Remoah

12th July, 2017 1020 Hours- Near Kismayo, Somalian Southern Exclusion Zone.
International Solutions (Security/Training) Australia Contingent “Rabbit Two”.

The three ton truck gave off another cloud of smoke as it pushed along the dirt track. We eased off the accelerator to get some distance from the noxious fumes coming out the tailpipe of the three-ton. It was bad in the Cherokee, I hated to feel how the twenty odd Somalian infantrymen would feel stuck breathing the stuff in.

The radio warbled away quietly, BBC, the only channel in my language that came out of the damn thing. Luke, Mick and Lisa were all quiet, content to sit and listen to the new US President being inaugurated, a terror threat in Malaysia, and the Aussies thrashing the Brits for the third ashes in a row.

“Try searching for another channel.”

Mike leant over from the back seat, tapping me on the shoulder. I shrugged, jabbing the preset stations on the Cherokee’s radio. Nothing, two Somali channels in local, so it all sounded like a blur to me, I stuck it back on BBC World.

“Fucking useless.”

I nodded, adjusting myself in the seat, the air-con was running full blast, enough to keep us in twenty-degree heaven. Since I’d been here Somalia seemed to have three different forecasts, hot and dry, hot and windy, or hot dry and windy. The poor buggers in the three-ton would be copping the worst of it in the open air.
The dark skin and olive–green shirts seemed all the same to me, they were all tall, mean looking bastards, few of them spoke English, so our driver, Mohammad, or Moe, was our vital link with the lot of them.

We passed a small cluster of houses, the dust from the three-ton ahead partially obscuring it as we passed along the dirt road. I looked lazily out the window at a mother and her two kids, both of them clinging to her side, looking along idly as the small convoy moved past. I didn’t make eye contact, something about the locals always shitted me up the wall. The way they just stared, didn’t say anything to themselves, Michelle back at the branch would probably have some form of cultural explanation, but the way they didn’t talk at all around us was scary.

I looked over at Moe, in the few weeks I’d known him I’d found out he was twenty five and from Sydney, his mother was Somali and his father was from the UK. He’d been born, grown and raised in Sydney, and was offered his place with us a few years back when we first started getting called into the region. He spoke the local and that was enough, his mother never fully understanding English. He had a little accent, but not much.

“How much longer Moe.”

I looked at the driver as his brow creased, he checked the sat-nav glued to the windshield, and twisted it to face me. We were a few clicks out of the smaller towns, where the trouble was. Clans and Tribes always fought for this area, in fact, they fought for basically all of Africa. The people here were used to war, which was good for us in a way, since they were used to seeing African soldiers walking around.

The men in the truck all wore olive shirts and pants, with no insignia on their shoulder. Their webbing was ex-soviet, cold war era. Their Kalashnikov’s hadn’t been serviced in years, and the two light machineguns they had were just as bad.

It’d have looked weird, a pair of dark green three-tonne trucks, each of them easily forty years old, filled with twenty soldiers each, flanking two Jeep Cherokees. We were the first jeep, Me, Luke, Moe Mick and Lisa. The second jeep was Darren, Jules, Reece and Basaha, but we just called him Baz.

But when people saw the trucks roll in they knew something was up. They were used to tribal violence, clans warring in the streets and even attacking civilians. But the new Somalian government wasn’t putting up with the tribal bullshit anymore, they had a new plan. The tactic wasn’t new, and they hadn’t put much thought into the name, it was Search and Destroy. The plan was simple, we went in and offered a three-day amnesty where the locals dropped off their weapons, and we gave them food vouchers, if there was any weapons found after the amnesty they were arrested. Any troubles, or violence, it was a seven-sixty-two Russian to the chest.

“Should be coming ups soon,” I said, “Get ready, intel said this place is running hot.”

The silence was awkward from the back seat, as everyone got a good grip on their weapon. I checked my rifle, a block standard M4 Carbine from the US of A. Magazine in, ACOG sight on, laser pointer ready and calibrated. I tightened a couple of straps on my Kevlar vest, ensuring the ceramic plates were clipped into their pouches. My desert-cam webbing fit well, the half-dozen chest pouches each holding two full magazines, as well as my forty-cal Glock, three grenades and tactical radio.

The radio squawked in Somali, and Moe quickly barked back something. We came to a steady halt, a cloud of red dust around us. We were about to head up a hill, the township obviously over the rise.

“Troops just wanna be sure they’re ready,” Moe said, “Should only be a few minutes.”

I nodded, slouching back in my seat and pulling my tan coloured Kevlar helmet on. I pulled it on, ensuring the International Solutions badge was secured on the back. I checked the goggles strapped to the top were on, and my armband with the CONTRACTOR signature on it was showing.

The troops on the truck pulled on their aged Vietnam era helmets, and checked their AK rifles, inserting their magazines and checking they had a round chambered. Moe pulled on his helmet, checking his P-90 was strapped tight to his chest.

The radio squawked and Moe fired up the engine, nodding to me as we pulled off. The three-ton grumbled up the hill, it’s exhaust firing out a cloud of thick black smoke as it moved. I had my M4 ready to move out the door, the three in the back were all tense, we had our headset-radios on and fired up, with Lisa operating the satellite radio.

We crested the hill and the township came into view. A large, stretching cluster of tin roofed houses and stick fences. The mud brick buildings had all seen better days, and the sparse shade of the odd tree was occupied by the few goats and oxen of the village.

“Kismayo is probably another good hour from this joint,” Moe said, “But we know this village is a hotspot for wars between many local clans.”

“The approximate population is around eight-hundred locals,” Mick said from the backseat, “Command believes the majority of them belong to the Ulangeli Clan, who are known to be hostile, though it’s indicative that they are willing to hand in their weapons if they are assured protection from rival clans.”

“And these rival clans? How many are there?”

“Two at the moment, the biggest threat of violence comes from the Waratia clan, a group located in southern Kismayo, but also around a few villages. They are fairly aggressive especially towards the Ulangeli Clan. There is also the Casam People, who are a tribe that inhabit a few surrounding villages, they were once on decent terms with the Ulangeli but are now in a bitter truce with a few gun battles happening. They’re fairly small but they do pose some threat. The Casam are also known to be in a bitter feud with the Waratia clan, not that it really matters to us.”

“Thanks mike,” I said, “Well with luck none of that will happen. We’ll setup our collection point somewhere near the central city. Moe, you’ll talk with the local leaders and suss out anything that may help us. Two truckloads of supplies are coming in tonight, so make sure we have a setup to hand out food, so Luke, you can deal with that. Lisa, set us up a satellite link with command once we’ve sorted this out. We’re here all week so I want this all set to run smoothly, understood?”

There was a general ‘yes’ from the back of the Cherokee. I looked back out the window as we passed the first brick and tin house. We moved slowly though the town, heading towards the centre. We rounded a corner and came to a clearing, with a well in the centre. A few goats and people were congregated around the well, they all turned to look once we got there, two small children ran back into their houses.

“Tell them to pull up here, looks like a good spot.”

Moe nodded, speaking into his handheld radio for a second. The trucks ground to a halt, the Cherokee pulling up behind them. I got out of the vehicle, the hot air hitting me like a slap to the face, one of the soldiers stood up, his AK in hand.

“Stay in the truck!”

I made a stop motion with my hand. The soldier looked around glumly and sat back down. I held my M4 low across my chest, as I walked to the head of the convoy. Lisa, Mike and Luke were close behind, and the second Cherokee rolled up beside us.
Darren was riding shotgun, he leant out the window to me, his M4 visible between his legs.

“Looks like a spot,” He said, “Want us to setup.”

“Yep, we’ll get the troops to setup a perimeter around the convoy. Have Baz go find us some houses, I’ll have Moe talk to the villagers and see if we can find their local leaders.”

Darren nodded, opening the door to clamber out of the Cherokee. He barked a few quick orders at his team, Jules, Reece and Tim were the gun-team, essentially there to do nothing but shoot if we got shot at. My team was more logistical, though our guns weren’t just for show, we had used them, and we knew how.

“Tell the troops to get off the trucks, setup a guard detail and do the usual pickup of all weapons.”

“Understood.”

Moe barked some orders at the Somalians, and they began descending from the trucks, their AK’s pointed around the joint. I turned to Lisa, she was leaning against the Cherokee, her M4 held low.

“Darren, go find us somewhere to crash for the night and take Baz.”

He nodded, and beckoned Baz and Tim to go with him. I sat back against the Cherokee, the hard Somalian sun beating down on the dilapidated little village. The soldiers spread out in groups of three, banging on the nearest doors first.
I took a sip from my bladder-pack strapped to the back of my vest, and closed my eyes for a second…

phurst

12th July, 2017 1020 Hours- Near Kismayo, Somalian Southern Exclusion Zone.
International Solutions (Security/Training) Australia Contingent “Rabbit Two”.- if I see one more reference to 'Exclusion Zone, Forbidden Zone I'll just throwup. See if you can find something original. Sometimes evil governments or leaders mask forbidden zones by using innocuous names.
if there was any weapons found after the amnesty they were arrested. This sentence is bad, fix it.
The silence was awkward from the back seat, Seems to me it'd be natural. Why would it be akward?
“Thanks mike,” I said - you mean Moe?

Well, you do a good job with the writing and the grammer isn't bad. The feel is right. The only issue I have is the lack of action or tension. Maybe you could slip in some flashbacks of arms for food disasters, ambushes or something.

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Candrah

I meant to reply to this before and forgot. Sorry Remoah.

Its solid enough. As Phurst said, the writing and grammar are ok. What bugs me about this is it reminds me too much of Ridley Scott's film Black Hawk Down - also set in Somalia. Maybe you could make more of the date, or make it further in the future. And I agree - this story needs something to happen in order for me as a reader to be drawn into it. Good writing isn't enough on its own.

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lin

This is not something I'm going to take the time to read. But I'll tell you from just a glance that you need serious work on your sentence structure. This caught my eye right off. Figure out the several things that are wrong with it, fix it, then rework the whole thing.

BTW, "klicks" is generally spelled with a "K"

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