All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Jibriil slapped a hand on Adem's back, pride spilling out of him. "Trust me, this job is important. I even think it can help you make it home."

  "Really?"

  "No promises. If this goes well, there are high hopes for you."

  "For what? I don't get it. If I get them a good ransom, I'm set free? Is that the deal you made?"

  "Better than that. Much better." Wide smile.

  "Cut it out. Tell me already." He'd been standing too long. Shifted from foot to foot and again and again.

  Jibriil said, "If you prove yourself, then they will see you are perfect to lead crusades back home. A long one, where you will plan and guide our people towards a strike against the Cities. One big target. You understand?"

  Adem first thought he meant Target Center, the arena in Minneapolis where the Timberwolves played basketball, and where many pop artists help concerts. Adem had been there several times to see games and shows. He saw Jamie Foxx in concert there last summer. But then he realized, the prize, the one big symbolic strike that would really hit at the heart of American indifference and consumerism.

  "The Mall."

  "Now you see. The Mall."

  The Mall of America in Bloomington, south of the Metro. Adem hadn't gone there much, but of course he'd gone. Everyone had to go at least once. Huge, so much stuff to buy. Filled at all times of the day or night. Some tourists came from out of town to shop there—that was the whole vacation. A bus from your hotel would drop you off at the mall, pick you up. It was like a city. You could practically live there if you played your cards right and had some money in your pocket. To hear Jibriil say it this way, excited, hopeful, even, chilled Adem. He remembered hanging out there with Jibriil, meeting up with girls, talking about all the clothes and watches and sunglasses they couldn't afford.

  Adem couldn't imagine how he would react if a suicide bomber detonated himself while he was there buying some sneakers. Four, five, six bombers at once, strategically placed. More, even. The scary part was that he could pull it off, easily. His stomach twisted. His sweat felt colder.

  A soldier arrived with Sufia behind him. She looked confused but placid. Nothing about Farah intimidated her, either. Made Adem feel all puffed up. Wanted to say, That's my girl.

  Farah said, "Adem has been given an important assignment in Bosaso. He'll be working with us. You will come along to assist him."

  "Sir?"

  "He requested you. You'll help him."

  Shouldn't she be smiling? Or at least trying to hide it? Adem said, "You've been so helpful, I thought…anyway…."

  She nodded. Still no sign of gratitude. "I have work here, caring for the soldiers, preparing food, so much to do."

  Farah, loudly, "There's always someone else for that. We've already decided. Your needs will be provided for. We're ready to go."

  Finally a glance from Sufia. Those eyes. Adem raised his eyebrows. Great, yeah? Isn't it? But what he got back from her made him feel like hiding. Such a contemptuous stare. A frown. Adem looked at the ground to escape it.

  And then a young soldier joined them, stopping his run, kicking up dust. Out of breath. Adem kept looking down. His boots.

  "You wanted me, sir?"

  The voice got Adem's attention. The last one he wanted to hear. Raised his chin. This wasn't his guard at all. It was Garaad. Good ol' Garaad, ready to take off Adem's head in a second. An idiot full of bloodlust. No, please, not this, Jibriil. Anything but this.

  Jibriil pointed towards Adem, then Farah. "My friend here is going to Bosaso to do some important work. He needs you to watch over him, protect him. It is very important you keep him safe."

  Garaad was nodding the entire time, hands on his hips while he caught his breath. "Yes sir. I will, sir. You can count on me."

  Adem's heart sank. Even more when Garaad saw Sufia and said, "What's this one doing here? What's her problem?"

  Adem stepped up. "She's coming with me. My assistant. My rules, understand? You keep me safe, but we play this my way."

  A round of ohs and ahs from the crowd, applauding the American's balls, standing up to an obviously much stronger, tougher, and deadlier soldier. But even standing toe to toe, Garaad smirking, looking down on Adem like he could crush him in one go, all Adem could remember was Garaad running away from the gunmen in Ethiopia, passing all his brothers-in-arms as if they were stumps. Somewhere deep in those muscles lurked a coward.

  Farah placed his hand on Adem's shoulder. "No. My rules. Are we clear?"

  Adem sucked his cheeks tight against his teeth. "Yes."

  "Excellent." The tall man in the suit started for the jeep. "Shall we?"

  Jibriil embraced Adem one more time, a hard hug, one that hinted that Jibriil knew this might be it. "Be safe, brother. Don't give them a reason to kill you. Do it right. For me."

  "You stay safe, too. Come see me. We can get you off the battlefield, you know."

  Jibriil let go. "Why would I want to leave? I love it here."

  Then Jibriil embraced Garaad, a fine, undeserved send-off. The silent guard was looking to be a good choice right about then, but Adem didn't dare mention it. He knew exactly why Garaad was the one Jibriil wanted. He was the one who wouldn't put up with any bullshit Adem tried to throw at the pirates. He might say all those kind things, call Adem his brother, but all of it was nothing compared to his distrust.

  Sufia sat in the front seat of the jeep, since to put her in back would have her rubbing up against two men. Adem thought it was a place of honor, but the others he knew considered it shameful that she was coming along alone. If any other soldiers happened to see this, they might drag her off the jeep and stone her immediately, no trial.

  But they made it down the road, Farah between the two men in the back. Bumpy road, traveling too fast. Not much was said. Adem wanted to ask many questions—what boat? How many hostages? What's the hold up with negotiations? Has there already been talk between them? What's my job, really? But he had already guessed that Farah was not a man who liked questions. He preferred giving orders. So Adem kept quiet, bumping along until they came to a clearing where a helicopter waited for them, blades already whirring. No wasting time.

  They held onto their scarves to keep them from whipping around as they ran from the jeep to the chopper. Sufia struggled the most, her hijab threatening to fly clean off her head. Adem helped her up into the chopper, climbed in after, and there they were, finally, sitting next to each other.

  He said to her, "Trust me, this is going to be better for both of us."

  She didn't answer. Didn't even look at him. He couldn't understand why this wasn't okay. Why was she giving him the cold shoulder? Maybe it felt like a demand—Adem turning into one of the other men, always demanding but never thinking to ask what she had wanted.

  He turned to the windows, watched the chopper lift from the ground. His first chopper ride. His stomach knotted tighter as they moved forward, the land and the beach and then they were over the open water, leaving purgatory for a lesser kind of hell.

  SIXTEEN

  It was better to be cold and alone. By his third week back from Minneapolis, now suspended pending trial for ... well, for whatever the hell happened in that basement, Bleeker should have been looking for an apartment, but he retreated to the ice shack instead. He brought along a toaster oven, a space heater, plenty of gas for the generator, and plenty of rum and pop. He set up the fishing line but set free everything he caught. He drank, slept, and dreamed. His dreams confused the massacre in Eden Prairie with the missions he'd had in Iraq. Gangsta thugs in street clothes kicking up the sand as they crossed the dunes, swords held high. Hell, that wasn't even Iraq. That was Lawrence of Arabia or some shit.

  Another three weeks. When he had enough of the ice shack, he'd roll back into town, stop by and talk to his boss. Not much to talk about. Not when you've got an ex-Army Ranger showing up in a basement full of dead people, swearing he just happened on it, following up on a tip about the missing college student. S
elf defense. He had the wound to prove it. But there had to be someone else. Forensics told them that. "Just me," was all Bleeker had to say. "Got lucky."

  So he floated, sneaking back home when Trish was gone. A cheap hotel when he wanted to sleep and shower. Driving, aimlessly, the whole time thinking he should've turned Mustafa in rather than letting him slip away through the door. He should've ratted out Rockstar and Al Jones. If it meant those two kids ended up dead, then fine. At least one of them shot Cindy. Let the universe work out the blame.

  But he couldn't do it. The look on Mustafa's face, the weakness in his voice. The tough guy gang leader crumbling like stale bread. Bleeker kept his mouth shut. It was killing him. So he got drunk a lot. A whole lot. Got drunk and let the fish go and curled tightly in his sleeping bag, dreading the coming thaw when he'd have to face the world again. Some said it was due earlier this year. He hoped not. If so, he would stay until he felt the ice crack beneath him. Maybe even go down with the shack, all the way to the bottom of the lake.

  Day after day of waiting for whatever it was that would make him stop waiting.

  Like a knock on the ice shack's door.

  Gun out. One in the chamber for weeks now. When they came for him, there would be a lot, but he'd get off a whole magazine first. Kill at least three or four. Make it hard for the survivors to get to him. Might even save one shot for himself to spite them.

  Another knock. "Yo, Ray, man. Come on."

  Mustafa's voice.

  Not good enough. Bleeker sat up, aimed for the door. Breathing calm. Center mass. Focus.

  A fist slamming the wall. "I know you're in there, alright? Don't fuck with me."

  Bleeker cleared his throat. He hadn't spoken in days. "Door….door's open."

  A click. The door swung open. Mustafa, in his parka and wool cap, stepped inside. His face, though—bags under his eyes. Unshaven. Didn't even blink at the gun leveled at him. In one hand, a bottle of pop. In the other, a jug of Bacardi.

  "Thirsty?"

  Bleeker's gun hand shook. He dropped it to his lap. "I thought you didn't drink."

  "Not the rum. But I'm up for the Coke."

  Bleeker pushed himself off the floor, kicked his sleeping bag to the side. Sweatpants and socks, a filthy undershirt. His uniform for a week now. He grabbed the two folding chairs, handed one to Mustafa.

  "How'd you find me?"

  "Your wife. Didn't want to tell me at first, but I guess you'd told her about me. Soon as I said my name, she wrote down the directions."

  Yeah, he had told her. It was too late to reconcile, too late to keep living at home, so he went to her parents' house, sat her down in the kitchen and told her what happened. The only person he'd told the truth to. As much as she hated him, she had never betrayed his trust, something she'd take to her grave. Payback for Cindy.

  Bleeker and Mustafa sat. Nothing to say for a long time. Five minutes. More.

  Mustafa nodded at the line in the water. "Catching anything?"

  "Plenty. I throw it all back."

  "Didn't think you had it in you. Remember? 'I go after someone, I get them'?

  Shrug. "People, not fish."

  "You doing alright?" His voice rougher than usual.

  Bleeker inhaled, let it go. "I sleep. When I'm awake, all I want to do is get back to sleep. I don't want to think. I don't want to do anything. Your son's life depends on me, and all I have to do is forget what I saw and move on. But I can't. It's not fair."

  Mustafa picked up one of the plastic cups that littered the floor. Sniffed it. He poured some Coke. "Got ice?"

  "You're welcome to chip yourself some off the lake."

  "Never mind." Mustafa took a sip.

  Bleeker stared at the rum Mustafa had handed him. Badly wanted to unscrew it, drink it straight from the bottle. Let the heat of it warm his breath, his lungs, his blood. But he couldn't do it. Instead, he tightened up, sniffed back tears.

  Mustafa didn't say anything. Shifted in his chair.

  Bleeker set the bottle on the floor. "How are you doing?"

  "Better than you. I went home. I went to bed. I didn't get up for a week, wife yelling at me about my job. Sure enough, I got fired. So I've been praying. Crossing my fingers." Cleared his throat. "I owe you. For making me leave, you know."

  Bleeker wanted to say "It was nothing" or something like that. Didn't want to open the flood gates. But they began to crack.

  "Look, I know I made a promise to you, but when I see Cindy in my dreams, alive again except she's always in her uniform, it's like she's telling me to call down fire. I'm sorry, man, but I still might. I know how much you love Adem and all, but, goddamn it. It's not fair. War or no war, as long as they're alive, they're laughing in my face."

  Mustafa nodded. Sniffed. Bleeker noticed the banger's eyes were a little moist. He rubbed them out with thumb and index finger. "You up for a ride? There's something I want to show you."

  *

  Bleeker drove, Mustafa riding shotgun with a laptop. The closest real town was twenty miles north, so they drove on with the talk radio bubbling low so that they couldn't make out the words, just the anger. The sky threatened snow. An inch or two a day for the last eight days, more on the way. Bleeker wouldn't have minded being buried in it. But a switch in his head wouldn't let him go that easily. No headshot, no pills, no drunken forays into the snow. If he was going to kill himself, it would be a long torturous fade, and there was nothing he could do about it.

  He should've taken a shot at Mustafa back at the shack. A miss, of course. Wide right. But something to get the gangsta shooting back at him. End it like that. Because he already knew the script—the police were going to find a soft way to retire him off the force, and his few friends might come help him move out of the house, and he'd have enough of a pension to cover a studio apartment and several hours a day at the bar.

  Day after day. Years. Maybe one day someone would find him, tell him Jibriil got his guts cut out and his corpse dragged through the streets of Mogadishu. He'd lift his Bacardi and Coke in salute and down it, then go right back to numb.

  Once in town, Mustafa asked Bleeker to find a place with a good wireless signal. They pulled into a hotel parking lot. The signal wasn't strong enough. They tried another, closer to the front door. Better, but not enough for whatever it was Mustafa was trying to show him.

  "Can't you just tell me?"

  "You need to see it to understand."

  Bleeker sighed, reversed out of the spot and got back on the road. "I'll buy you some coffee."

  "Decaf."

  "Shut up."

  Bleeker took them to a bagel shop with free wi-fi. They got inside as the snow started falling. Bleeker bought them coffee, some rolls, and sat at a booth by the window while Mustafa tried to get the page up. The place was mostly empty, but Mustafa got a few hard looks from the other patrons, like they expected him to pull out a sawed-off and steal everyone's wallets. Right. Even in Mustafa's gang days, robbing a bagel shop would've been baby stuff. Not even on his radar screen.

  It was taking a long time. Mustafa hadn't touched his coffee. Bleeker said, "What are you doing, looking at porn?"

  "It takes time to download. But…wait…here it comes."

  He turned the screen around. Bleeker pulled the computer closer. The language wasn't English, wasn't Arabic or Somali. Looked like some sort of news site.

  "This is Dutch?"

  "Yeah. Someone sent it to me yesterday. I've watched it a hundred times."

  A video clip below a headline that Bleeker was able to figure out from one word: "Piraat".

  Bleeker hit play.

  Obviously from some sort of television broadcast. A woman newsreader. A picture over her shoulder of a freighter, "Piraat" across it. Bleeker picked up a few words that sounded like English, but it was all too fast for him. Then, they cut to the man on the scene, standing on a street with plenty of Somalis walking past on either side. They all looked pretty content, the town around them bustling, inta
ct, not like what Bleeker had seen on TV about the capital. A word across the bottom of the screen.

  "Bosaso."

  "It's a big city on the Northern Coast. Lots of ships in and out. More like, you know, Duluth."

  "Like Duluth?"

  "Sunnier."

  Bleeker looked back at the screen. Footage of happy Somali pirates, footage of a Dutch freighter, some of its relieved crewmen.

  "So, the Dutch paid a ransom?"

  "Watch."

  "I don't…It's in Dutch."

  "Okay, easy. Not the Dutch, but the owner of the ship. The corporation. But, you're missing it. Go back about ten seconds."

  Bleeker pretended like he was going to do something with the touchpad. Shit, he could do e-mail, play Minesweeper, find some dirty pictures, but he didn't know how to roll back a video. Said, "How do you…Is that…Shit, Mustafa, I can't—"

  Mustafa took it back, did something that took all of five seconds, then turned it back. "Hit play again. Watch this time, no questions."

  He had to watch the man on the scene again, shirt-sleeves rolled up, extra button undone. Then the pirates, the ship, the crew. And then back to the man on the scene. And then…a familiar Somali face, young with a freshly shaved head, dressed up in an expensive suit, wearing wire-rimmed glasses, speaking in really good English: "We are pleased with the outcome, the safe return of the vessel to the rightful owners, and the good health of the crew. As always this—" And then the Dutch translation, which obscured the rest. So familiar.

  "Show me that picture from your wallet again—"

  Mustafa already had it out, holding it up to the screen. Adem. With hair, no glasses.

  "Did he wear glasses? Contacts?"

  Mustafa shook his head. "But it's him."

  "That's a big problem, though. He's got glasses."

  Mustafa pushed the photo closer. "You know how many times I asked myself that? I know my own son, damn it! It has to be. His voice, his eyes, his mouth, his nose. That's him."

  "The fuck is he doing in Bosaso? What's that have to do with the war? Is he working for the Dutch?"