"Here, take this, you may need it." Dr. Ahmed handed him a battered cellphone, "Go up to second floor, the room at the rear. You will find you can climb out to the balcony and down to the garden at the rear of the house. If you need anything, call me."
He was puzzled by the gift of the cellphone, but he nodded his thanks, and they raced up the staircase. The academic shouted to the men outside, attempting to delay them, but all he achieved was a renewed frenzy of knocking. There were two rooms on the second floor. Nolan led the way into the one at the rear and found the window that opened onto the balcony. On the first floor he heard a huge crash, followed by a splintering of wood. The militia had tired of waiting and had smashed down the door. He pushed open the window, and they climbed out onto a narrow, wrought iron balcony. It was coated with rust and wobbled alarmingly. Below, the garden was dark, yet the smell reached up to them, the fragrance of jungle foliage, mingled with the omnipresent sewage stench.
She stepped over the rail, and he lowered her down to the ground and then jumped himself, landing in the center of a clump of bushes below. They crept along the garden until they reached the rear and left through the gate. They were in yet another narrow lane, and the stink of sewage was much stronger, almost enough to stifle their breathing. Back at the house, he could hear the pursuers out in the garden, and he turned to whisper to her.
"We have to link up with Grant's team. Can you find it from here?"
"I think so. It's this way."
She indicated an almost invisible path to the left and started jogging along the soft, noisome surface. God only knew what they were stepping on. Nolan followed and constantly swept the area through three hundred and sixty degrees with his NV goggles. It was soon evident the militia had left the streets to conduct a house-to-house search, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The route to the house where Grant's team was hiding was clear. Four minutes later they were outside. He tapped lightly on the door, and it opened.
"It's good to see you," Lucas said as they entered the house. He glanced at Amelia's multi-hued dress and gave a half smile, "I see you treated the lady to a party frock."
Nolan waved away the comment. "Who do you have with you?"
"Murray, Rose, and Moseley. They're upstairs, watching the street."
"Anything from Boswell?"
"Nothing. And they have the satcom, the tactical tablet, the spare missiles, the works. We're isolated. We should pull out. This place is starting to wake up."
"Maybe. Let's go upstairs and take a look."
The interior of the house was an empty shell. Even the plaster had crumbled, leaving bare brick, stone, and wood to be attacked by the pervasive, dank jungle climate. He started up the creaking stairs, and Lucas called to him to be careful. Most of the treads were splintered and broken, and the rest were rotten with worm. Grant made to follow, but he stopped him.
"Wait here. We can't leave the first floor unguarded. They're conducting house-to-house searches, and I need you to keep an eye out for them. Amelia, come with me."
Even in the dim light, he saw the Seal vet flush and could almost read his thoughts. Before he joined Bravo, a place on the famous bin Laden raid, and now Nolan had relegated him to the position of sentry. He hesitated for moment and then gave a resigned smile.
"Copy that, Chief. You're the boss."
"For now. Boswell should be here, leading us. You worried about him, Lucas?"
He saw him jerk his head around in surprise. The question could have a double meaning, worried about him personally, or about his unit; except Nolan couldn't give a damn about any 'friendship', even if it existed.
"No."
He nodded and ran up the stairs. The three men on the second floor glanced around in alarm.
"It's okay. It's Nolan."
"Welcome back, Chief," Brad replied. The others nodded a greeting.
"What's going on out there?"
"Bunch of gomers, searching every building. Sooner or later, they'll get to this one."
"Can you see Barre's place?" he asked. Rose nodded, "Show me."
The trooper went to the window on the north side of the house and pointed.
"Assuming he's still there. He could well have pulled out when the shooting started."
"It's possible. But he may still be there. We'll assume he's in there until we know different."
It was easy to distinguish his place from the nearby houses. It was big, much bigger than the surrounding houses and in better repair. There was also a perimeter wall around the grounds. In front of the building was open space for what looked like a hundred meters on each side, a good defensive position. He was certain guards would also be posted at the windows of the house. However, they didn't just rely on guards armed with assault rifles and RPG7s. In the center of the space nearest them, he saw the tank. The 100mm main gun looked huge, but it was the secondary armament that worried him most. Two machine guns, a 7.62mm mounted on the bodywork, and inside the turret, a 12.7mm DShK heavy machine gun.
"We have to get past that bastard."
"We surely do," Brad replied.
With a start, he realized he'd been thinking aloud.
"Where's the M3 launcher?"
"Downstairs with Grant," Zeke told him.
"Get it up here. If we need to use it, this is the best platform to launch."
Zeke went away, and he continued gazing at the distant house. Finally, he made his mind up. Unless they heard from Boswell's team in the next ten minutes, he'd attack the target, locate Barre, and kill him.
If he's still there, but first, the tank.
He glanced at Zeke as he returned with the Carl Gustav.
"What about explosives?"
"Plenty in my pack. Boswell didn't want to slow his team down with anything real heavy."
Boswell, there'll be time for him, but not now. Later.
"That's good news. At least we have something to fight with. We need to get those tankers out in the open where we can kill them. The only way I can think of is if something damages their vehicle, enough to, say, bust a track. That would bring 'em out; they'd need to replace it."
"Sure, that would do it," Zeke replied, "There's just one problem. Getting the explosive charge across open ground and setting it against the track. Unless someone's feeling suicidal."
He chuckled. "Nothing like that, but I want them out in the open. As soon as they're outside, we can take 'em."
"Why not use the Carl Gustav?" Brad objected.
"Remember the intel on armor inside Kismayo? I heard they had two of these T54s. We have the one missile. When it's gone, the chances are, the other one'll turn up around the corner."
"Yeah, but we kill the crew of that monster out there, and they'll still call for the other tank."
"I hope so. There'll be two of us inside the disabled tank, waiting to blow their ass off as soon as they show. Zeke, I reckon that'll be you on the gun, and you can take Dan to load for you. He's the automatic weapons specialist. Maybe he'll get a chance to practice with that DShK."
"It sounds like a plan, Chief, except for one problem. Getting the charge across open ground. That's the bit you missed."
"I'll take it across. I reckon I can make it."
They stared at him. Amelia approached and touched his arm. Her face was strained with terror, terror for him.
"No, Kyle. You can't do it. It's like they said, suicide. There has to be another way."
"There isn't. Zeke, get that charge together. We sit here any longer, and we may as well invite them in for breakfast. I need to talk to Lucas. We have to have a diversion so I can get over there and plant the charge."
* * *
He crouched behind a low stonewall, clutching the package Zeke had put together. A block of C4 plastic explosive, enough to destroy one of the tracks and disable it, but not enough to put the main and secondary armament out of operation. They hoped. In front of him, he could see the open square, dominated by the threatening bulk of the T54. Beyond the tank lay their target, the house, and inside the murderous leader of Al Shabaab, Nabil Barre.
He glanced at the rooftop on the far side of the square. Through his night vision goggles, he could make out the shape of Lucas Grant waiting with their M249. The plan was a simple one. On his signal, Lucas would open fire and pepper the hull of the tank with a stream of 5.56mm bullets. It should be enough to divert the attention of the crew, and they would start to return fire. It was up to Lucas to judge the time to get off the roof. That would be when the 100mm main gun began to target his position. An explosive shell would be more than enough to ruin his day.
He took the final glance around, but there was only the tank and a few guards visible inside the perimeter wall of Barre's house. He knew Amelia would be watching from the window of the house behind him. She'd continued to plead with him to come up with another plan, but there was no other way. When infantry had to deal with a pair of main battle tanks, the options were severely limited. He touched the transmit button.
"Open fire."
Lucas didn't say a word. His response came from the machine gun. A hail of bullets lashed out, and most of them hit the tank. He shifted his aim briefly to pepper the guards in front of Barre's house, and then refocused his aim on the armored behemoth. At first, they opened fire with the 12.7mm machine gun mounted in the turret, and Nolan watched the Seal duck behind the stone parapet as the heavy slugs chewed masonry from the facade of the building. The gun stopped firing, and he put his head back up and sent another burst down to the T 54. It was more than enough for them. Their patience was exhausted, and the noise of the turret motor was loud in the sudden silence as the giant barrel began to turn and elevate, to seek out and destroy the insolent machine gunner.
He got up to a crouch and waited. Lucas had disappeared, hopefully far enough from the edge of the building. Then the gun fired an explosion that echoed around the town, and almost at the same second the entire front of the building exploded in chaos of broken masonry and timbers. The initial flash lit up square, but he'd been waiting for it and averted his eyes. When he opened them, everything was in darkness, except for a few fires where the wood of the target building was burning. He knew he'd never get a better chance. Anyone watching would have had their night vision crippled by the enormous flash. He sprinted out from behind the wall and ran straight toward the tank.
He estimated afterward he could have come close to an Olympic qualifying time. Except for the weight of his weapons and armor. But he made it to the side of the Russian built T54 and crouched down. Zeke had prepared the timer and set it for three minutes, enough time to get clear. He jammed the package into the iron track, pressed the button to start the timer, and turned to run straight into a mountain.
It wasn't a mountain. It was a man, a Somali, and jet black. He'd just come up behind Nolan and stood with his hands hanging by his sides and a relaxed sneer on his face. He must have been almost seven feet tall and broad in proportion. Yet there was no fat. He was all muscle, like a champion shot-putter. His head was bald, and beneath his low forehead he had two small, staring pig eyes. The lips were like cycle tires, thick and rubbery, and his sneer had exposed his teeth, both of them. It was an eerie, gruesome sight, yet the man was more than a visible threat. The physical threat was even more real, as he brought one huge fist to slam into Nolan's body armor.
It was like being hit by an artillery shell, and he felt himself tossed back to the ground. His back slammed against the tank track, and as his arm swung around and hit the heavy iron, his hand gun flew from his fingers. The giant moved in with a huge boot lifted ready to strike, and he was barely able to throw himself to the side to avoid the monster damaging his organs. It spoke in a voice pitched surprisingly high for such a huge specimen.
"You are American, yes? You think you can come here and attack our leader, even though the last time you came, we sent you away with a bloody nose. I will send you back to your country in little pieces, but before you die, you should know it is Yusuf Osman who has sent another Western infidel to hell."
Nolan staggered to his feet, trying not to retch from the agony in his guts. He desperately needed a weapon to fight with, any weapon. He'd left his rifle with Zeke in the house, not that it would have been any use in a fight like this at close range. His handgun had vanished in the dark, and all he had left was his combat knife. He snatched it out and assumed a defensive posture. The man laughed.
"You cannot be serious! Throw down your knife, little man. I will kill you quickly, to show mercy. When you're dead, you will not feel your limbs being torn from your body. Otherwise, I will dismember you while you are still alive. Don't be stupid."
He closed and reached out a huge hand to snatch at Nolan's knife hand. He jerked back, feinted to the left, and went right, slashing across the man's eyes as he went past. The monster let out a shrill scream of pain and anger, staring at the Seal through eyes that were already misted with blood.
"Enough. It is time to finish this."
He moved in again, and this time he was fast, demonstrating skill with footwork that could only have been acquired in a martial arts gymnasium. He narrowly avoided a massive punch that would have taken his head off, and then the giant clamped a hand around his neck. He began to squeeze, and Nolan's vision began to go dark. The only thing that saved him was the high collar of his vest. The hand had gripped his neck outside of the collar. Even so, the pressure mounted, and it was only a matter of seconds before his air supply cut off altogether. The big man moved his head down to look for a better grip on Nolan's neck, and for a brief, fraction of a second, the pig eyes were within range.
He didn't hesitate. He stabbed forward, straight into the man's left eye. The blade traveled a long way in before the screaming victim clamped a hand over his own hand on the hilt, stopping it going in further to his brain. For a few chaotic seconds, they fought for control of the hilt. Blood and mucus spurted out, but although the huge man was weakening, he possessed superhuman strength. Nolan fought to pull the fingers apart, fingers that were like thick steel rods. It was a losing battle, and he felt himself losing the fight as blackness overcame him. And then the grip loosened, just as he heard the rattle of machine gun fire only meters away.
It all happened at once. The main gun began to turn and drop lower to seek out the new target, just as the bullets smacked into the back of his opponent. The man went limp as his last breath whooshed out of his body. Nolan disengaged himself, but the huge man was partly on top of him. He realized he'd lost track of time, the explosive charge on the track. It could only have seconds before it detonated, a half minute at most. And then someone was next to him, helping to drag the huge body off him. Through his returning consciousness, he realized it was Grant who must have run out and across the open ground to shoot the giant.
"Lucas! The charge, it's about to detonate."
Before the man answered, a rattle of machine gunfire chewed up the earth close to them, and he looked up to see the secondary machine gun was trying to lower sufficiently to target them. He realized at once there was no way they could escape across the open ground. The second they showed themselves, the gun would shred them. He searched around for cover, any cover from the explosive charge, and his eyes fixed on the massive corpse that lay only inches away.
"Get behind the body! Quick, we're out of time."
Grant didn't need any more urging. He dived to the ground next to Nolan, and between them, they pulled the huge, heavy corpse to cover their bodies. The machine gunner in the T54 had finally managed to correct his aim, and a dozen rounds smacked into the inert corpse that protected them. And then the world exploded.
The charge he'd placed was only partly hidden behind the steel track. It was enough to destroy the massive iron links, and the track parted immediately. The blast, instead of being directed inward, blew out, and an enormous shockwave picked up all three of them, the two Seals and the massive body, and threw them up in the air. In the strange explosive vortex, the blast that should have throwing them outbound from the steel hull sucked them in, so that all three of them, two alive and one dead, were held against the steel monster.
For the second time in as many minutes, Nolan felt consciousness slipping from him. He could hear the roar of an engine. The tank commander had ordered his driver to advance, and he was trying to propel the vehicle forward. With a smashed and destroyed track, nothing happened, only a tortured grinding of steel as the undamaged track tried to turn in opposition to the broken track. Abruptly, the engine note faded to tick over as they realized the futility of the maneuver. Then the hatch clanged open.
Grant was shaking him.
"He's coming out. You have to deal with him, Chief. I'll go up and take the rest of them inside the hull."
Lucas thrust a pistol in his hand and understanding came to him. He managed to spit out the words, "I can deal with it. You go."
Then Grant was gone, and he was on his own. A man had climbed out of the forward hatch and was walking around to where he lay, to inspect the track. Grant crept around back of the tank and up onto the deck.
Nolan was lying prone, tucked well into the side of the wrecked track. At first, the man didn't see him. He was examining the twisted and broken steel when he almost stumbled on the Seal waiting for him. He opened his mouth to shout, but the Chief shot him with a bullet at close range into his head and a second to the chest. The rounds punched him to the ground, dead. Nolan checked the body to make sure, and then went around front and up onto the deck.
Through the hatch, he could see a scene of bloody chaos. The interior was lit with a dim red battle light, and crouched in the center of the cabin Lucas Grant was checking the bodies littered over the steel floor. As he made the checks with one hand, he held a combat knife in the other. The blade was wet and dripping with blood.
"You got them all with a knife?"
Grant looked up. "Yeah, like lambs to the slaughter. Their shooting was second rate, but their security was terrible. I guess they thought I was their crewman on his way back to report. I had to take them down fast. We don't want these gomers to suspect we've taken their toy."
"No. Good job, I'll call Zeke and Dan over to get these guns working."
He pressed the transmit button and told them to get their asses over to the T54 mighty fast. Less than a minute later, they were climbing through the hatch. Immediately, Zeke began reloading the main gun, and Dan commandeered the 12.7mm in the turret. He left them to it and began familiarizing himself with the interior of the armored vehicle, just as the radio erupted into a torrent of Somali. If they didn't answer, the militia would come out to check. And if they did answer, all hell would break loose.
He let them gabble on, and after a couple of minutes, the speaker went silent. Nolan popped his head out of the turret, but there was no sign of the militia coming to check. Probably, they assumed the explosion had killed the crew. Yes, it had to be that, for in the distance, he could hear the roar of another tank engine warming up. He ducked down inside the turret and slammed the hatch closed.
"You need to hurry it up. The other T54 just started up. It can't be far away."
"I'm working on it," Zeke replied, "This main gun is not like anything I've encountered, so I'm having to do it by the seat of my pants."
"Do what you can."
He looked down at Lucas, who'd finished checking over the bodies. He sat in the center of them, a gruesome sight, covered with his victims' blood.
"Grant, can you help Zeke out? He could do with a loader."
"Sure." He managed to thread his way through to the loader's seat close to the breech of the big gun. Nolan opened the hatch a fraction, in time to see the second T54 round the corner and advance. Its gun pointed right at them, but they couldn't do a thing about it. If they began to traverse the main gun, the Somali tank crew would know something was up. And at a range of one hundred meters, there'd be no warning, no time to get clear. They'd be on the receiving end of a massive high explosive shell.
The tank came closer and closer, and they waited. A sudden thought hit Nolan like a hammer blow. If Barre’s men had taken Boswell’s fireteam, the enemy could well have extracted the details of their operation from the prisoners. If that were the case, no matter the outcome of what happened in the square when they fought the second T54, penetrating Barre's house would make no difference. He'd be long gone. Everything hinged on that single factor.
Where the hell is Boswell?
The big diesel engine roared. The echo bounced around the square, and all of a sudden the cloud moved, and a shaft of moonlight lit up the square. It also cast a monstrous shadow on the buildings, a shadow in the shape of a monstrous T54 tank, heading right at them.
* * *
The door opened, a shaft of light lit up the dark cellar, and they threw Dave Eisner back inside. The door slammed shut, the lock rattled, and once again they were sealed inside the black pit.
"Dave, how are you, buddy?" Will called across to his friend and fellow Seal.
"I've been better, but I'm breathing, so I guess I'll live."
"What did they do to you?" Lieutenant Boswell demanded. His voice shook with fear. It was obvious he'd allowed the terror of the coming torture to overcome him.
"Busted a couple of ribs and two fingers of my right hand."
The cellar was hot, excessively hot, and it stank like a cesspit in a leper colony. Will groped his way through the darkness to come alongside the wounded man.
"I'll strap up the fingers. There must be something I can use. Does anyone have a bandage they didn't take?"
He'd come up with Boswell's fireteam as they'd been advancing toward the outskirts of the town. A few minutes later, the Somalis fell on them. There must have been forty of them, all experts in the art of concealment. One moment, the jungle was a silent, dark wall of green, and the next it was alive with men. They'd kicked and punched the Seals to subdue them, and ripped off their webbing, equipment, and vests. All they had left were the wetsuits. Before they were incarcerated in the dark pit, they'd separated Ashe Ahmed. Maybe because he was a high value prisoner, a UN commissioner was a rare catch. Or maybe to kill him as a supposed ally of the Western influenced United Nations. Bryce cursed to himself. So far, they knew nothing. Nothing of who had taken them, no idea of the location of Ashe Ahmed. Nothing.
We need info. We have to have some answers, if we're to get out of here.
No one replied to his request for a dressing. "Okay, search around, men. Feel with your fingers. There must be something here I can strap up his fingers with."
He waited while they groped around the dark space, with his arm around Eisner to support him. Despite his making light of it, Bryce knew they'd roughed him up real bad. He was cycling between consciousness and unconsciousness, and the tough PO1 was determined to keep him awake, even if it was only to meet a worse fate. He dismissed that thought as quickly as it came.
We're getting out of here, no question. Besides, Chief Nolan is still on the loose. We have to hold out, just a little longer.
Vince Merano had been first, and he was lying in a heap on the floor, his left arm dislocated.
Who will be next? Will wondered.
But they didn't have long to wait. The door opened again, and the Somali beckoned toward Boswell.
"You. Come."
The Lieutenant surprised them all. He climbed to his feet and walked out of the cell, with his head up.
"If that don't beat all," Dave murmured.
"Yeah. Unless he has a plan for them to go easy on him."
"A plan? How would he do that?"
Vince had asked the question from the corner where he lay. After a moment, he supplied the answer as well.
"Oh, yeah, got it. He could tell them everything."
The room was silent as they digested the import of his words. Sure, selling the mission may save him from a beating. But if they knew about Nolan and the other fireteam, it could be enough for them to plant an ambush, and either kill them all or consign them to this dark, sweating hell. With Nolan's team gone, there'd be no chance of getting out.
Once more, the door opened, and they pushed a prisoner inside. Even in the dim wash of light that briefly lit up the room, they could see it was Ashe Ahmed. His black face was battered, one eye closed, and blood poured from his knee. Bryce helped him to sit on the floor. The man was working hard to contain his agony. His shirt and pants were in rags, and it was obvious they'd worked him over hard.
"I'll fix them up for you. We're looking for some dressings."
"Use my shirt," he gasped, "You may as well finish it off."
Will ripped off the last of the cotton fabric and swiftly shredded it into strips. He passed two of them to Weissman, who they hadn't beaten so far. Then he started work on Ahmed. He cleaned away the worst of the blood and felt with his fingers around the wound. He bunched up the rags and tied them down the best he could. While he was working, he took the opportunity to question Ahmed.
"What do we know about these Al Shabaab people? Anything that could be useful to us?"
Even through his pain, the man chuckled. "Al Shabaab? No, this group is nothing to do with Al Shabaab. The man in charge is General Mohammed Hersi. He led the JVA, the Jubla Valley Alliance until recently. When he fell out with the current government, he formed a new group, the Movement for the Liberation of Somalia."
"What's the difference between them and Al Shabaab?"
Another chuckle, this time it was more forced. "Very little. They want the same thing, power. And they don't care who suffers or dies in the process. I suppose the main difference is the MLS promotes a socialist agenda, offering food and land to the hungry and poor. Al Shabaab has only one message."
"Religion."
"Death. Theirs is the religion of death."
The room was silent for several minutes, and then Ahmed had a question of his own.
"They asked me how many men we came with, and I said I only knew of the men I was captured with. Obviously, as long as your other men are at large, there is a chance they could help us. Your Lieutenant will keep the secret?"
Their silence was his reply.
"I see. Then only a miracle will save us."
A quarter of an hour later, the door opened, and they tossed Boswell back inside. He didn't look bad, as if they'd gone easy on him. A few minutes later, they heard the sound of a truck engine starting up, and it drove away. No one looked at Boswell. No one spoke. They knew. He'd sold out the other fireteam, Nolan's fireteam.
* * *
Musse Daud peered through the grimy, soot-streaked window and surveyed the street below. They'd landed at New York's JFK International the night before and checked in with legitimate student visas. When their contact wasn't there to meet them, he had used up most of their reserves of cash to pay for cabs into the city. As instructed, they'd gone to the Malcolm Shabazz Mosque in Harlem. Amongst so many black faces, they'd felt more comfortable, but when they knocked on the door and announced they were Al Shabaab brothers from Somalia, the Imam had adopted a furious expression and told them to get out before he called the cops.
"You people have caused us more then enough trouble in New York. The mosque is raided twice a week. We've had enough. Get out of here and don't come back!"
Bewildered, they'd spent the night in an abandoned subway tunnel in West Harlem. The young men were all tired and dispirited, but Daud pointed out to them their target was less than eight kilometers distant.
"Tomorrow, we'll take a walk through the city and take a look. It will be an opportunity to make certain we're not under surveillance. As soon as we know we're in the clear, I'll call the contact Sheikh Barre gave me, and arrange for them to deliver our martyr's vests to us that same afternoon. Remember, the schedule has been put forward. We have to carry out the attack on the following day."
It was dim in the unlit tunnel, but he could feel their eyes on him. One of them, Amin, plucked up the courage to question him.
"Musse, it's crazy to put forward the schedule. It means we'll have to change the ambush site to the UN Building. It's madness. We may not even get near him."
Musse smiled to himself. What does he think could happen to us? We're all going to die anyway.
"I don't care. The order came from Sheikh Barre. When the President of the United States arrives at the UN Building, we will find a way to get near him and kill him. The plan has already been made. All we have to do is get there and, well..."
He glanced around at their faces. They were all tired through lack of sleep, and fear.
"The UN is heavily protected," Amin persisted.
"I don't fucking care!" he lost his temper, "Those are the orders, and we will obey them. It is the will of the Prophet."
They were silent.
Is it the will of the Prophet, or the will of Nabil Barre?
He put the thought out of his mind. He had dedicated his life and his death to this operation. The day after tomorrow, the President of the United States would die. The original plan was to hit him as his cavalcade emerged from the New York Met, but there wasn't time. They'd use the back up plan. Eight men, each wearing a martyr's vest, would detonate simultaneously as the President's limousine passed between the tunnel of death they would create. The blast would be enormous. Nothing could survive. Nothing. No one.
"It is definite, Musse, the day after tomorrow?" Amin asked him, in a voice that quivered with fear.
"Unless the Sheikh calls to postpone for some reason, yes, it is definite."
He reached in his pocket for the cellphone they'd given him. Would it ring to cancel before the appointed hour? No. Soon, they would be in Paradise. It was true. Everyone said it was so.
How do they know? No one has ever returned to tell of what they'd seen.
He dismissed the thought. It was blasphemy. The President would die, as the Sheikh had decreed, and for the eight martyrs, Paradise. He thought of Maryam, the girl he'd said goodbye to in Somalia.
If only.