Dead Centre (24 page)

The crews were more sparked up by the minute. They hollered at each other and into their radios and mobiles. Whoever it was they were talking to, it was one big frenzy of
khat
, adrenalin and testosterone.

I had to shout over the din: ‘Awaale, what is happening?’

I’d ducked into a doorway on the left-hand side of the alley, for all the protection that was going to give me. I banged my back against a steel door that was well and truly bolted.

Awaale waffled away on his radio on the opposite side of it. He raised a hand to shut me up.

A technical that I hoped was ours stopped two blocks down, at the junction with what was left of a real road. Its gun pointed down the main drag left and started to pump out rounds.

Everybody jumped about and took up very bad fire positions on the crossroads. The whole world went noisy. The crews stuck their weapons round corners and brassed up who knew what. They were spraying half of Mogadishu.

Some of the lads darted across the road, firing from the hip. One tripped, lost a flip-flop, rolled, fired, got up and carried on running. The home team whooped and cheered. One even took a picture with his camera phone. I wondered if it would turn up on Facebook. Another couple of boys got into decent firing positions on the building corner, loosed off a burst each, then stopped and pulled out the Marlboros. They took a few drags, stuck their weapons round the corner again, and had another cabbie.

Fuck knows where the other two technicals had gone. With luck, they’d stayed close. I needed them to get me to wherever Tracy and the others were being held.

A guy with an RPG tube jumped off the back of the technical I could see. He stepped out into the open ground of the junction and fired, then came running back. Everyone else just watched and smoked. Why he couldn’t fire from cover, I wasn’t sure.

I heard a rumble, very close, followed by the rattle of a 12.7. I hoped it was one of ours.

Over to my half-left, a green tracer round bounced off the concrete and spun up into the air. I watched the propellant burn out. They were firing at something, but I didn’t have a clue what. The noise was deafening. Both the technicals opened up again. Another RPG whooshed away.

I ran across to Awaale. ‘We’ve got to go, mate. I’ve got people to see. We can’t make them wait for ever.’

He took no notice. Everyone was gobbing off on the radio, shouting and pointing at everybody else.

The second technical appeared. It drove up the road towards us, inches of clearance each side, braked and reversed back. The lad cracked off with the gun down one of the alleyways. Total fucking chaos. No one in control. Everyone was doing their own thing.

But we had incoming for sure. Strikes were tearing the rendering off the buildings around the junction.

There was another loud whoosh over to my far left. An RPG round piled straight up the main drag, passed the junction and kicked off into something further down. There was the mother of all explosions. A cloud of dust and debris plumed a couple of blocks away and rained down on the wriggly-tin roofs.

There were whoops of laughter.

‘Awaale, what the fuck are we doing?’

He looked at me like I was a madman. ‘We’re fighting, Mr Nick! We’re fighting Lucky Justice. We must always fight his clan. This is our city. This is the general’s city. My father is famous here.’

All well and good, but Awaale’s dad, very sensibly, was eight thousand miles away.

I ran over the sand gap and grabbed Awaale, pulling him into a doorway. A dog went ballistic the other side of the steel. I gripped Awaale to make sure I had his attention. If the crews wasted much more ammunition and Lucky’s didn’t, this wasn’t going to end well.

‘You can fight them whenever you want, mate. I need to see my friends. I need to pay you some money. That’s why we’re here, remember? We’ve got to move on.’

Awaale was too busy playing field commander. ‘Yes, yes. Soon.’ He got straight onto his radio. Fuck knew if anybody was listening.

The air was suddenly full of ringtones. The lads reached for their mobiles. Four of the crew were running from the left of the junction. They must have been from the third technical. They were carrying a body. It was a waste of effort. Even from where I was, I could see he was dead.

8

A COUPLE OF guys loosed off more RPGs down the road. They weren’t exactly aiming with pinpoint accuracy. They had them on the shoulder for less than a second. They just stepped out of cover and pulled the trigger.

The 12.7 had now moved into the open and was static at the junction. The gunner couldn’t control it. Tracer rounds started horizontal, then shot into the air, arcing towards an imaginary Black Hawk.

More of Awaale’s boys took up positions behind the vehicle. If the general had taught them all they knew, no wonder he was dead: that just concentrated fire; the enemy had something to aim at. If these jokers reckoned 10mm of steel was going to stop them, then the
khat
must be even stronger than I’d thought. Vehicles give cover from view, not cover from fire.

More rounds ripped up the road towards the technical, striking the buildings around the junction. An RPG followed, this time much higher. Its smoke trail was three metres above the technical. Then another. No one took cover. I watched it bounce and skid across the road before exploding just out of sight.

Our technical decided to come back into cover. I didn’t have a clue where the other two were. I gripped Awaale again. This was a Mexican stand-off, but without the Mexicans. ‘Awaale, are we going to stay here until we run out of ammunition? Or we’re all dead? How’s it work, mate?’

He gobbed off into his radio yet again. No one answered. The dog was going ape-shit behind the door. His claws scrabbled at the steel like a maniac’s. A radio playing Arabic music was turned up to full blast.

‘Awaale, mate. Stop. Look at me. I can help you. Do you want to show what a great fighter you are? Like your father?’ I didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Let me take a machine-gun up there.’ I pointed behind the house, to the high ground beyond the Black Hawk Down site. ‘I’ll go and find out exactly where Lucky’s crew are. I’ll tell you – then I can give you covering fire so you can move round and get to them. OK? So we can get this over. You can slot them, then we can move on.’

His radio moved down to his chest.

‘Come with me.’ I got on my knees. Now we were level with the dog, it went berserk. ‘Look, this is how we can do it.’

‘How – how?’

I smoothed out a patch of sand and traced a cross with my finger to show the junction. I jabbed it at the left-hand end of the horizontal line. ‘That’s where we are now, yeah?’

‘OK.’

‘And Lucky’s somewhere up here …’

‘Sure. We’re going to kill him.’

I outlined my plan of action and explained how we should each stay out of the other’s arcs of fire. He looked at me like I’d shown him the secret of the universe. ‘Mr Nick, this is so good.’

I nodded. ‘But we must go before it gets dark. Give me a radio that works. Give me that one. You grab another one off one of the guys. Bring the technicals here. Tell them I’m in charge of this one, OK?’

‘OK, OK.’ He sprang up, ready to swing into action.

I grabbed his leg. ‘Do the drivers know where to go next? I need to get those hostages home.’

‘Yes, yes.’ He was out of my grasp and running.

Great. If this all went to rat-shit, at least I’d have a wagon to take me to the meeting. Now I just wanted to get on with it, one way or another, before we were here all fucking night.

9

IT WASN’T LONG before the technical that had been firing hurtled towards me. The gunner held on for dear life as it lurched across the potholes, sending up a huge cloud of dust in its wake. I couldn’t even see the junction any more.

I waved it down just in time. It was going far too fast. By the crazed expression in the driver’s eyes he wouldn’t have stopped much before Malindi.

I opened the door. ‘Speak English?’

The guy was totally off his tits. I checked behind. The gunner was much the same. I showed them Awaale’s radio. ‘Let’s go.’

The driver’s eyes rolled. ‘Radio, radio!’ He pointed down. There was already one in the foot-well, another 1990s job, the size of a house brick. Maybe Awaale had thrown it in.

I pressed the red tab on mine. ‘Awaale, Awaale …’

Whoever was at the other end clicked on and the line went live with gunfire. Awaale shouted in the background and I heard giggling. Then it clicked off.

I tried again. ‘Awaale!’

There was a rustling sound. ‘It’s me, Mr Nick. I’m here, I’m here.’

‘Good man. Wait until I get up into the high ground. As soon as I start firing, you get your crew to move to the left of the junction and come up level with them. Once you’re there, you tell me, OK? Do you get that, Awaale?’

‘Yes, yes, Mr Nick, no problem.’

‘Good.’

‘Yes, yes. OK.’ The radio went dead.

I motioned the driver out of the way, into the passenger seat. ‘Come on mate.’ I smiled. ‘Chop-chop.’

I piled back down towards the Black Hawk monument and up the track behind it, towards the little shack on the high ground. The sun was low, casting really long shadows. Half an hour max till last light.

I slowed as I neared the top of the mound. Fuck the other technical. It was too complicated with these guys out of their skulls. I had one vehicle: let’s get on with it.

I started to crest the mound. I wanted to see just enough of the ground below us for the 12.7 to have muzzle clearance with nothing else exposed. We’d present too good a target otherwise.

I manoeuvred into position to the right of the shack, jumped out and moved forward in a crouch.

I pressed the red tab. ‘Awaale, Awaale, I’ve got them. I can see where they are.’

‘Where are they? Where are they?’

‘Whoa … Where are you?’

‘We’re at the junction. We’re waiting.’

‘OK. Can you hear me clearly, Awaale? Can you hear me?’

He was shouting over the gunfire. I could see muzzle flashes in the distance as Lucky’s gang kept giving it some in the ever-darkening gloom.

‘I hear you.’

‘OK. From the crossroads, if you go up five blocks – repeat, five blocks – you’ll come to another intersection, and that’s where they are. I can see one technical – repeat, one technical – with a heavy gun onboard. But it’s not being used, Awaale. It’s just parked up. I’m just seeing small-arms fire. Do you understand that?’

I got nothing back.

‘Awaale? Awaale?’

‘Yes, I understand, Mr Nick.’

‘OK. As soon as I start firing, you start to move on the left-hand side of the road. They’re five blocks away.’

No reply.

‘Awaale?’

No reply. Fuck it. I went to the wagon, jumped onto the back and started shouting at the gunner. I pointed down to the thin green tin boxes of ammunition. ‘You load, yeah?’ I mimed putting one onto the weapon.

The boxes held about fifty rounds each. That was what they normally came with, anyway. Fuck knew what was going on here. There were about twenty-five rounds hanging from the weapon and onto the steel floor. Empty cases were scattered all over the place. I kicked them out of the way with my Timberlands so I could get a firm, stable firing platform.

The firing mechanism was a really old one: two wooden handles on metal frames with a paddle in between. I didn’t bother to check if the safety was on. For sure it wasn’t.

The circular spider-web sight was the kind normally fitted for anti-aircraft work. I lined it up with the foresight on the junction five blocks up. I caught a couple of muzzle flashes and kicked off a three-round burst. The rate of fire was slow. The gas regulator must have been closed down too far. Or, more likely, clogged up with carbon because it was never cleaned.

The next burst included two tracer. They zinged into a wall just left of the junction, where I’d seen bodies taking cover. I quickly checked the belt. It was running fine. The green tip on every fifth round was tracer.

I kicked off at the junction itself. Five-round bursts, trying to control the amount of ammunition I was using, and also to keep the fucking thing on aim. The mount wobbled; it wasn’t bolted in properly.

Pointing down at the next ammo box, I swivelled the gun left and right. I couldn’t see any movement.

I got on the radio as the lads started to load it up. ‘Awaale?’

Still nothing.

‘Move, mate. Awaale, move.’

Two or three seconds later I heard the scream of engines. A cloud of dust billowed above the sea of wriggly tin and moved towards the junction. If Lucky Justice hadn’t known where our technicals were, he did now. All Awaale needed to throw in was a bugle call and the fucking cavalry charge was complete. None of this stealth, getting right on top of the target nonsense: they were just going for it.

10

THE LEADING TECHNICAL, flatbed heaving, came briefly into view through a gap between the shacks. At least they were outside my arc of fire. I lost them again almost immediately. Every time I saw muzzle flashes, I’d put in a three- to five-round burst. I watched the tracer’s gentle arc towards the target, 350 metres away at the most. I put another five rounds into the junction. And then another.

‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ Awaale was back on the net.

I couldn’t respond. In all the excitement, he’d kept his finger on the pressle. All I could hear was his engine gunning. I had to wait for him to release it.

‘Mr Nick, Mr Nick?’ This time he remembered.

I hit the red tab. ‘Yes, Awaale, yes. Where are you?’

The driver had jumped out, and he was having a go at the targets with his AK. He fired big long bursts, which kicked off in all directions, mostly into the air. He didn’t give a fuck: he was just going for it.

‘Where are they, Mr Nick? Where are they?’

I peered into the gloom. He could be anywhere. There were dust-clouds all over the place.

‘Stop, Awaale. Stop. Can you hear me?
Stop
.’

I clicked off.

‘OK, we’ve stopped. Where are they? Where are they?’