Chapter 9
“You really want me to do this?” Bill asked, dumfounded.
“Yes, you gonna do it, Gardner!”
“Forget it. It’s too risky.”
Hynes nodded. “You’re the one who sold me on it.”
“What? How?”
The conference room was filled with aides and other strategic planners, even a few intelligence types conferred together softly at the end of the large cherry wood table. The General leaned forward, pressing his knuckles hard against the tabletop. “This has to be a covert operation. You are a lawyer, not a soldier—”
“You just—” Bill tried to protest.
“Don’t interrupt me, soldier!”
Bill clamped his mouth shut, but he idly wondered if anyone else in the room noticed the obvious contradiction. From the looks of them, they didn’t care either way.
“Captain, the Somalis and anyone else looking into your visit there will think that you still work for Wastend on some project. I don’t care what. I’ve taken your advice and we will be using Frank and his company as cover. You will be there to find out if we’ve been compromised. Sec-Def has already signed off on this, so no more arguments.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good. What I want you to do is determine if any of the sensitive components have been compromised. If they have, I want you to retrieve them.” Haynes drummed his fingers on the table, his shock of grey hair seemed longer than regulations allowed, but generals often got away with things like that. “Will you do it?”
Gardner blinked in surprise. “I wasn’t under the impression that I had a choice, sir.”
“Of course you do. I just needed you to understand the gravity of the situation before I gave you that choice. You’ll be compensated of course.”
Bill sat back in his chair, thinking. The money was irrelevant, and at best, the entire mission would take about two to three weeks—assuming he didn’t get killed or kidnapped. Then, of course, there was the whole national security issue. Whatever else Bill was, he was a patriot. He had spent nine years in the marines, risen to the rank of captain, and even served a term with JAG while he acquired his law degree. No, he couldn’t sit idly by and allow a threat to his nation to go un-addressed. The general had him pegged.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Good. You’ll go in as Vellore had planned. The Transitional Government there must not know that this is now a military operation. We do not want to give them any hint that we are open to negotiation—not until they crack down on the piracy problem. That comes from the top. If you are at risk, you will be on your own.”
“I understand, sir. Do you think that the government there will actually provide an escort?”
“Yes. We’ve been able to verify that. The problem you will face is their reliability. There is no way to know where their loyalties really lie. At the first sign of trouble, they may turn on you to save their own skins.”
“That’s a comforting thought.”
Hynes grinned. “It will be just like in Columbia.”
Steel groaned. “I hope not. Both of us got shot on that one.”
Rubbing his side where he had been shot those years ago, the general grimaced. “Don’t I know it.” Rising to his feet, Hynes stuck out his hand. “I knew you would go. I have commandeered Frank’s private jet. It is fuelled and ready to leave JFK airport as soon as you can get there.” He paused. “Oh, one more thing. I’ve engaged the services of a forensic pathologist to travel with you.”
Bill stopped just short of shaking hands with the man. “What for?”
“My contacts there have reported some unusual murders that have taken place in Merca, during the last few days.”
“Merca?”
“That’s the closest city to where the cargo ship almost ran aground. Street kids, mostly kids who live in the city’s huge landfill have turned up dead, their bodies mutilated and burned.”
“You think there is a connection?”
“There might be, my friend. When there is an unusual amount of attention focused on trash, yes, I’m curious.” Haynes came around the table and started walking towards the door. “Her name is Lieutenant Lorna LaCruz. She has been working for me on and off on special assignments for some time.”
The ex-marine nodded. “Whatever you think is best.”
“Good. I’m glad we can agree.”
Bill followed the general out, wondering if there would be any more surprises along the way. “They always messing up with me! No letup,” he muttered.
Two days later, Bill ordered his men to spread out around the landfill that dominated Merca’s poorer section of town. Idly, Bill wondered if any one section of the old city could be called anything but poor. In an effort to blend in, Bill and Lorna had dressed in clothing that were little more than rags, and no one carried anything that even looked remotely valuable—though all twelve of the Somalis tasked as his escort sported automatic weapons. And travelling with a convoy of three military type jeeps certainly didn’t do much to lower their profile.
“This city was once prosperous,” remarked Lorna.
“True,” responded Bill. “Merca was a great city once, established in the fifth century, I think. The first settlers controlled the region as a trading center and Merca grew into a prominent administrative center in the Ajuraan Empire.”
“Pretty smart.”
“Yeah, I got my moments and I read a lot too. The region was known by the ancient Egyptians as the land of Punt. The coast was also known by the Romans and Greeks as an important landmark, and for the Indians it was an important commercial center for products such as myrrh, incense, and gold. The Arab traders settled on the Somali coast and Islam became the main religion from the thirteenth century on. Overtime, several countries became interested in the cost of Somalia, including Portugal—their settlement efforts failed—and even Italy, led by Mussolini, managed to acquire several territories in the region. The same coast is still the envy of many nations, but this time, for different reasons, it’s use as a dump.”
“A country without rules, without state! How could that happen?” wondered Lorna.
“In 1969, General Mohamed Siyad Barre seized power in a coup d’état and replaced the democratically elected government. Barre forged close ties with the USSR and declared the country socialist. Somalia then brokered a deal with the Russians, who had supported the Marxist government of Ethiopia during the conflict over the control of the Ogaden, an Ethiopian territory. Each time, the town of Merca tries to recover its glorious past and heal. Attempts were made to revive the city. They even tried to brag about the beautiful coast of the town to attract foreigners without success. The warlords are sometimes discreet, but they control everything. In Merca, terrorist are scattered among the population…not that easy to spot.”
“I can’t imagine how these guys control just about everything!” Lorna mumbled.
Bill nodded. “I know. But the war lasted several years. The Ogaden conflict lead to the removal of Barre and has weakened the country, resulting in a political vacuum and a catastrophic economic situation that seems to last forever. Famine has become the staple diet here. The country fell under the rule of warlords whose sole purpose seems to be illegal gain and plunder. Al-Shabab took control. Somalia is now a failed state.”
They arrived at the dump and Lorna immediately got out and looked around. “The bodies were reported found over there,” Lorna said, stepping up next to him. Lorna was a short woman, not very attractive, but with an incredibly sharp mind and wit that had Bill laughing and smiling for most of the plane ride over. They had gotten on well—something he couldn’t say for the leader of his bodyguard contingent.
Luk Bol, a name so obviously not Somali that Bill suspected him to be an agent for the Transition Government more than a bodyguard, had made it clear, right from the start, that he didn’t like Americans and by extension, Bill Gardner also suspected that the man was a pirate, but he wisely kept his suspici
ons to himself.
Bill looked distastefully at the city dump. There had been nothing done to try and keep it away from the city, and he had begun to smell it even several miles away. Shacks and hovels had grown up around the edge of the waste dump, and ragged, half naked children romped in the streets and through piles of refuse as American children did on a sanitized playground back home.
“Well, we might as well get this over with.” He and Lorna walked towards the mounds of refuse. Smoke rose languidly into the air here and there, a testimony to the residents who haunted the place—although they had spotted no one. Bill suspected the automatic weapons his body guards carried had something to do with that. He stepped carefully, picking a path that looked less filthy—if possible—than the others. Lorna followed, saying nothing. Her capacity to do what needed to be done without complaint amazed Bill. That alone should earn her an accommodation.
Their guards, more used to environments such as this, spread out on order of Luk Bol, flanking their wards and watching the surrounding trash heaps warily. Bill noted that only Bol wore combat boots. Two or three others had on worn tennis shoes, but the rest of the soldiers walked with Chinese sandals.
The stench was awful. Bill had never smelled anything so repugnant. It burned his nostrils, and his throat quickly became raw from trying not to breathe through his nose. But he managed, as did the uncomplaining woman who walked behind him.
Half an hour later, they stumbled across two badly burned and mutilated bodies of children. That alone made Gardner want to retch. He had seen a lot of death during his military career, but the bodies of children always bothered him profoundly. The indiscriminate slaughter of innocents finally proved too much for Bill, who mustered out of service after what he had witnessed in Columbia. He didn’t appreciate having those memories forcefully brought back into his mind. He turned away, refusing to look.
Lorna noticed. “You okay?”
He shook his head. “Not really. This…this is monstrous.”
Lorna sighed. “I understand.”
Whatever distaste she might harbor, she hid it well. Opening her satchel, she slipped on some dark blue gloves, and then with some unnamable instrument, she began probing the bodies.
Bill just looked at the horizon, wondering what the last thing these poor children had seen. The sun had just begun to set, and despite the trash, the blazing colors were beautiful to behold. He hoped that these children had at least time to enjoy this before being murdered.
“These children didn’t die due to the fire,” Lorna observed. “They were both shot first.”
“What is the placement of the wounds?” Bill asked, refusing to look.
“Heart shot on the slightly larger corpse. Head shot on the smaller one.”
“Execution style?”
“The head shot one for sure. The heart shot was done from slightly further away based on the entry wound. I’m sorry, but it’s really hard to tell. Whoever burned these bodies certainly didn’t leave much to go on.” She looked around. “It’s not as if this is a state of the art laboratory.”
“Is there any chance of having any of this analyzed?”
“Here?” She gave a soft snort, glancing sidelong at one of the armed mercenaries pretending to be a bodyguard. “I doubt they even know what laboratory is.” She used a tool to gently extract a burned strip of cloth. “I can probably have this sent back to the States for analysis. The chemical compound of an accelerant is like a signature. Hopefully, I’ll be able to tell you where the compound was manufactured if not the one who purchased or used it.”
Bill crossed his arms, thinking. “That would at least be something,” he mused. “I guess our best bet is to find a witness.”
Lorna frowned. “You think there were witnesses?”
“Yeah. This isn’t like our landfills back home. This one is home to all sorts of displaced people. Children, mostly, I suspect.”
“And what makes you think they’ll talk to you?”
“We can offer something.”
“Like what?”
“We can take pictures and offer them for free. Children love to be taken in pictures,” he muttered aloud, hardly hearing her.
Lorna stood, frowning. “Pictures?”
“Yeah…” Bill looked around. “Right about there, I think.” He pointed to one of the less used entrances to the landfill. A rambling series of shacks and shanties were built along the edge and even now he knew that dozens—perhaps hundreds—of eyes were watching them. Bill grabbed her arm and started pulling her back towards the jeeps. “Come along sweetheart. How good is your photography skills?”
“What?”
“You can use my camera and my portable printer. We can give them pictures they can keep as a memento.”
“Uh…okay? What are you doing?”
“We need a few more things though,” he mused, ignoring her. “I’ll make an appeal directly to General Hynes. That ought to get the ball rolling.”
A small smile of glee played across the woman’s lips as understanding dawned on her. “Oh this is going to be rich. Come on, I want to make this call!” Now it was she who pulled him along.
Almost two days later, Bill and Lorna set up a stand. Lorna had scrounged up a table from somewhere and some chairs to go with it. The equipment had been delivered under heavy guard, something that Lorna found downright hilarious. She started calling their bodyguards ‘Pics Commandos.’ Fortunately, the mercenaries misconstrued the reference and beamed with pride anytime she ordered them around using that nomenclature.
In a street corner, Lorna and Bill set up shop. “The day will be long. You could have prepared something to eat.”
“Do I look like a housewife to you?” she retorted, allowing herself to be pulled along. “And don’t call me sweetheart or I’ll break your legs.”
“You would too,” he chuckled. “How many pictures do you think we can take and get developed?”
“That depends how many people want one.”
“Yes…” He turned to look at the mercenaries. “Go back to the jeep and wait for us there,” Bill ordered Luk Bol.
Bol eyed him with downright suspicion, but he clearly didn’t have any real reason to argue against the order. The jeeps were not so far away that they couldn’t keep an eye on their two American guests, and their material—no matter how insane—seemed to be a bit overboard for an escape attempt.
He waved his men away and they grudgingly trudged back to the jeeps where they lounged around, smoking and fingering their weapons.
“Well, hopefully the natives will still come out,” Lorna said, eyeing the mercenaries distastefully.
“Men and guns are a common sight around here. But taking pictures is probably a little rarer. If the soldiers look non-threatening, we can expect some business.” He looked at the camera. “Just don’t tell them we are Americans. We might be violating some sort of religious taboo.”
“You’re planning to give all the pictures away, right?” she asked.
“To the first few, yes. The rest will need to answer some questions. I’m hoping that if the first get a nice picture, we’ll find ourselves with a steady business.”
“I hope they don’t just kill us and take the camera,” she grumbled half-heartedly.
“That’s what your commandos are for. With a show of strength like that, I doubt we’ll see much trouble. I just needed them far enough away that people feel safe enough to approach.”
Right on cue, their first customer appeared. She looked to be no more than five or six years old and she approached hesitantly, eyes wide and focused on the camera.
“Looks like you’re up,” the ex-marine said softly to his companion.
Lorna smiled at the young girl, ignoring the girl’s matted hair, ragged clothing, and awful stench. “Hi there, sweetheart,” she said. “Would you like to get a picture taken of you?”
The girl clutched a ragged looking doll under one arm. She nodded slowly, her eyes bi
g and round. Bill wondered at sending a small child to the strange Americans first. He suspected that many people were watching them right now, and he had spotted furtive movements from dark windows and shadows to verify the notion. Maybe they thought that a little girl would have more success, or maybe the girl was on her own.
Lorna snapped a picture and plugged the camera into the laptop they had set up nearby. The printer hummed to life and began printing. Shortly thereafter, they had a picture. “There you go, honey. All for you.” She handed the picture to the girl.
The little girl immediately grabbed the picture and ran off. Bill suspected that there would be a fight over the picture.
When people learned that portraits were being offered for free, everyone rushed toward the foreigners. Young and older came in droves, it seemed. Each was exposed to the camera with his or her favorite pose. In front of the camera, an old man found his strength and his youth. He got rid of his cane and asked Lorna to take picture with him. Lorna accepted. Bill took the picture. Before leaving, the old man asked Lorna if she had something for his irritated skin.
“Can I see?” asked Lorna
Lorna dug into her bag and pulled out a tube of cream she handled to the man. “You definitely have to see a doctor, sir.”
The man left. He was happy with the picture and the treatment Lorna gave him, but her advice mattered little to him.
“I find that many people suffer from skin problems, you think it’s normal ?”
“Of course, it is not. In this lost region, foreigners are engaged in weird activities, using the water to discharge waste of all kinds, including uranium radioactive waste, mostly, and also industrial and chemical waste...Since the containers have washed up on beaches, many of residents have fallen ill, suffering from mouth infections, abdominal bleeding and skin problems, among other diseases…United States, along with United Nations are working on the issue to find a solution. We have to put some trust and hope on them…”
Bill stopped talking for a moment. He was concerned about the situation. Bill didn’t necessary support radical positions of some environmentalist, but as many citizens of the world, he preferred to live in a responsible and healthy world “Unfortunately, we might be facing the same problem soon.” added Bill.
“What do you mean?” asked Lorna.
“Fukushima disaster…Nuclear waste were found in the pacific. A tide of radioactive trash and chemical waste is pushing ever closer to North America…They get rid of their waste in the water and they continue to blame the current and strong waves.”
A teen girl wearing a scarf on her head shyly approached. The locks of her black curly hair exceeded the headscarf she was wearing.
"You can remove your scarf if you want, honey!"
Lorna realized that the girl did not understand a word of English. She caught up in Arabic, making signs with her hands.
“Hijab, hijab!”
Startled, the young girl immediately put her hand on her head holding the scarf and ran off, leaving the Americans looking after her in bemusement.
Bol sauntered over, smiling menacingly and spoke dryly, "You are not supposed to take pictures of our women here." Lorna ignored Bol and continued enjoying her new activity. Their next two customers were older children, and the next three were teenagers that came out of the landfill. They came slowly, eyes drifting more often than not to the lounging soldiers off to one side. Only the powerful click of the camera kept them coming.
"Can you take a picture of the three of us?" one asked.
"Sure."
The boys immediately shifted into different poses, laughing at each other as they tried to outdo each exaggerated pose. One of the youths pulled out a gun from the waist of his pants and waved it in the air. Pretending nothing was wrong, Lorna took several pictures.
While she was printing them off, Bill asked the youths, “Why carry a weapon?"
"We pirates!" responded proudly one of them.
"Hope you have no intention of kidnapping us," Lorna said slyly.
"Worry no, ma'am! We job at sea, not land. Land, Al-Shabab takes care."
"But you probably know everything that happens in town, don’t you?"
"You bet. Merca is home town.”
Bill said, “We’re here to find out who killed those two boys over there.” He nodded towards where the bodies of the boys had been buried under the refuse of the landfill.
The three teenage boys glanced at each other and darted away like spooked animals, not even getting their pictures.
“Oh, very well done,” Lorna muttered sarcastically. “You should volunteer to be a diplomat.”
“Hey, they’ll be back.” He looked towards where they had disappeared. “I think.”
“Aren’t you the cynical optimist.”
He threw her a mock glare. “Well, we know one thing, anyway.”
“What’s that?”
“They did see something.”
She turned to look around. “I suppose you’re right. But are you sure their deaths have to do with the reason we’re here?”
He glanced her way. She had not been told the specifics of the mission since it was need to know. “I have no idea. But the timing, the location, and the circumstances fit. Actually, I’m hoping it is nothing, and that this is just some random killing.”
“If it is?”
“Then we get to go home.”
It took all day. They took hundreds of pictures, all the while asking short questions about the deaths of the children. No one gave them anything. Some shrugged, some ran away, and some just shook their heads. Bill got the feeling that everyone knew what had happened, but they weren’t about to tell the white strangers.
But along towards sundown, having stored their equipment, Bill spotted the same trio of teenagers that had run away at the beginning of the day. They all looked nervous and approached in a manner that allowed them the greatest distance from the soldiers—who still lounged around the jeeps.
Lorna saw them coming and had their pictures ready to go by the time they stepped near. Before taking the pictures, Bill asked, “We’re looking for those who killed the children. Do you know anything?”
One scrawny boy of around fifteen years old, nodded slowly. “See Korfa.”
“Korfa? Who is he?”
“He knows,” the other one said. They snatched their pictures and ran off.
“Well,” Lorna said watching them run away. “I guess we have our first lead. This is so exciting,” she finished without a trace of emotion.
Bill laughed. “Isn’t this why you signed up for the army? To hand out pictures?”
“Naw. I signed up to hang around stupid men.”
“I’m insulted.”
“You can’t be,” she replied seriously. “You’re not smart enough.”
He laughed again. “Come on. We need to find this Korfa character.