Born of War Read online

  “We must move.” Xasan seemed to have a plan. The road now looked more like a small river with a bank to it but at least the road cut through the bush. “We will meet not far from here.”

  Karen thought that as she and Peter got deeper into Somalia and Al Shabaab their chances for escape or rescue lessened. But with more soldiers, they had a better chance of not starving to death and perhaps getting some medicine.

  “Peter, how are you doing?”

  He smiled. “Do you want the good news or the bad?” He said it with that slight French accent.

  “I think I know what you are going to say.” Karen smiled back. “You don’t have the meningitis.”

  “Yes, Doctor, good diagnosis. I would be dead by now if I did.” He bleakly smiled. “But I do have the first stages of malaria.”

  “Malaria you can survive.” Karen was determined to keep her patient alive. “Somebody will keep looking for us!”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Omar!”

  The commander called out his name.

  “Omar!”

  “Yes.” He had been sleeping in the corner of an abandoned hut near the small town of Diinsoor with the six others in the squad. As he had learned in combat, sleep was as rare as the ammunition and RPGs his men needed. And it was “his” men. The six members had voted the Amriiki to be the new squad leader. They had another one at the beginning of the last firefight, but his name was Hiiraale and he always put them in front of him.

  Hiiraale is gone, Omar thought to himself as he got up from the hard floor. Omar was proud of his responsibility.

  Soccer in eighth grade was the last time I was voted to lead anything. He remembered that the Titans in his home in Alabama had voted him to be captain for a game. This was different. This was leading men in combat. This was far more a matter of trust than anything on a soccer field.

  Hiiraale would never have been the squad leader if Omar had been from Somalia. Hiiraale’s face was covered with freckles that could be seen through his colored skin.

  Omar grabbed his plastic corn bag. He never left his bag behind.

  And Hiiraale is balding! Omar laughed to himself.

  Hiiraale was a sight to see.

  More important, Hiiraale could not lead. The squad had chosen Omar to be their new leader. He stood up for his men even when it was stupid to do so. He dangerously spoke out to the commander that the men needed better supplies. The commander already knew that. He didn’t need to be told again.

  More dangerously, Omar said the tactics being used were stupid. The Ethiopians and Kenyans would send out patrols and then pull back. Their main force stayed near their borders. The patrols caused Al Shabaab to chase after them. The men would get excited, fire at shadows, and then run forward.

  “Hold up, men!” Omar would yell. It didn’t do any good to stop them. They would chase, wildly firing their weapons, and then, when out of ammunition, would run back to anyone they could find. Many were shot in the back as they ran away. Once, the men ran past him when Omar held his ground. He saw the enemy soldier running directly for him. Like his grandfather had taught him, Omar aimed and squeezed the trigger. The bullet struck the man in the center of the chest. It was no harder than shooting the squirrel in his grandfather’s tree.

  The squad saw this and stopped running. They turned and fought. Then the enemy started to run. His squad all screamed at the top of their voices praise for Allah. After they killed several, Omar ordered his men to stop the chase.

  “Let them come to you!”

  Soon thereafter, he was chosen to be the new squad leader.

  “This is stupid,” he had told the commander after the firefight.

  But they were moving forward, which the leaders thought good. It was like an American company that bought and expanded no matter what. Bankruptcy would come soon.

  It was well into the next battle when the commander realized the error. At first, the enemy’s artillery fired random shells that burst in an erratic and unpredictable way. Once a round landed close in and hit one of the other squad leaders near Omar’s position. It caught the man squarely on. It was the misfortune of war as he was instantly turned into a red mist. Parts of his body were found on top of the thorn bushes. There was nothing to bury.

  Omar ordered his squad to stop and wait for the enemy. But the others kept running ahead.

  The other squad leader’s death didn’t slow down the other squads from running blindly to the front. They yelled “Allah,” and continued to move forward. And then they reached the envelope of the artillery fire. The enemy had set determined targets and when the attackers stepped into the range of the cannons, artillery shells began falling like rain. Omar could hear the whomp of a round as it came out of the artillery barrel followed closely by another whomp, and another.

  Omar’s squad was spared the artillery but Al Shabaab had lost the battle.

  They were in full retreat as the artillery broke their back. The Ethiopian infantry followed thereafter, firing well-aimed shots from behind trees. Only Omar’s squad stood waiting for them. They killed more that day than any in the battles of the past. Omar and his men mowed down the approaching soldiers in a reverse of their tactics. But it caused Omar to brag.

  “I told them it was stupid. This is not the way to fight. We must set our traps. We must wait and ambush,” Omar complained to anyone who would listen.

  His complaints were noted by all.

  “Omar, we have news.” The commander sat on a bucket as he spoke. “You have a special mission.”

  “Oh?” Omar suspected the leader of much by now; word had gotten around that the commander was unhappy with both Omar’s success and his criticisms of the command. “But my squad needs me.” He didn’t want to leave behind the only men he ever knew who had trusted him with their lives.

  “Are you here for the needs of Allah or your own self-satisfaction?”

  The question was a loaded one. There was only one answer.

  “Allah’s will is all.”

  “Good.”

  The unit was heading back to the east, towards Jilib. It was a place that he relished. Often, given his hunger, he dreamed at night of the bananas he had picked from the trees in Jilib.

  “You will go back to Jilib tonight. The word is that there are two Amriikis that have been captured to the north. Godane wants you to go to them and make a video for all to see.”

  “Where are they?”

  “We think they are near the Shebelle.”

  “So be it.” This news put everything in a different light. Omar knew that his men would understand. The need for his service elsewhere was greater.

  “And you are to be congratulated.”

  “Oh?” Omar put his rifle over his shoulder as he listened.

  “Money is coming in from America through the Kenyan border. Your videos from combat have been heard. Four new recruits came last night. All from your Minneapolis.”

  “Praise His name.” Omar knew he could be of value if only Godane and Faud would understand what he could do to help the jihad. “And any other news from America?”

  “No, should there be?”

  “Yes, there will be great news again soon!”

  The trip was not as easy as Omar had thought it might be. The road to Jilib had only become more of a massive mudhole than before. Where it was dry, the bumps gave him headaches. And then, where it was wet, they all got out and pushed. The muck had only increased as trucks regularly carried the wounded back from the battle.

  “Oh, please,” he said to the driver. “Try not to hit every pothole!”

  The driver gave him a cold look. Omar was in the front passenger seat, which was meant for the oldest and highest-ranked one in the party. There were, however, several in the truck that were older, had lived through more battles, and were not Amriikia. But it was important that he stay in the cab as it was not good to see a white man with the wounded. His fame did not precede him on the journey. Some would not understand.
Omar kept his turban wrapped around his face so as not to attract more attention.

  They traveled through the night without using any lights, as the helicopters were like the lions. Both seemed to feed on the dead. They were hated green-and-black predators that caused everyone to run for cover except for the wounded, who could not move but only moan as they lay there as targets for the machine guns.

  One truck, a bigger one than the others, was crammed full of wounded men. When a helicopter caught sight of it, Omar ran to the base of a tree and watched as the gunship’s guns and rockets tore the limping vehicle and its passengers to shreds.

  “They will see the face of Allah. They are martyrs, all,” he screamed out to the others, who looked at the strange white man in amazement.

  There was no food on the journey. Once, they were stopped by a woman who balanced two large 20-liter plastic jugs of milk. They raised enough money among themselves to buy the jugs full of camel’s milk.

  Omar poured some out into a cup he had in his bag and drank. He then refilled the cup and passed it around the circle of men. The jug was also passed around. He expected it to return to him and then be passed around again until it had all been portioned out in a fair manner.

  “Where is it?”

  The men were directly in front of him, yet both his cup and the jug were missing.

  “Who has it?”

  Omar never saw either the jug or the cup again.

  At the morning light, they saw the buildings of Jilib in the distance. The pace of the truck quickened as they realized food and safety were in sight. Near the edge of the city, Omar got off the truck, grabbed his rifle and plastic bag, and walked down the street that paralleled the river. It would take him back to the villa where he had stayed with the commander just before they left for the battle to the west.

  The house with the courtyard and banana trees was still a headquarters for Al Shabaab and its army.

  “I am Omar. I have come here with orders to report to the regional commander.”

  The guard looked at him strangely as they all did when they first saw a white man dressed as a fighter. Some raised their rifles, not sure of what they were seeing.

  “Wait!”

  The guard yelled out for his squad leader, who came out to inspect the sight. He went back inside and soon the regional commander himself came out to greet their brother.

  “Al-Amriiki!” he yelled as he grabbed Omar. “You must come in and eat!”

  They brought him into the large room and a woman carried in a cup of warm tea and bananas. The tea had the slightest taste of sugar. Omar sipped it and his hand shook as the power of the sweetness overcame his senses. It had been weeks since he had tasted sugar such as this.

  “Oh, praise this.”

  The regional commander entered the room and sat down with his legs folded. He placed his rifle across his legs.

  “Let me tell you the plan. The road along the coast is not safe. The TFG has attacked several of our places, including Baraawe.” He was clarifying the fact that no road or route was clearly within the hands of Al Shabaab. “You will go tonight to the beach where a boat will take you up the coast to Marka.”

  “I know Marka. We passed through it. It is just south of Mogadishu.”

  Omar remembered the ride from his arrival in the country at Mogadishu to join the army in the south.

  “From Marka you will head inland, where you will cross to Tayeeglow.” The names were strange to him but the man drew a map in the dirt on the floor. It was a loop from Jilib in the south, via a boat to the north, and then inland to the west. The journey was in the shape of a horseshoe.

  “Where are the Americans?”

  “We think they are crossing inland from the Shebelle River to the village of Tayeeglow. You will have a guide who will take you to Tayeeglow and from there you will go northwest. You will find them and make videos for the world to see.”

  It was dangerous; however, no more so than the time Omar had spent in combat. He was now a veteran with the confidence he sought when he first came to the country. He was on a jihad. It was his voyage to see the face of Allah if such was required.

  “Do you need anything?”

  When he left his squad he gave his two grenades to the new leader.

  “Yes, some hand grenades?’

  “Of course.” He was given two more Russian grenades still in their containers.

  Omar had not been on a boat since he rode the Mobile Bay with his grandfather years ago. He had forgotten what it was to be seasick.

  His thoughts quickly evaporated as the small boat with its outboard engine headed north in the dark along the blackened coast. Only in the distance could he see any lights, and they appeared at random as in any war-torn country.

  The boat owner had pointed to the bottom of the boat. He pulled a fishy tarp over himself. It was hot, and the boat rocked.

  “You must stay down. White man will not be good.”

  Omar didn’t know that the TFG and others constantly patrolled the waters. The man at the engine showed a face of fear. Again, they traveled through the night. Wars require nights. Darkness provides safety.

  Finally, after hours of bumping up and down, the boatman tugged on the tarp. They headed in towards the shoreline and a point of sand that stuck out from the shore. The boat pulled up into the sheltered surf and as Omar climbed over the edge a man appeared out of the darkness.

  “Amriiki?”

  “Yes.” Omar shook the hand of the other man. He could feel the bony cage of the other’s arm as if his skin had been stretched over a skeleton.

  “Come, we must move.”

  Omar followed the man to the sand dunes that lined the shore, crossing between two dunes and onto a dirt road. Suddenly the man stopped and signaled him to lie down. He looked like the deer that Omar remembered seeing as a child with his grandfather as the man’s head swiveled left and right, sensing both sight and sound.

  Suddenly, rounds of green tracers went off in the distance. Other green tracers being fired in the opposite direction followed them. The two paths of bullets crisscrossed.

  Every fifth bullet. He thought of his training. Four bullets unseen followed a green tracer round. Each one of those five could kill. After the shooting, they pulled into a ravine and a hole between two rocks and waited the day out.

  “Not good to be killed by our friends.”

  Omar held his Kalashnikov on his lap and felt for the hand grenades in each of his pockets.

  “No, not good.”

  “We have received over one hundred thousand dollars since he started making his broadcasts.” Faud motioned with his hands to the others while they met in a house on the far northern side of Kismaayo. The abandoned villa was near the beach and had two roads that departed from it in two different directions.

  “Where is this money coming from?” Mukhtar Abu Zubeyr asked the question. He was also known as Ahmed Abdi Godane and led the meeting as he also led Al Shabaab.

  “Much from Eritrea, but most is from America by our couriers that cross from Kenya.” Faud depended upon a trusted system in which certain carriers would pack the money in from Kenya by crossing through the nights. It was originally carried out of the United States in small bundles hidden on passengers. Everyone on the journey of money could be trusted. Not a penny was ever missing. The remainder of the world would consider such a thing as not likely to ever happen, for the risks of being accused of stealing were too great. Under the law of Al Shabaab, a thief’s hands were both cut off. As a result, none of the couriers took such a risk.

  The couriers were famous within the Somali community. A select few had done it for decades with more reliability than an automatic teller machine.

  “But where in America?”

  “We know that some of it is from women in Virginia. They started sending money after the Amriiki’s broadcasts.”

  Godane’s facial expression indicated he was not pleased.

  Faud knew that he didn’t
like the American. Word had quickly gotten around of his constant complaints about the food, the ammunition, and the strategy being applied. It was the strategy criticism that cut deep. The men understood the hardships and even took pride in doing more with less food and less ammunition. They ran over an Ethiopian unit and then scavenged the site for food, boots, magazines, and anything they could carry. But men being chewed up by the enemy’s artillery because of the ordered attack was not to be the subject of criticism.

  “There may be more.” Faud held his hand up.

  “You mean money? We need more for a second missile. Much more. Especially since our Swiss contact has died,” Godane said with disgust.

  Faud knew that an Iranian-promised second and third missile still depended upon money for the go-betweens. And now that process had to start again from the beginning.

  “I talked to the American and he promised something else. He would not tell me what it was.” Faud didn’t like secrets.

  “What of the word that we have two for ransom?” Godane asked.

  “We do have two who are in the wilderness. Omar has been sent to meet them. A videotape of one jihadist American with another captive American will be of great value.”

  “And he is away from the troops for now.” Godane smiled. “We don’t need our Amriiki telling all how much wrong we are doing.”

  “We will soon have a new Islamic state and it will control the Horn of Africa. The courts will have to listen to all that you direct.” Faud was speaking of the Islamic Courts Union that was intended to oversee all, including its militant wing, Al Shabaab.

  “An Islamic state that controls the Horn of Africa. Our people had that power several thousand years ago. And now, today, every ship that hopes to use the Suez will pass through our gates. Allah be praised.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  “How much do you have this month?” The woman in her mid-thirties, short, stout, and covered in the Muslim tradition, walked with a waddle as she moved quickly through the mall just outside Richmond.