by Mel Odom
She didn’t smile back. She just ducked her head and headed for the gate, hoping the guy wasn’t going to come after her. Being a woman in the military—where the ratio was dramatically different than in the civilian world—meant having to put up with a lot of stumbling passes. The fact that she was older than a lot of the eighteen- and nineteen-year-olds in the service made the situation even more awkward.
Few people were in the gate area, and Bekah took a seat near one of the large windows. She put her carry-on on the floor between her boots, reached inside, and took out the Entertainment Weekly and a couple paperback thrillers that her granny had packed. Granny had an addiction to crime and suspense novels and had read Nancy Drew mysteries to Bekah when she was a girl.
Thinking about that, Bekah wondered if Granny would read Hardy Boys mysteries to Travis. And that made Bekah feel guilty about not being there herself to read them to him when the time came. Good things had to be passed on to the next generations.
“Hey. Seat taken?”
Hearing the male voice, Bekah looked up, expecting to see the young lieutenant from the restaurant. She really didn’t need that kind of attention right now, and she definitely didn’t want it.
Instead, though, the guy standing in front of her was a familiar face. Ralph Caxton, from the auto parts store, grinned nervously at her. His camo fatigues looked like they’d just come off the shelf. The material was stiff and unblemished, and she knew he was going to take heat from the other Marines for that. He looked new and shiny, and really innocent with his hat on.
“Sorry.” He looked flustered. “I didn’t mean to interrupt—and if I am, just let me know.”
“No interruption.” Bekah smiled at him.
“Maybe you don’t remember me.” Ralph stuck his hand out. “I’m—”
“Ralph Caxton. From the auto store. I remember you, Marine.”
“Okay. Good.” Ralph plucked at his collar. “Get your truck fixed?”
“I did.”
“Cool. That’s good.” Ralph looked around. “When I first got here, I wasn’t sure if I would know anybody or not. Yours is the first familiar face I’ve seen.”
“There’ll be others once we get where we’re going.”
“I’m glad, because I gotta admit that I’m a little freaked out.”
“Don’t freak out.” Bekah nodded to the seat beside her.
“Thanks.” Ralph sat and dropped his carry-on to the ground.
Bekah looked at his hat meaningfully.
“What? Is it crooked?” Ralph reached up to his head.
“You did a lot of outside drills, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“When you’re inside, you should take your cover off.”
“Cover?”
“Your hat.” Bekah pointed. “Officially, as part of the uniform, it’s called a cover.”
“Oh.” Ralph took off the hat, folded it, and put it on his thigh. “Thanks.”
“Shove it into your pocket. You don’t want to get caught outside without it. A first shirt will give you grief.” Bekah knew lots of sergeants who liked to terrorize the newbies to get them on the straight and narrow really quick. Sometimes it was the only way to keep them alive.
“Right.” Ralph shoved the hat into a thigh pocket of his camo pants. He leaned back in the seat and tried to act nonchalant, though his nerves showed through. He looked at her magazine. “Did I interrupt your reading?”
“Not really.” Bekah closed the magazine and slid it back into her carry-on. “Just killing time till the flight.”
“Yeah.” Ralph thumped his blouse pocket. “Brought my iPhone loaded with jams.”
Bekah nodded and sipped her coffee. “Being nervous is natural.”
Ralph spoke quickly. “I’m not nervous. I’m just—” He stopped himself and looked embarrassed. “I guess maybe I am a little nervous.”
“No big deal, Marine. Guys I’ve talked to that have been in twenty years still get nervous too. It’s all the adrenaline spiking in your body while you’re sitting around. Once you get out in the field, you’re doing things. It works itself out.”
Ralph nodded. “Good to know.” He took a breath and let it out. When he spoke again, his voice was tighter. “I just don’t want to screw this up, you know.”
“I know.” Bekah looked into the young man’s eyes. “Just remember the training. Stick with your buddies. You’ll be fine.” That was what she told herself each time, and she hoped it was true. Of course the advice would be true.
Until it wasn’t.
16
LYING ATOP THE HILLOCK overlooking the bare-bones trail that snaked across the plains west of Mogadishu, Daud watched through a pair of binoculars as the medical caravan ground across the rough terrain. Six vehicles—four trucks and two military jeeps—jolted and jerked as they rumbled along. A low-hanging dust cloud trailed after them like a determined old dog.
Afrah lay beside Daud with his own pair of binoculars. “I count twelve soldiers.” The fine dust and grit covered his skin and made him look like something that had crawled up from the earth.
Daud flicked his binoculars over the caravan, taking count once more. Four soldiers in the front jeep and four in the back. Four more rode shotgun in the trucks. The soldiers in the lead jeep wore the dark-green helmets of the Somali military forces. The other soldiers wore the distinctive bright-blue helmets of the United Nations.
“I count twelve as well.” Daud set his binoculars on the ground and scraped his grizzled chin with his knuckles.
“They are not so many.” Afrah grinned in anticipation. “We have twenty-seven men. More than them.”
“Yes, my friend, we do. And I want to make sure we keep all of those men. They have come very dearly to us, and I do not wish to waste them foolishly.” During the past two weeks, Daud had worked hard to grow his little army, selecting young men from camps scattered across the backcountry.
The problem with young men, though, was they sometimes got themselves killed. Experience was a hard-won thing, and desperately needed, but it took time to acquire it.
Afrah grunted, and his breath stirred the dust in front of him. “We are in place, Rageh, but you are running out of time to do this thing if it is to be done. If we are to take this convoy, then we must do it.”
Daud knew that was true, and the only way he was going to succeed was to be aggressive. If he hid out in the parched lands like so many of the displaced people who feared the city, he would die a slow death, gradually starved out or finally hunted by the al-Shabaab.
He could not allow such a fate; he had a lot more killing to do.
With a nod, Daud spoke quietly. “Give the order.”
Afrah waved to one of the men acting as lookout for the rest of the bandit group. Quickly, the message spread along the land without alerting the convoy. Daud had men in front of the trucks along the road as well as behind them.
Taking up the binoculars again, Daud raked the convoy with his gaze. The soldiers in the first jeep sat at attention and talked among themselves. They were watchful, but complacent. They understood danger could be lurking, but they didn’t know they were already in the sights of a predator.
Then, across the road from where Daud and Afrah lay, a small section of the terrain shifted. Daud never saw the RPG-7 rocket launcher, but he spotted the contrail the warhead left as it sped across the fifty-meter distance to the jeep.
The man wielding the rocket launcher was one of the men Daud’s father had trained, men who had served in the Somali army for a time, then abandoned it when things became too confusing and there was no loyalty. He kept his shot low so the explosion would impact the vehicle, not the men.
The warhead slammed into the jeep somewhere around the right front wheel. The resulting detonation rang in Daud’s ears as the vehicle’s front section became a twisted mass of metal. Knocked upward by the blast, the jeep acted like a wild pony rearing up on its hind legs. Then it slewed violently to the side and
overturned.
Caught off guard, the four soldiers flew from the stricken vehicle and sprawled across the ground. One of them got caught under the rolling jeep and was either grievously injured or dead. Daud didn’t truly care which. There were going to be casualties in war, and he preferred his enemies pay the necessary blood price.
The United Nations peacekeeping forces, as well as the American military reinforcements coming into Somalia, were there to follow their own plans. They would save whom they wished to save, but they wouldn’t save everyone. The job was simply too big.
Daud wasn’t looking for salvation. He was only looking for revenge against the al-Shabaab who had destroyed his family. He intended to kill until he could kill no more.
Pushing himself up, Daud shoved his binoculars into his chest pack and fisted his AK-47. At that moment, the second rocket team launched their attack on the rear vehicle. The second explosion caught the rear jeep almost center and toppled it forward, punching it into the truck only a few feet ahead.
“Let’s go.” Daud swung back to his own pickup. Two men with assault rifles already waited in the back.
Afrah slid behind the wheel and turned the engine over. With a throaty roar, the rear wheels engaged and threw out a rooster tail of dirt and rock as the truck plunged over the low hill and raced toward the convoy.
The first cargo vehicle behind the lead jeep tried to pull out around the wreckage. It rocked unsteadily, and the slow roll told Daud that it was packed full.
“Bring the truck around, Afrah. Quickly.” Daud turned in the seat and shoved the AK-47’s barrel through the open window. Heat from the noonday sun beat into him, and the wind plucked at his clothing and cooled the sweat that slicked his body.
Afrah pulled into a hard turn, grinding the tires into the dry and broken earth. The pickup shuddered and slipped across the terrain, then found a new hold as it veered to match the fleeing truck’s path thirty feet away.
Taking aim at the front tires, Daud took up trigger slack, then loosed a burst of rounds. The bullets tore into the rubber tires and shredded them. Immediately, the vehicle lurched out of control and came to a stop.
“Stop the truck!” Daud slapped the dash to underscore his command. But Afrah was already braking, shoving his foot hard against the pedal and bringing the truck up short.
With athletic grace, Daud threw himself from the vehicle and hit the ground running. He held the AK-47 in both hands as he scouted the soldiers scattered across the ground as well as the ones in the four cargo trucks. He brought himself up twenty feet from the first truck and pulled the assault rifle to his shoulder.
“Everybody get out of the vehicles! Get out of the vehicles and you will not be harmed!”
Evidently the soldier in the lead truck didn’t believe that, or perhaps he was disoriented from the sudden stop. He swung out of the door and tried to raise his rifle to his shoulder.
Daud raised his rifle to cover the soldier, taking aim at the man’s helmet. Not much of the man was exposed above the truck’s hood, only half of his head. Daud stared down the muzzle of the enemy rifle. He knew he was only a heartbeat from death, but he didn’t care. If he died trying to avenge the lives of his wife and son, he would be content with that.
But he would not die easily.
He stood his ground and squeezed the trigger, listening to the harsh cracks of the rounds exploding. Wind from a passing bullet burned his unscarred cheek. His first round skimmed across the hood. The next two caught the UN soldier in the face and punched him backward.
Daud ran forward, covering the truck driver with his weapon. “Get down! Get down!”
Dazed and bleeding from a cut over his left eye, the driver slumped down to his knees and put his hands behind his head. He was at least forty, stocky and resolute, and had obviously been hijacked before.
Three of the soldiers in the first jeep—including the one the vehicle had rolled over—were dead or unconscious. Daud couldn’t see more than that as he trotted past them. The fourth man fought to get to his feet and tried to pull his sidearm.
Daud whipped his rifle’s buttstock into the man’s forehead. The skull held together, but the man’s eyes rolled back and showed white. His legs turned to jelly and he went down in a heap.
On the other side of the truck, Daud looked at the man he’d shot. The bullets had ripped the man’s face to pieces. There was no question about whether he was still a threat. He no longer lived.
Remorse almost touched Daud then, as he considered that the man was only there trying to protect things that were supposed to do good for others. But that was what war was about: the casualties. Only casualties could end a war or convince an enemy that it was time to leave the battlefield.
A white man stumbled from the truck’s cargo area. Bruises showed on his face, and his shirt and pants were ripped, exposing long, bloody scratches. He was ten years younger than Daud, perhaps thirty or so, and lean and tanned, with dark hair and light-colored eyes. Although he was dazed and shaken from his ordeal, he retained the presence of mind to stop where he was and raise his hands.
“Please!” The man spoke English with a Western accent—American, Daud thought. “Please let me help. I’m a doctor.”
Daud shifted the rifle muzzle away from the man and looked down the line of trucks. His men were taking the others without any opposition. He glanced down at the dead man at his feet, then back at the American doctor. “There is no help for this man.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know a dead man when I see one. I have seen plenty of them. Many I have killed myself.”
The doctor paused and swallowed hard. “What about the rest of the people? There are other doctors and nurses and noncombatants in these trucks. If someone is injured, I can help.”
Daud looked over to Usayd. Since joining, the young man had taken it upon himself to act as Daud’s personal bodyguard every chance he had. The attention was starting to irritate Afrah, who had taken on the role of second-in-command within the group. “Usayd.”
“Yes.” The young man handled the AK-47 efficiently. His gaze was intense and serious. The innocence he’d had when he left the people he’d been with had melted away over the last few weeks. He now killed without flinching when there was a need.
“Accompany the doctor.”
Slowly, the doctor lowered his hands. “Thank you. I need to get a medical kit.”
Daud nodded to Usayd. “Let him get the bag. Check it first and make sure there are no weapons inside.”
“It will be done.” Usayd walked forward and pushed on the doctor’s shoulder. “Move.”
Stumbling, the doctor got under way.
Daud watched them go to the rear of the truck and doubled back to the first jeep. The surviving man, now conscious and on his knees, peered up at Daud in helpless frustration.
Afrah stood nearby, watching over Daud’s shoulder. “One of the others still lives.”
Daud examined the other three men. One of them did survive, but only just. Evidently he’d taken a devastating blow, because his right side was staved in. Ribs showed through the bloody mess of his shirt and torn flesh. His breath gurgled, and he tried to move but couldn’t do anything more than twitch his fingers. His open eyes stared skyward, but the man wasn’t really seeing anything.
The doctor hurried back with his bag, stopping only briefly to examine one of the dead men. Then he moved to the wounded one. He breathed some kind of prayer—Daud only heard bits and pieces of it—and reached into the black medical kit he’d brought with him.
Without a word, Afrah drew the large-bladed combat knife strapped to his thigh and walked toward the doctor. The American saw the big man coming toward him and leaned back, obviously thinking that Afrah meant to do him some kind of harm.
Silently, Afrah leaned down and drew the knife across the wounded man’s throat. Bright-red blood pumped out.
Stunned, then jerked into motion, the doctor leaned forward and pressed his hands t
o the gaping wound. “Why did you do that?”
“To ease his passage into the next world.” Afrah cleaned his knife blade on the uniform blouse of one of the dead men.
“I could have saved him.”
Afrah chuckled as he returned his knife to its scabbard. “Out here? Without a proper hospital?” He shook his head. “No. You would have only been wasting your time and the medicines you’re carrying. We are not staying here any longer than we need to.”
The doctor turned and glared at Daud. “Why did you do this?”
“To get what you were transporting.” Daud felt the accusation the man unloaded on him, but he accepted none of it. The people that the Western militaries and the TFG helped were like lottery winners. Those people chose whom they helped, but they couldn’t rescue everyone.
Daud was doing no less. He would not feel guilty about the losses even when he instigated them.
“That’s insane.” The doctor looked like he couldn’t believe it. “You attacked us. Do you even know what we’re carrying?”
“Yes.”
The man hurried on like Daud hadn’t even spoken. “We’re carrying medicines and supplies to groups of people who have been forced out of Mogadishu. We’re on a peaceful mission. There was no reason to kill anyone.”
“This is a war zone.” Even to his own ears, Daud’s voice sounded cold and merciless. “If I could take your caravan so easily, do you not think the al-Shabaab could do the same?”
The doctor gazed down at the dead man. “You shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have done any of this.”
Afrah took a step forward, put a big hand on the doctor’s arm, and shoved him into motion. “Go. This one is beyond your care. Perhaps there are others who can use your help. You only have minutes to get them ready to travel.”
Wordlessly, the doctor turned and walked away. He clutched his medical bag to him like it would protect him.
Daud glanced at Usayd meaningfully. The younger man nodded and tapped his rifle.
