Fog of War (Justin Hall # 3) (16 page)

Justin nodded his goodbye, tossed his knapsack in the back of the pickup, and climbed in the truck. He stepped around boxes of ammunition and a few RPGs. The young man had already positioned himself behind the PKM heavy machine gun, two gun belts wrapped around his neck. Justin rapped at the top of the cab and shouted at the driver, “We’re good to go.”

The driver floored the gas. Justin hung on to the wooden handle of the PKM mounted on a makeshift tripod. The pickup turned sharply, then gained speed. He looked at the machine gun. Its barrel had some rust spots and the grip was well-worn. It was likely still in good working condition, but there was a big difference between his definition of “good” and “working” and that of local Somalis. Justin checked the gun belt feeding into the machine gun to make sure it was loaded properly. Once satisfied all was in order, he closed the feed tray cover and engaged its latch.

The driver kept the pickup mainly on the road, and a dust cloud soon engulfed them. Justin brought his headdress down to his eyebrows and wrapped its ends around his mouth. Still, the grains of dirt pricked his eyes, making it difficult to see, let alone aim his gun. The driver flipped on his headlights, which did not help much. Justin’s vision was still reduced to a dozen or so feet in front of the pickup.

The young man in the front passenger’s seat popped his head and his AK out of the window. Before he could pull the trigger, Justin stepped closer to him and shouted, “No shooting until we get closer and until I give the order.”

The young man grunted and scowled, but retreated inside the cab.

Justin peered straight ahead and thought he saw the blurry boxed silhouette of the jeep. As he returned behind his PKM, he saw bullets kicking up dirt on the left side of the road.

“They’re shooting at us,” the front passenger shouted.

“I can see that,” Justin replied, “
do not fire
back. We need them alive.”

The front passenger let out a torrent of curses. He was interrupted by a couple of lucky bullets that struck the side of the pickup as they went around a curve.

“Man, they’re going to kill us,” shouted the gunman at the back.

Justin thought about his options. They had to return fire, but he could not afford to kill Yusuf and his fighters. Not before they had given up their secrets.

“Drive to the left,” he ordered the driver. “Get us out of the road. I need a clear line of sight.”

The pickup veered in that direction. It lost some speed, since the driver was swerving to avoid the dips and rises of the terrain. They moved out of the dust swirling on the road and were now driving parallel to the jeep.

“Faster, faster,” Justin shouted, readying his machine gun.

The jeep came into his view as Justin aligned the sight of the PKM with the target. It was well within the maximum effective range of the gun of over 1500 yards. Justin pulled the charging handle back, sliding the first round of ammunition from the belt and feeding it onto the bolt face. He returned the handle to its previous position and took a deep breath. A second later, he pulled the trigger, firing a six-round burst, followed by a nine-round burst. He sent the bullets in front of the jeep, mainly as a show of strength and to force the jeep to perhaps slow down. He had no illusions Yusuf was going to stop and surrender without a fight.

Incoming bullets stitched a strange pattern around the pickup. One or two whizzed very close to his head. Justin blasted another barrage, aiming closer to the jeep, then let the machine gun barrel cool for a few seconds.

The AK of the front passenger came out of the window

Justin shouted, “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot!”

The young man was already squeezing out round after round. His weapon was bouncing wildly, the powerful recoil almost throwing the gun out of his small, untrained hands.

“Cease fire, cease fire! Stop shooting!” Justin shouted again, his voice lost amidst the gun reports.

The AK clicked empty and disappeared inside the cab.

“Don’t shoot any more, got it?”

“Fine, got it,” came the reply. The young man sounded very much annoyed.

Another stream of incoming bullets hit the pickup. Justin ducked, but there was not much cover on the truck bed. The insurgents had reinforced the sides of the truck with steel plates crudely soldered together. They had provided some level of extra protection at some point, but now they were full of bullet holes. Justin doubted they were going to survive another onslaught.

The truck sank as the bullets blew one of the tires, then stopped. The windows glass shattered. More bullets hammered the doors. Screams of pain came from the cab. Justin looked at the RPG launcher by his feet. The gunman was lying flat next to the box full of machine gun ammunition belts. “The RPG. Give me the RPG,” Justin said.

It took him a few moments to focus and make sense of Justin’s words.

“The launcher. Now,” Justin said.

The man reached for the weapon and handed it to Justin, who gave it a quick look to make sure it was all in one piece. He rolled on his stomach and picked up the launcher. The barrage of bullets had slowed down, but they were still peppering the truck.
This rust bucket isn’t going to be my coffin,
Justin thought, tightening his grip around the launcher.

The shooting stopped. Justin seized the moment. He glanced over the side of the truck. The jeep had stopped. Justin climbed to one knee and leveled the RPG launcher. He aimed it at the jeep—about one hundred yards away—and pulled the trigger.

The grenade whooshed toward the target. The gray smoke coming out of the launcher’s breach swallowed up the truck. A second later, a powerful explosion roared through the area. Justin grabbed one of the AKs by the ammunition box and jumped out of the truck, hitting the ground running. He was now out of the smoke cloud. The RPG had knocked the jeep to its driver’s side. Small flames chewed at the tires. Justin advanced slowly, his assault rifle at the ready in case he saw survivors.

He reached the mangled wreck. The driver was dead, his head snapped backwards. A sharp metal piece from the door had pierced the chest of the front passenger. He was dead too, blood still trickling out of his mouth. A low sigh came from the back seat. Justin peered through the sight of his AK and found Yusuf’s face covered in blood and bruises. A pool of blood was forming on his chest. His eyes still had the dim light of life in them, but it was quickly burning out.

“Who’s your source?” Justin asked in Arabic.

Yusuf tried to speak, but a soft wheeze came out of his mouth. He coughed, bloody spittle dripping down the side of his face. “My son . . . hhhh . . . save my son.” His eyes moved toward the man lying next to him.

Justin saw the resemblance between the two men and realized the bitter fact: the son Yusuf was trying to save was already gone. “Your son for your source. Who gave you the intel?”

Yusuf drew in a shallow breath. He said in a weak voice, “The Yemeni . . . Hussein Ahmed Al-Khaiwani. He . . . he has it.”

Justin did not recognize the name. “Don’t lie, Yusuf.”

Yusuf tried to shake his head. It proved to be a daunting task. “It’s the truth. Al-Houthi . . . he gave us your position.”

Footsteps raced behind him. One of the gunmen, the one in the back, stood a few steps away from the hood of the jeep.

Justin asked, “How are the others?”

The young man shook his head. “Both dead.”

“Bring the truck here, if it still works. We’ll take their guns.”

Justin could care less about the weapons, but it would give him an excuse to get rid of the young man and finish his conversation with Yusuf.

“And their bodies,” the young man said.

“What?”

“We’ll take their bodies.”

Justin furrowed his brow. “Why?”

The young man blinked as if Justin’s question made no sense. “So the village can see we killed them. If they see the bodies, they will have no fear.”

Justin hated the idea of corpses being paraded around as trophies, but decided it was not his call. Even if he stopped it, he was not going to stand guard by the jeep. Sooner or later, the villagers were going to take the bodies. That is, if hyenas and other desert vultures had not already gotten to them.

“Fine. Now get the truck.”

The young man cast a glance at the jeep, scowled at the dead bodies, then began to walk back. Justin returned to Yusuf, but was met by the man’s empty gaze. “At least I got a name. That’s a start,” Justin said. “Yemen. Another hellhole.” He spat on the ground.

He thought about Yusuf’s last words. The man had said “al-Houthi.”
The same terrorist group that’s close to getting their hands on Romanov’s missiles. Romanov. That man is everywhere.

And Justin did not believe in coincidences.

Did Romanov know about the leak? Did he know Houthis had this intelligence? Is this what he meant when he said he could “sweeten the deal?” He would give us this name?

Justin looked around the jeep. A satellite phone lay next to Yusuf’s right hand, along with a thin briefcase. He took both and walked over to the other side to search the glove compartment. The pickup truck growled in the distance but did not move. Justin hoped it would take a while before the young man got it working, so he could finish his search. He found another satellite phone and a large envelope and put them together with the other items. He moved on to the trunk. It had tools, rags, a couple of empty buckets, a spare tire, and other spare parts for the jeep. Nothing of interest to him.

He quenched the tire fires, which had begun to eat through one of the doors. Then he began to pull out the bodies and go through their pockets as he laid them on the sand. He found cash, Somali and Kenyan IDs—which he was not sure whether they were genuine or very good counterfeits—keys and a digital camera. One of the gunmen had a couple of gold rings that looked too small for his stubby fingers.
Spoils of war?
Justin snapped a photo of each dead man’s face with the digital camera, so the Service could run the images through their databases and confirm their identities.

The truck pulled up next to the jeep before Justin had a chance to look inside the briefcase and the envelope.

“The engine took a couple of rounds, but it will hold until we get back to the village,” the young man said, eyeing the corpses. “The stupid cowards,” he added as he got out of the truck. He noticed the briefcase in Justin’s hand. His face glowed with excitement. “Booty. For both of us?”

“Yes.”

The young man hurried to pillage the corpses, removing jewelry, pistols, and boots. Justin stepped aside, scrolling through the phone numbers of the satellite phones. Most names were Arabic, a few Somali or Kenyan. He did not know any, but the Service could find out as they searched through their files.

“We’ve got to go,” Justin said.

The young man frowned. He looked at the bodies. “I’m not finished. Do you want to—”

“No. We’re not loading them now. We have to go back to the village.”

The young man collected his plunder, dropping a boot here and a pistol there. Justin gave a hand to the young man. They loaded everything in the back of the truck, next to the bodies of the two young men.

“You’ll drive,” Justin said. “I’ll stay in the back.”

The young man had proven an asset on the ground, but it was going to take much more to gain Justin’s trust.

They rode in silence, Justin standing behind the machine gun, keeping a constant eye on the driver. When they drew near to the school, Justin asked him to stop. His jeep was still where he had left it less than an hour ago.

“Where are you going?” asked the young man.

“Our roads part here.”

He put his share of the booty in his knapsack and slung it onto his back. He took one of the AKs and a few extra magazines from the ammunition box, then reached out to shake the young man’s hand. “You did well in the fight.”

The man smiled, nodded.

“
Ma'a as-salaama,
” Justin said. Goodbye.

“
Ila-liqaa.
” Until we meet again.

Justin smiled.
No offense to you or this country, but I hope I’ll never have to set foot again on this land.

Chapter Eleven

Two miles south of Barjaare, Somalia

September 26, 5:50 p.m. local time

Justin gazed at the fiery disk of the sun setting behind a cluster of acacias. Their branches seemed to welcome the temperature drop and the soft breeze toying with their leaves. Justin did. His forehead was no longer dripping sweat. He had left the window open a crack, accepting the grains of dust in exchange for the cool draft.

He had left the village behind, unsure of the villagers’ reaction to his web of lies. Everyone must have realized by now he was not a journalist, but a professional soldier. Some may have concluded he was a spy, looking for something or someone important in the area. Maybe they thought he was a Saudi spy, since he spoke Arabic. Or Iranian, as they were known to have increased their meddling in Somalia’s affairs. Or from another foreign faction fighting against al-Shabaab. Avoiding a confrontation and an escalating hostile situation was a good idea.

He drove toward the refugee camp of Dagadera to meet with Carrie and discuss the disturbing discovery in the envelope and the briefcase. He waited until the road became somewhat straight, then dialed Carrie’s satellite phone.

She answered on the first ring. “Justin, how are you?”

“I’m fine.” He looked at his forearm. He had patched the bullet wound with sterile gauze pads and bandages, covering a three-inch tear of his skin.

“How did it go?”

Justin told her.

“Incredible. So we got bad intel?”

“Yes. There are no doctors in Barjaare, and Yusuf didn’t look sick at all. I saw him only for a few seconds, but he seemed in good health.”

“At least you got the name of the Yemeni. Hussein Ahmed Al-Khaiwani. Can’t say it brings anything to mind.”