Rotten Gods (30 page)

Marika stands, reversing her palms to slap dust from her buttocks. ‘Anyhow, this is all a little deep for this time of the morning. Especially when I've spent the whole night on a rattly old motorbike. Let's just say that I am not concerned with Dr Abukar's ideology — just his methods.'

‘Wait,' Madoowbe says. ‘You are an Australian. Let us compare Australia's history with that of Africa for a moment. Africa is, of course, much larger, and more densely populated, but there are similarities. Both are resource rich, and both were seen as unpopulated by sophisticated European nations.

‘Africa's downfall was its close proximity to the fast-developing West. The European colonialists wanted a piece of it, and the land grab proceeded. First Portugal, then Holland, the British, Belgians, Italians, French, and Germans. They all grabbed a slice of territory. They all exploited it. They removed generations of young people and shipped them overseas as slaves. Australia's
remoteness was its saviour, because it allowed for it to be settled by just one nation. That nation was able to eliminate the indigenous inhabitants as a political and military force, giving it a central and stable government. Now Australia seeks a voice on the world stage, yet will never be independent of the greater powers because it lies in a vulnerable, isolated position geographically. Look how close Japan came to making it the jewel in the Emperor's crown in World War Two.'

Marika starts to walk away, but Madoowbe has not finished, walking after her and taking her hand, turning her around.

‘Look at you,' he says. ‘You have never missed a meal in your life. You are beautiful and confident, almost arrogantly so. That comes from a lifetime of privilege.'

‘I wouldn't say that … and I am not arrogant.'

‘I do not mean to insult you, but that is how you seem to me.'

Marika screws up her eyes. ‘So. You have all the answers. Do you think an Islamic state is the best thing for Somalia?'

‘Not at all. I am no Muslim, Miss Hartmann. I was once, but now I am what you Westerners would call godless. I believe that we are dust. We belong to the earth and we will return to it. That is the only truth worth knowing.'

‘You don't believe in any god at all?'

‘Oh, I believe in them. I just think they are rotten. All of them and without exception. Gods pain me. I hate them. They enslave their followers and bring warfare and pain. The worst atrocities are committed with the name of some deity or another on the perpetrator's lips. Religion is the most dangerous concept of all, because it infuses people with self-belief far beyond what is warranted.'

‘I don't think you are right. Not in all cases. Think of Mother Teresa. Joan of Arc. Mary Mackillop.'

‘We were just talking about the Almohad a minute ago. They believe that God has authorised them to use evil to defeat His enemies. Would they be so violent and bloodthirsty without that belief?'

Marika crosses her arms. ‘OK, but religion has also brought out the best of human nature.'

‘I will take the middle ground without the peaks and valleys, thank you.' Now it is his turn to walk away.

Marika follows him towards the surface, not sure whether to feel insulted.
Arrogant? Perhaps we are all like that, only we don't know because no one has ever told us.

On the way to the bike, Madoowbe pauses at a bush and breaks off several twigs, passing one to her. She rolls the stick between thumb and forefinger.

‘What's this for?'

He grins. ‘This is mswaki, the toothbrush tree. Everyone in Somalia uses it.'

‘That's probably why everyone in Somalia has rotten teeth.'

‘Even so, it is better than nothing.'

Marika follows his lead, using the twig like a toothpick, finding that it has a subtle but pleasant taste. The process is fast and painless and she places a few more sticks in her top pocket for later use before following him back to the bike.

Madoowbe pours the last few litres from the petrol tin into the motorcycle's tank then ties it back onto the luggage rack. Straddling the machine, he strokes the starter with his right foot. The engine coughs in response, then dies.

‘Hell,' he curses, and tries again. No response. Ten, fifteen times he kicks the starter before the motor catches and settles into a steady rhythm. He grins back at her, sweat streaming down his face from the growing heat and exertion. ‘I have the knack. Climb on.'

 

Simon has only once before set foot on a warship, at the Maritime Museum across from the Isle of Dogs in Greenwich. They went one May Day holiday, before the crowds, with Hannah and Frances skipping ahead, peering into cramped cabins and cosy mess rooms, while the tour guide regurgitated tonnages, complements, names, and dates. This one, however, is a working ship, with cooking smells, diesel fumes and humming electronics.

Having spent his professional life aboard aircraft, Simon appreciates the thoughtful layout and efficiency. The personnel who move down iron corridors under bundled pipes and cables do so purposefully, each knowing their job, relying on their shipmates to do the same.

The captain, a man of around forty-five, is not what Simon might have expected, with dark, tightly curled hair, what people politely call a Roman nose and laughter lines around his lips. A couple of old tattoos show through the hair of his forearms. That he is good at his job, however, is not in doubt — that is obvious in the spotless efficiency of the ship. Everything from the shining signal lamps to the freshly painted bulkheads indicates a high degree of care.

‘Fantastic ship,' Simon points out. They are on the bridge, looking out through the downward-sloping toughened glass windows of the foredeck. The officer of the watch occupies a central chair, radar operators to either side. At the rear is a Perspex-covered navigation table and beside it the sonar sets. Forward and below are the Sea Dart missile launchers, beyond that the rounded gun turrets, the jackstaff, and the dark sea. Instruments glow eerily, illuminating the faces and arms of the men and women who man them. ‘Must be, what,' he muses,
picturing a rugby field in his head, ‘a hundred and fifty metres long?'

‘Close. One-forty-one to be exact. Type 42 destroyer, Manchester class, 5200 tonnes.'

Simon nods; he has heard of the Type 42 ships. And something about those Sea Dart missiles  — hadn't one done something newsworthy way back in the Second Gulf War? He tries to recall but it doesn't come. ‘These ships have been around for a while, haven't they?'

Marshall smiles. ‘Oh yes, she's an old girl. Upstaged some years ago by the Type 48 tubs. That's why we're poking around the Indian Ocean. Bloody navy's too embarrassed to put us where someone might see us. Oh well, at least we're in the right place at the right time. We picked up that rusty old tug — the
Sa-baah —
three hours ago. The crew gave us your bearing and told us what you did for them; thank you.'

‘It wasn't just me — the two brothers helped.' Deflecting praise was a habit with Simon, and besides, despite the problems with Ishmael, he and Lubayd
had
helped.

‘A pair of ratbags,' Marshall grunts.

Simon smiles back. The captain did not detain them, but insisted that they leave the area and return with their mother to the port of Aden immediately. He was pleased about that; neither of them meant any harm, and he wouldn't be here without them.

‘The question is,' Marshall rests one foot on a sill, and holds  his dimpled chin between thumb and forefinger, ‘what the hell do we do with you? I've had orders from the top to bring you in.'

‘I want to find my daughters. End of story.'

‘How old are they?'

‘Hannah is eleven; Frances, fourteen.' On impulse he takes out his wallet and passes across the photo. ‘Hannah's being a bit silly — always hamming it up. She's like that.'

Marshall studies the print before handing it back. ‘I started young. I've got three. One still in high school, the other two have careers of their own now. One in the navy.' He sniffs. ‘Expecting my first grandchild in December. Not bad going, eh?'

‘Then you know how I feel.'

‘Yes, but look, my orders are to keep you under lock and key, but that doesn't sit right with me — you're doing what any man would do for his children. Besides, it might be a few days before your SIS pals pick you up. If I let you remain at large, will you promise not to interfere?'

‘You have my word. If that changes, I'll tell you.'

‘OK.' Marshall clears his throat and reaches for a bottle of spring water, air escaping rhythmically as he drinks. Finished, he wipes his lips, and screws the plastic cap back on. ‘There's been satellite imagery of some suspicious activity around Khateer Island. Thirty nautical miles north of here. It's a long shot, but I've been ordered to do some discreet surveillance, so we're steaming that way. Now, how about a guided tour? Plenty of young lads laying around who need something to do.'

Simon suspects that this is a ploy to get him out of the captain's way for a while, but this, he decides, is understandable. ‘OK. I'd like that.'

Marshall runs his eyes over Simon's Middle Eastern garb. ‘Have a shower while you're at it, and I'll arrange some proper clothes. That is, unless you'd prefer to run around like that?'

Simon smiles. ‘No, some clothes would be great.'

Marshall touches his shoulder and leads the way out onto the signal deck. ‘We'll let these gentlemen do their jobs, shall we?'

Taking a last look through the glass screens, Simon decides that it is a fine feeling to be out on a warship, towering over the darkened sea, the breeze raising the hair on his forearms, knowing that there is nothing out there to fear. Not even the best armed Somali pirates would mess with a warship like this one.

A pair of ladders take them down to the side decks, the awning above stacked with white canisters labelled as twenty-man lifeboats. Midships, Marshall stops in front of a notice board, studying what appears to be a roster sheet. ‘I'll find someone to give you the grand tour.' After a moment's thought he picks up a handset and issues an order.

 

The guide is a radar operator called Matt Wyman, a twenty-something Leading Seaman with rosy red cheeks and a perpetual smile. Simon is delighted to discover that he hails from Guildford, the county town of Surrey, on the River Wey. The revelation is like a breath of fresh air.

‘Guildford, Jesus, we used to play cricket against you blokes. Before your time, of course. What school did you go to?'

‘St Peters.'

‘A Catholic, then. I won't hold it against you, of course.'

‘Thank Christ for that.' Matt rubs his hands together as if with controlled excitement. ‘Now, let's start right down the arse end, will we? Work our way along?'

‘Whatever you like.' Simon smiles to himself.
Guildford, eh? Small world.

Apart from a cramped quarterdeck, the flight deck is the most aft section of the ship. ‘Normally we've got a Lynx or a Sea King chopper there but they took it away after the last tour. We only get one now on a needs basis.'

‘Budget cutbacks?'

‘Something like that. That's what happens when you work for a government that's flat stony broke. I don't think the brass have too high an expectation of us doing anything too useful. Waiting to sell us off for scrap.'

They amble along the walkway for the length of the ship, while Matt points out the various turret guns, the quick-firing Oerlikons, up high on the B gun deck for the best field of fire.

‘I'd tread softly here if I were you,' Matt warns.

‘Why?'

‘Because the ammo room's down beneath us.'

Simon's face falls. ‘Could it actually —'

‘Nah, just messing with you.'

Simon struggles to remember the name and purpose of each radar array, antenna, and item of weaponry. Each has an official designation, and a nickname. ‘What's that one that looks like a screen?'

‘Oh, that's the Early Warning Navigation System, but we call it the flycatcher.'

‘Those spheres, what are they for?'

‘Radcoms,' Matt explains, ‘gunnery control. Look cool, don't they?'

The most intriguing are the rounded radomes over protruding gun barrels that resemble futuristic armed robots. ‘Yeah, we call that one R2D2,' Matt explains. ‘The Phalanx weapon system. You know those Gatling guns they have on choppers?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Well, same thing, but this one fires 20mm cannon rounds, radar guided. Spits out four and a half thousand rounds per minute.'

‘Hell.'

‘It'll destroy an incoming missile in midair, or take out a small boat in the blink of an eye.'

Once they have covered the exterior, Matt takes him inside, moving fore to aft this time. ‘You've already been on the bridge so we won't worry about that.' They climb down an iron companionway. ‘The captain's cabin is that way, but I won't take you there. Place is always a bloody mess anyway. These are the officers' quarters, along the corridor here.' He drops his voice. ‘If you listen closely you'll hear them wanking from here.'

Simon is still laughing to himself as they descend another level. The hum of the engines grows louder, vibrating through the wall. ‘How do people sleep with that going on?'

‘Oh, you get used to it. One of those things, you know.' Matt opens a door, showing a cabin with three bunks, one of which is occupied by a man, blanket pulled up and face jammed against the bulkhead. Matt makes no effort to moderate the volume of his voice. ‘This is my cabin. You're staying in here too. That bottom bunk is empty. It's yours while you're on board.'

There is a neat stack of long-sleeved workwear, along with a towel on the bed. His flight case sits on the deck.

‘There's your number eights,' Matt says. ‘You're to have a shower and change. The captain says that you're making everyone nervous getting around like Lawrence of Arabia.'