Steve Braker

 African Slaver 

A William Brody Action Thriller

Foreword

All of the locations in this book exist. I went to great pains to ensure that all distances longitude and latitudes were also correct.

The islands, villages, and towns I describe are an actual description of the areas, and the people living in them.

The village is a real place; however, I did take some author’s license on the description.

The diving in Pemba is truly excellent. I would advise any of my readers that a trip to Pemba Channel offers a once-in-a-lifetime scuba diving experience. The dives are challenging: up to one hundred and twenty feet of crystal clear water, then you hit the drop off which just plunges into the darkness. I have visited many times; the current is strong sometimes, but all the dives are memorable. If you go to Pemba, make sure you follow all of the safety procedures for a dive.

Spearfishing is a great sport in East Africa and is totally legal in Tanzania. I always free-dive when I am spearfishing. I believe with scuba tanks the fish really does not stand a chance, so any sport is lost!

The three dhows in the story do not exist but are based on some of the dhows I have sailed and built over the last fifteen years. They are a fantastic way to get around the East African coast. The styles of the dhows do vary as you travel along the coastline, depending on the ocean around the area and the type of work.

The islands of Ziwayu actually do exist exactly where I say they are and how I describe them. There are a quirky group of fishermen who live on these tiny rocks. They dry shark meat as there is an abundance of different shark species just off the coast. It really does stink!

I would like to thank my wife Pauline for encouraging me to write this book. She says I have done the most dangerous things she has ever heard of. I am sure that is just a wife talking to her husband, but when I think back on my ocean adventures with the dhows, the speedboats, the fishing, and diving, all I can think is that I am a very lucky person to have survived the journey and to have lived it!

My second shipmate, Gumbao, was a real person. We sailed the coast from the Jewe islands in Tanzania to the tip of Kenya on the Somalian border for many years. He was a great guy; we had some good times together, but unfortunately, he died in 2015. I miss him badly when I am out on the ocean. The two of us could stay on a boat for days, not speaking one word, but always knowing what to do.

I hope you enjoy this novella.

Steve Braker

Chapter One

Sitting perfectly still, totally relaxed, suspended in space, Brody was 50 feet down, according to the depth gauge strapped to his arm, in crystal clear water, sitting motionless, and waiting. His Rolex Submariner was counting off the seconds; so far one hundred and twenty had slowly ticked past. Freediving is all about relaxing. You stop thinking, sitting in a trance like state, a Buddha hanging serenely in the ocean, holding a six-foot pole with a razor-sharp spear!

His lungs were relaxed and full. Life was all around him in the depths, constant movement and color from every direction. The current was very slightly pushing him to the northeast. His body felt warm even at this depth. He glanced up to monitor his position. Clearly visible above, the small wooden sailing craft was safely anchored to the reef. Earlier he had slipped off the boat, swimming until the bottom disappeared into nothingness. Then, after taking several deep breaths, he duck-dived, finning for a few strokes until the lead weights around his waist started slowly pulling him down.

Hassan was sat on the boat, fiddling with the engine nervously, tidying the ropes and sails, continuously glancing at the place where his new customer had just disappeared. The odd couple had met on the jetty a few days earlier. Hassan had spotted this new ‘Muzungu,’ a white guy, jumping off the weekly ferry. Hassan approached, with his best tourist grin plastered across his face, and offered to help the newcomer with the dive tanks and other equipment. As usual, this quickly flourished into finding accommodation, and a bite to eat. Hassan usually earned his daily cash catching fish, but Brody had come to dive. The two shook on an agreement. Brody would hire him, and his dhow with the small rusty outboard, on a daily basis until he left the island. This would also give Hassan a regular stable income for his mother, father, and sister, plus himself. The deal sat well with Hassan. It was guaranteed money, a rare thing on the island. He figured he could also do some fishing while his new customer was down below.

Brody’s watch was still ticking away the seconds. He had about a minute left. He loved it down here. So silent and peaceful, away from the dreams and memories he fought against daily. His lungs started to tighten. He looked up again to the bottom of the boat; it seemed to be getting further away with every second ticking by, but Brody always wanted to push that little bit more, always one more step. He held on, then took careful aim. The lovely coley coley was swimming in circles about twenty feet away from him, interested in this motionless creature just sitting, not swimming, not moving, not breathing. Brody aimed and fired. The bolt from the spear gun was dead on target, just behind the pectoral fin. It went straight through the fish’s heart. Brody’s practiced aim was proving to be unstoppable here. But the water was crystal clear, he could easily see the bottom another sixty feet below him.

The fish was about 12 pounds, a good size. There were a ton of them living off this reef; this one would not be noticed. Brody believed in freediving for fish as it seemed fairer than using his tanks. At least the fish had some advantages over him in this alien environment.

The coley coley struggled, then went limp. They were known for being the least energetic of the large eating reef fish in tropical oceans. Brody quickly dragged it in, then started for the dhow above.

When his head broke the surface, it was still only 07:00, but the temperature was already nearly 100 degrees. He felt the tropical sun burning his scalp immediately. Paddling to stay afloat, Brody threw the line to Hassan, who gratefully took it and started hauling in the dead fish before the sharks got a scent of it.

Hassan shouted, “Hey, Boss, that was long. I thought you had joined the fish and swam away!”

Hassan always hid his fear that his boss and paymaster would disappear over the side and never come back!

He was a Swahili, the coastal tribe of East Africa, born in the water. They were natural boatmen and could tell the weather, the wind, and the tides before they could walk. They knew the best reefs, fishing spots, mooring points, and the finest of what the tiny town had to offer, which wasn’t a great deal! 

During their initial meeting, Hassan had taken Brody to a lovely secluded house, or shack depending on the way you looked. It was on an isolated beach and very quiet, with just the wind in the palms, and the waves lapping on the pale white shore. There were no luxuries like electricity. The water came from a well, dug some eighty feet further up the beach, away from the high tide line. The fishing hut was suspended above the water on stilts. The one-room, plus cubicle shower out back, was constructed of cut lengths of bamboo, tied together using twine weaved from coconut leaves. Hung just outside the rickety front door was an ancient, smoke-stained hurricane lamp, and inside was a small cot with a mosquito net slung above. That was about it for amenities. Hassan was not sure if it was what his new customer would like, but he had taken it without a second glance.

Brody did four more dives for fish that morning. He had only wanted one but knew Hassan would be able to sell them in the market. His family would eat well tonight. Brody also knew the Swahilis were so generous he would get more food than he could eat, cooked by Hassan’s mother, so the sentiment was not entirely altruistic.

After the last dive, Hassan coaxed the outboard back into life, which took a while. Brody pulled the big stone anchor off the bottom, and they set off back across the lagoon.

Brody sat on the small wooden deck of the boat, gutting the fish as they slowly headed back towards the village and his new shack. The journey would take about an hour as the outboard had seen much better days, and Hassan was praying over it to last until they reached home. He had gutted so many fish it was second nature; his mind started to wander. He was so lucky to have found this place, a tranquil paradise in the middle of nowhere; he could live peacefully and forget the past he so wanted to lose.

William Brody was born in the UK, in North London on the estates near Wood Green. The place was good enough, an average inner-city suburb, with a large shopping centre or mall to hang out in, and a public school, doctor’s office and post office, all the usual stuff. His mother and father both wanted the best for him. His dad worked for the local council, and his mom in an insurance office on the high street. Life was all right, a bit mundane, but O.K. Brody enjoyed school, but he was not so good at the education part. Sports, especially swimming, was great, but sitting in the classroom was not so much fun. His reports always said that he could do better and must try harder. The inner cities didn’t have a lot to offer Brody. Inheriting his father’s wild Irish ways, he longed for the outdoors. When the school offered outdoor pursuits or camping, his name was at the top of the list. Every Friday, he would load his bike with camping gear and set off into the evening, not returning until late Sunday night.

Whenever school was too much, he would head down to Canary Wharf on the River Thames and watch the boats go by, smelling the tidal river as it raced in and out. His dream was to join the Merchant or the Royal Navy and sail the seas for the rest of his life; he could think of no better way to spend his days, afloat on the water he loved so much.

On his sixteenth birthday, he applied for the Merchant Navy, but he was turned down as his grades in school were frankly rubbish, plus the few scrapes with the law did not help. The next stop was the Royal Navy. The recruiting officer acted the same way.

The Sargent said, “Look, lad, you can go and do better at these exams and come back after a couple of years.”

Brody was not happy. He asked out of exasperation, “What else is there?” 

The recruiting Sargent looked him up and down, then said, “Well, lad, you look damn fit. What about the Royal Marines?”

He had not thought about them before. It would be at least near or on boats. One second later, the forms were signed, and his dad breathed a deep sigh of relief and handed the lad over to the Royal Marines.

With a jolt, Brody was back to the small fishing boat. All the fish had been gutted and were laying at his feet. The boat was only a few minutes from the small jetty. Hassan expertly maneuvered the dhow up against the wooden poles. They landed the five coley coley on the quay, and Hassan immediately found a basket made from coconut fronds. they seemed to use them for everything. He then raced off along the dusty track toward the small fish market. Brody knew Hassan would get a good price for the fresh fish because the local boats had not left before 04:00 this morning, and it was a good eight hours round trip.

Hassan met his sister along the track and gave one of the fish to take home to their mother for the feast tonight. Since Brody had landed on the island, the family’s fortunes had changed. They were starting to enjoy his company, and the rent from the little house on the beach also helped.

Brody collected his gear and headed off down the beach toward his pad. It would be noon soon. This place would touch 100 degrees Fahrenheit, combined with ninety-five percent humidity. No fans or air conditioning made the situation almost unbearable. His usual pastime during the baking afternoons was to find some shade and slump in a hammock or wander the beach looking for interesting shells. Often, he would meet some local fishermen, sitting on the beach mending nets. Chatting with them was enjoyable. The old men did not have a word of English nor him Swahili, but they were good-natured and happy to have someone with new stories to tell. In the way of travelers meeting for the first time, after a while, and using many hand signals and drawing pictures in the wet sand, everything became clear.

The Marines, then the Special Boat Service had instilled in him the importance of learning the language and culture. Mixing with the locals was second nature. Brody sat and patiently learned one word after the other. Earlier in the week the old men had taught him ‘Samaki,’ the Swahili word for fish. He was going to use his new word tonight at the meal.

Right now, all he wanted to do was head back to the little house and take a snooze. Freediving was always tiring. The dull ache inside his head was growing as he wandered back along the soft white sands of the beach to the shack.

Although this was a strictly Muslim island, the elders always managed to find a local drink called ‘Mnazi’ made from fermented coconut juice. When he got to the shack, two old men were sitting on the porch. They had gnarled fingers and hands like tree bark. Once they had been fishermen, but were too old for that hard life now. The two old men spent their days mending nets, sharpening hooks, and telling stories about when the fish were bigger and the ocean was more terrible. They also liked to sneak a drink. With three wives each and who knew how many children, who could blame them?  These old reprobates had snuck off and decided Brody’s house was a good idea. The plan was to blame the ‘Muzungu,’ white man, if they got caught.

The ‘Mnazi’ was sweet like treacle. The old men had three small wooden cups with short hollow sticks for straws poking out of the top. The bottom of the straw had old sailcloth wrapped around the base as a filter. ‘Mnazi’ came in ancient, battered gourds and was reverently poured equally into each cup. Pieces of coconut husk floated on top of the milky drink. It did not smell so good either, but it was potent. The trick was to hold your nose for the first couple of shots, then the smell seemed to disappear.

The fishermen had a good haul. Brody knew he would drink too much. The sweet, rough liquid was intoxicating. Brody had drunk his fair share of booze over the years. It had caused problems in the service on more than one occasion, but had all been covered up and glossed over as he was a good soldier. But that was then, and this was now. He was his own boss, no demands rules or regulations.

They enjoyed the drink; telling stories in English and Swahili. As the alcohol flowed, he understood the Swahili much better, and them English. After four hours, they were like old friends. All the gourds were scattered on the sand. The team were just formulating the best plan ever, to steal a boat and head for the mainland for more booze. Hassan came trotting down the path towards them. He was horrified that the old guys had made Brody drink, but they didn’t care and were falling asleep in the house.

Brody was drunk, slurring his words. Thinking he knew what he was saying, he was speaking to Hassan in Swahili which made no sense. Hassan left them to get his food. The plan had been to invite Brody for dinner with his parents, but as they were strictly Muslims, this would not be a good idea.

Chapter Two

Three Years Earlier

Kismayo Southern Somalia

The outboard had been shut down as soon as they heard the small surf on the offshore reef. The team of Special Boat Service operators paddled silently towards the coast, and into the shallow saltwater creek. They knew after four miles there would be a dense mangrove swamp on the southern side of the river. With the N.V.G.’s it was easy to see the gnarled roots tunneling deep into the soft mud around them. The trees were supported above the low tide level by these tangled root systems. The slick, slimy mud came up to their knees in some places. It was soft, sticky mud that sucked you into the ground; you could lose a boot easily in this mess if you did not break an ankle or leg trying to negotiate the roots. The small team found a narrow inlet into the mangroves. Using the N.V.G.’s they were able to navigate along the inlet until they found a secluded area to haul the Zodiac up and cover it with the net. Once the craft was camouflaged, it would be invisible to all, but a very keen eye. There had been satellite coverage of the whole area for the last six weeks. It seemed very few people, if any, passed this way. Brody sincerely hoped this was the case, as it was their only way out.

The team had landed 40 miles south of Kismayo three days earlier in the dead of night. This country was so barren it was tough to stay hidden; the ground was rock hard down here in the south, from years of relentless sun. There were no trees to be seen, just a hot and dusty desert. Moving around in the open during the day was dangerous. The horizon was eight miles away and could be sighted in all directions. The four-man team consisted of Captain Brody, Sargent Dave Gillis, and two operators. They had served together for the last nine years all over the world, from the sweat boxes of the jungles in Zaire to the days in Iraq dealing with the fiber optic cables. They were a close team, training, living, and working together. Mark Jones was a Welsh man, tough as they come. He was big for an operator at just short of 6ft, as strong as an ox but still able to blend into any environment, which was so important to the Special Boat Service (S.B.S.) operators. The S.B.S. didn’t go for huge guys full of muscles. They wanted to be able to slip into ports and harbors without anyone noticing. In Zaire, the team had lived in the jungles for eight long weeks. They had felt like Henry Stanley, trekking silently through the dense undergrowth day after day, following a gang of known drug smugglers. Finally, being able to corner them and finish the job.

Lastly was Andy, their demolitions man. Every SBS team had to have one. He had been instrumental in many stealth attacks in Kuwait after the invasion. The SBS teams had been sent along the coast to the harbors and inlets to mount small night raids on the supply ships. They had been so successful the Iraqis had reinforced the troops along the coast of Kuwait, taking many of their most valuable soldiers away from the front line.

The sweat was dripping off the ends of their noses. It was dark, and the N.V.G., (Night Vision Goggles) were showing faint signs of movement in the darkness. Brody shifted his legs slightly in the sand to get the blood flowing again.

The distant horizon to the east had a faint glow; he could hear the slow, even lap of the waves in the distance. Sound traveled in this flat, barren landscape; the cocks had started crowing. There were early morning movements in the village, the smell of fires being lit, tea being made, and goats being let out to find whatever grazing they could.

They all enjoyed each other’s company and carried on like English Marines when they could, all joking and horseplay. But Brody knew these men and trusted them with his life. He was aware they were fully committed to the team, that when the chips were down, he could count on them for his life, as he would gladly give his life for them.

The tight-knit team had marched the forty miles from the drop-off zone at night, using their N.V.G.s the whole way. It was not safe to move in the barren land during the day. You never knew who was watching. A British Special Boat Service patrol found on Somali soil would be given an automatic death sentence, every team member knew it.

The area of Somalia around the Kismayo old port was a stronghold for the Somali Patriotic Movement, the new terrorists of the current era. They had started as a loose bunch of radicals, privates from the local militia, gradually coalescing into a formal movement led by a madman calling himself Sheik Al- Dahabu, ‘the golden one’. As the civil war had worn on and the new group did not see the promises that the land would be free and Allah would rule, they had turned to kidnapping, piracy, and drug smuggling. Sheik Al- Dahabu had shown himself to be very adaptable. In his addled mind, a world ruled by Allah’s Sharia law was easily combined with murdering innocent sailors or addicting kids to heroin. As long as it was only infidels who suffered and died and, of course, he made a good profit.

It was now 1998. The Peacekeepers and the Americans had left three years ago. The place was a madhouse with militants driving around in Technicals with 30 caliber machine guns attached to the flatbed. They would shoot without hesitation. The Movement, as they were known, applied strict Sharia law: a woman could not be out alone, and all must attend the mosque five times a day to remain holy.

This place was dangerous; any mistake would be fatal. They had an extraction to do. If they could pull it off without too many contacts with the SPM, Somali Patriotic Movement, that would be just fine. They also had to plan for the forty-mile return trip which they knew would not be as quiet.

Brody motioned to Dave; he immediately picked the radio, telling command, “We’re in position and observing.”

The four-man specialist team were on the outskirts of Kismayo. Having arrived before dawn, they were now holed up, watching the bullet-ridden walls of the main street. There were craters all around the dirty hovels from mortar fire, and burnt-out vehicles sat forlornly, rusting on their rims. A general air of sadness and despair hung over the place like a heavy thundercloud.

This was Africa, always hurting, always suffering. It saddened Brody, he loved this continent, he had been all over it since he had joined the Marines as a 16-year-old. He was in love with the people, the smells, and the beautiful wildness of the place. He especially loved the east coast which is where he had spent his downtime from the service diving, sailing, and just enjoying the atmosphere.

But now was business; the team had an extraction to do, and it had to go smoothly and fast.

Their mission was to find Ismaad Ali Kartoum, a preacher in the local mosque. His lectures were all about the Italians stealing their country and corrupting it with western ways, then offering nothing in return. Ali Kartoum would drag up the past, preaching about the Ethiopian barbarian tribes’ invasion from the west at the speed of a Landrover. When the attacks had hit the capital Mogadishu, the rich and influential, who sat in the western style coffee shops surrounding the Al Aruba hotel, had fled as one. Within twenty-four hours, the streets were empty of all foreigners, leaving the Somalis to fend for themselves. The Italians had just taken the incredible bounty of Somalia, abandoning the people with nothing but a raging battleground that quickly turned into a civil war. This divided the country into three clan-controlled segments, constantly fighting among themselves. Ismaad Ali Kartoum blamed the western influences, then the sudden departure or all ex-patriots for the current problems his beloved country was facing.

The Muslim cleric was a dangerous man, a Jihadist wielding considerable power over a wide area with an uneducated population. He needed to be removed. If the western powers did not start to eliminate these people who were spreading hate, and used children as soldiers in a war that had ripped the country apart, it would only get worse; more radicals would appear, making the west a more dangerous place. Where terrorism would most definitely rise.

A tall Somali stooped to come out of one of the small huts. He was lean, well over six feet tall, and carried himself with authority. The man glanced at the goats on the dirt road, then kicked a scrawny chicken out of the way. At that moment, the mosque started singing to the world, “Allah Akbar! Allah Akbar!” This was the call to prayer. The tall, lean Somali seemed to look straight at where Brody and his men were hidden in the wadi on the outskirts of the town. He shrugged, then walked on towards the sound of the prayers; the day had begun.

The team had recognized Ali from the photos they carried. They carefully watched him and his militia all day, counting heads, counting weapons and equipment. All four members of the crack team were experienced in this type of work. Each man carefully assessed possible ingress and egress points, then rally points all around the perimeter. Their years of training took over. Each movement and thought came as second nature to them, total concentration on the job at hand. The operation was planned with meticulous precision. Each man had to know his exact role in the extraction.

At 16:00, when all were at prayer again, Brody decided to advance closer to the houses where they could start to get into position. The plan was to take the village by surprise, bundle up Ali, and get him back to the cruiser waiting for them over the horizon, some twenty-five miles offshore. This would be a silent takedown. Everything would be over before the village realized. Then they would head back to the ship, hand over Ali, and go back to base for some beers.

At 16:30, everything changed. A patrol of two Technicals came over the horizon from the north, trailing a huge plume of dust behind them. The trucks raced into the village, firing off a few rounds from AK 47s to announce their arrival. These Russian guns were the scourge of Africa. There must be millions of them all over the continent. You could buy them in the markets; some were twenty years old. The machine gun had been built as a utilitarian, multi-use assault weapon. It used 7.62 ammunition and could get through over 100 rounds per minute on fully automatic in the hands of a seasoned user. These were militia, poorly trained soldiers, so fully automatic was the name of the game.

The new arrivals caused a shift in Brody’s thinking. As the Technicals unloaded their human cargo, he noticed the soldiers were short and slim with T-shirts and scruffy shorts. Dave handed him the binos so he could zoom in on the vehicles. There were four short, skinny, malnourished soldiers standing at the front. Each held AKs across their chests, and all wore golden bandanas wrapped around their heads. This sign aligned them with Sheik Al-Dahab. The soldiers looked experienced, but they were still kids no older than 12 years. This meant trouble; child soldiers were very difficult to deal with, especially for a westerner. Trained soldiers had no weapons against women and children. Usually if confronted they would run away, but this group looked like battle-hardened veterans. He had not met a soldier that had an answer for this kind of situation. Your moral code would just not agree with shooting kids.

He decided they would wait until last prayer, then slowly infiltrate the village from the south and the northeast off the beach. The team would split into two groups. One would get to the hut and take Ali quietly. The second would disable two of the Technicals and use the third for a quick getaway. Once the team was back at the mangroves, they would dump it in the creek where it would sink into the deep mud and be lost.

Nightfall came quickly. On the equator, with strict twelve-hour days, one minute there was light, the next was almost pitch dark. Brody’s team used the shadows to maneuver into their positions around the village. He took Andy, and Dave circled the silent village with Mark; they had practiced this routine a hundred times during exercises, but nothing was like the real thing. Everyone’s heart was beating a little faster as the adrenaline started pumping into their veins.

The teams checked their weapons. Each man carried Sig Sauer P226s, the preferred sidearm for the SBS. It was a powerful handgun that used 9mm rounds. Slung across their shoulders were Heckler & Koch G3s. Brody preferred this versatile weapon with the fold-down stock for close-quarter or use in vehicles. It had settings for semi-automatic and fully automatic and was fed from a 20-round magazine. Using the three-shot burst setting, it was a lethal weapon in his experienced hands.

They entered the village at 02:00 hours as agreed. All was quiet. They had comms. Brody was the lead for his tactical team and Dave for the other. The two groups approached the village, moving in the shadows, keeping clear of the moonlit areas, and staying low. The ingress was peaceful as they had expected. No one was being torn from their bed yet.