Hello, Nairalanders. I know it’s been a while I posted here. Sorry, I lost the account and had to do a lot of digging to get it back.
This is my new entry. I hope it does better than my previous ones. Please no ghosting, I want to know what you guys feel about it. Some locations here are fictional while others are real. But people and the storyline is all fiction. I’m sorry for not being able to tag some of those who followed The Torpedo. Enjoy the ride

Chapter One:
His phone pinged once. Andrew stirred but didn’t move to check the screen. He pushed himself off the bed, drenched in sweat. Stumbling through the plastic bottles of gin littered on the floor he marched to the bathroom of his flat on unsteady legs. On getting to the sink he bent forward and retched, emptying the contents of his stomach. It had been another week staked out by finding answers at the bottom of bottles; another week of hard partying; another week of sleeping difficulties. Like a galley lost at sea, his life had lost direction.
He turned the tap on the sink and washed his face, enjoying the cold water as it splashed on his face and naked chest. For months he had draped a cloth on the mirror to avoid seeing his appearance. Sometimes a madness overcame him, tempting him to take a glance at his face. But he knew a peek would destroy all those mental walls he had managed to build over the last couple of months. His phone pinged again from where he placed it on the bedside table. Messages had been flooding in for the last twenty four hours but he never felt inclined enough to check nor reply them. It was probably from one of those one night stands who thought there was something more to it than that, Andrew reasoned.
Leaving the flat the way it was, he wore a shirt picked randomly from his travel bag and stepped outside. He had never bothered to unload his bags since he got back. Since THEY got back —he along with the guilt and nightmares.
The hot rays of the sun that leaked into the first floor corridors told him it was just past noon. Nobody was outside by this time of day unless they needed to be. Not especially in a neighbourhood dodgy as this one. But it was only in those kinds of dodgy neighbourhoods that landlords were ready to take in people like him: people who cannot tell what job they were doing and got drunk 24 hours a day.
It was a Saturday. Another day to spend partying at the club, then coming back home drunk at midnight. He had been spending the money he had worked hard for, back in the days. Now all he thought about was the next bottle. He had tried doing the odd job here and there to help keep up with the spending spree but it didn’t hold for long. His social life was deemed too dangerous by his employers. Andrew thought he was too dangerous for his own self. Plan B was to start using the credit cards. Then when the limits are reached he’d just find his way some place where people of his expertise would be needed.
He locked his door, scanned the streets before taking the emergency exit to avoid as much contact with his neighbours as possible. They never knew what he did for a living but he had instinctively clocked all of them. A habit he had developed from his old life. He put on his shades and two minutes later he was just another pedestrian on the street.
*******
The bar was ironically named ‘Pleasure Zone’. But there was nothing pleasurable about it. The speakers had lost their boom, so the crude music on play sounded like a car crash. Andrew could see layers of dust settled on some of the rarely used furniture around the set up. The organic smell that permeated the air made him aware that the food on sale might have been days old.
But he wasn’t here for all of that, he told himself. Settling into one of the neater chairs in a corner, he checked out the few other customers who —like him— were drinking at this time of day. An old couple sat at the other side of the bar eating. A group of underage kids shared a bottle of stout among themselves. A bored looking waiter stood behind the bar, watching an African movie with the sound turned off. The guy scowled when Andrew called him over to take his order.
“What drinks do you have?” He asked the middle-aged waiter when he arrived. The man carried the smell of sweat with him.
“What do you want to drink?” The African accent was so thick Andrew almost didn’t catch what the man said.
“You have everything a man wants, then?”
The waiter smiled and wiped the sweat starting to form on his forehead. Andrew realised just how much hot air the fan was blowing. “That’s why we are the Pleasure Zone, sir. We have everything to please you.”
Andrew grimaced. It was the closest he had come to a smile since the days he shared dirty jokes with his mates around camp fires and in their bunks when they weren’t on missions. That seemed like a lifetime ago now. And the memory came with a dose of reality that he still hadn’t learned to swallow. He cleared his throat. “I’ll have a coke and Captain Jack.”
The waiter walked away.
“Oh! You are so boring,” a female voice said from behind him, exasperated.
Andrew looked over his shoulder. Gave her a cursory glance. Five and a half feet tall, 100 pounds or a little bit more, she wore jogging trousers soft enough to showcase her muscular legs and a jacket concealing her upper body. Light skin. Deep brown eyes. He couldn’t see her hair colour as they were hidden beneath a beanie hat.
The waiter chose that moment to show up with the order and the bill. Andrew gave him a sour look. “Whoever told you I’m not staying long here?”
“Sir, I don’t understand,” the man said. He looked genuinely confused.
The girl butted in. “Go get me the same thing he’s drinking.” The waiter hurried away, constantly looking over his shoulder at the table. She turned to Andrew. “Bill is on me.”
“I can pay for my own sh::t,” he replied, taking a gulp from the coke-alcohol mix and feeling the heat get to his belly. He was just aware of the girl taking her seat opposite him. He took another gulp.
“Of course you can,” she told him. Then almost like an afterthought, “you look like sh::t anyway.”
Andrew paused. He suddenly felt angry. “Look, whoever you think you are. I didn’t come here to have some jumped up posh girl tell me things she thinks she knows about me. That American accent pisses me off by the way.”
She stared at him with an unreadable expression. The waiter brought her drinks and placed an opener beside the bottles, along with the bill. She settled him then turned to Andrew once more. “And I didn’t sign up to follow a drunk big baby with an English accent for a week. Geez!” She opened the coke and took a sip calmly. “What the hell happened to you anyway?”
Andrew shook his head. “You have been following me?”
“For a week. You’re very rusty. And boring.”
“Who sent you?”
“I think the correct question is who am I.”
Andrew settled back in his chair and folded his arms. His mind was reeling, trying to replay the past week but his memory was filled with black holes. It was like trying to fit in events that never happened. Damn! He cursed himself for getting so sloppy.
“Take it easy on yourself,” she said nonchalantly. “Maybe it’s not about how bad you have become, maybe it’s about how good I am.”
He sighed then placed his elbows on the table. His voice was so low it could have fallen off a cliff. “Who are you?”
This time she rested her own back against her chair. “We can’t talk here. Mind coming over to my place?” There was an edge to her voice when she said the last sentence it almost took Andrew off guard. He composed himself.
“We can talk here.” He took a quick glance at his glass, which he had put aside. It was starting to go warm, he thought. She was watching him closely.
“Andrew ‘Andy’ Hussein,” her voice was serious now. It made her sound much older than she looked. “Born to a Muslim father and a Christian mother on 23rd of December, 1998. Boukerian by birth but mother was Nigerian. Joined the Boukerian Navy at age 17 then enrolled to the Boukerian Vanguard —otherwise known as the Boukerian Special Forces— two years later. Served tours in some of the toughest places in the world. At age 23 he was given a honorable discharge for disobeying orders which almost cost his team a mission. Turned to drinking afterwards to turn off the guilt. Tell me if I’ve missed something.”
Andrew didn’t say anything. He wasn’t surprised but wasn’t thrilled either. It’s one of those tricks pulled by the intelligence agencies to show you that they know everything about you.
But they didn’t, he had decided a long time ago. They didn’t know how it felt to have a team you can trust. They didn’t know what he felt when they ran into an ambush and his teammates were being cut down and he was ordered to leave them behind. No. They didn’t know anything about him.
“So I get that you work for the alphabet agencies,” he finally said after a while. “What do you want?”
She pursed her lips. Almost like thinking of what to say.
He waited for her to continue.
“Your team was assigned the mission of transporting a lethal substance which was initially intended for nuclear purposes. It was supposed to be a classified assignment but somehow it leaked and you were ambushed.”
“I don’t think you are here to get my part of the story. So...”
“It was later discovered that the substance could be used to much more devastating effects when put in the right —wrong— hands.”
“How bad?” He felt himself straightening up.
“Very bad,” she said gravely. “A few days ago a raid was carried out on a compound in Gareshk, that’s—“
“Yeah, Afghanistan.” He interrupted. “I still remember geography.”
She nodded. “The target blew himself up and in the process released a small amount of the substance in the atmosphere. The results were fatal within 100 meters radius. The whole SF team died in the hospital with an abnormal amount of radiation in their bodies. The corpses had to be burnt under tight supervision. The trail stopped there for us.
“That’s where we need you. During your last mission you came into direct contact with the suspects.”
He didn’t know if it was a question or a statement. “Everything happened so fast. They were waiting for us. All I can remember is a blur of events and the screams of my mates as they got killed. Super was shot with a .50. Half of his torso got blown up in dust.” He suddenly shook his head from the memory.
She sipped her drink again. Andrew noticed that she didn’t touch the alcohol. “They need you back on track so whoever stole those things can get caught. The more time is being wasted the more time they get to do whatever they want to do.”
Andrew looked at her. This was more of revenge to him. He didn’t care about the chemicals or the person who stole it. All he wanted was to do was get the people who killed his teammates. “I’ll do it,” he said with so much certainty in his voice she was taken aback.
“All right,” she said while standing up. “We’ll go to your place and grab whatever you need. Then we’re gonna talk about your employment situation on the way. I brought a car. ”
Without another word they both exited the bar and headed towards the parking lot where she led him to a blue Toyota Hilux. They exited the lot then thundered south towards his apartment.

Chapter Two:
Boukery was located in the northern plains of Africa, just touching Egypt at the tip. It was formed even before Andrew was born after a civil war in the north central countries. With a population of almost 10 million people it had the second best economy in the continent. It’s capital city, Willburg, was a business hub. Connecting the northern countries to other parts of Africa. The other 23 states were mainly into farming and petroleum exploration.
The Boukery Vanguard were the tier one special forces unit in the country, on par with some of the best and toughest soldiers in the world. The president had put millions into the security sector and the moral boost reflected in the economic stability of the state.
They got to the rough neighbourhood an hour later. Andrew went to his apartment and just picked his bag. He carried his phone and then pulled the sheets off the bed and bundled them under his other arm. He threw them in the bin on his way out then switched his phone off.
“Took you long enough,” the girl quipped as he folded himself back in the car. He had quickly learned to ignore her snide comments.
They had been driving for the past hour and twenty minutes without uttering a word to each other.
“So what did you say is your name again?” Andrew said in way of conversation.
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Who do you work for?”
“I do intelligence work for the military.”
“For the special forces,” he corrected her. “And you do more than that. The SF in Boukery doesn’t take women, but you work closely with them. You are from the Desert Division.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Good enough.”
He looked out of the window, eyes on the rear view mirror. “What are the terms of my employment?”
“Officially you are not working for the government. A task force is being arranged comprising of members from the different special forces in the country to hunt down the suspects responsible for the theft of those nuclear weapons. That’s about all I know of it.”
They stopped at a restaurant at the outskirts of town where they had an early dinner and emptied their bladders before continuing the journey in dead silence. She concentrated on her driving while Andrew’s mind drifted off to the events of the day. How the wheels of fortune are beginning to turn —hopefully— in his favour. He’d finally get the chance to get back in the game, doing what he did best.
After two more hours of hard driving they got to the 41st Air Force base. A high chain link fence surrounded the five square mile base with barbed wire for security. Two heavily armed soldiers stepped out of the security shed, one stood directly in the car’s path while the other approached the driver side and rapped his knuckle on it.
“Can I see some ID ma’am?” He said in a flat tone.
The lady was ready for that. She flashed her military ID and drivers license and seconds later they were barrelling down the tarmac towards the circular building located at the middle of the base. They then turned right and snaked around to a small car park. The car stopped in front of the double doors with the engine still running. Andrew stepped out without a word.
A young soldier sat at the reception desk. He looked unnerved at the sight of the new arrival at this time of day. Pointing down the corridor to the left, he said, “Last door on the right. He’s expecting you.”
Andrew marched down the hallways, past unmarked doors which he reckoned would be ops rooms and offices. When he got to the door he needed, he puffed out his chest and knocked three times. “Come in,” the voice behind the thick oak door boomed.
Andrew walked in.
Took in the blandly furnished office. If anything it wasn’t made for comfort. The man seated behind the desk also wasn’t a man who was used to making people comfortable. He was huge with piercing brown eyes hidden behind thick brows. His jaw was squared and his lips lips set in a thin line like nothing ever made him laugh.
Well nothing would make you laugh if you were Major Benjamin Hanson, Officer Commander of the Boukery Vanguard was well respected in the special forces world. He had survived some of the most brutal encounters and had lived to tell the tales. He was the one who passed Andrew back when he took the special forces course training.
“Have a seat soldier,” he said, waving a big hand at one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Andrew replied. He set his bag between his feet and rested his back on the chair. His back hurt from the long day and keeping his eyes open were proving to be a challenge

Military based story? You got me bro seat booked

bros I don seat already oya come.and continue please

Well nothing would make you laugh if you were Major Benjamin Hanson, Officer Commander of the Boukery Vanguard was well respected in the special forces world. He had survived some of the most brutal encounters and had lived to tell the tales. He was the one who passed Andrew back when he took the special forces course training.
“Have a seat soldier,” he said, waving a big hand at one of the two chairs in front of his desk. “Tea? Coffee?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Andrew replied. He set his bag between his feet and rested his back on the chair. His back hurt from the long day and keeping his eyes open were proving to be a challenge.
Pressing his fingertips together the Major gave Andrew a level stare which Andrew returned.
“We have a problem in our hands –big ones,” Major Hanson said.
“So I’ve heard.”
“You haven’t heard it all. We’ve arranged new identities for you and the others. You will find the new documents in your room. Get some shut eye, we brief you lot tomorrow morning.”
“Yes, sir,” Andrew replied. He unfolded himself from the chair and walked out, closing the door behind him.
Another young soldier in military fatigues was waiting for him outside. He signalled that Andrew followed him and they headed down the hallway in the opposite direction, their footsteps echoed softly on the carpeted floor. At the end of the hallway the soldier turned right and headed up a flight of stairs. He pointed in the general direction of the first floor, “room eight is all yours, sir.”
Andrew thanked him and walked down to room number eight. It was opened, so he pushed the door and dumped his bag on the bed. Another duffle bag with military pattern sat on the bed too. Andrew walked up to it and checked it’s contents: papers in a plastic bag. Five pairs of underwear and two pairs of starched and ironed military multicam. Placed near the bag was a pair of sturdy boots. He sat on the bed and pulled out the plastic bag. It contained a driving licence in the name of Andy Bell. Credit and debit cards were also included with the same name along with two international passports, well stamped. A brand new passport would have drawn some unwanted attention, he knew.
A cellphone was also included. Encrypted and with full internet faculties. He packed a few things from his old bag and placed them neatly in the new one then made a mental note to dispose of his old belongings as soon as he can.
It was 0200 hours already, so he stripped and had a cold shower before going to bed. He was asleep within seconds.
***
Andy opened his eyes at 0544 hours.
He jumped out of bed and pumped 500 push-ups. Feeling a boost of morale, he added 150 sit-ups in the mix and by 06:30 he was feeling buzzed. His muscles felt rigid and strong. He was happy to be back doing what he did best.
After a proper shower he pulled on a T-shirt and wore standard military camo trousers before walking out. He met a huge guy stepping out of one of the rooms. After a brief exchange –where the guy called himself Trevor– they headed down the stairs with Trevor in the lead. They snaked round the building to a small room where they had breakfast.
At exactly 0800 hours the two men entered the ops room. Three other men sat on the plastic chairs, dressed similarly to Andy. He recognised none of them. The oldest guy of the bunch seemed to be in his mid thirties. His hair had started growing white around the edges but his gaze was steely. Giving the two of them a brief nod, he turned back to his conversation with the others. Andy picked a chair at random and sat down.
Major Hanson walked in with a laptop under his right arm, dressed in full military uniform. “Gentlemen,” his voice boomed around the room and proceeded to connect his laptop to the ops room projector. It didn’t skip Andy’s mind that this section of the base was isolated from the main buildings, thereby keeping the hubbub of a military base away from their ears.
The lights dimmed and then the white screen in front of the team lit up. “Alright, listen up,” the Major began. “I’m sure you’ve seen the new face among us. This is Andy Bell, ex-special forces.”

The lights dimmed and then the white screen in front of the team lit up. “Alright, listen up,” the Major began. “I’m sure you’ve seen the new face among us. This is Andy Bell, ex-special forces.”
They all gave him a curt nod.
Hanson continued, “He will be working with the team on ground to track down the targets...” three pictures showed up on the projector screen, all bearded. The first from the right was a passport photo of a Middle Eastern man; late thirties, round face. Maybe some two hundred pounds of fat. The one in the middle was also Arab but slender and a bit older. Probably mid forties, Andy surmised. The last picture was taken from a distance. A man stepping out of what looked like an embassy building, wearing a suit and holding a suit case. Tall, slender, but white skinned. Definitely not American but maybe East European. He was looking directly at the camera.
The first picture magnified. “Bashir Al-Herdawi. Syrian. Thirty-nine years of age, married with three children. Last year he was arrested trying to smuggle heroin into Egypt. Got arrested but was released on the basis of insufficient evidence provided to court. It was a suspicious case and intelligence suggests that he has the backing of an oil magnate...“ the last picture replaced the first one on the screen “...Dahoud Chezikov. Forty-six and divorced with no children. The Albanian moved to the Middle East fifteen years ago with his parents and took advantage of the oil in the land by bribing the Syrian government. He has a clean record, so far so good but word has it that he has a vendetta against the West and is a terrorist sympathiser.” Hanson brought up the last picture. “This is Paliv Dadarkani. Fifty-one years old. Former FSB agent and Dahoud’s representative to the Russian government. They allow Mr. Chezikov to do business in Syria while he helps them smuggle weapons in-country. Our man on ground was able to uncover evidence of a sophisticated operation in Gareshk where Paliv was believed to be killed by a suicide bomb. More on that later.”
“So where does that leave us?” Andy asked. It had hit him that this briefing was probably arranged to get him up to speed on the matter.
“You’re going to Nigeria to break this man out of police custody.” The picture of a young man popped up. “Twenty-seven year old Jonas Greenbull. British SBS soldier, arrested last week with a fake passport in Madagascar and in possession of fake currency. He was transferred to the Nigerian city of Lagos and would be transferred again to Egypt in twenty-four hours. Your best shot will be to insert here...” a map of Africa dominated the screen and zoomed in on the Boukery-Egypt border “...at the border twenty klicks from Egypt.”
Andy studied the man on the screen, just beside the map. He had prominent cheekbones, deep steely eyes, tanned skin. Short-crop hair. A cocky man from the looks of it.
“Why do we need him?”
“We are doing the British a favour, in exchange they let us have their soldier. You can call it mutual backscratching,” Trevor quipped. It was the first time any of the others had spoken since the briefing started.
“I’ll update the MoD,” the white-haired man said, exiting the room with a phone pressed to his ear.
“Any other questions?” Hanson said. There was none, so the class was dismissed and Andy met his new team. He discovered that the three of them were operating deep behind enemy lines in Chechnya, tracking and taking out high-value targets. They had tracked a target to a compound in Gareshk where he detonated his suicide bomb. A member of the team was killed. Including many other innocent people and SF soldiers.
Trevor did the introductions afterwards. A twenty-five year old guy called Matt, built like a tank. Twenty-six year old Hamza, average build with a deep African accent.
Trevor led Andy to the armoury were he selected his weapon, a suppressed Diemaco C8 assault rifle and then a Glock-17 pistol. He carried a box of 9mm’s for the pistol and a 5.56mm 30-round magazine for the rifle. The guns were painted in desert colours.
Then they proceeded to the range. Andy was drenched in sweat the moment he stepped into the heat of the sun. Trevor made his excuses and left, but not before reminding Andy of a final briefing taking place at 18:00 hours.
He walked down the range and clipped a paper target to the stand. He walked down a hundred metres, loaded the rifle up, set it to semi-auto and took aim. Fired three rounds. Went over and checked. Three inches off centre to the left. He adjusted the rifle scope and tried again. He could tell he was on target. Taking a knee, he released six more shots. Nine more in the prone position. Then, approaching the target, gave a three-round headshot and switched to full auto. He emptied the whole mag on the target. Everything was sweet. Then at 50 metres he pulled out the handgun. Emptied the 17-round clip. He was confident his weapons were properly zeroed.
At 13:00 hours Andy was back in his room, having lunch. After that he packed the things he will need for the mission into the backpack provided to him. Batteries for the torches, first-aid kit, plasticuffs. Water. Loaded his ops vest with clips and then turned to his personal weapons. He double-checked them until he was satisfied that there weren’t any hitches.
Then he had a cold water shower and slept.
****
The cells opened up and a police man in all black stood in the doorway. “Get out,” he said to the lone prisoner in the cell. The man rose from the straw mat he had been sitting and sleeping on. His bare feet shuffled on the cold cemented floor. When he reached the cell door the police said, “turn around. Slowly.”
The prisoner did as he was told and his hands were cuffed behind him. He was led down the silent corridors of the police station to the noisy reception desk where a woman sat taking notes.
She had a distinct tone of voice. “Mr. Greenbull. How did you find our hospitality?”
Greenbull’s lips thinned. “You have all been kind.” He could barely stream a line of ten words without feeling like his jaw was about to fall off. The police were gave him a beating over the past couple of days he’d been in their custody. But it was nothing he couldn’t take. Forms were processed and he was out in the late evening sun a few minutes later, which stung his eyes as he had been incarcerated in the dark cell for far too long. He was given a change of clothes but the handcuffs stayed. Bundled in an unmarked car he was on his way to the airport.
Algeria first, then Egypt.
****
Andy was in the ops room for the second time that day. This time around they were looking at a military map and different photos of the border crossings between Algeria, Boukery and Egypt.
“The target is on the move,” Major Hanson was saying. “They’re handing him over to Interpol at the Algerian airport before he’ll be transported to Egypt. They’ll make a stop in the village here...” he pointed at a spot just on the Algerian border “...then it’s rough driving all the way to Egypt.”
“Why don’t they just lift him by air?” Hamza asked. His accent pronounced the why as ‘wey’.
It was the white-haired man who replied: “Due to the security protocols in place at Egypt, it’s much safer to travel by road. And also to stay under the radar.” Andy had learnt that this man was the unit’s liaison with the CIA. Something about misplaced nuclear weapons had clearly caught the attention of the world powers. They’re pooling their resources together now.
“You should make pull off the assault within twenty or thirty k’s from the Egyptian border,” Hanson continued. “Makes it less obvious as to who pulled the hit. You insert by vehicle then TAB the rest of the way. It’s of upmost importance that there are no witnesses. You travel off the road right from start. You can make your border crossing from this point to avoid any checkpoints.”
There was a sharpness among the unit members as they studied the mappings.
“What do we know about the terrain?” Andy said.
“Naturally, it’s bumpy for the first fifty klicks from Boukery. Then it gets smoother as you reach the area of operation.”
“Extraction?” Trevor didn’t look up from the maps.
“A chopper will be waiting for you ten kilometres west from the insertion point.”
They spent the rest of the time making minimal adjustments and also giving their weapons the once over. The unit call sign was given as Bravo Five-Niner.
*****

Nice story @zhayyd039. It seems you're doing an update a week.

bigbauer:
Nice story @zhayyd039. It seems you're doing an update a week.

Thank you, sir. Yes it’s kind of a weekly thing but I’m hoping to improve so I’ll be done before next month. If all goes well, that is.

Weldon op....

*****
Time check: 19:00 hours.
Bravo Five-Niner was ready. Dressed fully in their battle gear, they were a formidable sight. Kevlar helmets fitted with NV googles, ops coat and bags fully prepared. Andy donned a pair of tactical gloves knowing from the MET reports that temperature at the border could reach 10 degrees at night.
Hanson barged into the ops room. He looked a little harassed. “Change of plans,” he said. “The Nigerians got lucky and were able to get an Egyptian chopper to lift the prisoner from an airstrip down the Algerian border.”
The room went silent for a moment.
“Orders?” Said Trevor.
Major Hanson quickly unfolded a military map. A small area of Algeria to the northeast had been circled using a red marker. His finger tapped the spot. “There is an abandoned airstrip here, three klicks away from the nearest town: Samin.” Then he pulled out another piece of paper. A satellite imagery of the town. “You will be dropped five klicks from the border, an abandoned patch of land south of the town of Samin. You should lift the target before the Egyptians arrive. To avoid a diplomatic incident.”
Andy took in the layout in front of him. The town was just a small settlement, about three square kilometres. Box houses, with a supply route running north-east across the middle of town. The surrounding areas were just deserted, with no obvious sign of plantation or water.
“Any security problems we should be worried about?” He asked.
“None,” replied Hanson. “It’s a relatively quiet settlement.”
“When will the Nigerians get to the airfield?” Hamza asked.
“At twenty-one hundred, more or less.”
“What about the Egyptians?”
“In two hours. Twenty-three hundred hours.”
“Extraction plan?”
“The chopper that brought you in will refuel at an airbase in Morocco and would pick you up. This should be an in and out job.”
Trevor glanced at his own watch. “Let’s move out.”
The heli that was going to ferry the team to target was a Black Hawk. It stood in the middle of the tarmac, rotors spinning.
The three soldiers ran up to the chopper, shoulders hunched and gripping their weapons in both hands. The doors slid open as they approached, a loadmaster with big cans over his ears and aviation shades popped at the doorway, ushering them into the chopper. “Move! Move it!” He shouted over the noise of the aircraft engine.
Moments later the Black Hawk was gliding cross country. The land receding quickly behind the team.
Andy looked around at his teammates. Their grim faces showing no sign of emotion. Preparing themselves mentally for the job at hand.
****
Sand replaced land slowly at first, as they headed into the northern regions of Africa. Then it stretched across the land as far as the eye could see. The air was also cooler, a stark contrast from the torturous heat during daytime.
And as Andy looked out of the window he saw the desert, flowing elegantly in its own way. Like an ocean of soft sand, making large ripples as the gentle wind blew across it. He had flown across the Sahara countless times on ops and training. Even did a few jobs in the brutal desert a few times. But the beauty of the land was never lost to him.
There was a tap on his shoulder. The loadmaster flashed 5 fingers at him. Andy nodded and gave the loadmaster a thumbs up, then looked over to his left and tapped Hamza. Flashed 5 fingers at his face.
Five minutes to touchdown.
Instinctively they all sat bolt straight, made final checks to their weapons and gave each other the thumbs up. Andy ensured that his gear was intact and nothing was loose, as once the chopper landed they were going to hit the ground running.
Three fingers. Three minutes to target.
From his side of the view Andy saw a small patch of hard land, like 500 metres by 300. They were approaching it fast.
Sixty seconds. The chopper banked to the right sharply then steadied itself as the pilots aligned it with the landing zone. The loadmaster grabbed the door knob expectantly.
The pitch of the engines changed as the Black Hawk started to descend. The sudden change in altitude gave Andy a funny feeling in his stomach, reminiscent to standing in a falling elevator.
As soon as the landing gear touched ground the door slid open and Andy was the first to hit the ground. He moved straight ahead, his eyes slits as hails of sand rose from the surrounding area, clinging to the blades of the chopper.
That was the most delicate part of desert insertion by air, Andy knew. The hail created by the blades could be visible for miles across the land.
When he was ten metres out, Andy went prone in the firing position, the warm sand slithering through the folds of his clothing like a live snake. From the corner of his eye he saw his teammates to his left and right, five metres away, doing the same thing.
The engine noise changed again as soon as the last man was out. The chopper started to gain height even before the doors slid shut. Its noise started to fade away into the skies.
Two minutes went by. The Black Hawk noise had faded away now. Everywhere was silent.
It was a full moon. The pale landscape stretched for miles as Andy peered through the sights of his weapon. A brief glance at the stars told him that they he were facing southwest. They’ll have to make a 180 then head north for two klicks. After that they’ll hit a gully that went east for 1,500 metres. They should have eyes on the airfield by the time they got to the end of the gully.
Right on cue, Trevor –on Andy’s left shoulder– realigned himself so he was facing north, covering his mates while they also oriented themselves.
Trevor’s voice came over the unit’s comms: “Order of march. Hamza, me. Andy, you are Tail-end Charlie.”
They rose to their feet and started walking single file ten metres apart; not too far to lose sight of each other but not too close to be a bunched up group. Andy’s boots sank a few inches into the ground with each step he took. But he knew they moved seamlessly across the sandy terrain with minimal noise.
Forty minutes later they hit the gully. It was two metres deep and about a metre wide.
At Hamza’s signal they took a knee a couple metres away from the gully, weapons raised and searching for threats. On ops you can never know what awaits you. Might be that someone had seen the team’s insertion and decided to take a pop at them. It could be bad intel and the team will find themselves walking straight into an enemy stronghold. Or some innocent civilian gets lucky and spots them. Whatever the scenario, no SF soldier wants to leave signs –or witnesses– behind to show that he was ever around.
Hamza was first to drop into the gully with a low thud. Took a few steps deeper, eyes pinned to his weapon sights. The ambient light of the moon seeped into the gully, forming shadows on the rough surfaces of the walls and the uneven ground. It felt good to finally get out of sight of the flat terrain where they felt exposed and into the relative safety of the gully.
There were two buttons on the unit’s comms device: one to open the channel to enable them to talk to each other, and the other to give a signal. He depressed the signal button to indicate that all clear. Two separate thuds later, both of his unit mates were in. He knew that as he covered the front, Andy would have his rifle raised and covering the top rear end and Trevor would be covering the flanks. It doesn’t matter how many you are in a team but what matters is that you operate as a single being. Covering each other’s blindsides.
With the thrust of a hand from Hamza, they advanced. Their boots made almost no sounds at all as they stepped over very fine sand. Hamza still had to watch his step not only to look out for natural hazards but also booby traps. He wouldn’t put it past a hunter setting animal traps inside the gully.
Andy checked his low power watch: 20:34.
Twenty six minutes until the targets came into play.
The team was 300 metres out from the end of the gully. Intel said that they were going to be four policemen in each of the three cars transporting the prisoner: two Hilux vehicles and one Land Rover, where the package is expected to be.
It was going to be a brutal affair, Andy thought. Killing law enforcement officials wasn’t something he really wanted to do but it came with the type of job he did. Black ops were never supposed to be fun jobs; they were the sort of ops you carried with you till death. Never uttering a word to the public about it. Plus if this was what he had to do to avenge the death of his teammates he’d do it ten times over.
F::ck what the world thinks.
When people talk about airfields, they usually thought of the fancy runways they saw on TV or in airports. With exotic buildings and control towers.
This one was anything but.
It was just a piece of land with two kilometres of tarmac prickled with portholes. At the far eastern edge of it were small buildings for the refuelling vehicles and maintenance staff. Andy doubted if there’ll be any personnel present. There wouldn’t be any need for them to witness the transportation of a prisoner.

It was just a piece of land with two kilometres of tarmac prickled with portholes. At the far eastern edge of it were small buildings for the refuelling vehicles and maintenance staff. Andy doubted if there’ll be any personnel present. There wouldn’t be any need for them to witness the transportation of a prisoner.
Hamza was the first to reach the end of the ditch. He let his weapon hang on its lanyard and then felt for sturdy wedges above with both hands then placed his boot on the rough walls. He pulled himself up and in three seconds he was out. Walked a few paces away from the ditch and knelt in the firing position, covering the rest of the team.
Andy soon joined him, he too going into the firing position a couple metres to Hamza’s left. A moment after that Trevor was also out but he kept back from the other two, providing rear cover.
They took a minute to drink in their surroundings.
The runway itself ran parallel to the unit’s position a hundred metres away. A wire tapped electricity from the utility buildings 500 metres east and supplied the runway with illumination. Save from the light of the moon, however, everything was dark at that moment. The airfield apparently ran on generator and was only used when necessary. A road snaked between the buildings and connected to the eastern base of the runway. That’s where the convoy was expected to come in from.
“Let’s get those distraction charges in place,” Trevor said.
“Roger that,” Andy said. “Moving left.”
Andy got up, turned left, and started jogging towards a sand dune sitting just at the west end of the runway. Distance to the dune: 150 metres.
He covered the first 100 metres in ten seconds then went prone and started crawling the rest of the 50 metres. Hamza had to flip on his night vision sights to keep track of Andy’s movement.
Andy disappeared behind the sand dune and little clattering sounds could be heard over the comms along with his heavy breathing.
Fifteen seconds passed.
Hamza could feel sweat crawling from inside his helmet down his neck. It made the cool night air feel even cooler. He checked the time. 20.45 hours.
15 minutes left.
“Done,” Andy’s voice crackled over the comms.
Trevor acknowledged him and told him to get into position —50 metres to the north of the runway— as they had planned back at briefing. As a cue, Hamza also stood up and ran a further 50 metres northeast, finding cover behind a small indentation in the terrain a few inches deep. He knew Trevor would head up in the opposite direction.
If you can’t win the fight by superior numbers you make damn well sure you win by superior tactics.
When everyone had settled in, Trevor gave the radio silence order.
20.50 hours.
Sixteen minutes since the team had been in situ, ten minutes till the targets show up.
Andy lay stock still on the hard, uneven ground. Keeping a mark-one eyeball on the eastern section of the airfield through his rifle scope. His breathing was steady but his heart was beating twice as fast. The adrenaline rush almost overwhelming. He had to resist the urge of shaking his leg in anxiety.
To keep his mind on the job, he went over the plan again in his head: go in hard, grab the target, make for the ditch, make for the extraction point ten klicks south of here and call it in.
21.05 hours.
No sign of the convoy. Traffic? Unlikely at this time of the day. Maybe they got held up by border control, Andy reasoned. He could almost hear the frustrated sigh coming from Trevor.
Any minute now they could show up and things would go loud.
“Come on,” Andy muttered under his breath.
21.30 hours.
Thirty minutes gone. Still no sign of any vehicle or convoy approaching.
The unit radio burst to life. It was Trevor, and he sounded tense. <<Where the hell are they?>>
Andy replied, “Do you think we should call it off?”
<<No, they’ll show up>> Hamza interjected.
“What makes you so sure?”
<<Just a hunch>>
“It better be bloody good.”
<<Over and out>>
More silence. More time wasted.
21.45 hours.
Andy would have missed it if he wasn’t looking down his sights in that direction. Where the road created a hill about a kilometre and a half away from the maintenance shed. The car was descending slowly downhill towards the utility buildings of the airfield, with its headlights off. It was definitely a Land Rover but through the green haze of his NV he couldn’t make out the colour. “Car approaching from the east,” he said into his microphone. “About a klick from the first building. Landie.”
A moment later Hamza spoke. <<I have eyes on>>
At that moment Andy spotted another vehicle cresting the hill. He moved his weapon up. It was a white Hilux. Lights also off.
<<Are you thinking what I’m thinking?>> Trevor said.
For a bunch of “amateur” policemen, they certainly knew enough to kill their headlights when going over a hill. It could also mean they’ve got NV googles.
Why would they be making a covert approach to the airfield if they weren’t suspecting anything to go down.
“This is bad,” Andy said, eyes still glued to his gun optics.
<<Maybe they are just well trained>> Trevor put in. <<Maybe they’re not as friendly with the Algerians as we thought. Maybe the top brass got the intel wrong.>>
<<That’s a lot of maybes there, Trevor>> Hamza said.
Andy agreed with Hamza. If the intel was this bad then the mission can’t go on. Standard operating procedure.
The Land Rover hit the eastern part of the runway and slowed to a crawl. The Hilux was now invisible down the winding road. It came into view five seconds later, stopping alongside the Land Rover. They both reversed and turned so they had their fronts facing the way they came from.
“This is special forces sh::t they are pulling off,” Andy said. He was surprised by how breathless he sounded.
Trevor sounded less sure of himself every time he spoke. <<We can’t be sure>>
No movement from the vehicles. When Andy tried to zoom in on them to see the occupants he came up short. He was too far out. “Hamza?”
<<Five men in the Land Rover. Can’t make out anything else.>>
“Let’s push forward?”
<<Negative>> Trevor overruled. <<Give it five minutes. If nothing happens, we advance to contact.>>
22.00 hours.
Fifteen minutes since the convoy appeared. Four minutes since they stopped.
<<Where is the third car?>> Hamza said.
“That’s a million douke question, man.”
<<Push forward.>>
Andy took a mental note of his mates’ positions. They were all facing east, so Trevor would be 50 metres south of the runway to Andy’s three o’clock. The same distance away from the ditch. Hamza would be 50 metres to Trevor’s twelve o’clock, he too maintaining a 50 metre distance to the runway.
“Moving,” Andy said. He pushed himself off the ground, and sprinted 150 metres east. It took him twenty seconds on the uneven ground. At the 150 metre mark he hit the ground again. That put him 50 metres ahead of Hamza’s position. A little out of breath, he spoke into the comms “Move.”
<<Moving>> said Trevor. You could hear his shallow breathing and the crunch of his boots as he manoeuvred his way over the soft sand of the southern side.
25 seconds later Trevor was in position. Hamza was soon on the move too.
A thick blanket of cloud slowly covered the moon by now, visibility reducing to a mere 100 metres at a push. The NV googles worked by processing the ambient light coming from the moon. The more the better.
22.10 hours.
The unit was less than 120 metres away from the two cars now. Still no movement, nothing.
“This isn’t right,” Andy was saying.
<<I know>> Trevor replied. <<But we didn’t come this far for nothing. We call it in without the prisoner and we can kiss that extraction chopper goodbye.>>
At that moment the front passenger door of the Land Rover opened and a man in civilian clothing stepped out. He stretched, yawned, and started taking a piss. A pistol holster was glued to the right side of his belt. Five seconds later the driver of the Hilux debussed and went to the boot. The passenger of the Land Rover joined him and they seemed to be wrestling with something for a while.
Then they hefted a man out of there. He wore a simple shirt and jeans. Tanned skin but definitely white. Hands cuffed behind him and a bag over his head. They let him drop to the ground with a solid thud. Andy heard him groan.
<<There goes our positive ID>> Hamza said in his thick African voice.
“Police or soldiers?” Andy said.
<<Let’s go and ask them>>
Being this close to the targets, the unit couldn’t stand up and make a sprint for it. They’ll stand out like beacons to whoever was watching.
So Andy crawled. He stopped at 50 metres to allow his teammates to catch up from the other side of the runway. Trevor lagged behind just in case.
He raised his rifle and lined up the man on the left, the driver. From this up close he could see the fat man. Receding hairline, charcoal black skin, deep flinty eyes. His light blue shirt stained with sweat under the armpits and the back.
Andy rested his finger on the trigger guard. The driver and his mate were having an animated conversation, laughing and occasionally kicking the prisoner. Their voices were carried by the wind, speaking a language Andy couldn’t understand.
Two pressel sounds squeaked from his earpiece.
Andy didn’t hesitate. He took his finger off the trigger guard and depressed the trigger. There was a very dull knocking sound as the round left the muzzle of his rifle. A split second later the man’s head jerked back violently and exploded like a watermelon, leaving blood and brain matter plastered on the rear windscreen.
The Land Rover passenger was still looking at his colleague’s body as it hit the ground when Hamza’s round hit him in the jaw. 5.56 brass shattered bone and cartilage like stone through thin glass, leaving a catastrophic hole on the bottom half of the man’s face. He was still falling away when Andy and Hamza rose to their feet and sprinted towards the two vehicles. 20 metres away from the Hilux Andy lowered his aim and released a single round each at the two rear tyres. It was not only to keep the enemy immobilised but also to create shock, keeping them boxed in. From his peripheral vision he could see that the Land Rover was deep blue in colour, with dents around the rear bumpers.
Hamza aimed for the upper area of the Land Rover’s rear windscreen and put a bullet through it, making it web. Obstructing the vision of the occupants of the car. Letting his rifle hang as he approached, he pulled out his silenced pistol. The back passenger door on the right started to open. Without thinking he squeezed three rounds, hitting the man in the leg and the side of the body. The last one shattered the window. The guy made a gurgling sound as he fell to the ground, leaving the door ajar.
Andy skirted round the left side of the Hilux. Opened the rear door. A dark skinned man sat there in a suit, eyes wide behind rounded glasses. He made a gasping sound as the door swung open, raising his hands in surrender. Andy shot him in the eye, the pistol calliber bullet at point blank range penetrated the glasses, eye and skull. Leaving behind a hole the size of a ping pong ball in its wake and exiting through the backseat. The dead man fell away to his side, onto the last occupant of the Hilux.
Andy hesitated.
A young woman, dressed in a grey suit. Chocolate skin. Probably the dead man’s secretary. She opened her mouth, looking from the corpse on her lap to Andy.
And then she screamed. The car shook as she attempted to get the hell out.
He didn’t hesitate anymore. Sound travelled faster and further at night. Her screams could alert people nearby to what was going on.
Andy squeezes the trigger. The woman’s body jerked violently. The bullet hit her in the temple, smashing her mushed head into the passenger window.
An eerie silence filled the moonless night. The only noises that could be heard came from one of the Land Rover guys. He was still gurgling, choking on his own blood.
“Clear,” Andy said. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his camo.
<<Clear, Land Rover>> Hamza said.
They strolled back to the prisoners position. He was lying still on his side, taking deep breaths. Hamza removed the bag from his head then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Prodded him in the back with his rifle and told him to move.
“Stop there,” Andy said after the man had moved ten paces ahead. “Get down on your knees.”
The man did as he was told.
“Any sudden moves and we’ll f::cking drop you.”
There was a pause. Trevor would be directly in front of them under cover of darkness, taking pictures of the prisoner and sending it in for facial recognition.
Ten seconds later Trevor spoke. <<All right. It’s him.>>
Hamza pulled the bag back on the man’s face and guided him towards Trevor’s position.
Time check: 22.25. The assault lasted just 15 minutes.

Hello, readers. I’m sorry about the delay in posts recently. Every time I post an update it gets brought down. I honestly don’t understand what the censor business is all about but it is what it is. Thank you for reading. Please don’t forget to leave a comment. Will love to hear from you.
Stay safe.

zhayyd039:
Hello, readers. I’m sorry about the delay in posts recently. Every time I post an update it gets brought down. I honestly don’t understand what the censor business is all about but it is what it is. Thank you for reading. Please don’t forget to leave a comment. Will love to hear from you.
Stay safe.

Thanks for the update. And sorry about your posts, it's the way Nairaland works. Don't give up, else they win.

bigbauer:


Thanks for the update. And sorry about your posts, it's the way Nairaland works. Don't give up, else they win.

Thank you sir

They strolled back to the prisoners position. He was lying still on his side, taking deep breaths. Hamza removed the bag from his head then grabbed him by the collar of his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Prodded him in the back with his rifle and told him to move.
“Stop there,” Andy said after the man had moved ten paces ahead. “Get down on your knees.”
The man did as he was told.
“Any sudden moves and we’ll f::cking drop you.”
There was a pause. Trevor would be directly in front of them under cover of darkness, taking pictures of the prisoner and sending it in for facial recognition.
Ten seconds later Trevor spoke. <<All right. It’s him.>>
Hamza pulled the bag back on the man’s face and guided him towards Trevor’s position.
Time check: 22.25. The assault lasted just 15 minutes.
Andy stayed behind to deal with the bodies. It was a grisly ten minute work to dump the corpses back into the vehicles and picking up any spent shell casings. He ran the two kilometres across the runway again and repacked the C4 charges he had initially set up as the surprise package and placed it beneath the Hilux. Then he went under the vehicle and disconnected the fuel supply line. Did the same for the Landie as well. Fetched a half-jerican of diesel and splashed it on the body of the car. By the time he was done the whole place reeked of diesel and petrol fumes.
He reached into his chest rig for the detonator.
Stopped.
Caught a glimpse of lights approaching fast from the west, accompanied by a low thumping noise that seemed to get louder by the second.
The Egyptians.
Andy’s gut turned to ice. He watched as if in a trance as the helo descended like a mechanical angel from the heavens. It had hit the sand dune where he collected the charges from a while ago.
Noise on the comms. It was Hamza but Andy couldn’t comprehend his words because of static. The Egyptians were using radio-jamming technology.
A strategy started to form in his head.
Hamza was hustling the prisoner towards the gully they came from when he saw the chopper. It was too dark to tell the model but he was certain it wasn’t civilian. It was too close to their position. Dangerously close.
He spoke into his radio, but all that came back was static. Their comms were being jammed.
“Get down,” he hissed at the prisoner, who landed awkwardly on the ground as his hands were tied behind him. Trevor had already melted into the darkness ahead. Hamza kept his head down as the aircraft’s landing gear touched the potholed tarmac less than 100 metres away, blowing dust all over the place. Made sure to keep his NV googles disengaged and switched off.
Only when the helicopter engines died down did Hamza slowly tilted his head to see what was going on. He counted eight silhouettes alighting, obviously dressed in all black outfits as their shapes seemed to distort in the darkness. They moved with purpose —but also with care— towards the cars, weapons engaged.
Andy’s position.
About 250 metres away from the cars, the figures stopped moving. It was now difficult for Hamza to pick them out but he saw as two men moved ahead. The rest were probably holding back to cover them. He looked back towards the chopper. It looked empty save for the pilots and the side-gunner. He was facing the barren grounds right towards Hamza’s position.
Movement towards the tail of the chopper. Hamza moved slowly to bring his rifle to bear. At this distance he was operating on a tight rope. All it took was too much movement and the side-gunner was going to spot him. And Hamza doubted if he’ll be able to withstand a burst from a medium machine gun. Even if he did the suppressing fire would just keep him pinned and the fire team would come over and take him out.
So no mistakes, Hamza told himself.
The night vision capability of his rifle sights lit up the grounds ahead. He could see the remaining guys now, bunched up in the firing position away from the two who were now approaching the vehicles now. They must have made the dead bodies by now as Hamza saw them tense up and hold their weapons tighter. He swung back to the chopper. The side-gunner was looking straight ahead now. Almost like the top of Hamza’s head. His eyes narrowed and his hands were slowly reaching for the machine gun. Hamza stayed perfectly still, his crosshairs centred around the area between the head and the collarbone. He wondered if he took this one down he’ll have enough time to go for the pilots. It was a long stretch.
Movement to the left. Hamza peered and saw Trevor moving stealthily behind the sand dune where Andy had placed charges just a while ago. Trevor had his weapon raised but was facing towards Hamza’s position. When they clocked each other Trevor gave him the signal and Hamza shifted his weight and realigned the target.
He immediately knew he had moved too much. The side-gunner looked alarmed and started to draw his weapon to fore but Hamza was faster. He calmly dispatched a suppressed 3-round burst towards the guy and immediately knew his aim was good. The guy spasmed as the rounds hit him in the chest, dancing funny like a puppet that’s had its strings cut.
The man was still dying as Hamza panned his weapon to the right. The pilots were yet to register the dead gunner. He squeezed the trigger again and he heard a sound as the right-sided chopper window shattered and was instantly showered in red and pink. Hamza couldn’t make out the other pilot because he was on the other side but he saw frantic movements. Then a pair of boots hit the tarmac but immediately wobbled.
Trevor had taken care of him.
Hamza shifted his attention to the others. They were completely oblivious to what had transpired in the chopper and were surrounding the two vehicles now. One of them had pulled out a camera from his ops vest and was taking pictures of the gory scene. Hamza cursed. They were out of rifle range.
But then the explosion happened. He saw the fire before the noise followed a split second later. It rattled his bones and his ears popped. A shockwave swept over his head but not before he saw the 8-man team vanish in the flames. He knew they were done for. At that range the force of the bomb would shatter them to bits and the flames would chew them up. Three more explosions immediately followed as the fuel tanks exploded.
It took 5 minutes for the flames to start dying down and stop throwing shrapnels around, but given the endless supply of oxygen they were probably going to burn till the next day. Hamza maintained his position, covering the tarmac.
The back of Andy’s hands burned from the glare of the blazing cars that stood burning close enough for discomfort. He had quickly concealed himself in the darkness when the helicopter landed and the armed figures jumped out. They were dressed up in special forces gear and were moving fast to his position. It had been just luck that kept him from getting spotted and he took a chance by detonating the charges when he was still in range. The Black Cobras stood no chance at all. The site had made them cautious but the sight of the dead bodies was enough distraction to keep them from seeing the whole picture.
Andy rose to his feet and ran towards the chopper, weapon engaged. Twisted remains of the vehicles littered the ground along with barely recognisable limbs and human organs. The air reeked of carnage: burning metal and roasted flesh. It was all he could do to keep his gag reflex under control.
He recognised Trevor’s bulky figure kneeling in the firing position near the helicopter. Now that Andy drew nearer he identified the helicopter as an Agusta. A pilot lay slumped over the controls and half of the windscreen was covered in blood. Another pilot lay dead in the doorway near another soldier who Andy put down as the side-gunner.
“Took your time,” Trevor said as he approached. “Almost thought they nailed you.”
Andy ignored that. “The Egyptians are going to be real angry.”
“They are going to be pissed,” Trevor agreed. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We don’t want to be here when they come —and they are going to come with vengeance.” He gestured towards the chopper. “Found some charges in there. Enough to make a bang loud enough to reach Cairo.”
That was Andy’s signal to get going. The presence of explosives on board the helo was no surprise at all; nowadays special forces aircraft are equipped with enough explosives to blow it up when needed. Better lose the thing to explosion than leave evidence that they were ever there.
They went back through the gully and proceeded to the prearranged RV point where the exfil chopper would take them back to base.
Andy couldn’t wait to get the hell out of this place. The longer the team was on ground the more the chances they stood of encountering an Algerian patrol or worse, the Egyptians.

Hello, readers. I’m very sorry for the unannounced delay. I’ve been on exams but soon as next week I’m going to resume. Thank you all for your time.