All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  It was a bastard to fight the wind and whiteout for an hour until it slacked off closer to the lake. Then he drove on across the ice, past clumps of other shacks and big SUVs or 4X4s. A temporary city on the ice, every year, clearing off before the Spring melt as if it was never there. Bleeker drove on, ignoring the cracking noises beneath the car—it would hold, not a problem. He and Forrest had a secret spot. Or maybe it wasn't a secret. Maybe it was because they never caught much there and everyone else knew it. But catching fish wasn't the point. Boozing it up while watching a hole in the ice, talking about anything other than the stuff that mattered—that's why they did it.

  Bleeker unhooked the ice shack, a red and white tin number that had a little kitchen space inside—a few cabinets and a counter barely enough for a toaster oven or microwave—but it was empty this trip. He opened one of the catch covers on the floor and worked at drilling the hole. He got hammered on Rum and Cokes while he drilled, forgot to hook up the generator for the lights and heat. At some point when it was too dark to see, he tried to get the plastic container of ashes opened, spilling some here and there before clumsily tipping it over the hole. Most of the dust fell into the lake and drifted along under the surface of the ice. The rest turned into mud and clogged the hole.

  Bleeker mock-saluted and sat down hard on his canvas chair. He had left his cell phone and radio in the car. The wind was howling outside like souls in hell, snow piling on one side of the shack. Bleeker opened another bottle of rum, another bottle of pop, and sipped himself to sleep.

  That's how Trish found him the next morning.

  *

  She said his name. Said it again, louder. Took it up a notch each time until he blinked his eyes and yawned. She wasn't about to go rustle him since he was gripping his .40 caliber pistol in one hand, an empty plastic cup in the other.

  When Bleeker finally realized who it was, he turned away, let out a big sigh. He'd come here to get away from the never-ending fight. Seemed like Trish always had a new knife to stab him with, some old wounds ready to be reopened and poked. Jesus, why couldn't it be simple? Got tired of life with one woman. Pay her enough so she won't be left high and dry. Move on with new life, new partner, new possibilities. It's not like he was actively trying to hurt her. Shit, he was hoping she'd been thinking of her Plan B, too, since it had been obvious for at least the last eight or so years that the love had been sucked clean out of the relationship. So why go another ten years filling it back up with bile?

  Bleeker looked back. She stood in the doorway of the shack, arms crossed, sun bright behind her. Just like a blizzard to sweep away all the clouds and blind you with clear blue big sky the next day. His face hurt from the cold, his jaw felt like someone was stabbing him—grinding his teeth all night—and his hands were numb. He squinted, realized why Trish was stand-offish, and put the gun into his jacket pocket. Dropped the cup by the empty bottles of Sailor Jerry's and store brand cola. The swishing in his head wasn't so bad, until he tried to stand up. Felt like the ice was breaking and he was going in.

  Trish nodded at the hole in the ice. "You did it?"

  The plastic box was upside down, and a lot of ash was still ringing the hole like margarita salt. Then there were smudges, bootprints. An embarrassing funeral.

  "I could've used help, I guess. But it's done."

  She didn't react much. Walked closer to the hole, took a look down, arms still crossed. Bleeker had a hard time seeing her like this—a puffy parka over a long sleeve t-shirt. Jeans and boots. Severe short hair, spiked on top. Frown lines etched in forever and forever. Rose-tinted eyeglasses with extra-thin gold frames. It wasn't that she looked bad, really, but more like she looked the same way she'd been acting for so long—bitter.

  Bleeker didn't know what was important enough to get her up here. He didn't bother saying goodbye when he left the day before. Separate bedrooms, separate meals, separate schedules. They'd never had children, so that made it even easier, as easy as these things could be. Except for the one scare, the reason they got married in the first place. But she lost it inside of a month. They saved the date anyway. Grinded along until the gears had frozen. She wouldn't be here for the small stuff.

  His cop instinct was tingling.

  Trish said, "Something's happened."

  His stomach dropped. Kept his footing. "Jesus, spit it out."

  She shook her head. If it was anybody worth crying about, she'd done hers already and was through. Which made him think…no.

  "Something happened last night. A shooting. I'm sorry."

  "Cindy?"

  She couldn't look him in the eye. "I'm sorry."

  He reached back for his chair. Wasn't even close. Caught himself, then sank to the floor, cross-legged, face in his hands. He wasn't one to cry. Wasn't one to yell. What he felt was tight. All his nerves and tendons and muscles tight to the point of tearing. Teeth might explode. Throat closing up.

  No idea how long he sat like that. Could've been ten seconds. Could've been an hour. Trish left him alone. Not a hug, not a pat on the shoulder. He looked up and she was back in the same spot near the door, arms crossed, looking across the lake at the other ice houses. Then she lit a cigarette.

  He remembered the gun in his pocket. So did she, obviously. That's what it had come to.

  Bleeker pushed himself off the ice. Cleared his throat. "Dead, right?"

  Trish nodded. "And Erik Poulson, too."

  "Who did it?"

  "Couple of black guys. Probably Somali."

  Fuck. It was a small town, small police department. Out of three detectives, he was the one who best knew how to deal with the Somalis

  "Why don't you let me drive you back? You're in no condition."

  He thought about it. A kind act on her part, no ulterior motive. But that was the problem. To go with her meant he would lose control of the situation. She wouldn't be the only one to give him a ride or babysit him at home.

  Bleeker shook his head. "I can drive."

  "Ray, come on."

  "I said that's okay." A little too loud. "I'll follow you."

  Her lips were tight, nostrils flared. She stomped out the fucking cigarette and walked out to her SUV.

  Bleeker closed the shack door and walked over to the Roadmaster, got in, and followed Trish off the ice. He turned on talk radio to keep himself awake and focused. Was a time he'd bought all these guys' acts—the liberal and fag conspiracies, the Illuminati, the Mark of the Beast, the President being the Antichrist, the government with its disarmament squads and black helicopters. But at some point between the decent Somalis he'd met, and the way his Lutheran church had taken Trish's side, pretty much kicking him out, telling him to find God elsewhere, and Cindy's soft-heartedness, he'd started listening more carefully, not accepting the party line as easily.

  Now the bozos were mostly noise to keep him awake on iced-up roads.

  Just when he thought the world might be a better place than he'd believed, this had to happen. His love, his baby, Forrest, Poulson, his marriage, his peace of mind…

  His cell phone rang. He picked it up, saw that there were a dozen messages waiting, starting at around three in the morning. His dash clock said it was seven fifty-one. Trish had been a real trooper, getting up that early to come tell him his mistress and unborn child were dead. Jesus.

  Answered the phone. It was the Chief.

  "Trish find you yet?"

  "Yeah, just now. I'm heading back."

  "I'm sorry, Ray. If we could've found you last night, you know. Trish left as soon as she could. It's shit. It's all shit."

  "Thanks." What else could he say? "Yeah, thanks."

  "Howie's already out talking to people. We'll get who did this." He was having a hard time even saying consoling things. All business, the Chief. "If you need time, I can give you plenty of time, if you need it."

  Bleeker wouldn't know what to do with himself without something to take his mind off it. Paperwork. Small-time shit. "I'm good. I'd rather work."<
br />
  "Really, a few days, then."

  He could tell what the Chief was thinking. Last thing they needed was a cop with a gun set on revenge. If he didn't play it right, he'd end up on forced leave for a month, all paid, of course, just to get his ass out of the way. He said, "Maybe, okay. But not right now. Maybe after the funeral." Choked up saying that last word.

  The Chief waited a moment while Bleeker cleared his throat. Then, "If you're up for it, there's, ah, something here. You can talk to a few people for us. A college kid is missing, a Somali from the Cities. His roommate doesn't know where he is, didn't come in last night. That's unusual for him. This is a very good student, very nice guy, not some whackdoodle muslim. Everybody agrees. Unless he's hiding it well."

  That was how they got us every time. "So when was he last seen?"

  "By the roommate, maybe eight or nine that night. A friend from Minneapolis came to visit, and they went out."

  Bleeker had to white knuckle the steering wheel on a patch of unplowed road, thick with freeze, to keep all four wheels down. "That's not even a full night. What's the big deal?"

  "This guy didn't have a car. His friend did. The way the roommate described it, we think it's the car Erik and Cindy stopped."

  Bleeker's mouth went dry and he swallowed, got stuck, coughed. Heard the voice on talk radio say, "…losing what makes our country so great, and I don't want to live in that sort of America. I want it like it's always been."

  It wasn't right. You didn't put the dead cop's lover on the case. You just didn't. Were they that hard up for people who knew how to talk to the Africans? Hell, Bleeker didn't even know the language except bits and pieces. He'd only learned the etiquette and culture by trouncing all over it, making every possible mistake until a Somali man who worked at a local soy processing plant had taken the time to explain it to him over a few weird dishes at a tiny Somali restaurant above an import shop downtown Bleeker had known nothing about. Since then, Bleeker had said the right things, showed the proper respect, and started getting some answers. And that made him the police department's "expert".

  Bleeker told the Chief he'd check in after changing his clothes. Closed his phone. So they wanted him on this after all. Wanted him to go in shooting, it sounded like. Fine. He could live with that.

  Bleeker started nodding his head along to the radio host, who was damn near crying talking about his ruined country like she was some sort of teenage whore who'd gotten knocked up. Not going to let 'em destroy what we all helped to raise!

  What Bleeker was really thinking: God help that young man's soul if he was the one who pulled the trigger.

  THREE

  Waves of super-heated air rising from the tarmac. Adem squinted his eyes, shielded them, too hot to see, it felt like. Jibriil shoved him from behind, off the last step of the plane. He'd been at it the whole trip, calling Adem pussy this and pussy that because he whined half the way back to Minneapolis about how the cops would get them, and how Jibriil should turn himself in, and the gun, the fucking gun, why did Jibriil bring a motherfucking gun with him to New Pheasant Run?

  "Cause you never know. And now you do."

  "We were supposed to disappear. You don't disappear when you kill police! We won't be able to come back. Just…just…"

  Unspoken between them: As an eyewitness, now Adem couldn't go home again. He would never rat out Jibriil. But there it was, the reason they couldn't split up. The reason Jibriil wouldn't let them.

  They ditched the rental outside of Redwood Falls, found another car. People on the farms left keys in, stuck in the visors or under the wheel wells. Took five tries. The weather made it feel like more. Their plane didn't leave until six thirty-five a.m., so they could afford to take their time. The car was a Pontiac Grand Am, red. Thousands and thousands of them on the road. The police couldn't stop all of them, could they? And the owner probably wouldn't realize until morning.

  Adem had finally stopped complaining when he feared Jibriil might lose his temper. His friend had gone stone silent, hand so tight on the wheel it kept squeaking. The pinch in his stomach went tighter. Couldn't ask Jibriil to stop the car, not anymore. Had to hold it in until the plane.

  This wasn't supposed to be about killing anyone yet. That would come later. Righteous killings. God's work. Not small town cops doing their jobs. Didn't matter if they were jerks and almost certainly stopping Adem and Jibriil because they were DWB—Driving While Black. There was no reason to kill them. So what if they were harassed for a while, ended up talking to that Dutch cop all the Somalis in town knew? So what? They would've missed their plane. It was all kind of a joke anyway. Adem never expected it to get this far.

  This far being Somalia. K-50 Airport. Two more spoiled Americans about to join the good fight, redeem themselves before Allah.

  They flew from Minneapolis to New York and from New York to London and from London to Nairobi and from Nairobi, finally, mercifully, a small plane took them to this airport south of Mogadishu. Adem was amazed at how Jibriil had pulled it off. Navigated the myriad flights perfectly. Not once were they ever stopped and questioned. Jibriil had the whole act down—forged passports, documents, US cash, a few credit cards that couldn't have been Jibriil's, no way. But they slipped through every time. Only once did Adem ask where the money had come from. Jibriil cut him off, said not to worry about it. They were being looked after.

  On the ground, a constipated and dry-mouthed Adem fought to keep sand out of his eyes. "What's next?"

  Jibriil pointed. "He's holding a sign. By that truck. That's him."

  Adem squinted and made out a tall man, maybe not even thirty, in a military uniform, rank unknown, holding a sign with Somali, some form of Arabic, and English on it. All three languages, the same word: Americans.

  Jibriil pulled at Adem's shirt. "Come on."

  "What about our bags?"

  "What about your carry-on?"

  Adem lifted the backpack he'd brought along. "This isn't my clothes."

  Jibriil pointed towards the back of the plane. “You mean those?”

  Adem looked—more teenagers with guns grabbing bags, opening and going through them before tossing the scattered remains onto an ever-widening pile. Like a party more than a job. His shouts were drowned out by the prop engine winding down.

  "You forget why we're here. It's not a vacation."

  Like he could forget that. Adem knew exactly why he was here. Because Jibriil had wanted it more than anything now that he studied at the feet of some freaky Imam in the Cities. He sold it to Adem like an adventure. Like Fifty Cent on the streets of L.A. but with bigger stakes and God on their side.

  "I need underwear."

  Jibriil smiled. "Go commando."

  Adem gave up and walked behind Jibriil to the man with the sign. His truck was plenty old, ramshackle. The sand had blasted it shiny in spots, holes beginning to show.

  The truckbed was full of boys. Maybe the oldest was fifteen. Faces wrapped with scarves, covering all but their eyes or framing their faces. Every one of them had guns, and a few had rocket launchers. Real fucking rocket launchers. They chattered so fast that Adem couldn't make out the accents at first—the language a blend of Arabic and Somali. He'd gotten used to English at the college, not like at home. But then it clicked and he understood they were dissing him. Laughing at him, pointing. He pretended not to notice.

  Jibriil stumbled over whatever phrase he was supposed to tell the man. More laughter from the kids. He had a tougher time with Somali than Adem, whose family had come from the northern coast and were well-versed in English even before they left the homeland. He spoke up, saved Jibriil from further ridicule.

  "We have come from the snow to fight in the desert."

  The man spat on the ground beside him. "Are you sure you're in the right place? Would you like a nice Coca-Cola?"

  The boys in the back: "With lots of ice." "Look at them. Rich boys." "They'll die quickly and we can take their shoes."

  Jibriil laughed a
long with them. It was the right move. The man put the sign into the truck and greeted them each with a big hug. The boys in the back applauded. They reached out their hands to help Adem and Jibriil get in. They slung their backpacks over their shoulders and climbed aboard. The man got into the cab and cranked up.

  The other boys handed them AK-47s. Adem only knew what they were because Jibriil told him. Adem sat with the gun straight up between his knees, one hand wrapped tight with the strap of his backpack, now in his lap. Eyes on him like they were waiting for something.

  He said, "Where are we going?"

  A boy near him, middle-school aged, leaned over and said, "Initiation. Football."

  "Football?"

  A wide smile. "Yes, football."

  Adem turned back to Jibriil. "We're going to play football?"

  "Aw, yeah. Righteous."

  "I didn't think we would be playing football."

  Shrugged. He checked over his rifle like a pro, pulling back on the slide and slamming a bullet into the chamber. "Got to have something to do in-between killings."

  *

  The ride to Mogidishu was dusty, crowded. Painful. Adem had thought the planes were uncomfortable, but they were bliss compared to this hard-bucking truck, the smell of unwashed soldier boys, death and gases, all of it getting to him. One of the boys offered him a sweaty bandana. Adem covered his nose and mouth with it. Still better than the actual air.

  They passed another truck, slow-going with people in the bed and hanging onto the sides, growing like a giant tumor as it made its way into town. Many more people walking, no guns or rocket launchers. Just staffs or bags of food or bottles of water. At one point, the truck stopped and a couple of boys demanded the food and water from some women, vividly dressed and carrying the goods on their shoulders, only the most essential parts of their faces visible. The boys showed no respect. Instead, they were pissed that the women were angry for the soldiers taking the food from their children's mouths.