Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (14 page)

Justin scratched his chin, choosing the right words in his mind. “Perhaps you’ve been overwhelmed with work, running the camp, and you haven’t taken notice.”

Birgit shook her head. “You’re handling me. I don’t like it.”

“The less you know, the—”

“Yes, yes, the better it is, but for
you,
not everyone.”

Justin did not reply even though Birgit flogged him with a harsh glare.

They drove in silence for the next few minutes, the rumble of the diesel engine the only sound in the tense air. At some point, the road become wider, but the semi-arid landscape remained generally the same.

Then in the distance, Justin saw a crude roadblock, formed by the skeleton of a large transport truck, probably of the Kenyan or the Somali army. It was flanked by a light blue pickup truck to the left and a black jeep to the right. A light machine gun was mounted on the back of the truck. It was manned by two men dressed in desert camouflage pants and white and red headdresses. Its muzzle was pointed at incoming traffic. Two other men in green pants and multicolored shirts stood next to the truck, holding large rifles in their hands, bandoliers slung around their necks. There also seemed to be a driver inside the truck, but Justin was not sure.

He threw his gaze at the jeep, a newer Mitsubishi Pajero model, with a mismatched driver’s door, a shade lighter than the rest of the body. He spotted two men inside, in the driver’s and the front passenger’s seat, but he could not make out their faces.

Justin’s breathing grew faster. By this point, he would have reached for his gun, but they had brought none on this mission. They had hoped to get them from local Somalis in Barjaare, since the country was awash with weapons. His right foot was tapping involuntarily. He glanced at Carrie and saw her tense face, heaving chest, and clenched fists.

“Relax,” he heard Birgit’s voice, as the Toyota began to slow down. “They’re al-Shabaab, but I’ve dealt with these men before, and we just passed this checkpoint on our way to meet up with you. They just want to collect their ‘taxes.’ Just keep your cool.”

Justin nodded nervously, feeling the sweat bubbling on the palms of his hands. He wiped them against his pants, then leaned forward to peer through the side window at the two men behind the machine gun. Their stance was relaxed, as they were not expecting to engage the incoming vehicle in a firefight. He hoped it would not come to that. The machine gun—he recognized it as a Russian-made PK—was capable of shooting seven hundred rounds per minute.

One of the men with bandoliers stepped forward, motioning at the driver to stop at the side of the road, across from the pickup truck. Birgit followed his order. The man approached the car slowly, his strut full of machismo, his rifle still in his hand, the barrel pointing to the ground.

“Stay cool,” Birgit said, reaching in the glove compartment. “I’ve got their money here.” She brought up a wad of cash wrapped with a rubber band, waving it in the air so both Justin and the man with bandoliers could see her gesture. “We’ll be out of their way in a minute.”

The man was now just outside Birgit’s window. She rolled down the glass and greeted the man in Arabic, “
Salam Alaykum.
”

Justin thought of the moment’s irony. The greeting meant “peace be upon you.”

The man mumbled back a curt, “
Alaykum Salam,
” which meant “and peace unto you.” Then he reached for the cash Birgit was holding in her hand. He flicked through it with a quick move of his fingers, counting the money. He nodded, a slight grin of content swinging on his lips. Then he cast a careful gaze inside the Toyota, pausing for a brief second when looking at the guards. His eyes finally fell on Justin, who looked at him for a couple of seconds, his face devoid of emotions.

“Who are these people?” the man asked Birgit in a gruff voice, his head tilted toward the back of the Toyota.

“Journalists. We’re giving them a ride. I explained this to your boss when we—”

The man silenced her by raising one hand. “Journalists. Why are they here?”

Birgit shrugged. “To write articles about the recent fighting.”

The men processed this information. He stared again at Carrie, then at Justin, studying his face, as if trying to decide if and where he had seen it before. He shook his head, his lips curling up at one corner. He took one step back. “You can leave now.” He gestured to Birgit.

She nodded, then said, “
Shukran,
” thanking the man. She began to roll up the window’s glass.

The man had already turned his back to them and was moving away from the Toyota at a fast pace.

Justin’s heart began to pound fast in his chest. “He made me,” he shouted, “get us out of here. Fast.”

“What? What happened?” asked Birgit, turning her head to look at Justin.

“That man recognized me. Hit the gas. Now!”

It was too late. The man spun on his heels, his rifle aimed at them.

“Get down! Get down, down!” Justin shouted, grabbing Carrie’s arm and dragging her to the floor.

Bullets pierced the car. Shreds of glass and plastic rained over their bodies. The sound of gunshots muffled Birgit’s screams.
At least she’s still alive,
Justin thought. He looked at Carrie, next to him, lying flat on the floor.

She nodded. “I’m OK.”

“The guards,” Justin said, looking up at the back seat.

His gaze met the lifeless eyes of one of the guards. His head was twisted to one side, blood dripping from a wound in his forehead.

“Their guns,” Carrie said.

“Got it.”

More gunshots rang. More bullets hammered their car. The metallic boxes had offered them a thin shield. Now liquids were pouring out of the countless holes. Justin waited for a break in the volley ripping through the Toyota. It came a moment later, a half-second pause, sufficient for Justin to reach up and grope for the dead guard’s M16. His hand found it and he pulled it toward him, just as the gunman resumed his assault.

“The door,” Justin said.

Carrie slid toward it, her hand fidgeting with the handle. She cracked it open, kicked it, then dropped out. Justin slipped through the open door as bullets whizzed inches above his head. He rolled on his stomach and aimed the rifle at the same time. He leveled his sight on the gunman’s legs and pulled the trigger. His barrage cut the man to the ground. He fell with a heavy thud, lifting up a small plum of dust. Justin fired again, and the man stopped moving.

Everything went quiet for a moment. Justin peeked through a hole in the side of the Toyota. The other man with bandoliers was gone, most likely hiding behind the pickup. The men in the back of the pickup were scrambling to fire their machine gun.

“This side’s clear,” Carrie said, gesturing toward the jeep.

Justin nodded. He stepped out in the open, firing short three-round bursts. His bullets hit the machine gun crew in their necks and chests, knocking them dead overboard. The man with bandoliers jumped out near the hood of the pickup. Before he could thunder his gun, a bullet struck him in the head. Carrie had retrieved the AK of Birgit’s second guard and had fired the deadly shot. She blasted her rifle one more time, her bullet nailing the driver of the pickup to his seat.

The driver of the jeep had already put his vehicle in reverse and was trying to turn around. Justin placed the metal stock of his M16 firmly against the pocket of his right shoulder. He aligned the rifle sight with the small moving target, closed his left eye and breathed in. Letting his air out and relaxing his chest muscles, he fired twice. The bullets struck the jeep’s windshield, boring two holes in the glass and in the heads of the driver and the front passenger. The jeep came to a slow stop.

Justin returned to the Toyota. Carrie had already opened the driver’s door. “How is she?” he said. “Birgit, are you OK?”

Birgit did not answer him.

Justin cleared the debris and helped Carrie to lay Birgit’s unresponsive body on the ground. They tried to keep her as still as possible, to avoid any damage to her spinal cord and other internal organs. She was barely breathing, her chest rising almost unnoticeably. Blood had seeped through her clothes from a large wound in her right side. Another bullet had struck her left leg, a few inches above the knee.

“Will she make it?” asked Justin.

“Hard to tell right now.” Carrie stood up. “She’s losing blood fast. I can’t tell what arteries and organs are severed by the bullet. But I’ll patch her up and stabilize her.” She walked to the back of the Toyota. “Help me find a first aid kit.”

They dug carefully through shredded metal and plastic and broken glass. Some medical supplies had remained intact, and they took whatever could be of use. Carrie began to attend to Brigit’s wounds, while Justin went to check on the pickup truck and the jeep. Everyone was dead, as he had expected. None of them had any identification documents, but he found two boxes full of assault rifles stored in the back of the jeep.

When he returned, Carrie was holding her hands over Birgit’s side wound to stop the bleeding. She had set a mountain of sterile pads over the wound, half of which were already blood-soaked.

“I’ve slowed down her bleeding,” she said, gently placing two long Band-Aids over the pads, to keep them in place. “The wound wasn’t deep. The bullet probably ricocheted off the windows or the doors. I hope she doesn’t get an infection.”

She rinsed her hands with an antiseptic bottle, cleaning the blood. She wiped sweat off her brow, then rinsed her hands again and turned to Birgit’s leg wound. “The bullet missed the femoral artery. It went through.” She pointed at the outer edge of Birgit’s left thigh. “But it hit her femur, the muscles taking the brunt of the hit. She’ll be on crutches for a few weeks. That’s if she makes it.”

Justin watched Carrie’s hands at work for a few seconds, then his gaze went at Birgit’s face. She had turned pale, her eyes were closed, and her hair was disheveled, but otherwise she seemed to be at peace. He swallowed, then said slowly, “You know she would be fine if it weren’t for me.”

“None of this is your fault,” Carrie said, looking up at Justin. “The bastards were shooting at the people who came here to help with their fucking famines.”

“This time, she was helping us.”

She shrugged. “Yeah, but that doesn’t make their actions any less vile. We wouldn’t be here, if they weren’t coming after you, after us.”

Justin nodded. “How far is Dagadera camp?”

“I have to check, but it can’t be too far.”

“You’ll drive her to the camp. Doctors there can save her life. And call those Kenyan choppers. If she’s stable enough to fly, they need to pick her up. Birgit can’t die. I can’t let her die.”

Justin had seen too many people die on his watch. He had tried to save them all, and sometimes he succeeded. He hoped this would be one of those cases.

Carrie finished cleaning the wound, then placed a few pads over it, leaning with both hands on Birgit’s thigh. “And the mission?” she said. “You’ll go at it alone?”

Justin shrugged. “I have to. We’re so close. And Yusuf has only three guards. I found two boxes full of brand new assault rifles in the jeep. Can you guess their model?”

Carrie did a double take. “They’re not AK-47s, or you wouldn’t ask. So, I’ve have to go with Type 56?”

“The Chinese knockoff of AK-47? No. This is close to home. They’re M16s.”

“Brand new US-made M16s? Where did al-Shabaab get them?”

“Not sure. They attacked a police station, a military base, or a Somali government warehouse somewhere. We should be able to trace their origin.”

Carrie nodded. “All right, so you get to the village, get to Yusuf, and drive out in one piece. Call me if you’ll need an exfil.”

Justin kicked some sand with the tip of his boot. “I’ll hide the jeep outside the village. I’ll either have to come back to it or steal Yusuf’s car. Or get another vehicle from the locals.”

Carrie frowned. “I don’t like the odds,” she said. “No offense, but this is more than even
you
can chew.”

“I know. And I don’t like it either. But there’s no other way.”

Chapter Ten

Two miles south of Barjaare, Somalia

September 26, 4:45 p.m. local time

Justin and Carrie cleaned the arsenal of M16s and their ammunition, a couple of mortars, and rocket-propelled grenades from the jeep. They retrieved Birgit’s money, removed the militants’ bodies, and scrubbed their blood off the jeep’s seats. They could do nothing about the bullet holes in the windshield, but it was not unusual for Somali cars to have cracked or bullet-shredded windows. If anything, it added a more local feel to Justin’s ride. Along with his blue robe, a
jalabiya,
he bought in Nairobi, the jeep would allow him to blend in.

Justin eased on the gas pedal as the first mud huts of Barjaare came into view. He was getting closer to the village. He had already seen herdsmen tending goats that looked as scrawny as their owners. They minded their own depressing business, throwing only casual, disinterested glances in his direction. Dead carcasses and piles of garbage became a familiar sight alongside the road.

At the edge of the village, he saw a one-story mud brick building with holes large enough for a small child to run through. Its roof had collapsed and weeds were growing next to the walls. A rusty, broken sign read in large white letters SCHOO, the ‘L’ missing from the word. Justin wondered when and why the village had abandoned it.
Perhaps al-Shabaab prohibited the villagers from taking their children to school. Or maybe they were afraid their children would be kidnapped while away from their parents and forced into al-Shabaab’s service.
He had read many reports of such occurrences in al-Shabaab-dominated areas.

He left the main road behind and drove to the school. Debris littered the backyard. One of the walls had caved in, creating a large opening. He steered in that direction, negotiating his way through the uneven terrain, and parked his jeep inside the school, away from any curious eyes. He stepped out and took his knapsack from the back of the jeep. Then he slipped his pistol—a newer Russian-made Makarov, retrieved from one of the dead militants in the pickup—and two extra magazines in the right side pocket of his robe and listened.