The Flying Nun

By Daniel Kennedy

An unruly and stubborn helicopter pilot takes on a mercenary contract flying medical/famine relief aid and armed protection for the UN and a demanding Irish Nun in war-torn East Africa.
What could possibly go wrong?
An awkward and humorous tale of unrequited love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daniel Kennedy
• Release date: Oct 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9781773023212

Daniel Kennedy

Lifetime Professional writer, journalist on various newspapers in several parts of the world, concentrating on international politics and war. GAMES is my first ebook, but I have had one novel printed the conventional way and sold through British and German publishers (under another name) Under that name I also published a How to Ski book, and ghosted Internet books for an Internet company at the turn of the century. Obviously I love skiing (snow, downhill)but I also went to Art College in the UK (Lincoln) and love painting. I'm wrapt in big dogs (Irish Wolfhhouds, Great Danes) and when I have an outside moment I work in my huge garden (a section of an olive grove) currently doing hard landscaping,i.e building walls and laying terraces. My next book will be called JUDAS. Oh, I'm married and have a son currently rounding off a PhD in Edinburgh. My wife's name is Annie. She's the real person behind everything I write.

Book preview

DEDICATIONS

To my son Jacob. You showed more courage when you were abducted as a child than most men ever could or would their entire lives. You are a miracle, son. You make me proud.

To my parents. Sorry for all those sleepless nights. To my father who passed away in 2010, Leonardo da Vinci said it best For once you have tasted flight you will walk the Earth with your eyes turned skywards, for there you have been and there you will long to return

R.B. Kennedy RCAF Retired

To Jane, there is no easy way to say goodbye forever to a friend, especially one that has supported you through your darkest times. Without your love and encouragement, I would never have lived to see my son released and returned to me and this book would never have been finished. Gone from my life now, but you are forever loved and never forgotten. Thank you.

To Helen and Alexandra, you were never mine but I will always be yours. Love you both.

To helicopter pilots and engineers everywhere, often working far from home in dangerous and challenging conditions. Fly it and fix it like you stole it.

To the U.S. Marines of the Fleet Anti-Terrorist Security Team Company and all U.S. soldiers fighting over-seas, Thank You.

Finally, to my enemies, those who abducted my son and those who helped them. May you die shitting, on your way to Hell.

INTRODUCTION

In 1957, Canadian Prime Minister Lester B. Pearson won the Nobel Peace Prize for his plan to deploy an international peacekeeping force to settle the Suez Canal crisis. Today, military forces from countries all around the world participate in peacekeeping missions under the auspices of the UN or NATO. In foreign countries with people, languages, customs and conflicts that they often don’t understand, these soldiers do their jobs standing in the line of fire, far from their homes and families for months at a time. These professional, conscientious, highly trained men and women that proudly wear the blue beret put their lives on the line in the name of peace. Under very dangerous conditions they struggle to protect innocent people who they do not know, often with little or no respect or appreciation. In ever increasing numbers, the ultimate price is paid. Soldiers that had long awaited the day they would return to their loved ones finally make the long journey home, early, but in a body bag. For them, the struggle is over, for their fellow soldiers it goes on and on. Long after the dog pack of the press has left on the fresh scent of bigger news elsewhere, these soldiers stay. They are the best of the best. They epitomize the vision of what a UN or NATO peacekeeper should be and is.

Then there are the rest, the other ninety some odd percent of those who call themselves UN Peace Keepers. These are the people who are really there just to cash in on the misfortune of others. They are in it just for the money. Many countries supply Peace Keepers as a money making scheme or as a convenient cover whenever their own police or military are accused of domestic human rights abuses. They are parasites, nothing more.

The UN was born of good intentions. Like the earthly equivalent of a guardian angel, this overseer was given the mandate to watch our planet, to search for signs of trouble and when found, given the power and resources to intervene, helping those who were powerless to help themselves. The trouble came in many forms: natural disasters, tyranny, famine, war, pollution, poverty. As the list grew so too did the UN. Unfortunately, like most government agencies, the UN had grown into an entity unto itself. The ultimate double oxymoron; governmental organization and military intelligence. A huge, bloated, all-consuming beast that devoured all of the resources given it just to maintain its own massive bulk. Too large to move swiftly, too political to ever be effective, too corrupt to be trusted.

The UN spent two billion dollars in Somalia (UNOSOM I and II). Very little of that money ever made it to the locals, at least not those in need. Ninety some odd percent went to feed the beast, the UN bureaucracy. The rest went to the 14 warlords and their soldiers that keep that country in strife and ruin.

But this is not really their story or a story about the UN. This is the story of a small band of Canadian misfits who went to work for the UN as sub-contractors (mercenaries), on a mission in North East Africa. A mission called LAST HOPE.

"The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing."

— Edmund Burke

REFERENCES

Map of Somalia

Helicopter Flight Controls – All you need to know to fly

Cyclic – Input on the cyclic gives directional control. (Pull back to go up in flight or to move backward in a hover, push forward to go down in flight or move forwards in a hover, move side to side for turns in flight or lateral movement in a hover)

Collective – Pulling up on the collective increases pitch on the main rotor blades giving more lift (you go up) On the Bell 212 the engines are governed, as you pull more collective pitch the engines automatically increases power to maintain rotor RPM (Pull up, you increase lift and power. Push down, you decrease lift and descend)

Tail Rotor Peddles – (Not Shown Here, see photo on page xiv) the tail rotor pedals control the pitch on the tail rotor blades at the very rear of the helicopter. They give the helicopter stability around the vertical axis and are used to counteract the torque induced by the spinning of the main rotor. (They keep you flying straight)

Bell 212 Twin Engine, Two Blade, 14 passengers, External Load to 5000 lbs

Main Panel, Flight instruments, Engine instruments, Radios, Caution warning panel, GPS

PREFACE

"The thing is helicopters are different from planes. An airplane by its nature wants to fly, and if not interfered with too strongly by unusual events or by a deliberately incompetent pilot, it will fly. A helicopter does not want to fly. It is maintained in the air by a variety of forces and controls working in opposition to each other, and if there is any disturbance in this delicate balance the helicopter stops flying; immediately and disastrously. There is no such thing as a gliding helicopter. This is why being a helicopter pilot is so different from being an airplane pilot, and why in generality, airplane pilots are open, clear-eyed, buoyant extroverts and helicopter pilots are brooding introspective anticipators of trouble. They know if something bad has not happened… it is about to."

— Harry Reasoner (Broadcast Journalist, a founder of 60 minutes)

CHAPTER 1

BORN TO RUN

Run! RUN! Asad did not have to be told twice. The young boy ran as fast as his bare feet and short, bird-like legs and knobby little knees could carry him. Barely a skeleton, weak from starvation and malnutrition he ran for his very life. He headed for the scrub brush that surrounded his small Clan’s hastily constructed stick and mud dome huts in the south of Somalia, some forty miles inland from the port town of Kismaayo. Until a year earlier Asad had lived in that seeming idyllic busy little town located on the very edge of the Indian Ocean 250 miles south of Mogadishu and about 100 miles from the border with Kenya to the west and to the south. Asad’s family’s Clan had lived in Kismaayo for generations; his father had been a teacher at the local school. When Somalia fell into anarchy and civil war broke out between the rival Clans further to the north in Mogadishu, Kismaayo had initially avoided trouble and remained insulated from the destruction going on elsewhere in the country. That was until a year ago when the leader of one of the most powerful Clans in Somalia, Mohamed Farrah Aidid, had gained enough support to spread his reign of terror further afield. Aidid sent his right-hand man Mohammad Barre The Butcher south to the small coastal village of Kismaayo to ensure their loyalty and to take everything of value to support the war being waged further to the north. This tactic had been employed in other villages to the north with a secondary effect that was soon realized and capitalized on by the looting rebels. If the rebels killed all of the village’s livestock and destroyed what little crops the drought had not already taken, famine would soon ensue. The now entrenched UN in Mogadishu would be informed of the famine and would eventually send aid. The aid came in the form of easily transported food, tents, blankets and other essential supplies all of which were then stolen by the rebels and used to feed and support their small army. This same tactic was now deployed in Kismaayo. Asad’s father, a peaceful man, was a devout Muslim. When Aidid’s men arrived by boat, they were welcomed as Muslim brother’s by Asad’s father who was a well-liked and respected leader of his large family Clan. The Butcher killed him with a machete. No warning just chopped deep into his neck with the big blade and watched as he fell and died slower than one might think, in front of the entire village. He was executed in the name of the prophet Mohamed for educating young girls in the village. The Butcher then cut off his head and stuck it on the picket fence that surrounded the small school. Within hours half of the village had been burned or plundered. The majority of the people were, for the most part, dead. The younger men and older boys were taken as prisoners who would be beaten then forced to fight for Aidid or be killed. Those few that survived, including Asad, his mother and siblings, his grandfather and other more distant family members, the very young or the very old, had fled in terror. They now lived a mostly nomadic existence. Asad’s grandfather replaced his son as the Clan leader. As old and feeble as he was, he had to continually move his people further inland to hide from The Butcher’s rebels and avoid another altercation with Aidid’s men. It was not an easy life. They wandered through the arid land in search of any food they could gather and enough grass to keep their few goats and three camels alive. The three years of extreme drought had shriveled and dried up this land in all directions. The only exception was a narrow belt of fertile land along the rivers but these areas were patrolled regularly by The Butcher and his murdering band of rapists and thieves. For months Asad’s clan had managed to avoid the Butcher, moving frequently, always alert. But today the clan’s luck had run out. They were coming.

Asad ran as he had been instructed, but he wanted to go back. He wanted to call out for his mother; he wanted to find her, to protect her and his sisters. Only nine years old he was the eldest of the three children and the only boy left, the others had all died from disease or starvation. His sisters, Amina who was only just a little over a year old now and Kashi, who was almost three, looked to him as their hero. As such, even at this tender age, he felt he was the man of the family. Asad meant lion in Somali. A name given to him after a lion had tried to kill his mother while she was carrying Asad as a baby on her back through the fields near their home. Both survived the attack but both now carried the scars as a reminder. Asad had four long deep wounds down his back; his mother had the same on the top of her left shoulder, long healed over but forever marking that day. As he ran, Asad felt less like a lion and more like a coward for running, but for now, he did as he was told, what his mother and elderly grandfather had taught him and made him promise to do if trouble came. To run and to hide. Asad could hear the shouting now, close. He ran faster. Shots rang out. Asad checked behind him to see if his tracks would give him away. The ground was hard here and he had left no trail. He found the hollow in the tree that his mother had discovered and shown him days earlier and he hid. He made no sound, trying to breathe quietly while gasping for breath. He listened to hear if anyone was approaching. In the distance, he could hear the screams. Many at first then fewer and fewer as one by one they died, most midway through the high pitched plea for mercy or for help. Asad tucked himself in tighter to his hiding spot and shivered. He stayed there motionless for what seemed like hours. The shadows were getting longer, soon it would be dark. Asad could still hear the men, laughing and cursing mixed with occasional gunfire. He knew he must remain hidden but he worried about his family, had they managed to escape as well? Have they hidden away, safe, at least for the moment? It was finally quiet, just as the light began to fail and the short twilight set in. Then Asad heard another cry. This wail froze his blood. The screams were unmistakable. It was his baby sister Kashi. Then he heard a second cry, more distraught and frantic if that were possible, and he knew it was his mother.

CHAPTER 2

COMFORTABLY NUMB

It’s called the most dangerous city in the world. Mogadishu, Somalia. From the jump seat directly behind the pilot and co-pilot in the cockpit of the big Herc C-130 cargo plane, flying one mile out over the ocean at two thousand feet, it looked peaceful enough, graceful in fact, even scenic. From this vantage point, Mike could easily make out the white, castle-like fortresses standing out along the beautiful white coral sand coastline. Before 1960, the territory of modern Somalia was ruled by Italy. Much of the architectural influence was Italian and it was both ancient looking and majestic. Framed by the large waves rolling in from the deep, azure blue Indian Ocean, the city created a perfect picture that could have graced the cover of any European tourist holiday destination magazine.

Mogadishu sea scape

But this was his third tour here and Mike had seen past the facade of this seemingly tranquil city to what was on the other side. Like a back lot movie studio, the seemingly serene oceanfront view was hiding the stark emptiness and devastation that lay just behind it. The entire city was destroyed, bombed out. Abandoned buildings lay in ruin everywhere.

Its former inhabitants now lived in small domed huts made from mud, sticks and garbage on the outskirts of Mogadishu or any other open area they could find.

There was no government, no law, no hope and no future. There was only death. It came in many forms; violence, starvation, sickness, dehydration, but mostly by bloodshed. This was Africa.

For Michael James, this was home to him now. One in a long series of return addresses that had read no fixed address. Mike was an expatriate, a helicopter pilot, trained in college, right after two years of medical training in Los Angeles California as a critical care paramedic. Mike loved to fly, but this meant being away for extended periods of time in the far north. He had little time to meet or date many women. During a short visit home on his twenty-fifth birthday, he met and married a young woman he had only just met. On the day of his one year anniversary, Mike returned back home to Ontario a week earlier than expected after what had already been a long four-week tour in Repulse Bay, Nunavut on the Arctic Circle. He wanted to surprise his young wife. His flight was delayed twice but he finally made it home just after midnight. Champagne, a diamond necklace, flowers and a big box of her favorite chocolates in hand, Mike snuck unannounced in the back door and crept upstairs. His wife was surprised, so was the guy she was naked in bed with. Without a word Mike turned around and left. He just went out the front door and never looked back. He had only his work clothes, some pilot stuff, and his wallet. He left everything else behind. As a Canadian-born male with a wife that refused to get a job, he knew that after all was said and done he would be left with nothing anyway. As he suspected the joint bank accounts had all been emptied, the credit cards were all maxed out and two lines of credit in Mike’s sole name had also both been spent to the limit.

Despite this, Mike was ordered to pay and with that, his brief marriage was over. Rather than pay his now ex-wife every month to remain in the lifestyle she has become accustomed Mike opted to take his lawyer’s advice and offer his ex-life partner a one-time payment of $100,000. She took it. Mike had nothing left other than a mountain of debt he alone was responsible for. He was forced to go to his parents to borrow the money. They co-signed the loan for the entire $100,000. He promised they would not be saddled with the debt. His ex-wife was spreading more horrible lies of abuse and miss-treatment about him. Other women ate it up and believed every word. Mike lost all of his friends, most of his family, (with the exception of his parents); even his own church turned him away. So Mike left it all behind. He left his life, his home, his friends and his family. He left his country too. For a country that brags so much about its human rights and equality for all and is so often critical of other countries human rights, Canada sucks. Being Canadian was something Mike had always been proud of. Now it was something he chose to forget. That was ten long years ago.

After the Middle East and another tour flying in Cambodia for the UN and in Columbia to support the war on drugs, Mike was asked if he wanted to work flying food and medical aid to those starving in East Africa. Mike had already paid back the loan from his parents with interest so he didn’t need the money but he had always wanted to see Africa, the job certainly sounded dangerous enough, so he signed up. Mike had only a small handful of friends and no relationships with any women. The trick, Mike discovered, was to just not care. If you didn’t care about anyone, you didn’t get hurt. The pain of what he had left behind was only receding through isolation and becoming numb to all of his emotions. Danger was the only thing that truly made Mike feel alive now and Somalia had plenty of it. The adrenalin just wiped out everything else. Had Michael James been capable of any form of introspection, he would have noticed that he had changed and not in a good way. Mike, like most Canadians, was vehemently opposed violence, except during a hockey game of course, but lately, Mike had become numb to all of it. Freud may never have said that the Irish are impervious to psychoanalysis, Mike just believed it to be true, but any therapist could have easily seen that this was a problem.

When Mike was a just a kid he remembered studying about Africa in school and listening to missionaries from his parent’s church talk about working in Africa. The vast and beautiful rain forest jungles full of exotic creatures. He had dreamed of one day exploring Africa. He had envisioned himself, hiking through the jungle under a canopy of lush vegetation, surrounded by monkeys, gorillas, elephants, lions; all of the spectacular wildlife and lush scenery. When had first arrived in Somalia two years ago, he could not believe the reality of this place. There was no jungle, no lush vegetation, no zebras, no grassy plains full of wildebeests and elephants. It was mostly just desert, some scrub brush, sand and a lot of angry African and Arab mixed blood local Muslims most of whom, it seemed, wanted Michael dead.

The sun doesn’t shine on the same dog every day, but it had been a long time since Michael James had seen even the faintest glimmer of sunlight. Mike thought about that again as he watched from the cockpit jump seat of the big Lockheed C-130 Herc as it extended its crosswind leg another half mile out over the ocean before turning downwind. It was the only safe approach into the airport at Mogadishu. The gangs here were all well-armed. In the 1970’s, then Commander Siad Barre who had taken over the government in a military coup in 1969 aligned himself closely with Russia and built a huge military. In 1977 when the Russians switched their support to Ethiopia, they abandoned Somalia but left behind large stockpiles of surplus military weapons. These included weaponry like the M167 Vulcan 20mm anti-aircraft gun that could easily reach out and touch an aircraft, especially one as large as a Herc, from a great distance. A Herc was not immune to small arms fire either, particularly that of an AK 47, which had a remarkable range for small arms weaponry and was carried here like Blackberries and iPhones are today on Bay Street in Toronto. The crew of the Herc knew it and when they reached the section of UN held ocean frontage that the airport was constructed along, they wasted no time in making a hard over forty-five degree banked turn to base leg and then to final all combined with a steep descent in one continuous downward arc. The steep turn combined with a diving descent from two thousand feet to sea level did not exactly produce any real jet jockey G forces, but Michael wondered about the people seated anywhere near Scott and John in the aft passenger section of the belly of the big aircraft.

Scott and John were two aviation engineers, the best of the best and Mike considered himself very lucky to work beside them and to call them friends. All three had worked together in Cambodia and Viet Nam. There were still together here in Mog. Scott and John both helped keep the Bell 212 helicopter Mike was flying all over Somalia in good working order. Not an easy task for them or any of the other aircraft engineers working over here. They dealt with the stifling heat of the day, blowing sand storms and the ever present and devastating effects of salt water corrosion. They worked long into the nights filled with malaria-ridden mosquitoes, large flying beetles, scorpions, snakes, and rats not to mention bullets, both stray and well-aimed.

Scott was sometimes referred to as engineer Scotty, a Star Trek reference that, dumb as that sounds, was usually accompanied by even lamer imitations and quotes from the old TV show. Most just called him Newf. Newf was from the Rock. For a brief geography lesson, the rock is, as Mike had overheard it being described by a Newfoundlander to a peddler on the beach in Varadero, Cuba, dat islan’ dere off da’ east coast ah Canadar ‘ere, looks like a rabbit bin run ow’er by a Chevy truck, Eh. It was somewhat ironic that Newf was actually from Dildo, Newfoundland, a small community about one hundred kilometers from the capital city of St. Johns.

Newf was in many ways a typical Newfie. Those not familiar with this insider Canadian reference, he was friendly to a fault, always had a smile, he laughed interminably and was proud and ever eager to tell jokes about his heritage. His accent could be as thick as an east coast fog or non-existent, usually depending on the amount of alcohol he had consumed, or if he was talking to another east coaster. Although small in stature, among his peers he was respected as one of the smartest, hardest working engineers in the industry and universally admired as a genuinely nice guy.

Although not exactly handsome, if Newf had one weakness, actually he had a few, it was women. The others being alcohol, followed closely by a pit bull like fondness for fighting. As for the fairer sex, Newf was a man who could somehow charm women, women way out of his league, out of their thong underwear faster than most men could get a non-existent phone number. When their UN tour of duty in Cambodia was over, Newf just decided to stay in South East Asia. He now lived very comfortably on a beach somewhere in Thailand with a bevy of beauties at his beck and call.

Then there was John. In sharp contrast to Newf, John was a giant of a man. At six foot seven and two hundred and fifty pounds of tattoo-covered muscle, he dwarfed most men but made Newf look like a small child when they were together, as they most often were. He looked as mean as he was huge, heavily scarred and tattooed he obviously had some stories to tell. But, like many men of that stature, he was seldom aggressive as he had nothing to prove and Bull seldom spoke. In fact, the words that best described John were gentle and perhaps a little shy. When challenged he would simply stand up, and most men would back down. But if pushed Bull would fight. Like his buddy Newf, he was well practiced in bar brawls. He never lost his temper or a fight. They called him Bull after the tattoo of a raging male bovine on his right bicep. There were rumors of the name referring to another attribute, but whenever the joke was made, John would simply blush and become even quieter were that possible.

Unless very drunk, Bull was not very bullish, especially around women. It was said that Bull could fix anything, but he seemingly had trouble mending a previously broken heart. It was obvious that at some point in his past some woman had hurt him and he now guarded his affections closely. Bull was a good looking guy in a rugged, weathered sort of way and women climbed all over him, but unless he was drunk he would just blush and pretend to ignore them. Unfortunately, this behavior only made women want him even more. Bull had no significant other and few insignificant others. Although he carried a picture of a woman with him everywhere he went, he would not speak of her or talk about what had happened. Originally from a farm in Alberta, he spent most of his life now at work on the road overseas and away from home.

Bull got along so well with Newf because Newf was his opposite. Together they made a great team, they worked hard at work and they partied hard the remainder of the time.

Mike had seen them both together late the night before in Nairobi, both were drunk and he worried about them. Back at his hotel Mike hadn’t slept much, not that he had really slept well in months, about 120 if he cared to count.

The next morning Mike’s fears once again proved groundless. Newf and Bull showed up at the Nairobi airport just moments before the flight to Mogadishu. They weren’t hung over, they were both still drunk. Two of the hookers were still clinging on to Newf who was trying desperately to get Mike to convince the UN transport authorities to allow these two young women to obtain military UN passes on the flight to Mogadishu.

Newf there is no way you are going to smuggle two hookers on a military transport plane into a war zone, Mike tried to reason.

C’mon, Doc, tell ‘em ‘deese are ar’ nurses or sumetin’. Dey’ll believe you buy (boy). Dey like you, Doc, c’mon buddy. ‘Elp a fellar out ere. Newf slurred. He reeked of booze and cigarettes not to mention some other more potent odors. His bloodshot eyes were sporting bags as large as his hockey duffel bag which Mike knew was mostly full of porno magazines, cigarettes, and booze. One of the girls, the smaller of the two, was struggling to drag it along.

I need ‘dese girls Doc, Newf was almost in tears now, My son, I can’t take a nudder sixteen weeks wit out female companionship. The girls themselves were set on going and Newf, looking truly pitiful and desperate, was now begging. It took some careful, calm reasoning on Mike’s part to derail Newf’s plan to bring the girls along.

Girls, Michael said, I’ll give you a hundred dollars each if you drop those bags and leave right now. Mike knew that Newf was broke again and couldn’t top the offer. It was a safe bet. The girls grabbed the money and ran. Mike thought Newf would protest but he didn’t. In far too loud a voice, he thanked the girls for a lovely evening and yelled with enough volume to outdo the PA system,

"Git some rest girls, an’ some penicillin. I’ll be back ‘ere in a few short weeks.

CHAPTER 3

ABDI

As the big wheels of the Herc touched down on the melting runway in Mogadishu with a loud smack and puff of smoke, Mike wondered if John and Scotty had survived the flight. The tiny airsick bags in the back of the seat were not much protection to those seated anywhere near them if either had gotten sick; especially when the negative 1 G pushover to descend was immediately followed by the hard landing and full brakes. The wide airplane taxied very quickly to the north end of the runway and made a hard right onto the UN tarmac. Strangely, Mike felt good. Yep, it was good to be back. It felt somehow familiar, like coming home. The crew of the Herc did not at all share this sentiment. They felt like a very big, very fat, sitting duck on the ground here and it was definitely duck hunting season. As soon as the plane came to a full stop, the Herc flight engineer opened the exit doors and started herding the passengers out post haste.

Thanks for the lift guys, Mike said.

No problem, Doc, replied Gord, the captain of the C-130. Like Mike, these guys were regulars here, civilian subcontractors hired by the UN. Gord was an American from Florida. He was an older, tall, thin man with now white hair and a big smile as always. Gord was retired from the United States Air Force and Mike had an idea that this was the last job Gord would ever work as a pilot. The co-pilot, on the other hand, was just a kid.

You might as well stay put, for now, Doc, replied Dave, the young bright-eyed co-pilot, we have to offload ten thousand liters of fuel and at least it’s air conditioned in here. The line-up is long today, he added pointing to the now deplaned passengers that were forming a very long queue waiting to get through the incompetent bureaucracy of the UN’s Transport Arrival Control passport office. Every UN worker, soldier, and civilian were checked in, one at a time. You could even get your passport stamped. Like that was worth standing in line for sometimes over an hour in the 120-degree heat of the often melting pavement on the tarmac.

Thanks, Mike replied. He took them up on their offer even though he felt guilty about his two buddies who were now probably baking alive out in the ever longer stretching line.

I don’t know how you do it Doc, said Gord. We only have to land here five times a week, stay for one hour then get the hell out and we’re scared every minute. You live here and this is what, your third tour?

Fourth, Mike replied.

Sure you don’t want a round trip today? Gord offered. We’d be glad to give you a ride back to Nairobi in about fifty-five minutes.

And miss all this? Mike sounded disappointed. Nah seems like home to me now.

That is exactly what I’m worried about Mike, replied Gord a little quieter. You should get out, now, it’s going to hit the fan any day, and the Marines have pulled out. The weasels are running the chicken coup and no good will come of it. Mike knew he was right.

Look at that poor kid. Dave, the eager young co-pilot was pointing to a young local boy standing behind the chain link fence bristling with razor wire that separated the UN held airport from the area known as No Man’s Land. No Man’s Land was basically the city core of Mogadishu about the size of forty square blocks extending down to the north end of the airfield. Like the name implied, you did not walk there, drive there or even fly over that area. This was Clan gang held territory and it was suicide to even go near it.

It was hard to see through the fog created by the air conditioning, rolling down through vents in the ceiling of the big Herc.

Jump seat aboard Herc C-130 in Mogadishu

Mike could just make out the small figure now and he recognized him. This kid was always there, watching the planes and helicopters come and go. His name was Abdi. He was seven, small for his age, but as brave as anyone of any age Mike had ever met. His ragged, torn pants were missing half of the right leg. Shortly below the missing pant leg was Abdi’s missing leg. A land mine had torn it away when he was five. Abdi’s face was gaunt; his expression was grim, sorrowful and hopeless. Two years ago his eyes had sparkled at the arrival of all the UN aircraft. The UN represented hope; hope for food, for help, for peace. Now Abdi knew. Abdi knew what Mike knew and Gord knew. The US had pulled out, they had lost and so, consequently, now he was too. No sparkle, no curiosity, no future, no hope. Abdi was dead. He was still standing there, still breathing, still managing somehow to survive, but he was dead. Betrayed by his own people, his parents both murdered, Abdi was all alone in the world. Desperate and begging he was just another ghost over here.

The saddest thing for Mike was that he could not do anything to save the boy. He had given him food, money, clothes, he was wearing what was left of the #99 Wayne Gretzky hockey jersey Mike had given him months ago, but Michael could not give Abdi a better life. He was just another starving African child among so many of the living, walking dead he had seen over here. Mike knew he couldn’t save him, but his not being able to do more for this child hadn’t been what killed him. His own people had. Aidid’s people had.

That poor kid, said the young co-pilot.

Don’t fool yourself, replied Gord. That kid would kill you just as soon as you handed him something to eat. He’s probably a spy for Aidid’s butchers and you can’t trust him as far as you can throw the little bastard. Isn’t that right Doc? You’ve seen it, first hand, haven’t you?

Sad but true, Mike thought to himself. Time and time again children were used as bait or spies, even as soldiers over here. A pathetic young child would beg and plead for an aid worker to come into a bombed out building to,

Please help my sick and dying, mother. Once inside, the aid worker was robbed and sometimes murdered or taken and held hostage.

Suffer the little children, Mike quietly replied in return, and then added, Well, guys, I guess I should go. He was feeling a little guilty about being this comfortable while Bull and Newf were baking, standing in line somewhere in the midday heat outside.

Take care, Doc, Gord replied and offered his hand, be careful out there.

Mike shook Gord’s outstretched hand, God’s speed, gentlemen, see you in twelve weeks. He went down the flight steps to the port exit doors below. The heat and humidity hit him with the force of a blast furnace. It was like stepping into a sauna. Some guys over here couldn’t stand the heat. Mike loved it. He had spent too long freezing to death flying helicopters in the Canadian Arctic. Now he felt like he was finally thawing out.

It was just past noon and the mid-day sun was intense. Cumulous clouds were starting to build, heaping upwards out over the ocean shoreline but did not provide much protection from the mid-day sun inland as yet. There was a light, onshore breeze off the ocean just over the sand dune behind the main camp along the airfield ramp. The smell of the ocean was strong and the sound of the surf begged Mike to go and find his surfboard and forget this lining up crap. Mike longed for a swim and was reminded of his days working as a lifeguard back home. He was lucky to have lived near Sandbanks, one of the nicest beaches in Canada. Sun, sand, women, the waves breaking on the shore, skinny dipping on those hot summer nights with some girl he had just met on the beach that day. It was almost like being back there. Only there weren’t a lot of white women here and although the ocean looked inviting, eight UN workers and one of their own pilots had already been killed and eaten by shark attacks, so swimming was strictly forbidden by the UN. Except for Bull and Mike of course. Never ones for taking orders too seriously, they regularly swam and surfed not far from here. Surfing up and down the Somalia coastline by helicopter was a favorite pastime.

Mike walked over and gathered what little luggage he had off the baggage cart and started walking across the tarmac in the opposite direction of the line and the other passengers. He headed for the fence line and No Man’s Land. The small child along the fence smiled and waved.

Captain Mike, Abdi called Captain Mike. Over here. Michael smiled and waved in return.

Good morning Abdi, Mike said in as cheery a voice as he could muster. He dropped his one bag and carried the other over to the fence where the young boy stood. Mike then spun round quickly and swung the bag discus style in a circle then pulled up and let go. The bag cleared the top of the top of the razor wire fence and landed with a thud just behind his small friend and admirer. It contained the usual, candy, primary English school books, some food, coloring books, pens, pencils, clothes, a portable CD player and enough US cash money to get him through another couple of months. The one-legged boy moved with surprising speed and was on it like a Canadian raven on road kill.

Thank you, Captain Mike! Abdi was beaming again. Kids might be resilient, but this kid was a survivor.

You’re welcome, little buddy, Mike replied.

You take me back… next time, right? You take me to Canada, to see snow? he asked, eyes briefly full of that wonder and hope from a year ago.

We’ll see Abdi, Mike said. He knew people back home that would gladly take the kid in, adopt him in a heartbeat, but it wasn’t that easy. They chatted briefly; the boy’s English was getting better. Then Mike told him to be careful and waved goodbye.

Thank you, Captain. Don’t forget to come for me next time, Captain Mike, I will wait for you Abdi called after Mike. Mike waved again, leaving the young boy clinging to the wrong side of a big fence, an analogy that was not lost on Mike, then turned and headed over to the long passport control line to look for the guys. He found them, both together, lying on the pavement at the end of the line that had not as yet moved.

Shoot me, Doc, whispered Bull hoarsely. I’m going to die anyway just put me down, put me out of my misery. Newf cut him off.

Morning again Mike, said Newf, he actually sounded chipper.

How do you do it, Newf? Mike asked. You party all night long, fly third class in the back of a Herc, bake here in the sun and you still sound happy.

It’s all in the mind, Doc, he replied. Mike pulled a liter of cold water and some Aspirin from his carry-on bag and offered them to Bull.

Thanks, Doc, he said. A few minutes later he was feeling better too. What’s the new game plan for the Holy Grail Doc? Bull asked.

The Holy Grail. They had first heard rumors of it from the Russians who shared a remote camp with their Canadian UN crews up in Baledoggle. Rumour had it that somewhere in this God forsaken country, hidden in the scrub brush, were two, like new civilian Bell 212 helicopters briefly used by the Somalia military shortly before the civil war broke out and anarchy had ensued. The aircraft were still out there, somewhere, in mint condition complete with armaments. With a mostly dry desert environment here, as long as they were inland and away from the sea air, they should still be flyable. Bull, Newf, and Mike had hatched a plan to fly them out of the country and sell them for a small fortune, that is, if they could find them and the locals had not already discovered and pillaged or destroyed them. During his tours with the US Marine Corps Mike had flown many sorties in-country, but so far he had turned up nothing but a few old wrecks of Russian Migs.

I’m not sure where we’re going to get posted Bull, but we carry on with the plan. Find the 212’s, fly them to South Africa and sell them, split the money three ways then get the hell off this continent and retire.

Like most everyone else here they were planning for their inevitable departure and plotting what they could take. Unlike most everyone else, they were not planning on stealing it from the UN. Many of the UN senior officials and delegates already had their own personal sea containers lined up and were quickly filling them with whatever they could steal. Some of the third world, Turd world as Newf referred to them, countries’ commanders had the most stuff, especially the African UN contingency countries. TV,’s, furniture, vehicles even cash, all pilfered and locked in containers marked with their home address, shipping billed to the UN of course. For Scotty, John and Mike, all that was just crap, they had their eye on the big prize. Two mint condition civilian model Bell 212 medium helicopters, $10 million US each new, worth at least $3 million each on the black market. All they had to do was find them and they could retire to a beach somewhere in the tropics, maybe the Cook Islands Mike thought.

The line was still moving at a snail›s pace, in twenty minutes they had gained only ten yards. Enough was enough. Never one to suffer silently with the masses, Mike broke ranks and headed for the hole in the fence. Yes, it was strictly forbidden, like swimming, but if you knew your way around you could avoid getting caught, shot, eaten or standing in line for ninety minutes. He slowly made his way toward freedom. Just yards from the fence and the cattle line, Mike thought he heard his name being called. He put his head down and tried to ignore it.

Doc! Get back here. You know you have to check in just like everybody else. It was Ben. Damn that kid, Mike lamented, didn’t he ever miss anything? Ben was the real reason that most guys did so poorly with the few women here. Ben was young, blonde, tall, disgustingly good looking and he came from money, a lot of money. He had an easy smile and a confident, brash demeanor that everyone just immediately liked. This guy from Vancouver was outgoing, witty and smart, very smart. Ben was God’s gift to women. Ben collected women like trinkets, treated them like toys, used them with no regard or remorse and still women flocked to him. The women loved him. Like chocolate, even the women who knew he was bad for them, ate him up. Yes, Mike was jealous. The thing that bugged Mike the most about Ben was that he truly was a really great guy.

Mike had met Ben in Cambodia. Ben had been the radio operator there and within two weeks he had figured out the entire UN operation. He could put the right requisition form in the right hands and get you just about anything you could think of. He was now a trained pilot, but with low flying time, he was hanging around camp working as a logistics and support specialist hoping to get a chance to fly and build time. Like all new pilot’s Ben had to suffer to get that first real flying job. Ben stuck it out, though, you had to give him that.

Mike turned to see Ben standing in front of a small group of guys near the back of the line. One of Ben’s main duties was to meet incoming pilots, get them through UN arrival control, help them obtain an ID badge and get them settled in. Bull and Newf had joined them. His escape thwarted, Mike returned to the end of the queue. Now Mike found himself saying it. Queue. Ten years ago on his first trip over to the Middle East, Mike had to change planes at Heathrow in London. Lost, he asked a young British Airways flight attendant for directions. She was beautiful, and that accent and voice, Michael could have listened to her tell him where to go for the rest of his life. She told him what terminal and gate he needed and then to get in the queue and pointed in the general direction of a bus and a line of people. Mike had a fifty-fifty chance. He chose the bus… after all queue sounded more like a name for a bus. Then Mike really got lost. That’s when he learned that a queue had nothing to do with billiards or buses.

When Mike walked up he could hear Ben chatting up the newbies. He was trying to put a positive spin on this place to the three new recruits, all dressed like Ben in clean, pressed, dark navy pants and white shirts with four stripes of gold on their captain’s epaulets.

Don’t listen to this kid, Mike interrupted, he’s never even been off the base here. Without missing a beat Ben returned the compliment.

And this, gentlemen, is what happens to you when you’ve been a pilot here too long. He gestured toward Mike’s somewhat used and faded US marine Corp desert khakis, faded Desert Storm t-shirt, black flight boots that could admittedly use a good polish, and Mike’s unshaven, rough appearance.

How ya keepin’, Doc? Ben added.

Fine, Ben. What’s new in paradise? Mike replied.

Same shit, different day, he said, and flashed that big boyish grin, then added, I see you haven’t become any more particular about the company you keep. He was looking at Newf and Bull. They too were slightly bending the company’s dress code for travel in-country. The company dress code read All those traveling into Mogadishu from Nairobi on UN transport shall be dressed in clean and pressed dark blue trousers with a clean, white, pressed dress shirt with gold epaulets and shall conduct themselves with the utmost professionalism and decorum. Newf was wearing his oversized baggy khaki shorts and had changed his soiled Grateful Dead t-shirt, for one that read on the front Fuck You, you Fucking Fuck. Bull, also unshaven, had on pink, baggy surfer shorts and a faded black t-shirt that showed off his huge muscular build and multiple tattoos. Both looked like shit, now lying back down on the tarmac again. Ben turned his attention to them.

Come on, guys, Ben said in an exasperated and pleading tone. You know you two are supposed to be in uniform.

Newf spoke up, We ‘ad our uniforms washed and pressed, honest we did, but d’ere was this dog, see, and it peed on them.

Both of you? asked Ben. Bull started to giggle.

Yep, said Newf.

Where were your uniforms that a dog had an opportunity to urinate on them both? asked Ben.

We were wearing them, said Newf. Ben looked disgusted.

You two passed out on the Nairobi street gutters again?

No, said Newf, we woke up, this time, on the sidewalk if you must know. Bull thought this was hilarious and soon both of them were sharing a private joke rolling on the tarmac laughing hysterically. The three new guys looked on in disbelief.

These guys are the engineers? asked one of them, knowing full well that his life was in their hands.

These are the two best wrenches we’ve got, replied Ben.

Swell, said the new kid, I can’t wait to meet the worst. Bull and Newf soon recovered, got upright again and introductions were made all round. In the midst of the handshakes, the unmistakable sound of AK 47 fire broke out from just over the perimeter fence in No Man’s Land. There’s no confusing the sound of an AK being fired at you, it is as distinctive as it is deadly. The entire line of people in front of them, including Ben and the three new pilots, hit the deck spread eagle. There was one wild ricochet that made a loud zinnnggg off the tarmac several yards away. Still standing beside Bull and Newf, Mike spoke loudly to the figures sprawled on the ground all around them.

They’re after you again, Ben, Mike laughed. I told you to stay away from those young Somali women.

«These Muslim men are very particular about who has carnal knowledge of their women, especially their wives,» added Newf.

You should know, Bull laughed. Ben got up from his prone position on the black tarmac looking guilty and a little scared. He should be. He had defiled a number of Somali women and over here and in a Muslim country that was not a good idea. Some of the Somali women were absolutely gorgeous. The coastal towns of Somalia have been around since the middle ages. Arab traders did more than trading on these shores and the resulting mix of Arab blood combined with northeastern African characteristics often created a tall, slender, fine-featured woman with high cheek bones, impeccable posture and the poise, grace and beauty to outshine any high fashion runway model. The Samaal clan women from the north were particularly beautiful. Mike was surprised a modeling agency hadn’t discovered these women yet. Ben sure had. The three new guys were still all face down, prone on the tarmac.

Well, they’re all going to need new white shirts, Ben, said Bull.

Probably a fresh change of underwear, as well, added Newf.

C’mon, guys, get up you’re embarrassing us here, Mike said impatiently to the Newbies. Bull, Newf, and Mike all gave them a hand getting back up off the melting tar of the airport apron.

CHAPTER 4

THE FENCE LINE

"Th-that was.....gunfire," stammered the new guy, Neil, Mike thought he said his name was.

What? That? said Ben innocently. He knew he had to be delicate here, he had more than one new recruit witness the devastation here, bullet-riddled and bombed out hangars and get right back on the plane home. It was a little perplexing and more than a little frustrating for Ben. After all, it was a war zone here, didn’t these guys ever watch the six o’clock news? What did they expect?

Ah, you’ll get used to that, continued Ben. Don’t worry, they’re not shooting at us, it’s just a little local dispute. Black on black...local clans...trust me; we lose more pilots to shark attacks and food poisoning than lead poisoning. Then he flashed them that big disarming smile again. Ben, Newf, and Bull continued trying to smooth talk these guys into calming down. Mike looked over toward the Herc to see if they had taken a hit and gave them a wave. Gord waved back then pointed toward the north fence line that separated the airport from No Man’s Land. Michael saw what Gord had been pointing at. He dropped his bag, left the small group and headed in the direction of the fence line in front of the area where the shots had just come from.

Hey, Doc, Bull called out loudly in his booming voice, maybe you should stay here for a bit, you know just till the dust settles. They still think you’re an American. Remember? There’s still that whole bounty thing. He called even louder, They know you, man, and they don’t like you, Bull called again. Mike just waved without looking back. He was not taking his eyes off his target. Michael walked directly toward the No Man’s Land fence line with long, purposeful strides. Once he was sure he was far enough away that no one in the UN line had a clear view of what he was doing, Mike pulled his left pant leg up and took out a Browning .45 caliber handgun from an ankle holster tucked in the top of his boot. Not a very comfortable way to carry a weapon of that size and weight, but Mike had to be somewhat discreet. Carrying firearms was strictly forbidden by the company and grounds for immediate dismissal. When he reached the fence, gun raised, he pointed it at the bombed out buildings behind the fence line, then he glanced down and spotted Abdi. He stared into the small child’s eyes.

CHAPTER 5

EVIL DEEDS

Asad heard the scream again, there was no doubt now, it was definitely his mother. He knew he had to stay hidden, knew he should do what he was told and stay right where he was. On the third scream, he could take it no longer. He climbed from his hiding spot, stood up and craning his neck, he tried to see over or around the scrub brush in front of him where he thought the screams had come from but he was too small. He looked back once at his hiding place then turned and started tentatively towards the screams, louder now, coming from the village. He tried to stay low, stay hidden, moving from one clump of brush to another, creeping slowly without a sound. When he heard his mother scream again, this time begging for help, he gave up any pretense of caution and he started to run back to the village. He ran hard now, the branches of the scrub brush caught at him and tore at his skin, and he did not care. On he ran oblivious to any danger or pain. His mother needed him and he ran to her now as fast as his little feet could carry him. He would have run right out into the open, right into the hands of the rebels had he not tripped. He went down hard. Unable to get his hands up in front of him in time to break the fall, his small face was scraped and cut on the dry parched ground. As he struggled to get up he looked back to see what had tripped him.

Amina lay curled up in a fetal position on her side. Her eyes were open. And Asad knew. The deep open wound and the pool of dark blood would have given him enough evidence but he didn’t need those visual clues to convince him. Amina’s eyes did not follow him. Her face did not register any change of expression. She just stared straight ahead with unmoving, unblinking, unseeing eyes. The look of pain and horror on her face remained. He went to her and gently shook her even though he knew she would not wake again. She was gone. He reached around the bloodied body and hugged her. Another scream brought him back. This time, it was close. He let Amina go and slowly stood to a half standing half-crouching position behind a small pile of brush that had been gathered and carefully stacked for firewood. He could see the village now, all was in ruin. Smoke still curled up from the ashes that had been the family huts. There were dead bodies and severed limbs everywhere he looked. The scene was horrific. No one seemed left alive. Then he saw her. His mother. She was off to his left, standing not ten feet away, her back to him. She was naked. Her hands were bound behind her back. A man in ragged, faded green pants and shirt stood beside her, he held a gun to her head. He was laughing, facing in the same direction as his mother. Both were watching another man who stood some distance further away. He was holding a small child up off the ground, up to his waist. The child had her back to the man and was bent over at the waist, almost double. His pants were down around his black military leather boots. The child was crying. Asad could hear his sister’s muffled cries above his mother’s wails and pleas for the man to stop, to let the child go. The man laughed and just pulled the small child toward him harder again and again. His four-year-old baby sister Kashi was screaming now. The man was hurting her. Both men laughed harder. Asad grabbed the first thing he could find to use as a weapon, a stone the size of his fist. He picked it up and burst from his hiding spot, running straight toward the man holding and hurting his little sister.

CHAPTER 6

TAKE ME HOME

Abdi smiled when he recognized Michael approaching him. Mike’s gun was still in his hand, pointed at a bombed out building 40 yards behind the fence line where Mike was sure the shots had