Chapter 9

It was in moments like these that everything changes in an instant.

There was silence in the kitchen. I suppose we all three realised the impact of the words just spoken a few moments ago. Each of us was busy with his or her own thoughts.

Where it began, I can’t seem to know. Was it at Bredasdorp? Was it at Don’s farm? Who’d believe they came along? These two adorable girls were jumbling up the thoughts running through my mind, and then just leaving them to dangle there...

There were times in the days gone by that I thought I was living and having fun with all the friends I know. Now it all seems so long ago, for my life changed completely from the moment these two girls came into it.

The biggest question in my mind was: how are we going to go about it? Is it possible for one man to love two women equally? How are they going to cope with the situation?

Somewhere in the back of my mind a little thought started to take shape. I don’t need to marry them. That is for the government and to get a little piece of paper. But I can take them both as life mates. Like Ash says, “Let’s cross the bridge, when we get to that bridge...” Or ... jump off that bridge.

Darya smiled up at me and said: “Your coffee is getting cold, and I got us each a doughnut from the shop.”

“Doughnuts! Yummy! Let me get us some fresh coffee,” Roxy said, and broke away from the group hug. Darya still lingered a moment as Roxy turned away.

“Thank you for last night...” She whispered into my ear, blushed, and broke off the hug too. “Maybe tonight, you must help Rox OUT of her pyjamas.

I just stood there, not knowing how to respond, or what to do. Ronny you need to learn two languages: Tajik and Cape Flats Afro-E’lish! I sighed, one must ‘dala’ what one must ‘dala’... (Dala = Cape Flats for; “to do,” “must do,” “have to do,” or ‘going to do.”)

“Go sit on the couch. Rox and I will bring the goodies,” Giggle. Darya said, then skipped away to help Roxy like a happy schoolgirl, humming something.

Lower Jubba, Somalia, 17 June, 04:30 GMT +3.

As Leah and Olivia predicted, there was cloud cover overhead. Grey misty fluffy clouds covered the land from horizon to horizon. The ceiling looked to be about 5000 feet, but Ash will confirm it with the met office before the take-off.

The Mirages were fuelled, armed and ready to go. Still inside the hangar, they sat side by side like on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier. In the gloom, the desert camo paint schemes blended perfectly.

“Okay! Last minute change of plan,” Ash said. Smudge you take off first, then Ski-Bunny, followed by Glacier and me.”

“Any reason for that, Skipper?” Olivia asked.

“Yeah, so if there are SA-18s out on the field I get to dodge them first!” I chuckled.

“No. The UN guys have swept the area. It’s all clear. The reason is to give Smudge all the window he needs to deliver his load and get back here,” Ash said.

“Okay, we take off, circle and join up like ducks in a row?” Olivia asked.

“You got it Olivia,” Ash confirmed.

“Seems okay to me,” Leah said. “Don’t matter how we do it, as long as we do it.”

“Right. Everyone ready?” Ash asked. A choir of “Yes, Boss,” sounded up.

“Good! Remember, Grumpy is counting on us! Now, mount up!”

City of Kismayo, Lower Jubba, Somalia. June 17, 04:45 GMT +3.

The breeze from off the sea came as a cool relief to Father Lorenzo where he stood on the flat roof of the house. He was facing east and waiting on the sun to rise. The sun will rise in another fifty minutes, although he would not see it because the sun would be covered by clouds. But that is of no concern.

It is the best part of his day, to watch the sunrise and say his prayers. In the street below, all that were looking up to the lonely figure on the house roof would think he is a devoted Muslim. So be it!

It does not matter to them. He can face any direction he wishes. He could be in his room; it is of no concern. It is just that he likes to see the sunrise. Through the years, watching the sunrise has become a habit.

There was a low whistle on the morning breeze that started to grow in intensity. getting louder with every second. The sound grew into a deafening roar. Stunned, Father Lorenzo turned around to the west, just in time to see a jet fighter blasting past towards the harbour. A dark silhouette in the dawning misty sky.

He watched, astonished, as that jet was followed immediately by three more coming low over the city, one after the other, streaking toward the harbour. As he watched, they turned south-west, and started to climb higher into the sky.

Four dark fighter jets, with their sharp pointed noses and delta wings climbed higher into the lightening sky and disappeared into the clouds. They were flying south-west. Suddenly the significance of the four fighter jets hit Father Lorenzo like a sledgehammer. It’s the missing Mirages from South Africa! They were here in Kismayo all the time! And why are they flying south-west? Israel is to the north! What is more, they don’t seem to have fuel pods on them. Something smaller was attached to the wings; four things on each aircraft that looked like rocket pods? What is going on here? Where are they going?

Yesterday there was an attack by al-Shabaab on an AU convoy. Somehow, these South African security guys were in this convoy, and minutes after the attack by al-Shabaab an armed helicopter gunship came in and destroyed most of the al-Shabaab fighters and their equipment.

Now those South African Mirages took off and turned to the south-west, and by the looks of them, it seems they were armed! What in all creation is going on here? What is to the south-west?

Burgabo. Burgabo, the al-Shabaab training camp and south Jubba operations headquarters! These South Africans ain’t security advisors. They are hired mercenaries! AND, they have resources only rivalled by the United States! For ducks fake ... this is a mess!

There was no need to climb higher than 8000 feet. The cloud layer was in fact just a misting of moisture forming between 5000 and 7500 feet. Later today the sun will burn it away, and the sun will break through in all its glory, burning down on all below.

It is flat country around here, and at 450 KIAS, the hundred and twenty kilometres to Burgabo will flash past in eight minutes. There was no time to linger or laze about in the cockpit. The radar showed the target, and in two minutes from now I will reset the radar range to 10 nautical miles.

The rocket pods were selected, and the ground attack mode activated. All I had to do was flick the arm switch on the arms control panel from standby to active.

In the HUD all the information was projected in green coloured lines and figures. Speed, altitude, heading, distance to target, and selected ordinance: Matra 68-millimetre rockets.

“Dispersal point coming up,” Ash transmitted. “Eagle two and four ... Break in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, GO!”

I flipped the aircraft over in a 90-degree bank to the right and gave just a little left rudder to maintain altitude. In a 90 degree bank the rudder performs like an elevator. By using left rudder, the aircraft will drop its tail and lift the nose. Therefore, with the correct amount of left rudder, she will remain stable at the set altitude for a few seconds. Just long enough for me to complete the turn.

Behind me Eagles one and three continued on straight ahead, while Eagle Two broke to the left.

I completed my break and turned to the west, rolling out level at 8000 feet. I will keep this heading for the next ten kilometres and then reverse course to the east, rolling out on track for the target while descending to 4000 feet.

Watching the clock and the HUD, I flicked my eyes between them. All the flight information I needed was displayed on the HUD. Sometimes a pilot of a fourth-generation high performance jet fighter needs to have more than two eyes! Looking out the cockpit, looking at the HUD, scanning the instruments and coordinating your flight with the navigational cues. All while calculating speeds, altitude and the aircraft’s directional velocity.

But pointing your nose in a specific direction doesn’t mean that you are travelling in that direction. The aircraft may slip to the side, pick up altitude, or drop. There are two indicators on the HUD: One to show you the absolute middle point of the nose and where the nose is pointing. The other one shows you WHERE the aircraft is going, and called the velocity vector indicator. You must have the two pointers aligned one on top of the other. Then you are going where you want to go!

Breaking through the cloud and levelling at 4000 feet above ground level, I could make out the target dead ahead standing out in stark contrast to the surrounding landscape. I flicked the armament switch to active, making sure I kept my finger off the firing button on the control stick. The target came up fast. The ground attack indicator on the HUD wound down to the ordnance release point.

The fire control computer calculated the ordnance release point by taking into account the distance to the target, the speed and altitude of the aircraft, and the drop rate of the rockets. I aimed for the big building to the side of the encampment next to what seemed to be a radio tower.

Release point! I depressed the fire button on the stick with my thumb. I felt the aircraft jitter in the forward flight, and I compensated for the slight pitch in the nose attitude, although that was unnecessary. There was a swishing sound from beneath the wings and seventy-two 68-millimetre rockets sped away from the aircraft’s four 18-round pods, then arced down towards the target, riding the sliver-white smoke trails of their solid fuel engines.

Soon the smoke trails cleared away as the rockets ran out of fuel, but they carried on, racing forward by their momentum.

I was nearly on top of the camp, so I pushed the throttle to maximum military power and pulled the stick back into the pit of my stomach. The Mirage responded and pointed her nose to the sky, but not before I caught sight of the first rocket impacts on the ground beneath. Bright flashes and visible blast waves as the concussion of the explosions compressed the air molecules in to a visible white ball, radiating outwards.

Orange-red light flashed inside the camp, and I saw the radio tower heave over. The afterburner kicked in, and I was climbing away at 17000 feet per minute to an altitude of 18000 feet. My part in their downfall was done!

Glancing at the clock, I saw I was 25 seconds early in my strike. Well, so much for split second timing!

Burgabo al-Shabaab training camp, Lower Jubba, Somalia, 04:53 GMT +3.

Hussain Ali Mohamed was about to begin his morning prayers. He had just rolled out his prayer mat and taken off his shoes. Facing east to where the sun will rise, he kneeled down on the prayer mat.

A soft whistling sound came to Hussain. Something like the wind blowing through the trees, but not really the same sound. He frowned for a moment at the unusual sound, then he dismissed it. All around him the troops were stirring, crawling out of tents and little huts. The day is about to start, and today is the day that he will be teaching the recruits the art of camouflage.

Just as he knelt with his head touching the mat, a shout from one of the guard towers reached his ears. Before he could react, the world around him started to fall apart. Explosions in the main storage tent, under the radio mast, and where the cars were parked rolled like thunder around him. Then the multiple blast waves bowled him over and something hard hit his head.

Hussain’s body flipped over and rolled along the ground, spilling blood as it went, coming to a stop fifteen metres from his prayer mat on his back. His open eyes looked skywards but did not see the Mirage 2000 C flashing upwards and getting smaller and smaller in the sky, riding orange-blue fire from its tailpipe.

As Hussain’s body lay on the ground, his cell phone started to ring in his trouser pocket. Beeping and vibrating insistently for half a minute, and then went quiet as the auto answering service answered.

All around the camp, the stunned still-surviving members of the troop milled around, trying to comprehend what had just happened. They were disorientated by the raging fires that devoured everything in their path; and numbed by the bodies of comrades strewn around the camp. They tried franticly to scurried away from the inferno.

Then the second salvo hit, as Olivia’s seventy-two rockets found their mark.

At 16500 feet I started to ease out of the vertical climb and throttled back a wee bit to level out at 18000 feet. Again I engaged the afterburner, and one minute later I broke through the sound barrier. I did not hear the sonic boom, neither did I feel any change in the aircraft. The only indication that I went supersonic was a vapour ball engulfed the aircraft and its wings, lingered for a few seconds, and then disappeared from view. The HUD registered Mach one point four five.

I will remain at this speed for about a minute and a half, after which I will need to decelerate and drop down to 1500 feet above ground level for my landing in Kismayo, about four minutes away. At this rate I will be going straight down. Ash was a little optimistic in sending us to 18000 feet to clear a path for the incoming aircraft, but I suppose there was method in his madness.

Burgabo al-Shabaab training camp, Lower Jubba, Somalia, 04:53 GMT +3.

TC lay prone under the cover of the sparse shrubs and low semi-desert vegetation, his full complement of squad members spread out around him. They had been in position since 03:00 this morning.

Away to his left were the members of the Somali security forces and to his right were the members of the Kenyan Army under the command of Captain Joseph. TC expected the air-strike in about four minutes.

Keeping a watchful eye through his field glasses, in the camp he saw flashes of orange-red light billowing skywards, crowned by boiling, curling, black smoke. Then the concussion washed over him just before the sound of the explosions reached his ears.

“They are early,” He whispered to Boomer at his side.

“Better early than we have to wait on them,” Boomer whispered back. “I’m getting a cramp in my right leg.”

TC watched as Ronny’s aircraft pointed its nose skywards and disappeared into the clouds. Meanwhile, thick black smoke started rising above the al-Shabaab camp, and intense flames from something burning rose above the camp’s perimeter fence.

“Looks like Ronny set off some fires inside the camp,” TC whispered back to Boomer. Just then Olivia’s salvo hit the camp slap bang on target, and the inferno shot even higher into the sky.

“And it seems like our blond American Angel-girl just hit the fuel depot. Yes!”

“At this rate, I don’t think there will be much left for you to do, Boomer.”

“Nope, I’ll have to buy a round for each of those pilots tonight...”

“Don’t worry, Mate, I’ll pitch in as well,” TC said, and smiled.

Just then another burst of explosions rocked the countryside, and Leah’s Mirage swooped right over them from south to north, then pointed her nose skywards. The deafening, crackling, sound of the afterburner felt like they were pinned to the ground. It screamed in their ears as she clawed for higher altitude and disappeared into the clouds above.

“And the al-braai-kebabs did not even get off one shot!” someone to the back (Bushy, maybe) observed.

“Don’t jinx them! Ash must still deliver!” TC admonished, as the fourth and final salvo hit the camp and Ash’s Mirage came in from north to south, then pointed its nose skywards. Again, together with the concussion of the 72 explosions washing over TC and his squad, the afterburner sound of Ash’s Mirage assailed their ears.

“Damn! Remind me next time to wear my earplugs!” TC swore.

“Yeah, but ain’t it exciting to be so close to the fireworks!” Boomer exclaimed.

TC looked at the inferno in front of him that five minutes ago was, a quiet sleeping terrorist camp.

“Now, Let’s go and mop up. On me, men!” TC called, and as one his squad got up and moved tactically forward.

Kismayo city, Somalia. 17 June 05:04 GMT +3.

Father Lorenzo had tried five times to get in contact with Hussain. Each time the answering service kicked in with a generic message: “The subscriber you called is currently unavailable. Please try again later.”

Frustrated, he stepped off the flat roof of the house and raced down the stairs at the side of the house two at a time to descend to the lower floor.

He should have made the connection. The unknown helicopter should have triggered the connection for him. Yes, first the South African contingent arrived by transport plane. Then the fighter jets came in and disappeared. But they were here all the time. Alfonso was mistaken. The aircraft never left.

These South African mercenaries have got years of experience with their bush wars in Angola, Namibia, and Zimbabwe. They should not be underestimated. It also seems like they got the backing of other nations. Where did they get the Mirages, or the gunship helicopter for that matter? Obviously, through underground dealings with the UN and the AU!

This is trouble, trouble in big bold capital letters! But why should the Somalis bring in mercenaries? And only twenty of them? Or are there more, hidden away somewhere? If they are going to strike al-Shabaab, where will they strike? The Burgabo camp? The Southern region headquarters? This will be a disaster and set back the cause by years. There are close to one thousand troops in that camp!

These thoughts ran through Lorenzo’s mind as he raced towards his ageing yellow Mercedes-Benz. He needs to get to the airport and see what is going on.

Stopping off in his temporary room at Alfonso’s place, Father Lorenzo grabbed his bag next to the nightstand, opened it and took out a Makarov 9-millimetre pistol. He checked the magazine, then clipped it back in the gun. On second thought, he grabbed two spare loaded magazines and stuffed it all in his trouser pockets.