Deployed

by Mel Odom

  Men like Gold Tooth were behind those selfish enterprises.

  Daud knew his father might have considered it worthwhile to attack his enemy directly, but it would mean having a much larger force than he presently had. It was one thing to take an area; it was another to hold it. His father had always survived by striking, taking what he wanted, and fading back into the countryside. Daud intended to follow the same plan until his group grew, which would foster new problems. Feeding all of them while on the move would be difficult.

  Reaching into his military chest pack, Daud took out a set of binoculars he’d gotten on the black market and focused the lenses on the campsite. With the way various armies—the Russians, the French, the Ethiopians, the British, and the Americans—had come to Somalia to shore up one government after another, getting military surplus was easy. Just costly.

  A dozen men sat around the campfire in folding lawn chairs. They kept assault rifles next to them and wore pistols and knives. Many of them chewed khat, a native plant that created a state of euphoria. The drug was easier to get than alcohol and wasn’t forbidden by Islam. Khat was also being exported to Scandinavia, and the profits funneled back into the pockets of Muslim terrorist groups.

  Beyond the men, two jeeps and two four-wheel-drive pickups sat parked in the shadows surrounding the hollow that protected the group from the wind. The scent of braised lamb rode the wind, mixed with herbs. Evidently the men had dined well and were settling in for the night.

  That suited Daud. Silently, he put away the binoculars and rose into a crouch, holding the rifle in both hands as he advanced. Afrah and the four other men with them—three of them men who had accompanied Daud’s father years ago—rose like dark ghosts and followed.

  Daud kept putting one foot in front of the other. The al-Shabaab had posted no guards, no lookouts, obviously complacent in their hiding place. A local herdsman who had ventured into Mogadishu looking for food for his family had brought news of Gold Tooth, whose real name was Liban. The herdsman had contacted one of the men Afrah had sent out to find information about the al-Shabaab contingent. In return, the herdsman had received food for his family.

  Life was sold cheaply in Mogadishu even after the al-Shabaab had been driven from most of the city.

  Fifteen feet out, one of the men got up and wandered outside the firelight, probably to heed nature. Daud froze, but the man saw someone in the brush anyway.

  “Look out, my brothers! Look out!” The man scrambled to yank the rifle from over his shoulder and find cover.

  Daud stood and fired at once. His bullets caught the man and drove him backward into the flames where his hair caught on fire. The foul odor of burned hair and cooked flesh filled the campsite. The man didn’t move and didn’t make a sound as he burned.

  The al-Shabaab terrorists grabbed their weapons, but they were blinded from looking into the campfire and addled by the khat. They fired long bursts that cut through the trees over Daud’s head. Daud stayed low and fired at the targets that presented themselves. The rifle recoiled against his shoulder again and again. He kept moving forward, watching as the bodies of the al-Shabaab hit the ground.

  One of the terrorists turned and fled into the trees. Light glinted at the man’s mouth when he shot a frightened glance over his shoulder.

  Gold Tooth. Liban.

  Daud’s head ached from where Afrah had put in eight stitches to close a cut on his temple. The wound still threatened infection. Other cuts inside his mouth made eating an unpleasant chore, and two of his teeth were loose.

  “Afrah.”

  The big man glanced at Daud.

  “Secure the camp. Kill them all.”

  Afrah nodded and surged forward.

  Dropping his rifle, Daud took up pursuit of Liban and drew the Tokarev pistol from the holster at his hip. The Russian-made pistol wasn’t as accurate as its American and British counterparts, but it would serve. He ran, and the effort amplified the painful pounding in his head. He guessed that he was at least a decade older than his quarry, but he knew the wilderness better than the other man did.

  Liban slipped and fell, narrowly avoiding collisions with trees. Daud gave chase in a distance-eating lope, easily making his way through the stubby trees and scrub brush as if it had been only yesterday and not ten years.

  During those ten years, Daud had taken college courses and learned what he needed in order to become a warehouse administrator. He had used some of the money his father had bequeathed him to buy a modest house and try to live the life he’d thought he wanted instead of the violence he had always known. He’d met a beautiful woman and had a beautiful son. Life had been good.

  Until it had all been taken from him. Memories of the bombed-out house skated through his mind as he ran. His rapid inhalations and exhalations sounded like the screams of his son and his wife after the mortar had blown their house to pieces. He had been outside when the explosion had occurred, and that was when he had been wounded with the scars he now carried on his cheek. But those remembered pains were nothing compared to the ones that still writhed through his heart. Soon, though, he knew those sharp aches would dim and die, and he would have nothing except his hate and anger to sustain him.

  He came up fast behind Liban, pointed the pistol at him, and thought then of shooting the man point-blank. But that wasn’t how Daud wanted to deliver his message. Liban and his cronies had made everything personal. The al-Shabaab and the TFG had made things personal. The Ethiopians and the Americans and all the other foreigners had made it personal.

  Now Daud was going to make his war against them personal. He would live and he would become strong. And they would all pay.

  Screaming in fury, giving in to the anger and desire for vengeance that filled him as Liban crested a hill and headed down, Daud topped the hill as well, then hurled himself headlong after the man. Sailing through the air, Daud crashed into Liban and knocked them both sprawling to the ground.

  The impact knocked the wind from Daud’s lungs, but he held on to the pistol and rolled. Disoriented by the dark and the brush he landed in, he scrambled for a moment and pulled himself to his feet with the pistol pointed at Liban.

  The al-Shabaab man pushed himself to his feet, spotted Daud ahead of him, and immediately reached for the pistol at his belt. Then, seeing that he was already too late, he slowly lifted his hands.

  “Don’t shoot me. I beg you.”

  Daud’s voice was cold and hard. “You can beg all you wish to, dog. But it will do you no good.”

  “I am protected by Haroun.”

  “I am hunting this man. Throwing his name at me affords you no protection.”

  “He will kill you. He will kill all of you for what you do.”

  “Do you know me?”

  Liban studied Daud, cocking his head first one way, then the other. But his attention was divided between Daud and the pistol he held. “You’re the man in the alley.”

  “I am. And tonight I am your executioner.” Daud squeezed the trigger and the pistol roared. Now that the rifles of his men and the other al-Shabaab had fallen silent, the explosion sounded incredibly loud.

  For a moment, Liban stood. Then his legs gave way and his body toppled to the ground. Daud stood above the man, hoping to feel something fill in the awful emptiness that consumed him. But there was nothing. Even the vindication of striking back at a man who had caused him so grievous an injury did not help. Eventually it would, though. He was certain of that.

  He knelt and went through the dead man’s pockets, taking money, jewelry, and weapons. Daud reclaimed his hiking boots as well. Afrah found him there in the darkness as he was lacing them up.

  “You are well, Rageh?”

  “I am. Did we lose anyone?”

  “No.” Afrah shook his shaggy head.

  “Are the al-Shabaab all dead?”

  “Yes. To the last man.”

  Daud stood and stomped his feet. He reloaded the pistol, once more filling the magazine. “Did they
have much?”

  Afrah shrugged. “Food, water, medicine. Some weapons beyond what they carried.” He grinned. “But now we have four more vehicles than we had. From these things, we can grow and become more powerful.”

  “All right.” Daud headed up the hill, back toward the terrorist camp.

  Walking beside him, Afrah clapped a hand on Daud’s shoulder. “You are as your father was. Aggressive and merciless. He would be proud of the son he sired. And I will follow you as I followed your father.”

  Daud kept walking, but his mind was already restlessly turning over his next steps. They needed more men. They needed more weapons. And to get those things, he would have to steal more. He looked forward to it; the task gave him purpose.

  9

  BEKAH’S HEAD BUZZED with questions and possibilities as she walked into the AutoZone store in Murchison with the old carburetor she’d pulled out of her pickup. The letter from the Marine Corps had been short and succinct as always, letting her know where to be and when, and that a ticket would be waiting for her at Will Rogers World Airport in Oklahoma City.

  She dreaded the thought of going back to Afghanistan. Being a woman there, especially a female Marine, was hard. There were a lot of rules for engagement that women military personnel had to obey even when working among friendlies.

  Wearing his Texas Rangers ball cap, Travis walked beside her. It was a little big on him, but he was proud of it because his great-grandpa had given it to him. Bekah didn’t think Travis could remember that since he’d been so young, but she and her granny had told him a lot about his great-grandpa.

  She placed the carburetor on the counter, then gave Travis a quarter to buy gum from one of the small vending machines at the front of the shop. While she waited, she stared at the television behind the counter. The Fox News broadcast showed footage of Mogadishu and some of the fighting that had broken out in the northern sections of the city.

  “Pretty intense, huh?” The young man on the other side of the counter looked all of eighteen or nineteen. Small and compact, with his hair high and tight, he looked like he’d stepped off a high school football field somewhere. His grin was open and friendly, and his blue eyes flashed.

  “Yeah.”

  “I just found out I’m going over there.”

  “Mogadishu?”

  The counter man nodded. “I’m a Marine reservist. We got activated this week. Supposed to be in California by the end of next week.”

  Bekah smiled back. “Always good to meet a fellow Marine.” She extended her hand.

  “You?” The guy looked surprised but took her hand.

  “Lance Corporal Bekah Shaw currently tasked to Charlie Company. I’m headed to California too.”

  “Lance corporal. I’m a private. Am I supposed to salute?”

  “The officers, yes, but I’m noncom.”

  “First time I’ve been activated.” He hesitated. “I’ve got to admit, I’m a little nervous.”

  “When you get over there, stick with the guys who have the experience. Do what they do. Don’t take chances. Watch over your buddies and trust them to watch over you. Just like you’ve been training.”

  The guy nodded. “My name’s Ralph. Ralph Caxton.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Ralph Caxton.”

  “Likewise.”

  “How do you know you’re shipping out to Mogadishu?”

  “Got an older brother in the Marines who works in intel. He went to officer’s school. Says I should be doing the same thing, but I want to get my boots muddy first before I commit to something like that.”

  “It’s a good way to go.”

  “You didn’t.”

  Bekah smiled and shrugged. “I don’t have the necessary college. Can’t get it right now. But it’s definitely something you should think about if you decide you like the Corps.”

  “I will. Maybe we’ll see each other.”

  Bekah nodded, amazed how at home she felt in the presence of another Marine she’d never even met before. She felt more connected to Ralph Caxton than she did to any of her friends back in Callum’s Creek. “Could be. You get overseas, the world gets pretty small. You tend to notice each other.”

  Ralph turned his attention to the carburetor. “I suppose you’ll be needing one of these.”

  Bekah nodded and glanced at Travis. He was standing in the plate-glass windows watching with rapt attention as traffic whizzed by. She marveled again at how small his world was—and how small hers had at one time been.

  Ralph left the counter and came back a few minutes later with the necessary part. He arranged for a military discount after checking her ID, then rang her up. As he did, Bekah kept watching the television station. The words hostage, piracy, looting, famine, drought, and deaths kept scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

  Almost immediately, other footage rolled that described the struggling supply lines trying to get food, medicine, and water to the people displaced by the constant warring. That was followed by images of sick children wasted away to nothing, looking like stick puppets with bulbous heads and lifeless eyes. It was almost more than Bekah could bear. Even though she knew Travis would never face such circumstances, she couldn’t help knowing how she would feel if she were the momma of one of those children.

  “Looks pretty bad, doesn’t it?” Ralph’s voice was quiet.

  “It does.” Bekah wrote out a check for the carburetor.

  “But it’s okay. We’ll be over there soon. We can do something about that.” Ralph gave her a winning smile and handed her the box. “When you want something done right, you send in the Marines. Semper Fi.”

  “Semper Fi, Marine.” Bekah tucked the box under her arm and called Travis over to her. They headed out of the building and back to her granny’s truck and were on the road before eight thirty.

  “Thought maybe you could use a glass of lemonade.”

  Sitting on her truck’s fender, Bekah glanced up and saw her granny standing nearby with a tall glass in one hand. She also held a small saucer of fresh-baked peanut butter cookies.

  “I can. Thanks.” Bekah wiped her hands on the cloth she held, then spun around and stepped to the ground. Her back and shoulders hurt from working in the slumped position she’d had to endure. She took the glass and drank half the contents.

  Her granny set the saucer on the fender. “Not too fast. You’ve been working hard, and it’s hot out here. You don’t want to make yourself sick.”

  “I won’t.” Bekah took a cookie and bit into it. The smell instantly brought back all those memories of baking with her granny when she was a small girl. These days there was precious little time for that. They both worked harder than they’d ever worked just to get by. “Your timing is about perfect, by the way.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’ve got everything back together. I’m ready to see if the truck will fire up.”

  Granny’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “That was fast.”

  “Grandpa and me built this truck. I know my way around it.”

  Granny smiled. “I suppose you do.”

  Bekah finished the cookie, took another sip of the lemonade, and climbed behind the truck’s steering wheel. She pumped the accelerator, took a breath, and cranked the ignition as she watched the engine through the space between the open hood and the truck body.

  The engine turned over a few times, and just when Bekah was beginning to think maybe she’d gotten something wrong, the V6 caught and the chug-chug became a throaty roar. Bekah smiled and felt the expression pulling across her face.

  Granny looked at her, nodding and smiling.

  In the yard between the ranch house and the barn, Travis whooped in delight and came running over. “You fixed it! You fixed it, Momma!”

  Proud of herself, feeling a little more in control of her life, Bekah stepped out of the truck and caught her son in mid-rush. She lifted him up high and beamed at him. “I did, baby boy. So what do you think about your momma now?”
<
br />   Travis hugged her. “You’re a good mechanic, Momma.”

  It wasn’t what most mommas heard from their kids, but Bekah was willing to take it. As she hugged her son back, she hated the thought that she was going to be taken away from him again so soon.

  Standing at the kitchen sink, Bekah washed the vegetables she was going to put into the stew for supper. She did the chore mechanically after years of practice. Her attention was on Travis. Bekah could see him out the window as he threw a stick for Shep, his border collie puppy. Travis was convinced Shep could learn to fetch. The only thing Shep truly wanted to do was follow Travis around.

  Travis threw the stick, and Shep sat and watched. Exasperated, Travis turned and talked to the pup, explaining how the trick was supposed to work. Finally, Travis got down on hands and knees and crawled over to the stick, which he hadn’t thrown very far. Shep laid his head down on his paws and closed his eyes.

  Bekah laughed out loud.

  “What’s going on?” Granny stood up from the oven where she was baking a fresh pan of cornbread. The smell filled the kitchen and made Bekah’s stomach growl.

  “Travis is trying to teach Shep to fetch.”

  Granny smiled, wiped her hands on a dish towel, and joined Bekah at the sink. “That should be entertaining.”

  Out in the yard, Travis knelt and talked to Shep. Then he pointed at the stick. He talked some more and pointed to the stick again. Shep just stared at him and occasionally wagged his thin little tail.

  “Not making much headway with that pup, is he?”

  Bekah shook her head. “Gonna be interesting to see which one of them gives up first.”

  “Have you told Travis when you’re going back to the Marines?”

  Bekah drained the water from the pan she’d used for scrubbing the carrots, potatoes, onions, and celery. Lifting the vegetables from the pan, she placed them on the chopping block and raised the Japanese-style knife she’d picked up at Walmart after she got back from her last tour. She wasn’t Rachael Ray or Guy Fieri, but the Marines had taught her to have the proper tool for the job. She loved the knife and the way it sounded so authoritative when it hit the block. “Not yet.”