried on the slight breeze as a plume of smoke shot into the air. They launched two more rounds before running for their vehicle.
Swinging around, the SUV sped toward the Makupa Causeway.
***
Receiving the word to fire, the teams targeting the Oceanic Hotel launched their attack. A round shot into the air from the traffic circle, missed the building and burst between two Mercedes in the parking lot. The cars bounced into the air. Alarms blaring, flames crackled as the vehicles became expensive piles of scrap metal.
The team near the golf course fired a single round. The trajectory, too short to hit the building, caused a towering splash when the projectile smashed into the hotel’s swimming pool. Two broken bodies, guests having an early morning swim, turned the frothing water red.
The men abandoned their mortar, which had split after they fired their round. They hopped back in their SUV and tore across the grass to pick up the team by the traffic circle. The driver paused long enough for the men to jump in. Everyone inside, the vehicle rocketed along the street, back toward Jomo Kenyatta Avenue.
***
Labo and Saddex launched their mortars as soon as they heard Harbi’s command. Positioned near each other, Labo fired at the power station while Saddex targeted the Kenya Petroleum Company’s storage tanks.
A brilliant flash obscured the power station when two projectiles hit the facility. Alarms sounded, men scurried from the burning building as the city’s sole electrical source faltered.
Not to be outdone, Saddex’s team bracketed two storage tanks. According to large red and white signs, one contained diesel while the other held gasoline.
The primary source of fuel for hundreds of vehicles in the city and surrounding area vanished in the roar of heat and flame. Explosions rocked the storage facility, the concussion from the blasts knocked the mortar teams to the ground.
Thick, black smoke filled the air as flames shot upward. Metal shards from the destroyed tanks pierced nearby pipelines, their contents spewing into the spreading area of destruction.
Saddex and Labo clambered to their feet, climbed into their SUVs and sped away, beaming faces glancing back at their success.
***
Team Afar (four) witnessed the success of the attacks, each marked by the black clouds caused by the explosions. Sirens became incessant as police and emergency services responded to the disaster. Sporadic gunfire echoed across the city.
The team piled into their vehicle, parked at the entrance to the New Nyali Bridge. 3M waved his arm in a circular pattern, urging the four technicals heading toward him to move faster.
The vehicles shot over the bridge, 3M’s vehicle bringing up the rear. While the others continued out of the city, 3M glanced at the men in his vehicle and smiled. “Boom.”
He twisted a knob on a small handheld device. Four explosions rocked the bridge. One side tipped as the supports gave way under the force of 3M’s handiwork. Concrete chunks fell away as a third of the bridge toppled into the water.
“Yes! I love to blow up things!” 3M swatted the man next to him as they broke into cheers and laughter.
***
An hour later, the five technicals dropped Harbi’s men back at the beach and headed toward Somalia. The two boats waited for the men, the pilots having seen the explosions from a distance. They piled onboard and proceeded north.
Harbi gazed back at the black smoke plumes hovering over Mombasa. “This should keep the Kenyans too busy to worry about Dacar and the ships he’s taking.”
Chapter Seventeen
Al-Shabaab Camp
Outside Kismaayo, Somalia
Three hours after Harbi’s team left the camp for Mombasa, Gari’s men changed into Kenyan Defense Force camouflage uniforms. They grabbed AKs and M4s and jumped into three Land Rover Defenders and an Oshkosh troop carrier.
Gari grinned. “What do we need with armored vehicles like Harbi wants? We’ll take what we want from the Kenyans.” He pressed his hands down the front of his captain’s uniform to smooth out the wrinkles.
His driver, a gray-haired man named Hasan Fido, laughed. “You are a handsome captain. But why not a general?”
“Generals don’t chase across the desert. They send captains and sometimes majors.”
“Next time, I want to be a lieutenant.”
“We’ll need to find a lieutenant willing to part with his uniform.”
The vehicles bounced along the tracks in the sand until they reached the Kismaayo-Kolbio Road. Not much better than the path they had departed from, but where the asphalt hadn’t been ground into pebbles, the convoy picked up speed.
An hour later, they turned off the road toward the village of Anole. A few lanterns shone in the fading light. Hasan glanced at Gari. “When we reach the square, should I stop?”
“Yes. Make plenty of noise when you do. Use your Swahili. Stick with me and yell at anyone that gets in our way. It should only take a few minutes to establish we’re a Kenyan military unit chasing al-Shabaab terrorists.”
“Aah! I understand. No one will suspect us when we pursue the terrorists.”
People peeked out of huts and shacks painted in pale shades of pink, blue, and white as the vehicles pulled into the square. The lead vehicle stopped in front of the town’s lone mosque.
Hasan grabbed a bullhorn. “Do not be afraid. We are chasing a group of al-Shabaab terrorists. They attacked a village in Kenya and fled in this direction.”
People remained indoors, so Hasan repeated his message.
An old man ventured from the largest hut. “They went north, along the road. Toward Kismaayo.”
Through Hasan, Gari spoke to the elder. “Thank you, grandfather. We will give chase and apprehend them.”
The convoy left the village, retracing their route back to the Kismaayo-Kolbio Road. They turned right, gathering momentum over the bumpy highway.
As they approached the outskirts of Kismaayo, the vehicles left the road and climbed over the sand dunes to the beach.
“We’ll camp here until dawn.” Gari twirled a finger in front of them. “Park in a circle. We’ll sleep inside. No fires. Dried food.”
His men scurried, following their orders. Within minutes, the trucks were arranged in a ragged circle. The drivers hunkered down in their vehicles to rest while the others grabbed their blankets and curled up on the soft sand. Before long, light snoring, the crackling of cooling metal, and the soft lapping of waves on the beach lulled the restless to sleep.
***
Gari woke before the rest of his men. He dreamed of death during the night. A premonition of what might happen today? My death or someone else’s?
He shook his head to clear the muddiness and wandered to the water’s edge, using a hand to shield his eyes from the intense reflection of the sun’s rays. After relieving himself, he turned and gazed at his men.
Gari cupped his hands around his mouth. “Wake up, you lazy camel jockeys! Time to move.”
The men jumped. One pulled his AK from under his blanket, searching for whatever disrupted his sleep. The others laughed.
“We’re late! In the time it takes for water to boil for tea, we must depart.”
By the time Gari hopped in the lead Land Rover the camp had been cleared of any evidence of anyone’s presence, aside from footprints in the sand.
Hasan started the engine and revved it up when someone banged on the side. He poked his head out the window.
“The last vehicle is stuck—buried to the axle.”
Gari glanced to the heavens. Late rising and now this. Hope these aren’t omens. “Get the truck in front of you to tow yours out. We’ll meet on the highway.”
***
The red shades of dawn behind them, Gari’s convoy entered the outskirts of Kismaayo. Unlike Harbi, who spread his men out to attack multiple targets in Mombasa, Gari selected two: the Hotel Ceenu Shamsi and the Jubba Fish Cooperative.
The first two Land Rovers broke away from the others, turning right before reaching the hotel. They skidded to a halt in front of their target, six blocks away from the cooperative.
Gari fired his AK at the cooperative, emptying his entire magazine as fishermen and customers alike dove for cover. His men continued the barrage as he turned to Hasan. “Tell them the market must be shut down. Kenyan fishermen cannot catch enough because of the Somali fishermen.”
Hasan used the bullhorn to convey Gari’s message. No one answered. He tried again. “Close your mark—”
Return fire erupted from the building. Customers screamed as the gunfire intensified.
“Gari, what should I say—”
Gari slumped toward the door. Hasan shook Gari, who didn’t stir. When Hasan tried to move him, he pulled his hand back.
Blood.
“Allah, help us!”
Gari groaned as he placed a bloody hand on Hasan. “Time … to … leave ….” Gari passed out.
Hasan blew the horn as he swung the vehicle away from the cooperative.
A man leaning out a window, and aiming a weapon at Hasan’s vehicle fell to the ground with the unexpected movement.
The second Land Rover followed in close pursuit, bouncing over the man rolling in the street.
Gunfire continued from the building, strafing the back of the second truck. Windows exploded, shards of glass burrowed into the men seated in the rear. One tried to fire back at the cooperative, his head blown off as an incoming round made contact.
A loud siren pierced the racket as a Somali ambulance raced toward the fish market. It slammed to a stop as the two Kenyan vehicles sped down both sides of the street, one smashing the side of the ambulance.
The two Land Rovers reached the primary thoroughfare and turned left, heading south toward Kenya. Crazed with fright and the loss of Gari, Hasan didn’t wait for the second truck, but zoomed down the narrow street. Two men, talking to each other, didn’t spot Hasan until it was too late. Their broken bodies flew into the air before falling in a heap.
The second SUV tried to swerve around the obstacle, but the sudden maneuver unbalanced the vehicle, which tipped on its side, sliding along the street until crashing into an oncoming bus.
The bodies of local Somalis and those dressed in Kenyan uniforms littered the area. Women and men screamed in anguish as they searched through the deceased for their loved ones.
Hasan continued out of the city, not stopping until he approached the area where they rested overnight. Of the eight men entering Kismaayo in these two vehicles, two fled the scene, battered and bruised, but for now, alive.
They wept.
***
The remaining Land Rover and the Oshkosh troop carrier halted in front of the Hotel Ceenu Shamsi. As the men piled out of the troop carrier, an antiquated deuce and a half with Somali Army markings blocked the street. Fixed to the cab’s top, an unattended fifty-caliber machine gun.
Soldiers jumped from the back of the Somali vehicle, brandishing weapons. A major stepped forward. “Put down your weapons. You have invaded our country. Surrender now, and you won’t be harmed.”
Dressed in the uniform of a Kenyan Defense Force sergeant, an older man named Shidane stepped from the Land Rover, his left hand out of sight.
He saluted. “We are in pursuit of al-Shabaab terrorists. We’ve followed them from the border.”
“There aren’t any terrorists at this hotel, Sergeant. You’ve been misinformed.”
Shidane shook his head. He raised the concealed pistol and shot the major.
Gunfire erupted on both sides. Shidane scooted back behind the steering wheel and turned the vehicle around, the Oshkosk following. Screams filled the air, rounds finding targets on both sides. Rumbling shook the street as a Somali tank maneuvered into position.
The Land Rover rocked on two wheels as Shidane threw the vehicle into a tight right-hand turn and sped away from the hotel.
An elderly Somali man scurried across the street to escape the carnage. Out of breath, he stopped in the path of the Kenyan troop carrier. The vehicle avoided the old man, smashing through an empty newspaper kiosk before chasing after the Land Rover.
