by Mel Odom
A number of tents flew to pieces as jeeps tore through from within. Evidently the gunmen had been there long enough to hide their vehicles. The jeeps roared over the dead bodies of the camp dwellers as well as fallen comrades.
A bullet pierced the head of the man working the machine gun and emptied his skull in a rush that threw blood over Daud. The man feeding the ammunition belt to the weapon froze in alarm as the dead body sprawled across him. More bullets ripped through the pickup’s rear window and shattered the glass. Afrah kept the vehicle on course, though, so Daud knew the man still lived.
Dropping his assault rifle, Daud moved across the bouncing pickup bed to the machine gun. He gripped the weapon, found the trigger, and swung the heavy barrel to cover the lead pursuing jeep. “Feed the ammunition!” He kicked out with a leg and knocked the corpse from the other man. “Feed the ammunition or I will kill you myself!”
The man worked the belts, keeping them coming quickly from the containers as Daud fired long bursts. It took him a moment to find the range, but when he did, he pelted the jeep unmercifully. The rounds cored through the radiator and chopped into the hood. Some of them skimmed across the flat surface and tore into the men inside the vehicle.
The driver’s head vanished in a crimson burst, and the jeep lurched out of control and smacked into another pursuer. The two vehicles jockeyed back and forth for a moment, until the driverless jeep hit a rocky outcrop that caused it to overturn on the other vehicle. Both of them became hopelessly tangled.
Daud fired into the wrecked vehicles repeatedly, managing to stay on target despite the way the pickup beneath him jounced across the terrain. Just as Afrah swung the wheel hard to take a sudden turn back onto the trail they’d followed to the camp, the two jeeps blew up. Daud didn’t know if the explosion was caused by the bullets creating sparks that ignited the fuel or if one of the men onboard had dropped a grenade. Either way, a sudden fireball enveloped both jeeps in a roil of orange flames and black smoke.
Tracking immediately, Daud lowered the gunsights over another pursuing jeep and squeezed the trigger. Brass spilled out of the machine gun in a sun-kissed torrent. A few of the superheated casings brushed his cheek but he ignored them, focusing on his enemies. He kept seeing the blood that had spilled from beneath Kufow’s body armor, and he cursed himself for not making the boy stay inside the pickup. Kufow would have been safer there.
A rocket warhead landed just ahead of them, and Afrah swerved to miss the crater it left as the horrendous boom! echoed around them. Daud hung on to the machine gun grimly as the pickup swayed and skipped across the ground, momentarily losing traction. Then the vehicle settled down again and ran flat out.
“Rageh!” Afrah shouted through the open window and slapped his hand against the door. “Over here! On this side! Quickly!”
Daud swung the machine gun around to face the newest threat.
Another al-Shabaab jeep, this one driven by men wearing the red-and-white-checked keffiyehs, swooped in from the left. Just as Daud laid eyes on them, the machine gunner mounted on their rear deck opened fire. Bullets cut the air around Daud’s head, skimmed over the top of the cab, and thudded into the side of the pickup bed. One of them punched through the bed and hammered into the machine gun feeder’s chest, bursting it in an arterial spray.
Focused on his enemy, Daud swayed and bent his knees, locking himself in behind the machine gun. He aimed low and opened fire, slightly leading the jeep at first, then inching back. The 7.62mm rounds chopped into the jeep’s front-passenger tire, then steadily climbed upward, knocking holes in the jeep’s body and exploding the windshield.
The tire shredded by the machine gun bullets came apart, and the metal rim dug into the ground. When the rim caught the ground firmly enough, the jeep’s momentum flipped the vehicle over, pancaking it onto the unforgiving ground. A couple men flew free, but the rest were buried beneath the wrecked vehicle that suddenly went up in flames. One of the men staggered to his feet. Daud took aim and fired through the remainder of the ammunition belt loaded into the weapon. The rounds struck the al-Shabaab man and knocked him backward.
Dropping to the pickup bed, Daud shoved the dead man aside and opened another ammunition box. He hauled out the heavy belt and loaded it into the machine gun, slamming down the receiver and working the first round into position.
Breathing rapidly, Daud glanced at the boy through the shattered back window and saw that Kufow remained curled up on the floorboard. Blood covered the boy’s side and pooled on the dirty floor. Daud cursed, then turned his attention to the countryside.
A thick cloud of dust hung behind them, and the whining roar of the pickup engine filled his ears. Through the dust, he barely made out the other trucks racing after them. He almost pulled the trigger to fire on them before he realized they were part of his group.
One other al-Shabaab vehicle trailed them, but it quickly gave up the chase when bullets caromed off its front end. A moment later, one of Daud’s men—probably one of his father’s old crew—got off a shot with an RPG-7, and the rocket turned the pursuing pickup into a bonfire that rolled listlessly across the ground.
Satisfied they were no longer in immediate danger, Daud threw a leg over the side of the pickup bed and stepped down onto the running board. He swung the door open just enough to crawl inside. Daud unbuckled the body armor from the boy’s thin body, then cut off the boy’s shirt with a knife. Gently, he picked up the boy and held him, pressing his hands against the boy’s wounds.
There was one in front and one in back, proof that the round had gone through. Thankfully the bullet had been a small round, a 5.56mm instead of the larger 7.62mm. The exit was much larger than the entry.
Kufow breathed raggedly and was barely conscious, a result of shock.
Afrah looked at Daud. “How is the boy?”
“Alive. As soon as we can, we need to stop so I can tend to his wounds.”
Afrah nodded.
Daud held the boy and whispered over and over into his ear. “Stay with me. You will be all right. Just stay with me.”
But he knew not to put any faith in such words. He had told Ibrahim the same thing up until the moment his son had died.
An hour later, they pulled off the trail and followed a creek bed that had gone dry months ago. The earth was baked hard and withstood even the heavy weight of the larger cargo trucks.
Carrying the boy in his arms, Daud found shade under a small copse of trees, then had Afrah add to it by draping a cargo tarp over the trees to extend and complete the shade.
“Get some antiseptic from the trucks, Afrah.”
Kufow looked at Daud, and fear shined sharply in the boy’s dark eyes. He panted like a dog in the heat. “Am I going to die?”
Daud shook his head even though he didn’t know the answer to that. “No. I will not let you die.” Not again.
“May I have some water?”
“Not yet.” Daud couldn’t let the boy have water until he knew the extent of the injuries, and there was no way he would know how badly Kufow had been torn up internally.
“I am so thirsty.”
“I know. Be strong.”
When Afrah brought the antiseptic back, along with a painkiller and a bundle of sterile wipes, Daud injected the boy, waited till the anesthetic took hold, then tenderly cleaned both wounds. By the time he’d finished, the boy was asleep. That worried him because Ibrahim had slipped away in his sleep—gone between breaths. But the boy’s breath and heartbeat remained strong enough.
Drenched in sweat, almost numb from the emotions swirling around inside him, Daud sat back. “I will need a needle and surgical thread.”
Afrah went to get those things and returned.
When Daud had been a boy, his father had taught him how to sew up wounds and bandage men. On four different occasions, Daud had sewn up his father, and there had been dozens of other instances with the men. Afrah had worn stitches Daud had put in at least three times. Once, Daud had sewn up
his own leg to prove to his father that he was a man. He was nine, and the wound had come from the knife of a man who had tried to kill him. His father had killed the man.
Slowly, Daud inserted the needle and pulled it through the flesh. He cut the string, then pulled the flesh together and tied off the stitch. Over and over he did this, putting six in the boy’s back and thirty-two in his stomach just over his hip bone to stop the bleeding. When he finished, there was only a little blood.
“Did the bullet miss his organs?” Afrah had watched the whole process in silence.
“I do not know.” Daud put the needle away, and only then did his hands begin to shake.
“Then the boy’s fate is in the hands of God.”
“No.” Daud shook his head. “His fate is in my hands. I do not trust God. God has not cared about me. He has not cared about this boy. I am all that he has.”
“Then what are you going to do? There could be something badly wrong with him, and you would not know until he was dead. In this heat, under these conditions, infection can easily set in.”
Daud knew that. If all the boy’s organs were in good shape, the risk of infection was the next greatest threat.
“We need to take him to a doctor.” Daud took the map from his pocket. “There is an IDP camp on this route that is supposed to have medical personnel. We will go there.”
Afrah was quiet for a moment. “If we go there, Rageh, we run the risk of being recognized.”
“Among the crowds of sick and wounded people, we will not be noticed.” Daud put the map away. “We will succeed at this, Afrah. I will not allow anything less.”
30
KORFA HAROUN STOOD atop the old stone fort that an archaeologist had told him dated back to the sixteenth century. The archaeologist, an Englishman who traded in illegally obtained antiquities, had been excited when Haroun had invited him and his crew out to the place.
According to the Englishman, the fort had probably been built by Muslim warriors during the wars with the Abyssinian Christians from what was now known as Ethiopia. The fort had been picked over in the intervening centuries, and no treasure remained.
But that wasn’t what Haroun had told the man. The Englishman had been convinced that Haroun wanted to divest himself of some rare antiquities. Haroun had salted the man’s interest by purchasing other antiquities and passing them off as items he had discovered himself. The man had been greedy enough to immediately believe the story.
All Haroun had wanted was the Englishman’s client list. The bodies of the Englishman and his retinue had been left out in the parched land, and jackals had feasted on them.
Since that time, Haroun had used the fort as a retreat when things became too dangerous in Mogadishu, as they had been since the al-Shabaab had withdrawn from the city. From that place of protection, he and his men could strike as they wished.
The structure sat on a low hill that provided a 360-degree view of the surrounding land. No one could approach them without being seen, and the wall around the fort—over twelve feet tall and three feet thick—was largely intact. Only a few breaches existed, and those he had ordered packed with rubble to forestall attempts by nomads or anyone else to gain entry.
A covered tunnel ran from the outer wall to an inner wall, providing access to a courtyard only through two points of entry. This inner courtyard held a large main building and two smaller ones. Haroun and his men slept in the three-story main building and used the smaller ones as a storehouse and as a confinement area for the prisoners and women they sometimes took.
Water was not a problem at the fort due to the artesian well that had never gone dry despite the worst summers Haroun had seen. The old engineers had found good water, and their construction had been magnificent.
Eleven years ago, when Haroun found the fort, a group of nomads had laid claim to the place. Their bodies had been the first Haroun had ordered dumped out onto the land. Since that time, and even since the time of the English archaeologist, several bodies had been added to that number.
He knelt on his prayer rug and asked for continued success against the nonbelievers and his enemies. Islam demanded obedience, and he would not be remiss by breaking those tenets in front of his men. When he was finished, he pulled the rug over his shoulder and walked through the courtyard. New “temporary” brides awaited him inside, and he had an appetite for them.
He would have gone to the women had he not been troubled. Of late, food and other materials had become an issue. The constant raiding by the scar-faced man plagued him. Haroun didn’t know the man’s reason for doing what he did, and he didn’t care to know it. He only wanted to know the date of the man’s death—the sooner the better.
As he crossed the courtyard, Haroun heard the sound of engines and paused where he was to look at the east gate in the inner wall. The huge wooden gates swung open as the guards pulled them back.
Haroun knew that whoever approached did so because they were allowed. But his hand snaked under his jellabiya to close around the butt of the American Colt 45 revolver he’d taken from another unfortunate business partner who had considered himself a cowboy. His bones, too, bleached in the sun not far away.
Three jeeps sped into the courtyard and came to a stop in a cloud of dust. The men got out, many of them wearing bloodstained clothing, but there were far fewer of them than there should have been, and five of the jeeps were missing.
Qaim, the fierce man with the hawk nose who had been head of Haroun’s warriors for the last eight years, approached. The blood on his clothing didn’t appear to be his own because he walked easily over to join Haroun.
“Things did not go as we had wished.” Sand and dust threaded through his beard and mustache and made him look older than he was. His lean face and high cheekbones made his appearance stark.
“What happened?”
“The burn-faced man escaped us.”
Anger flared through Haroun. He was tired of this man and his games. No one should have been able to take so much, dare so often, and yet live so long. “How did such a thing occur?”
“The boy with him spotted one of my men before we sprung the trap. The burn-faced man and his compatriots did not enter the camp as we had hoped.”
“You pursued?”
“We did, and we lost several vehicles in doing so.”
Haroun turned to walk away because he did not want to lose self-control in front of his men or demean Qaim in any way. The man was too valuable to him, too savvy in combat, and too willing to kill. The burn-faced man had gotten away. The man had luck on his side. But only for the moment. Haroun knew that he served the will of God, and that would triumph in the end.
“There is something else that might aid us in seeking this burn-faced man.”
Haroun paused. “What?”
“I recognized the boy who was with this man.”
“Who was he?”
“Do you remember the camp where we killed all the people who lived there and left the boy beneath their bodies hanging in the trees?”
Haroun did remember. That had been the first time he had been so inspired to strike fear into the heart of an enemy. Unfortunately, this was the first time he’d had an enemy so tenacious as this man Daud.
“I remember the boy.”
“The burn-faced man had the boy with him. He knows we are hunting him.”
“I intended that he know it.” Haroun understood that fear could also make the man more wary. “What good does it do to know the boy was there?”
“The boy was badly wounded. I saw him go down, and I saw the blood cover him. During that battle, with his life in the balance, the burn-faced man picked up the boy from the ground and placed him within the vehicle they escaped in.”
“The boy was not dead?”
“He was not then. But his wound was bad. He may have died shortly thereafter.” Qaim licked his chapped lips. “I was thinking, however, that if the boy still lives, the burn-faced man might seek out medical attention fo
r him. There are not many places nearby where he can hope to find help for a bullet wound.”
Haroun knew what Qaim referred to then. “The camp where the Marines have brought in fresh supplies and medical staff.” That place waited like a fat prize. He had lusted after it as well, wishing not only to steal everything of value, but also to crush the foothold the Westerners had made in helping the displaced people there.
Too many of those people were nomads and might discover Haroun’s operation and where the fort was. And the camp was growing, its threat increasing.
“This man might take the boy there.” Haroun pulled at his beard.
“So I was thinking.”
“Alert our people there. Let them know to watch for this boy and that burn-faced man.”
Qaim bowed his head and hurried away.
Haroun continued his walk toward the main building, and his appetite for his new brides increased as he considered his coming success.
31
BEKAH SAT IN THE DARKNESS away from the campfire with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had divided her day between patrol and helping out in the medical ward. Although she hadn’t wanted it to, her attention kept drifting to that grave on the low hill not so distant from the camp. She couldn’t help thinking of the small body lying within the earth.
She wanted to be home. She wanted to be in Granny’s kitchen and listening to Travis ask her question after question. In all her life, she’d never known anyone who could ask as many questions as her boy. She didn’t think she’d ever been so curious at his age. Granny always insisted she’d been a handful, though.
She spooned up more rice and beans and thought about how much better Granny’s tasted than what she was eating now. The conversation had always been better back home too, and there had been the special nights she and Granny had watched The Amazing Race or old Perry Mason reruns. Bekah missed those moments terribly as she thought about that little grave.
