Last Orders in Nanyuki

By Simon Clayton

It is July 2018.

The eyes of the world are on the Middle East. The Americans fly daily bombing sorties as President Trump stands determined to stamp out Islamist terrorism.

In Kenya, the suspicious death of their President has led to tribal violence and a security crisis. Al Shabaab are waiting patiently just over the Somali border, with a motorised brigade who have been training for two years, in preparation for vengeance.

Brexit has seen the armed forces of Britain cut to ribbons by an economy drive. The remaining men and women of the British Army Training Unit near Mount Kenya, have been served their redundancy notices and their new base is being sold.

A small group of Brits, friendships forged in their younger days in the service of Her Majesty, are returning up-country from a golf trip to the Kenyan coast. They have stopped for a night in the bush.

And then… The storm breaks…

Simon Clayton’s third novel is an action-packed thriller, based in Kenya, and on the sort of chilling scenario only too possible in this uncertain world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Legend Press
• Release date: Nov 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781787196292

Book preview

Author

Prologue – Wednesday 13th July 2016

Luuq - Western Somalia

A sharp, single beep penetrated the early morning slumber of Sayeed Al-Jemal and he reached for his mobile phone by the bed. In the half light of dawn seeping around the edges of his curtains, he picked up the device and looked at the screen. An email had arrived from one of his twin sons, but with no words, just a large attachment.

He put the phone down and settled back down under the quilt. He felt his second wife’s hand reach for him, and she sleepily asked him if everything was alright. He stroked his long beard as he told her that it was an email from Asad and that he would look at it on the computer later. Her response was to slide her hand towards her husband’s groin. She wasn’t much older than his twins but she knew well his morning appetites.

Quickly aroused, he mounted her without tenderness and finished after a few vigorous thrusts. He lay on his back regaining his breath and she turned away to go back to sleep. Once out of bed, Sayeed showered in the en-suite bathroom, stepped into a pair of slippers and draped a towelling robe around his lean shoulders.

He went down one flight of stairs and turned towards the huge kitchen. His first wife was busy over a coffee pot but turned immediately and nodded to him with her hands clasped in salaam. Coffee, husband? She queried. Yes, he answered, and looked out of the window. The sun was just starting to kiss the opposite banks of the river, with a growing patch of shade formed by the bulk of the solid house and the high concrete walls that spread out on either flank. What would have been easy access from house to river, was blocked by an extension of the wall, topped with broken glass, right along the bank.

Al-Jemal took his coffee and went out of the kitchen, turning towards a solid-looking mahogany door with no handles or visible hinges. He put his hand up to a small pad on the wall and touched his right forefinger to a softly glowing box. The door gave a muffled click and swung gently inwards. Soft light bathed the doorway, showing a downward flight of stairs. Sayeed took the steps as more lighting came on to illuminate a dark room with desks, chairs, computer screens and some heavy steel cabinets, set in banks along three walls.

He moved to the biggest desk, set his coffee down, then flicked on the flat screen. He worked through three login procedures until he was safely into his encrypted email facility and scrolled through the inbox. He saw the text-free email from his son and that the 28MB attachment was a media file. He double-clicked on the icon and an image appeared.

Five men, in a room constructed of unplastered concrete blocks, many of which were pockmarked. The dirt floor was littered with bits of concrete and grey dust. Three of the men were standing in camouflage pattern battle dress, holding automatic rifles across their chests with bayonets fixed. All three had dirty white hoods covering their heads, with roughly cut eye holes. In front of them on two tatty wooden chairs sat the other two with arms behind their backs. They were naked apart from filthy underpants, and the same white hoods but without the eye holes. Their skin was light brown in colour. The image slowly grew as whoever was holding the camera zoomed in and a gravelly voice began to talk.

Hello Al-Jemal. As you can see, today we have taken a leaf out of the Jihadist book of terrorism, and hope you feel that we’ve got it right. But first, let me explain why these two bastards are sitting in those chairs.

The man in front of his computer screen leaned in closer, his eyes flickering with uncertainty.

"Less than 24 hours ago, these men, and six colleagues, stopped a civilian bus outside Mandera in Kenya, near the Somali border. There were 46 people on board; men, women and children. Some were going to school, some to visit family, some to work, some...who knows? I’m sure you will be able to guess the rest, but I’ll spell it out to you anyway. Your ‘friends’ decided to throw some phosphorus grenades onto the bus, then shoot the passengers as they fought their way out. Why? I really don’t think anyone could ever justify what happened to these innocent people, screaming as the phosphorus burnt its way deep into them. But perhaps one day you can tell me?

Anyway, unfortunately for them, your crew inadvertently left one woman alive. They shot her as she jumped, but she rolled into a ditch and still had her phone in her pocket. After it was over, she called her brother, who is a policeman. He told the border guards, and our little team here happened to be on attachment, supporting the Kenya Defence Force. We let them through the border, didn’t want anything unpleasant in public. But we followed them discreetly until they stopped here.

Al-Jemal noticed the trembling of the two seated men and the immovable stances of the three standing soldiers. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and his eyes never left the screen.

They didn’t even post a proper guard. Against men with our training it was never a fair fight for them. We let them think we were a lone sniper, and the other six were sent to deal with us. Luckily for them, they died quickly in a massive hail of fire. Their bodies are outside. After a bit more shooting, I think that these two quickly realised that they had no chance, and surrendered. We wanted to find out more about them, and who ordered the bus attack, so they are still alive. They were very reluctant to talk at first, but eventually they told us all we needed to know.

With that, the two armed men on the left and right, reached forwards and ripped the hoods off the heads of the prisoners. Sayeed Al-Jemal gasped as he saw the bruised, cut, burnt and bleeding faces of the men.

As you can see they didn’t really want to talk, but my companions can be very persuasive. I’m sure you will, in spite of the mess, recognise your sons, Asad and Numair. Say ‘hello’ to your father, boys.

The twins looked up at the camera and said nothing but Sayeed could see the fear in their eyes. He ached with shock and frustration, as he pounded his fists on the desk.

We know you ordered the attack Al-Jemal, and that your over-eager sons were just obeying orders but, honestly, we don’t really care. You must suffer for what you’ve done and just for once, you can be on the receiving end. Asad confirmed that this email address on his phone was yours so...what must be, must be.

The armed man in the middle shouldered the strap of his rifle. He then reached down with both hands and gabbed the hair of the seated brothers, pulling their heads back sharply over the chair backs. The other two soldiers moved level with the men, now struggling desperately against their bonds and the grips on their heads. With practiced ease, the hooded men each slipped the bayonets off the end of their rifles and moved in to place the blades tightly against the stretched necks of the captives.

For the avoidance of doubt, Sayeed, your sons will get the same chance of a dignified farewell as they gave the people on the bus. So there will be no ‘Allahu Fucking Akbar’ nonsense.

The men holding the bayonets each quickly stuffed a rag in the mouths of their victims. With the words, Do it now, from the man with the camera, as he zoomed in to the two wriggling heads, the bayonets moved in tandem, quickly and deeply across the necks of both. Two immediate bright red lines appeared, from below one ear to the other, on each man.

Al-Jemal now had tears streaming down his face as he pounded the desk repeatedly in his grief, screaming loudly, and at length. He watched transfixed as the life blood hemorrhaged from his twins and gushed down their chests. There was no more noise on the film, just the image of his dying boys. The two soldiers with bayonets wiped them on the used hoods, then walked out of view. The film image wobbled downwards and there was a quick flash of the cameraman’s right hand. Al-Jemal sensed a coloured image for a millisecond, then it was gone.

He heard the closing comment from the cameraman, Now you know what it’s like, you bastard, and the file finished in the frozen image of his dead sons. He was slumped in his chair but forced himself to rerun the last few seconds, pausing the clip, and zooming in on the bright mark he’d glimpsed. It proved to be a tattoo on the back of the hand of the man holding the camera. He went to maximum zoom and it was unmistakable, the tattoo was of a Union Jack.

***

Part One – Friday PM 13th July 2018

Chapter One – 15:00

Near Meru - Central Kenya

A man with a large bag over one shoulder whistled and smiled, as he approached a brightly coloured van festooned with Safaricom logos, parked on rough ground in the shadow of a tall mast. He opened the driver’s door and said to the man in the passenger seat, That’s the last one.

Well done my brother, we have indeed performed well, and on schedule.

Let us pray that everything works when we send the trigger message later today.

Surely Allah will smile on the work we have done, Ahmed?

We can only hope that it is his will. We must tell base that we are ready, then make our way to the safe house for tonight.

The passenger picked up a large mobile phone from the dashboard, typed the words everything in place, ready for your confirmation, then pressed ‘Send’. That’s done Ahmed, now once we’re back in Meru town we are probably only an hour from the house. With any luck, Nagan will feed us the succulent lamb she was talking about yesterday.

Inshallah brother, replied Ahmed, as he started the van’s engine and steered towards the dirt road.

*

Lokichogio - North Western Kenya

Look sir, we seem to have finally made it, there’s the town sign.

Brigadier Chester Mwangi, looked round at the sarcastic tone of his colleague and followed his nod to a sorry-looking white wooden board with the words ‘Welcome to Lokichogio - Gateway to South Sudan’ on it, in black paint. He leaned back in the rear seat of the Land Rover and replied, Thank you Major Munene, anyone would think you weren’t pleased to be here.

Very happy sir... Just a little puzzled?

In what way?

Well, sir, what with all the upheaval in the country following the tragic death of the President, I thought 3rd Brigade might be of better use in areas of potential trouble? Surely we don’t want a repeat of the 2007 election bloodshed?

I am told, by the Defence Minister himself, that the police have everything under control, that rogue elements have been identified and that further escalation is not going to happen.

But...forgive me sir...the facts seem a little at odds with what the government are telling us. Only yesterday another 80 people killed in rioting at Kisumu, Nakuru, and Eldoret. The election date has been postponed, and the press are saying that Ruto is determined to cling on to the power he’s inherited. Surely...

That’s enough Major, seditious talk doesn’t help the situation. In case you’ve forgotten, our job is to improve the training level of our brigade. They’ve been lounging around in the fleshpots of Nanyuki for far too long. A week here, with some rigorous desert manoeuvres, will remind them what being a soldier is all about. Now, I suggest you sort out all the tented accommodation on the edge of town somewhere. Assuming there is a hotel of some sort here, please get me the best room there is.

Yes sir, by the way...

Carry on Major, you have your orders.

*

Luuq - Somalia

So far, it had been a day of excitement, purpose, dizziness, and great anticipation for Mohammed Daoud and his colleagues. Excitement as they had held mass Friday prayers, not in their usual mosque in the centre of town, but here in a giant steel godown on the Western side of the river, away from the rest of the town’s inhabitants. A sense of purpose, permeating down from their charismatic leader, had stirred their blood and they had given full voice to the chanting of their faith. The dizziness had come from the overwhelming smell of paint within the warehouse and a few colleagues had fainted from the fumes. Anticipation and, from the looks in the eyes of some of them, a little fear, came from finally knowing their target.

It was now zero hour, and Mohammed climbed into the cab of a large white petrol tanker with his co-driver. Both men straightened their bright blue berets. They looked through the windscreen and registered that all the other vehicles were also painted white. A patch of bright sunlight grew quickly from a steel roller shutter clunking open at one end of the godown, and a growling cacophony of engine noise built to a crescendo as each driver started his truck. Mohammed engaged first gear and moved quickly forward. His orders were to be the fourth vehicle in the convoy, behind the lead truck, the command vehicle, then one more truck. Once in position, about half a kilometre along the road, he left the engine idling and watched in his wing mirrors as the rest of the convoy rolled seamlessly into position behind him.

Mohammed asked his co-driver, What are you thinking Faaruq?

I’m thinking that, at last, all the training we’ve been doing for the last two years can be used.

Are you scared?

Not of death, heaven will treat us well for we are doing Allah’s work, peace be upon him. But only scared of doing something wrong, of letting down my friends. What about you?

Mohammed smiled, We have been together in this since the start and we must have started thinking in the same way, for I have the same feelings as you. This is a great enterprise and we will all be spoken of with awe by generations to come, as long as we are brave.

Inshallah. All the trucks must be in line now Mo, the front one is moving off. We’re on our way.

On our way to glory, Faaruq.

*

Nanyuki - Central Kenya

By this time on a Friday afternoon, Warrant Officer First Class, Peregrine Gordon would be winding down the British Army Training Unit (Kenya) administration office for the weekend. Today though, he was busy going through personnel lists and invoices for bulk supplies of meat and beer. The Commanding Officer had decided that the team’s morale needed boosting, and consequently there was going to be a ‘BATUK Barbecue’ tonight.

Not such a bad idea, thought Perry, as he finished checking off the papers in front of him and called out to Corporals Hodson and Riddell, Gents, is the music and food all sorted?

DJ confirmed, Perry, for 18:00, to set up for the 19:00 start, replied Hodson.

Guests will start arriving then, Perry, added Riddell, And that’s when we’ll serve the food. Cooked outside but served in the mess hall.

Gordon smiled at the informality, fully encouraged by him, as a pleasant antidote to the 24 years of ‘Army bullshit’ throughout his career. Thanks boys, are those times Kenyan or real?

Both Corporals chuckled and confirmed that they had impressed upon their suppliers that punctuality wasn’t an optional extra.

Can I ask you two, what do you think about tonight?

Honestly Perry? replied Hodson, The whole team needs a lift. Apart from those being reassigned, a lot of them will be on the dole, back in the UK by Christmas, and that’s a growing queue.

Riddell added, I remember back in 2017, Perry, when we finished the move into this new camp from the old Showground. Everyone was buzzing, we had nearly 300 in the unit and we couldn’t wait to get our first Battle Group here for training. It’s gone downhill ever since, we’re at half strength and just counting the days... A good piss-up, at Her Majesty’s expense, is just what the boys and girls need.

Thanks Gents, so our job is to help make tonight as positive as possible.

Will Babs be doing a speech? enquired Riddell.

Have you ever known our CO to miss such an opportunity?

Fair comment, Sergeant-Major.

Now, let’s get this lot finished asap, and we can be first in the bar...to check the quality of the supplies, you understand.

*

Garissa - Eastern Kenya

Retired Corporal, Raymond Wells raised his voice over the roaring of the diesel turbos in his Nissan Patrol as the engine went through the gears in response to his heavy right foot, Well Boys, that was Garissa, for what it’s worth.

His three colleagues in the big car grunted their assents and Wells looked in his rear-view mirror at the two in the back. A strong contrast met his eyes, one man very old, very slim, white but weather-beaten into a form of soft leather such as might be found on a much-loved tan coloured wallet. The other a young man of mixed race with soft caramel colouring and a smooth complexion, his features slightly pronounced but handsome. He spoke up in a cultured English voice with a trace of an African accent, Wasn’t that where Al Shabaab attacked the university and slaughtered nearly 200 students... Back in 2015 I think?

Shaky’s right, offered the chubby, white, middle-aged man in the front passenger seat, with a West Midlands accent, Those bastards just went through the campus, shooting indiscriminately, throwing grenades...unbelievable.

Do you remember it Tony? posed Wells to the other rear passenger.

I do Wellsy, but I’d long reached the age then, when nothing surprised me anymore. And, of course, at that time we were still getting over Carter’s death... Sorry Shaky, not that we ever did truly ‘get over’ the loss of your Dad. Don’t mind me, just the ramblings of an 83-year-old lunatic. Tony Chalk smiled at his neighbour, and patted him on his knee while changing the subject, Former Sergeant Reid, remind me of tonight’s plan please.

Sure, came the Birmingham voice again from Ray’s left, We’ve had a long drive today from Malindi, but another three hours north and we’ll be able to make camp on the Nanyuki road, around Mado Gashi, before it gets dark. We’ve got enough food and booze for one more night, then should get to Nanyuki in time for an early lunch, back at the Red Lion.

Sounds perfect, replied Chalk. Now if you don’t mind Boys, I think that a little nap is in order. Two minutes later the sound of gentle snoring was coming from Tony’s mouth as his head rested on a rolled-up safari jacket, against a side window. The conversation of his friends dropped in volume then died away as they watched the dry scrub of Eastern Kenya roll past the windows.

*

Near Nairobi - Kenya

Major Oliver looked in the mirror of the barracks bathroom and dabbed some blusher onto her cheeks. She was in dress uniform with red edges to her badges of rank, denoting the Royal Army Medical Corps. She liked the way they set off her ginger hair, that was tied in a top knot which fitted snugly under her cap. Not too many lines, she thought, as she finished smoothing the fine powder into her slightly freckled skin. Her reflection smiled back at her, as the thought of who she was seeing in a few hours caused a flurry of excitement to reach her full lips.

She walked into the small single bedroom and picked up her mobile phone. She typed a message into WhatsApp and read it back to herself, ‘Hi Mark, BA flight delayed but finally reached the transit barracks at Kahawa. Driving up to Nanyuki shortly, there’s a BBQ for all ranks. Serious trouble hasn’t hit this part of Kenya so far. I’ll keep you informed. Before you know it, I’ll be back in Bristol for Christmas! Lots of love, your Michelle X’. That would do the trick, she thought, pressing ‘Send’.

**

Chapter Two – 17:00

Nanyuki - Twiga Apartments

The smell of roast lamb permeated throughout the scruffy, three-bedroom apartment, just off Simba Street in the heart of the town. Nagan pushed her shawl away from her face for the umpteenth time, as she set plates and a salt pot on the bare table in the combined kitchen and dining room. She called out, Dinner’s ready, and was pleased that she’d anticipated the boys’ return. Ahmed and Daahir had been back for twenty minutes but she’d had the meat slowly roasting for three hours and knew they’d be hungry.

Daahir salaamed across the table to his sister and called out to Ahmed who was in the smallest bedroom, Come on brother, or I’ll eat your share. When he got no reply, he left the table and pushed his way into the room which seemed full of electronic equipment. He looked worried but then saw the broadening smile on Ahmed’s face. We’ve done it Daahir... I got the confirmation from Command a few minutes ago and sent the trigger message to all sites. Out of thirty-four, not a single undeliverable response...all the charges must have detonated. Try calling someone.

Who?

It doesn’t matter... Me for example.

Daahir reached into the pocket of his stolen Safaricom overalls and pulled out a mobile phone. He pressed his brother’s picture on the front screen and nothing happened. He looked at the settings, then smiled at Ahmed. Punching the air with one hand he whispered, No signal... Yes! Allah be praised.

Indeed brother. We’ve taken out all the main mobile masts and microwave relay stations between Nyeri to the southwest of us, right to the Eastern border. So, no effective telecoms in a wide corridor.

And the earliest they can get weekend repair crews into action might be tomorrow morning.

If they can contact them, Brother? They’ll probably have to send vans up from Nairobi, but the chaos will last the whole weekend and well into next week.

Ok Ahmed, once you’ve used the satellite phone to inform Command of our success, might I suggest sitting down to enjoy the lamb? We’ve certainly earned it.

Agreed Brother, and let’s keep Nagan in the dark, as best we can. Safer that way for all of us.

*

Lokichogio

Brigadier Mwangi hurled his mobile phone across his hotel room and it bounced off the cheap panelled door of a wardrobe, having taken a woodchip out of it. He had called the contact number of an unregistered phone, at the time specified (well, within half an hour anyway), and begun a conversation with the anonymous man to inform him that he’d carried out his part of the bargain. Having heard that his only daughter had been taken, was being held as ‘insurance’ and would not be released until next week, had shaken him. It was while he was trying to negotiate, that the call dropped, in mid-sentence. Now, he could get a signal, but the number he was trying kept failing to connect.

He tried to content himself by thinking of the 50 million Kenyan shillings recently deposited in his Mauritius bank account, but that innocent teenage face kept nudging her way into his mind. He’d already told his wife that he’d given Johari permission to join a school trip up Mount Kenya and would be out of contact for a few days, to avoid her getting the police involved.

He’d agreed to have dinner with his adjutant, plus battalion and company commanders. He had no optimism that this hotel could conjure up something decent to eat, but the alternative was to join the ‘Other Ranks’ who would all eat in the mess tents, put up in the makeshift camp on the edge of the town. Realising that he had no option but to see the whole sorry business through, he undressed for the shower and hoped it would work.

*

Mandera - Somalia/Kenya Border

As usual, it was a hot and dry afternoon at the border post and Captain Ishmael Joho of the Kenyan Border Guards was snoozing quite happily in an old reclining office chair, set just inside the shady balcony of a bungalow style building. He was in charge of a team of twelve officers that spent eight hours a day in three shifts of four, combining immigration, customs and police work in a border that could only rarely be described as busy. His four colleagues on the Friday afternoon shift (noon to 8pm) were quite capable of processing the trickle of people and vehicles, extorting money where possible, from the variety of small traders, long distance truckers, and locals who went past the metal-framed, steel mesh gate marking the border.

His peaceful slumber was disturbed by the only lady officer on the shift, who tugged urgently at his sleeve and he could hear, in a growing whisper, Sir, Captain Joho, sir... SIR.

He opened his eyes and looked into the sweating face of Officer Felima. What on earth is it? he grunted.

Looks like a big convoy, sir, on the Somalia road.

Late on a Friday afternoon? Did we have any notice?

Nothing in the book, sir.

Right, let’s see what this is all about... Help me up Felima. Joho extended a pudgy hand to his colleague who pulled hard to help him squeeze his obese body from the recliner which, through the inertia created, tried to follow him off the balcony.

The two officers strolled into the middle of the road and Joho followed Felima’s extended arm towards a distant cloud of dust to the east. Emerging from the billows, they could just make out the front of a white truck, getting quickly bigger. The noise was far louder than any one truck could generate and they waited to see the possible extent of their work that evening.

The two officers watched as the front truck gradually slowed on its approach to the roughcast concrete hut 100 metres away that formed the main office of the Somalia border authorities. It was quickly overtaken by a large white Hummer which took the lead and slowed to a crawl outside the hut. A brown arm in an unbuttoned khaki shirt sleeve, came out of the office window and, unmistakably to the watching Kenyans, waved through the Hummer and the trucks immediately following it.

They’re not even checking it, said Felima. That can’t be right, can it sir?

Let’s flag them down for a chat, said Joho, as he strode forward with one hand high in the air and the other in a slow, low-level waving motion. The Hummer continued on its way and the extent of the ever-lengthening queue of trucks behind it began to become clear to the border guards. The big car pulled to a stop right in front of Captain Joho, and the soft squeals of multiple air brakes were repeated in a long line behind it.

Joho walked to the driver’s door but the blacked-out window stayed shut. After a gentle knock on the glass by the Captain, the window behind the driver glided down and a thin, bearded, bronze face of a middle-aged man, topped by a bright blue beret, leaned forward slightly.

Good evening Captain, said the face in a cultured, slightly Arabian accent, Colonel Ali, United Nations task force.

Hello Colonel. I’m afraid we know nothing about you. Where are you going please and on whose authority?

Here are some documents from New York in Arabic and English, replied Ali handing over a large vellum envelope. "They explain our mission but, in a nutshell, we are going to the Dadaab refugee camps to