Fog of War

Chapter Nine

The local “taxi” truck carrying over thirty people switched lanes, cutting in front of them, dangerously close to their truck’s front bumper. Justin slammed on his horn as their gray Nissan was engulfed in a thick cloud of red dust. He slowed down and switched on his headlights to avoid running over any cattle or humans with the bad habit of dashing across the strip of dirt called road.

“Crazy driver,” Justin barked, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

The Nissan bounced over a series of ruts in the road.

“Yeah, deadly. Carrying thirty people and still pulling such stunts,” Carrie said, holding on to the door handle.

“I think I saw a goat too. One of the women was holding it over her lap.”

The dust was setting. The terrain on both sides of the road was mainly flat, with scraggly thorn bushes and an occasional half-withered tree dotting the red soil. The prolonged drought had killed most of the livestock, fueling feuds among clansmen. A week ago, the area had seen bloody fighting, with young men swinging machetes and AKs.

The truck was one of the few vehicles they had seen since they left Wajir. Kenya Defense Forces were manning heavily reinforced roadblocks at the northern entrance into town. They had armored jeeps and bulletproof vests, machine guns, and rocket-propelled grenades. The checkpoints, the ethnic violence, and the fear of another attack from al-Shabaab fighters had emptied the roads, halting almost all traffic. KDF soldiers searched their Nissan and rummaged through their belongings, but waved the two “Italian journalists”—Justin and Carrie’s cover in Kenya — through without too much hassle.

Justin and Carrie were not that lucky at the next checkpoint. The captain of a small unit — seven, maybe eight soldiers holed in two armored transporters — insisted he could not allow any one, journalists included, to continue further north. After a couple of minutes of negotiating, Justin dug into his wallet to produce his fail-safe pass: five one-hundred dollar bills. The captain pocketed the bribe discreetly and ordered two soldiers to move to the side the coils of barbed wire forming the roadblock. He even offered to provide them with a military escort, hoping for another windfall. Justin politely declined his request, and they were on their way.

“How far are we from the border?” Justin asked.

Carrie consulted her GPS receiver. “About seven miles.”

“We’ll soon leave the road and head toward the border.”

Justin drove for another mile. Carrie reached for a water bottle from their mini-cooler. The temperature had climbed five degrees over the last hour, reaching eighty-seven. The Nissan’s air conditioner supposedly worked, but the sweat on her forehead proved otherwise. She took a sip, then asked Justin, “Water?”

“Sure. Thanks.”

She handed him a one-liter bottle. Justin gulped down half of it. He kept his gaze to his right, searching for a dirt trail among the shrubs stretching alongside the road. The “taxi” truck was long gone, and there was no other traffic on the road and no goat or camel herders on the flatlands.

“Right here.” He pointed to a spot on his right. “We’ll turn here.”

The mouth of a trail appeared a few yards ahead. The blackened hulk of a burned truck — similar in shape and size to theirs — marked the detour. Justin slowed down, then steered through the bushes.

He picked up speed as they entered the trail. It was a few inches wider than the Nissan, but cleared of all shrubs. Visible tracks in the hardened soil provided evidence of recent use. Some were wider and deeper than the rest. This was one of many smugglers’ routes piercing the porous border. Al-Shabaab was also known to routinely use them to launch incursions into the Kenyan villages and towns.

“Large trucks. I wonder what they were carrying,” Carrie said.

“Hostages. Guns. Cattle.”

He pointed to a couple of cow carcasses baking in the scorching sun a few feet away from the trail. A flock of vultures pecked at one, their curved beaks tearing chunks of flesh. They had already picked clean the other carcass, its white bones the only thing remaining from the animal.

Carrie nodded. She glanced at her wristwatch, then picked a pair of binoculars from her knapsack lying at her feet. She observed the horizon, looking first to her right, then straight ahead and to her left. “No movement anywhere,” she said when she finished her reconnaissance.

“We’ll be in Somalia in a few minutes.” Justin calculated the time based on the Nissan’s speedometer. “We’ve got to ditch the truck and walk the last few miles.”

Carrie gestured with her head to the left. A cluster of acacia trees — which had somehow survived the sweltering temperatures — rose up about half a mile away. “In case we need the truck on our way out.”

Justin grinned. “You really think it will still be there?”

Carrie shrugged. “Probably not. But it doesn’t hurt. Maybe no one will cross this way over the next four hours.”

Justin slowed down, then maneuvered the Nissan in that direction. He stopped when they arrived under the trees, and the stepped out of the truck. Glancing at the trail, he said, “It’s quite visible to anyone driving or walking there.”

“Well, maybe they’ll be in a hurry or maybe they’ll have no more room for plunder. Or they’ll think it’s a piece of junk.”

Justin looked at the Nissan. Its rusty doors and cracked windshield were evidence of its long use and abuse through these rugged roads. The tires had lost almost all their tread. The interior was in a better shape, with newer seats, the owner obviously interested more in the comfort of his own ass than the overall conditions of his vehicle.

“Hmmm, I don’t know. I saw an old Kia in Wajir that seemed to be held together by duct tape. But I’ll take the keys,” Justin said.

Carrie had already loaded her knapsack on her shoulders. “Ready?”

“Yes, ready.”

Justin swung his knapsack around his back.

“Two miles northeast, then two miles east,” Carrie read her GPS. “If everything’s OK, Birgit should be waiting for us.”

They marched in silence, preserving their energy. Justin was wearing a beige long-sleeved shirt, a multi-pocket vest and light khaki pants. Carrie had a white polo shirt and navy blue pants. She had applied sunscreen over her face and her neck and had offered some to Justin, but he had shrugged away the possibility of sunburn. His skin had a nice bronze tan.

Their khaki travel hats protected them well from the blazing sun for the first five minutes. Then their heads began to melt, streams of sweat trailing down their faces and their necks. Under the weight of their twenty-pound knapsacks, even their regular steady pace caused their bodies to break out in sweat.

“We’re leaving Kenya,” Carrie said.

She followed two steps behind Justin. He stopped, then glanced right and left, as if crossing an intersection. No signs of a border. The same red sand, the same thorny shrubs, the same scorching heat. He continued his march. Three more steps and Carrie said, “Welcome to Somalia.”

Justin slowed down. Another two miles to our rendezvous point. He glanced at his wristwatch. Right on time. I hope Birgit has some cold water.

About half an hour later, he said, “We’re here.”

He pointed to their right. A white Toyota Land Cruiser was visible in the distance. UNHCR was stamped in large blue letters on its side.

“Thank God.” Carrie removed her hat and used it to fan her face. She used the back of her hand to wipe a few sweat drops blinding her eyes.

A black man in an olive drab uniform jumped out the Toyota’s front passenger door. He was carrying an assault rifle, which Justin recognized as the American-made M16. He knelt in a firing position by the hood of the Toyota, pointing his rifle at them.

“Quite the welcome,” Carrie muttered, placing her hat back on her head.

“They’re being careful. That’s good.”

Justin continued advancing toward the Toyota. He kept the same pace, making no sudden moves or doing anything the man with the gun might interpret as a threat. As they drew nearer, he noticed the slender silhouette of the blonde driver. Another black man was sitting behind the driver. The barrel of an assault rifle was sticking out of the window on his side.

When they were a few feet away from the Toyota, the driver pushed open her door. “You must have friends in some very high places, Mr. Jacob Tanner,” she said in English as she stepped out and slammed the door behind her. Her terse voice dripped with scorn.

Justin looked at Birgit. Her face showed her displeasure at being here and serving as their guide. She was measuring them up, her arms crossed in front of her chest. Her light blue t-shirt revealed nice biceps, neatly covered in a golden suntan. The benefits of working long hours outdoors, Justin thought. A pair of sand khaki pants and brown work boots completed her attire.

“We appreciate this favor, Ms. Fredriksen and we regret any—”

“I don’t need your regrets,” Birgit interrupted him. She took a couple of steps forward.

Justin realized she stood at least three inches taller than him. I was hoping for some cold water, not cold shoulder. He braced for her lecture.

“I’ve been working in Somalia for ten years, and I’ve never talked to any of our director generals. Ever. But this week I get not one, but two, two phone calls, from two different DGs. Both concerned, very concerned, to make sure I serve as your driver for the day. As if I have nothing better to do.”

Justin’s face remained calm and expressionless.

“Who are you, Mr. Tanner? Is Tanner even your name? Your real name?”

Justin exchanged a quick glance with Carrie. She gave him a stoic grin, which Justin translated as “just let her vent.” Then the corner of his eye caught Birgit’s security guard movements. The guard adjusted his position, re-aiming his M16 at Justin’s chest.

“Ms. Fredriksen, we thank you for agreeing to help us. My colleague and I, we’re journalists, in the area to—”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” Birgit took another step toward him. She was now standing three feet away. “There are no journalists in this Godforsaken land. Men, women, and children are dropping like flies and nobody gives a damn. This land sees only refugees, terrorists, and terrorist hunters.” Birgit pointed a finger at Justin. “You’re not a refugee, and you don’t look like a terrorist.”

Justin let out a deep sigh. “The less you know, the better it is for everyone,” he said, slowly gesturing toward the guard. “Please take us to the village. In an hour, we’ll be out of your life. For good.”

Birgit tapped her left foot, kicking up a small puff of dust. “What’s in the bags?”

“Equipment. Satphones. Cameras. Binoculars and such.”

“Guns?”

“No, no guns.”

“Open them up.”

Justin lowered his brown knapsack slowly to the ground. He undid some of the straps, opening up the main compartment. He had no reason to worry Birgit would find anything objectionable inside. They were carrying nothing illegal. But it seemed she was looking for a reason not to take them with her.

Birgit gave Justin’s knapsack a meticulous search, then proceeded to do the same with Carrie’s. She opened all side compartments and inside pockets. Finally, she picked up the knapsacks, weighing them in her hand.

“We’re good to go?” asked Justin.

Birgit bit her lips, clenched her jaw, then opened her mouth, ready to continue her tirade. But she changed her mind, dropped the knapsacks and turned around. “You’re riding in the back,” she said without turning her head and walked toward the Toyota.

The guard lowered his weapon and stood up, but kept a stern face. His eyes were following Justin’s every move. Carrie nodded at Justin, then whispered, “Well done, terrorist hunter.”

“Thanks, Ms. Fredriksen,” Justin said. He zipped up his knapsack and hastened behind her.

The left side of the back of the Toyota was filled with medical supplies packed in gray metallic boxes of all sizes. UNHCR and a red cross were stenciled on their sides. Justin and Carrie sat across from the supplies, on the well-worn vinyl upholstery full of tears and stains.

As soon as they closed the back door, Birgit gunned the engine. The Toyota shook, then launched forward. They looped around a few burned acacias. Someone had stopped here and had decided to make a big bonfire. Most of the other trees and the shrubs had been cut down and picked clean, leaving the landscape even more barren and depressing than on the Kenyan side.

Two minutes later, they drove into a wider, dustier road, which seemed to run parallel to the border. Heavily used by militants and government troops of Kenya and Somalia, the road was in a rough shape. It was high at the center and tapered very steeply to the sides. The rear suspensions of the Toyota might have been sufficient for the harsh terrain during the vehicle’s first year in use. But now Justin could feel every bump in the road. At least they had air conditioning, but Birgit still had not offered them a cold drink.

Justin glanced at Birgit. His eyes met hers in the rearview mirror. She still had a dark look on her face. “You’re CIA?” she asked.

Her tone told Justin she was certain of his positive answer. He felt sorry to disappoint her yet again. “No, we don’t work for CIA”

Birgit’s eyes narrowed, the look of surprise replacing that of anger.

“MI6?”

“Sorry, we’re just journalists,” Carrie said.

Birgit titled her head to look directly at Carrie. Her amused facial expression was telling the other woman she was not talking to her. “Journalists or not, you’ve already cost me two grand. Al-Shabaab’s men at checkpoints make no exceptions for humanitarian vehicles.”

“You pay them off?” Carrie asked.

“Yes, and a journalist would know that. Why do you think pickup trucks mounted with machine guns and rockets are called ‘technicals’? Because we pay them off to leave us alone, so we can do our job and help save a few good people. And we write off those sums as ‘technical assistance.’”

Carrie nodded. “Thanks for the explanation.”

Birgit pondered Carrie’s reply for a second and decided it was genuine. Justin knew better, but kept his mouth shut.

“Here, have some water,” Birgit said. “You’re dying of sweat.” She gestured to the guard in the back seat. He handed them two bottles of water.

Justin and Carrie gulped down their water in a matter of seconds.

“So, what’s in Barjaare?” asked Birgit.

“What?” replied Justin.

“What’s going on in Barjaare that deserves the arrival of two journalists? The place hardly has two hundred souls.”

“We’re just working on a report about the recent clashes between al-Shabaab and Kenyan forces,” Justin gave her the rehearsed reply.

“Hmmm, interesting.”

Justin glanced sideways at Birgit. “Why is that, Ms. Fredriksen?”

“Oh, call me Birgit, will you? And it’s interesting because it’s very obvious when al-Shabaab leaders visit the area. There are reinforcements, curfews in villages, a show of force. There hasn’t been anything like that at all in the area. So I don’t know whom you’ll interview in that village, since it has no al-Shabaab fighters.”

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.”