Contagion.

By Nicholas Gill

In a Madrassa in sub-Saharan Africa, a group of students is co-opted to work as nursing aides in an Ebola hospital. The intention is not for the benefit of the sick people; those involved have more sinister intent. Meanwhile, a wealthy crude oil trader’s daughters are abducted from their school in the Sahel region of Nigeria by a gang from “Boko Haram.” (“Education Forbidden.”) Their father, Moses Sousal, approaches Fine Line Solutions with a request to find them and get them released. Money is no object, so Jim, Willy, Digger, and co are sent by Andrew Cunningham, disguised as a water drilling operation (H2gO) and a team of operatives sets out to find the girls. The Boko Haram gang is traced, the gang is dealt with and the girls are released. But there are more than 200 girls rescued, so Mike Stone and Dunk McVitie become involved in the repatriation effort. During a violent sand storm, Jim’s truck gets separated from the convoy and breaks down, Whilst he tries to fix it he is attacked from behind by two Boko Haram long-term captive women who plan to sell the abducted girls for profit as sex slaves. After repatriating most of the girls, the FLS team sets out to find the abducted sisters who are being moved to a slave market on the southern edge of the Sahara. The two women captors try to bargain with people traffickers and are killed. The FLS team picks up the trail but the girls are now being moved further north; a Mr. Fixit tries to fly the girls to the north, but tries to make more profit by adding a dozen young men to the passenger manifest. These men are Ebola carriers being moved by Najib Shawa into Europe with the deliberate intent to target international airports serving the USA and Israel. The FLS team has uncovered a plot to spread an Ebola pandemic into Western nations. Can this plan be stopped? Can it be stopped in time? And how?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nicholas Gill
• Release date: Jan 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005922757

Nicholas Gill

Author Profile – Nicholas Gill.As a young man the author served in the Royal Marines Commandos seeing active service in Malaya, Borneo, Brunei, Sarawak and Aden. In between active service postings, specialist courses and training included arctic warfare training three hundred miles inside the Arctic Circle in northern Norway, and desert warfare exercises in Libya and Western Australia. On leaving the Royal Marines he went back to his roots in engineering and worked in the power industries on refinery and power station construction projects. This led to involvement in the onshore construction of jacket and modular units for the emerging North Sea oil industry. A natural follow on from this was to work offshore on the hook-up and commissioning of major production platform installations.Planning for retirement involved the purchase and renovation of a derelict farm in Wales and ultimately the purchase of twenty-seven thousand acres of the Black Mountain. This proved expensive and returning to the offshore oil industry the author spent a further twelve years on the development of a major North Sea Field for a large American Oil company.On the termination of his contract the author found that he had passed his sell by date and no one wanted or needed his years of experience. Having spent many years writing engineering procedures and specifications it occurred to him that he was perfectly suited to becoming a best selling author! "Retribution" is the first fruit of that idea, and is the first part of a planned trilogy; it is available FREE from Smashwords. The second part, "Sedition", is now published with Smashwords, and the third part, "Attrition", is complete and was published with Smashwords in the last quarter of 2013. Six more novels are planned in detail and will use many of the same characters in further adventures.Read and enjoy,Nicholas Gill.

Book preview

CONTAGION.

A novel by Nicholas Gill.

Copyright © 2019 by Nicholas John Vickers.

All rights reserved.

Smashwords edition January 2019.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Reproduction in any manner, except as authorized by the Copyright Act, is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Dedication.

I dedicate this book with grateful thanks to my dear friends Mike Korns and Gilda Cabral for their support and encouragement in promoting my manuscripts. Without their belief and encouragement this book would never have reached publication.

Nicholas Gill.

Table of Contents

PROLOGUE.

CHAPTER ONE.

CHAPTER TWO.

CHAPTER THREE.

CHAPTER FOUR.

CHAPTER FIVE.

CHAPTER SIX.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

CHAPTER NINE.

CHAPTER TEN.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

CHAPTER TWENTY.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

EPILOGUE.

The End

PROLOGUE.

Sokoto, Northern Nigeria.

The guard died in his sleep; not from natural causes but from a 7.62 Kalashnikov round fired at close range into the center of his chest. The report shattered the balmy African night; the muzzle flash melted the cheap nylon shirt welding it to the skin over the breastbone. He sat as before, slumped in a rickety chair, his chin on his chest.

Death by sleeping, his killer joked.

A grunt was all the response he got from his companion, who was busy with bolt cutters on the chain securing the gates. Then the order came from their leader, Flash the trucks, we need to round them up as quickly as we can.

Taking a flashlight, the guard’s killer moved to the center of the road and gave a pre-agreed signal - long-short-long-short-long - five flashes. Moments later a convoy of trucks with no lights showing arrived in a cloud of dust. The first three trucks were full of armed men. The remainder of the trucks were empty. The truck bodies were covered with steel supports, wood slats and canvas; they had been used for transporting livestock. This would also be their usage on this night, but the livestock would be very different.

*

Gabba Sousal woke at the sound of the shot; instinctively she reached out to touch her sister in the next bed. Packed closely together in the dormitory, as they were, there was only just enough room between the beds to allow access. She touched her sleeping sister’s shoulder. Unsure what it was that had woken her but reassured by her sister’s presence she relaxed and lay back listening. She heard the gates creak open on their hinges, then the sound of engines. She looked at the dial of her watch; it was difficult to make out the hands in the half-light, but she knew it must be the small hours of the morning. Supplies? New arrivals? At this hour? What’s happening? She wondered. She got out of bed and went to the window overlooking the courtyard of the school. She was just able to make out the silhouettes of armed men clambering from the rear of the lead truck. Icy fear caused her to gasp and clutch her stomach. She ran back to her bed space and shook her sister awake. Quickly, quickly, Issa, get up, get dressed, help me wake the others, we must hide.

*

Screams of fear from the startled girls produced angry shouts from the raiding men, and the combination of the two brought Sister Agnes running. She was the House Sister and responsible for two dormitories. Unused to proceeding at anything above a sedate pace, she was a little overweight and quite out of breath. Hastily pulling a loose black robe over her night attire she had managed to jam a head cloth over her short cropped hair. Clutching the wooden crucifix that never left her person she rounded the corner of the passage leading to the lower dorm and barged into a scene of absolute chaos. Crying, terrified girls were being brutally herded from the dorm at gunpoint. The older girls, shocked and fearful, were trying to calm and comfort the younger ones.

Stop! Stop this immediately, what d’you think you are… A burst of automatic fire cut short her protest and her life.

She was the first nun to die; seven others would go to God, trying to protect their charges.

*

Gabba Sousal held her hand over her sister Issa’s mouth trying to stifle her sobs. Crouched in the darkness of the broom closet, they had covered themselves with a bed coverlet, some dirty overalls and cleaning rags. Without warning the door was wrenched open. Light flooded in. Both sisters held their breath. Suddenly the muzzle of a Kalashnikov was jammed hard into the pile of rags. It hit Issa in her budding breast causing her to cry out with pain. The coverlet and concealing rags were pulled away exposing the two cowering sisters. Rough hands dragged them to their feet by their straightened hair, kicks and blows from rifle butts precluded further resistance, and the two young, terrified, sisters were herded onto the trucks with the rest of the girls. The tailgate was slammed into place and the canvas flap secured; the truck drove off in a convoy of other trucks filled with petrified young girls. A Russian six wheeled armored personnel carrier was leading the way, followed by a truckload of armed men. Two further truckloads of armed men and a second APC brought up the rear.

The school was left almost completely empty, its night watchman and eight of its staff of ten nuns lying dead; killed by men who actually believed they were doing the work of Allah.

CHAPTER ONE.

Fine Line Solutions, Knightsbridge, London.

West Africa, prosperous, was the immediate impression Andrew Cunningham registered as the prospective client was shown into his office. The man’s face was drawn, and very serious. His suit was of the finest Italian cloth, and beautifully cut, a product of the best Saville Row tailoring, the shirt handmade in Jermyn Street, the tie subdued, but silk. On the face the giveaway; small tribal scars.

‘Good morning, please, have a seat,’ Andrew gestured to a comfortable chair in front of, and to one side of, his desk. ‘How may I help you?’

‘My daughters are taken.’ The words came out flat and unemotional: the accent, English public school.

‘Go on.’

‘My second daughter,’ the man’s bottom lip began to quiver, he stopped, drew a deep breath and continued, ‘and my youngest daughter also. Stolen, captured by those who twist religion; taken by men with false beliefs, taken to an unknown fate.’

‘And you want them back,’ Andrew said quietly.

‘I do,’ the man paused, took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and quickly wiped his eyes. ‘And I have two more daughters; I don’t want them taken in the same way.’

‘In what way were they taken?’

‘Taken from their school at gunpoint, by Boko Haram; men persuaded by self-appointed, radical clerics, that education for girls is forbidden.’

‘Where did you get my name?’

‘I have friends in high places, one in particular is a member of parliament; he holds a cabinet position.’

‘I see, and what do you expect my firm to do?’

‘Find my daughters, I want them back where they belong. Locate these fanatics, these ignorant preachers, these peddlers of hate; get me information on them, I want them destroyed.’

‘Have you spoken with the police there?’

‘They will do nothing; they say no crime has been committed in their jurisdiction. No one saw anything, no witnesses.’

‘But still your daughters are gone.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m not sure we can…’

‘I can pay, if it is a matter of money… I am rich.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘It is not a question of money so much as practicality. I need to know much more about you, your requirements and the specifics on the ground before I can commit men and resources to such a venture.’

‘Very well; my name is Moses Sousal, my nationality Nigerian, my occupation, crude oil trader. I am very rich, so what else do you need to know?’

Andrew raised his eyebrows. Such an operation may cost more than you think.

Moses Sousal shook his head. Whatever it takes, he replied.

The Sahel, northern Nigeria.

After twenty-four hours crouched on the hard truck bed, to the captured girls, the journey seemed endless. No stops were made throughout the night or the next day. The raiders, wishing to outrun any pursuit, peed from their trucks on the move. For the girls this was more difficult and to add to their discomfort and chagrin they were forced to use a corner at the back of their trucks. In their truck, Gabba and Issa Sousal managed to huddle in a forward corner, away from the increasing smell and where there was more fresh air. Even with the wash of air from the truck’s forward movement, the heat under the canvas covering was stifling, and as the sun rose into the sky it got worse. The dried remains of animal waste didn’t help with the smell

Terrified and suffering extreme discomfort the two sisters clung to each other. Gabba, the elder by one year, tried to suppress her fear and comfort her younger sister, but at the tender age of fifteen, she too was badly frightened. Never-the-less she did her best, holding her young sister close and stroking her hair.

‘What is going to happen to us?’ Issa whispered between sobs.

‘Shush, it will be alright. Father will send men to get us back,’ Gabba said firmly; but she was far from convinced by her own statement. Her father was rich and influential, but the men who had taken them defied governments; they were a law unto themselves, and they were heavily armed.

‘What will they do to us?’ Issa asked shakily.

‘Nothing bad,’ Gabba said quickly, ‘they need us to cook and wash clothes.’

‘So we’ll be servants?’

‘Something like that,’ Gabba told her, and she stayed quiet for a while thinking. Both girls were thinking; neither was naïve, both of them in their heart of hearts knew what lay ahead; both were virgins, both had led sheltered lives, but instinctively, they knew.

Fine Line Solutions, Knightsbridge, London.

‘They are active across the Sahel, they do not recognize national boundaries; they are a law unto themselves,’ Moses Sousal stated flatly.

‘The Sahel, Sub-Saharan Africa, that’s an enormous area to search,’ Jim Savage said doubtfully, ‘you’ll have to be a lot more specific than that.’ Andrew had called in Jim, one of his most trusted operatives, to sit in on this subsequent meeting.

‘Oh, of course, I only mean to point out that these men operate virtually unhampered across a huge area.’

‘Where were your daughters abducted? That might be a good starting point,’ Andrew suggested.

‘From their school in Sokoto.’

‘Where exactly is that?’ Andrew asked. ‘You must understand that, as yet, our knowledge of the geography of Nigeria is limited.’

‘It’s in the north-west, near the border with Niger.’

‘Isn’t that to the west of their usual area of operation?’ Jim asked.

‘Yes, quite a way west of their normal territory.’

‘How so?’

‘Well, the efforts of the military are putting pressure on them in the east of the country. To the north is the Sahara, difficult territory even for them. To the south in the more populated regions of Nigeria there is a more concentrated military presence. So the line of least resistance is to the west, and in that direction there are several countries that have both a weak military and a strong Muslim majority.’

‘Does this Boko Haram group have support from the Muslim communities?’ Jim wanted to know.

‘Not amongst the general population - their ideas are too extreme - but amongst some Muslim extremists there are those who will give them support.’

‘So when were they taken,’ Jim asked.

‘On the 29th of April.’

‘Morning, afternoon, evening, night?’

‘At night, the school was raided during the hours of darkness.’

‘And it’s unlikely that they would have travelled south?’

‘Yes, much more likely that they went west, or north deeper into the Sahel; perhaps even into the desert itself.’

‘Going north they will have to give consideration to water,’ Jim observed.

‘Yes, of course, that will limit their options,’ Andrew’s client looked relieved, as if the problem was solved already.

‘Did they have trucks?’ Jim again, looking at the practicalities.

‘Ah, yes it is reported so.’

‘So that extends their range, increases the area to search.’

Moses Sousal’s face fell again. ‘Hmm, I suppose so.’

‘Okay,’ Andrew scribbled furiously on his scratch pad. ‘So they’ve been gone three days and three nights. Travelling by truck in that area they might make twenty to fifty miles per day, depending on the terrain. But they have to have access to water. How many girls were taken?’

‘Two hundred.’

‘Two hundred, Jesus! Then the water issue is crucial! How many were in the gang of abductors?’ Jim asked.

‘No one knows exactly. Estimates range from fifty to two hundred.’

‘Okay, say one hundred kidnappers; that totals at least three hundred, maybe more. Three hundred bodies will use up a hell of a lot of water each day. The access to water will be the critical factor in locating them.’

‘They have the habit of dodging over borders into the jurisdiction of other country's if they are pursued,’ Jim said slowly, ‘so we’re gonna be looking for a border area west or north of their abduction point, and with an ample water supply.’

Andrew looked at his client. ‘Any suggestions?’

‘The Niger river. It runs through both Nigeria and Niger,’ Mr. Sousal said slowly.

‘That’s the obvious area to start looking then.’

‘So how do you propose to get them back?’

‘That we have to work on; first let’s find them,’ Andrew said, then he had a thought. ‘What about the other girls abducted with your daughters? If we find them we can’t just leave them there.’

Moses Sousal thought for a moment. ‘I know some of the parents; they will be just as anxious, let me talk to them, see if they are willing to contribute.’

Andrew nodded. ‘Okay, you do that, and let me know if they’re interested.’

‘So you’ll accept the contract?’

Andrew grinned. ‘Sounds interesting,’ he said, ‘and I do have some experienced desert hands on the payroll.’

The Nigeria - Niger border.

The trucks drove continuously, rattling over dry terrain, across a landscape with no roads or even tracks. Without warning the angle of the wagon bed tilted forward and the truck braked, shunting the girls forward in a heap on top of one-another. The truck slowed and changed gears into low, four-wheel drive.

The truck lurched from side to side and water surged in through the sides and floor boards. The girls screamed, high pitched screams of terror, and began clawing at the slats and canvas imprisoning them. Gabba thought about jumping and making a run for safety. She got to her knees and peered through a rent in the canvas cover; she looked straight into the eyes of a huge crocodile; this was a ford on a game trail, it had a large population of ambush predators.

Then the wagon bed tilted the other way and the driver gunned the engine shunting the girls this time towards the rear. The water drained out the same way it had come in; they had forded a tributary of the Niger River.

After a while the trucks stopped; nothing seemed to be happening. Gabba twisted onto her knees and peered through a rent in the canvas. The vehicles had been laagered into a rough ellipse and armed men were deploying to form a perimeter. The tailgate was dropped suddenly, and harsh voices ordered the frightened girls out at gun point.

The sun beat down on them from a cloudless sky, but this dry heat was more tolerable than the stuffy, humid heat, inside under the canvas.

Set out in the sandy gravel were rows of jerry-cans. Water! For the parched girls, this was a blessing beyond price. Hot, and with a metallic taste, it never-the-less was heaven to their dry mouths and parched throats.

It was also the first move in forging their dependence on their captors.

FLS Offices, Knightsbridge.

‘We’re gonna need a cover story,’ Jim Savage remarked as Moses Sousal joined the next planning meeting.

‘Aye, or we’re gonna stick out like the old proverbial sore thumbs,’ Digger agreed.

‘So what would take a bunch of white guys to that part of the world,’ Andrew asked.

Willy looked at Digger. Archeologists, he blurted, ‘then Digger can live up to his name!’

‘Oh aye, an’ you’ll be Professor Andersen, sitting on yer arse watching me dig, I spose?’

‘Heh, heh, got it in one mate…’

‘There are no ancient ruins in that region,’ Moses Sousal said quietly.

Willy was not put off. ‘Well, paleo…pal…you know, dinosaur bone hunters, they make a few bob…’

‘Now, come on lads, sensible suggestions please,’ Andrew ordered.

‘We’d be sure to be looking for something,’ Jim said slowly, ‘what about oil? We could be doing seismic surveys.’

‘Nah, that would mean letting off explosives,’ Andrew said.

‘We know how to do that all right,’ Willy agreed.

‘Yeah but that’d bring the Boko Haram down on us like flies to shit,’ Digger commented.

‘What about drilling?’ Willy countered. Nigeria has plenty of oil don’t it?’

‘Not in the north,’ Moses Sousal informed him, ‘that area has had plenty of surveys done and there’s nothing there.’

‘Willy, you’ve got it! Not oil, water, all the villages in the whole region are short of water!’ Andrew was delighted. ‘Right Mr. Sousal? A team drilling for water could go anywhere in the region without raising suspicion, right?’

‘Yes, yes, and receive plenty of local support too.’

‘That’s it then, I’ll do some research, and some of the guys will have to go on a drill rig course.’

Moses Sousal nodded. "I have plenty of contacts in the region, some of them highly placed. I can do some introductions that will be of great assistance to you if you are to be working in that part of the country.

Andrew nodded. ‘Any help you can give us will be most welcome Mister Sousal, this is not going to be an easy operation.’

The Sahel, southern Niger.

Gabba had had the presence of mind to grab a bed coverlet from their hiding place in the panic of their abduction. This she now spread from the side of their truck to provide a small patch of shade, and, together with her young sister and several other girls from their dorm, she now huddled close under the truck’s side. They were not left in peace for long. The coverlet was ripped to one side and the girls were forced into a line. One of their abductors a young man, arrogant with his minor authority, walked along the line, scrutinizing faces making some kind of selection. Gabba, Issa and four of the younger girls were ordered back into the truck. Gabba had the presence of mind to grab her coverlet as she was herded back to the tailgate. As she climbed aboard she saw the girls left behind being dragged outside the vehicle perimeter. Then the screaming began. It increased to hysterical levels; then two shots rang out. The screams turned to sobbing and then moans of pain and disgust. Gabba was afraid to look, but she realized she had to know what was happening. She eased up onto her knees and peered through a rent in the canvas cover. She drew in a sharp breath and turned her face away.

‘What? What is it?’ Issa demanded.

Reluctantly Gabba pressed her eye to the rent again. A rough bench had been formed from jerry-cans and steel sand channels. The girls who had been kept back from the trucks were bent over this bench, their skirts were thrown over their heads, their under-garments ripped down exposing their naked rears. All were being gang raped; a queue of laughing Boko Haram gunmen, their erections in their hands were taking turns at raping each of the girls. All that is except for two. Their bodies lay in the sand; the sand was soaking up their rapidly drying blood.

‘What is it? What’s happening?’ Issa demanded, craning her neck to see for herself.

‘Nothing, you are not to look!’ Gabba’s first instinct was to protect her younger sister no matter what. But she realized that she couldn’t protect her from the ugliness of their situation indefinitely. Why had they been spared? That question was now uppermost in her mind; she was not naive and did not expect that they had any right to special treatment. Her sharp mind worked on the problem. Suddenly it came to her - all the girls that had been left in the trucks, including herself and her sister, were younger and generally considered more beautiful. Were they to be sold? Would they become slaves? Would they be forced into prostitution? She shuddered involuntarily. None of those options would happen if she could help it; she resolved to try to escape at the first opportunity. Better to be shot than to be shamed like that, she thought.

Sobbing girls began climbing back into the trucks. None spoke. Their eyes were wide in shock, their chests heaved, their clothes were torn and in disarray. They huddled into corners averting their eyes. Issa looked at them, then at her sister. Her sister knew Gabba realized, her young sister knew intuitively what had happened out there.

In spite of her own distress and anxiety, Issa made the effort to transcend her own fears; she tried to comfort the girl nearest to her. The girl shrugged her off; ‘Why me? Why not you? There's nothing special about you!’ Anger and resentment were in her eyes. The trucks started up and began to move; they were under way again, but where to? Gabba had heard about slave markets deep in the Sahel; lawless towns on the edge of the Sahara where such things still existed. Slave markets. Maybe that’s where they were going.

FLS office, Knightsbridge, London.

Andrew Cunningham swore quietly under his breath; he had not realized how difficult it would be to set up a company with charitable status. ‘All to do with tax,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Okay, plan B then,’ he said aloud, and began a search for an existing company drilling water wells in Africa. Predictably there were not many. The first ones he contacted were very keen to receive funding, but insisted that they would provide the equipment and personnel; not a good option for Andrew’s purposes. He had to think hard and come up with a story that would justify what he wanted to do. After some thought he came up with a story. Posing as a rich tourist he rang the next charity on his list and asked to speak to the director.

When the director eventually came on the line, Andrew introduced himself and explained that he had recently been travelling in Africa and had been appalled at the poverty and disease he had seen in the Sahel region.

John Cully, the director of the well drilling charity H2gO, had seen it himself and empathized. More could be done he said, but money for equipment and dedicated staff was short. This gave Andrew his opening. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘I may be able to help you there; are you free for lunch?’

‘Well, as it happens…’

‘Excellent, shall we say lunch at the R.A.C. Pall Mall at one?’

‘Er, yes, that would be splendid…’

‘Good, I'll book a table at the Great Gallery for one o'clock. Plan to arrive by Twelve and we can have a drink first. Tell the doorman you are my guest and ask directions for the smoking room.’

‘Oh, yes, and you understand jacket and tie are mandatory? Sorry about that, Club rules I'm afraid.’

Andrew rang off and the charity director sent his secretary out to buy him a tie.

Mali, a Moslem African nation.

A selection process was in progress. All the students from this Madrassa had been told that this was a great honor to be bestowed on their particular school. In consequence of this statement competition was fierce. Successful candidates were promised they would receive the highest honors that Islam could bestow. The heroism of the Nine Eleven martyrs was hinted at. Maybe they too would even be allowed to become Shahid, Martyrs to the cause of Islam, granted immediate entrance to Paradise, to sit beside Allah the all merciful, the all bountiful. Promised the attendance of seventy-two beautiful virgins who would pander to their every whim, their every desire, every sexual act their fevered adolescent minds could dream of…

To hormonal, inexperienced teenaged youths this was the ultimate in offers. In spite of, or maybe because of their previous religious isolation, they were more than ready to leave behind the daily study of the Holy Koran and drown themselves in unrestricted teen age lust. A Holy lust, a permitted lust, a lust without blame or limited by conscience, a lust that would leave no stain on their soul…Oh, they were ready to embrace paradise… The sooner the better.

CHAPTER TWO.

The Sahel, southern Niger.

For Gabba and Issa the journey seemed endless. They had no idea where they were, no idea where they were headed and only apprehension and fear as to what lay in store when they reached their destination. The minutes dragged into hours as the trucks bounced and jolted through the dry dusty landscape.

Finally, as darkness fell on the second day, the trucks ground to a halt in what appeared to be a substantial village. Closer examination revealed that it was in fact an abandoned village, now taken over by their captors and used as a military camp.

The canvas cover was flung back and the tailgate dropped. ‘Out! Out! Move! Move!’ The girls were all herded from the trucks into a long, low building. It had thick walls made of sunbaked mud bricks and a roof of thatch. Grass sleeping mats were rolled and stacked in piles against the walls. The girls began to unroll them and lie down but were immediately rousted up and a selection was made. This time Gabba and Issa were among those selected.

Fearing the worst the sisters clung together. They were forced into another building, this one with open sides and the thatched roof supported on posts. Shoved violently into a pile of yams, Gabba suddenly realized that this was a cookhouse. Their captors pointed at the yams, at baskets of millet, at bundles of firewood and at the cold fireplaces.

‘Light fires, cook! Move yourselves, cook, cook!’

With the treatment of the other girls during the journey preying on her mind, Gabba began to implement a plan. It might not save them, it might