The Hunters

by Tom Young

  In an instant, Hussein uncoiled himself and sprinted. Only his toes and the balls of his feet touched the ground.

  18.

  Low-crawling through the grass, heading back toward the landing zone, Parson cursed the very ground, the entire country of Somalia. Cursed himself as well. Pain radiated from his knees and elbows with every foot of slow progress toward his crew. Dust choked him. The landscape seemed in a perpetual aftermath of plague—pestilence, drought, insects.

  Especially insects. Damned bugs swarmed around him. Something bit him on the side of his jaw.

  “Son of a bitch,” Parson hissed. He swatted at the bug that tormented him. Looked at his hand to see a smashed ant. The kind with wings.

  The fucking ants can fly here, Parson thought, but my ass gets stuck on the ground.

  He flicked the dead ant away, squirmed another aching yard. He wanted to get back to his crew and lead them—by the same painful means—to the relative safety of the creek bed. Parson hadn’t low-crawled this far since his ROTC days. He recalled the sand pit, the barbed wire, the machine gun firing blanks. The red-faced sergeant shouting, “Get your ass flat to the ground, Cadet! You just got killed four times there, college boy. Move, move, move!”

  Low-crawling sucked then, when he was twenty. And it sucked worse now, at more than twice that age. With real bullets this time. He stopped for a moment to check his slow progress on his GPS.

  Every muscle in his legs and arms screamed for him to just get up and run. Parson knew that could amount to suicide. Rounds snapped overhead at irregular intervals. He could not tell their direction. The cracks and zings of their close passage seemed out of sync with the more distant pops of muzzle reports.

  Parson startled when one shot boomed from only yards ahead of him. He recognized the weapon: Chartier’s Magnum pistol. The monster revolver spoke with a heavy voice that put Parson in mind of a thousand-pound chunk of iron thudding from the sky.

  What the hell was Frenchie shooting at?

  Parson needed all his willpower to stay low and not get up to look. He gripped his Beretta in one hand and crawled as quickly as he could. He heard no more pistol rounds; maybe Chartier had just fired a quick potshot to make one of those jihadist bastards keep down.

  But you couldn’t put out much suppressing fire with a revolver. Chances are, Parson realized, the terrorists he’s shooting at have a lot more firepower. Gotta get everybody the hell away from the threat.

  Parson rolled onto his side and pulled the Midland radio from a pocket of his survival vest. Checked to make sure the radio was tuned to channel ten. Turned the volume down low. Pressed the talk button and said, “Hey, Frenchie. You up?”

  Lame-ass radio procedure, Parson thought. Lame-ass situation. No call signs, no AWACS to talk to, no backup.

  And no answer from Chartier. Parson tried again. The radio hissed and popped. Then Chartier’s voice came over the tiny speaker:

  “Oui? Colonel, where are you?”

  “Hey, Frenchie. I’m about thirty yards away from you. I found a creek bed that leads away from here. We gotta low-crawl to it, though.”

  “Good. It’s getting a bit hot here.”

  “What did you just shoot at?”

  “One of the al-Shabaab ran over to our airplane. Then he started toward us, quick like a deer. I fired to hold him off.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Still at the airplane. He fired some rounds in our general direction, but I don’t think he sees us.”

  “All right. I’ll be there in a few minutes. Don’t blow my head off with that hand cannon of yours.”

  Parson hated to think what further damage might be happening to the DC-3, but he could do nothing about that now. Probably didn’t matter, anyway. With the flat tire, the plane was unflyable. Geedi had a spare, but then there were the holes in the aux tank—plus whatever else was wrong. Parson doubted the airplane would ever move again. He’d seen derelict airplanes rusting at remote strips and LZs all over the world, mute monuments to some past disaster. Now he’d left one of his own—and that was the least of his problems.

  He jammed the radio back into his vest and resumed his crawl. Nearer the trees, where Chartier and the others had taken cover, the grass grew taller. That offered enough concealment for Parson to get up on his hands and knees and crawl faster. He found Chartier, Geedi, Gold, and Stewart hunkered in the grass.

  The actress lay sprawled on the ground, her video recorder in one hand. She pointed it at Parson as he scrabbled, gripping his Beretta, into their hide site.

  “Put that away for now,” Parson said. Tried to keep his voice even and not sound angry. He couldn’t blame Stewart for wanting to capture the action; that was why she was here. At the moment, however, he didn’t want sunlight glinting off a camera lens. Stewart turned off the camera and placed it in her pack.

  “You found a way to a safe spot?” the actress asked.

  “I don’t know about that,” Parson said. “But I found a way out of here.”

  “That’s a start,” Gold said.

  Parson handed Chartier the face paint.

  “Put this stuff on, pass it around,” Parson said. “Do anything you can to blend in with the weeds. Do it fast and follow me.”

  Gold pulled her Afghan scarf from around her neck. She wrapped it over her head, left a slit for her eyes, and let the ends of it dangle down her back. That made sense; the scarf broke up the outline of her head and shoulders. The scarf’s green and black color blended somewhat with the vegetation.

  Chartier and Stewart smeared on a few streaks of face paint. Not the actress’s usual experience with makeup, Parson imagined. He watched her apply the camouflage, and he thought how nothing in her background prepared her for this situation. Even trained people made mistakes under fire; what error or breakdown might she introduce? Nothing Parson could do about it now, though. And, ultimately, he bore responsibility for anything she did because he’d let her come along.

  Geedi didn’t bother with the face paint, but he removed his silver-banded watch and placed it in a pocket of his flight suit.

  “I’ll take back that medical ruck if it’s heavy,” Parson told Chartier.

  “Non,” Chartier said. “It is light. I will carry it.”

  Before retreating, Parson couldn’t resist one last look at the airplane. He peeked through the grass. Sure enough, an al-Shabaab gunman, barefoot and skinny, kneeled behind the right main landing gear.

  Get the hell away from my aircraft, Parson thought. Might have been the same kid who’d thrown the grenade; he couldn’t be sure. Parson would have given a month’s Air Force pay for an M-40 rifle with a noise suppressor. Put the crosshairs on that little shit and make the world a safer place. Wouldn’t be the first time a terrorist had fallen to Parson’s marksmanship. But his pistol lacked the necessary range, and a shot would give away his position to all the little shit’s friends. Parson could only turn away and slink through the grass.

  “Follow me,” he said. “Stay low and quiet.”

  Inching along once more, Parson doubted he could keep everybody alive. Evading capture in enemy territory presented a challenge even for a well-trained person traveling alone. For a group of five—one with no training at all—the situation seemed hopeless. Why the hell had he let Carolyn Stewart come along? He wasn’t angry with her; he was angry with himself.

  Another flying ant bit him. Parson slapped and cursed. He looked behind him to see Gold moving elbow over elbow, right on his heels. His face and limbs grew damp with sweat. The last time he and Gold had faced anything like this, the climate had been different. Back then, cold sapped their strength and will. Now heat and humidity did the same.

  “How are they doing back there?” Parson whispered.

  “Geedi’s behind me,” Gold said. She rolled onto her side and looked back. “I don’t see Alain and Ca
rolyn now.”

  Parson supposed Chartier was having to remind the actress to stay flat to the ground. Low-crawling did not come naturally to anyone.

  The situation reminded Parson of another scenario from his training. Back during survival school, in that other world before 9/11, he’d led a team of three other trainees. In the thick underbrush of the Colville National Forest, he could see only the guy behind him. The others could see only the man in front and the man in back. Somehow, the last guy got lost. Parson, a natural navigator, couldn’t imagine how you could get lost if you had a compass and a map. The guy stayed missing the rest of the day. Never made it to the checkpoint. Dumbass hiked to a road and thumbed a ride on a logging truck. Parson got bawled out for losing a man.

  He couldn’t let that happen today. Anyone who got lost would almost surely get killed. Parson paused, rolled onto his side.

  “Sophia,” he whispered, “ask Geedi if he can see Frenchie and Carolyn. I don’t want to get too far ahead of them.”

  “All right,” Gold answered. She twisted to look behind her. Parson heard murmurs, then a long pause. Eventually Gold said, “They’re right in back of us.”

  “Good.”

  After what felt like hours, though it was probably less than twenty minutes, they reached the creek bed. Parson let himself tumble into the serpentine depression. He reentered the creek bed near where he’d been before; he saw his old boot prints. He could not tell when water had last flowed here, but it must have been quite a while. Even at its deepest point, the channel showed no hint of moisture—just grainy pebbles and sand that had washed along during the last monsoon.

  Gold pulled herself through the grass to the lip of the creek bed, and she, too, rolled into the channel. She sat up, brushed dust from her trousers, and shook grass and debris from her scarf. Over her shoulder, she carried her old Army backpack. The backpack bore a faded patch: the purple dragon of the 18th Airborne Corps. She looked at Parson, and despite the tension, she gave that half smile of hers.

  Yeah, I know, Parson thought. Here we go again.

  A moment later, Parson heard Geedi sliding through the grass. Geedi emerged on the creek bank, his face beaded with sweat, flight suit stained with dirt and smeared vegetation. The flight mechanic met Parson’s eyes, shook his head, and scraped his way down the embankment. Geedi sat up, wiped his forehead with his sleeve.

  “Those Wahhabi sons of bitches broke my airplane,” he muttered.

  Parson had never before heard Geedi curse. He liked the direction of the man’s anger; instead of worrying about his own hide, Geedi worried about the job. Too bad his skill as a flight mechanic could do no good now.

  “I’m sorry, man,” Parson said. “We came so close to making it out of here.”

  “You did your best, sir. Al-Shabaab just got lucky.”

  Parson felt a flash of anger that a bunch of ignorant terrorists had endangered his friends and cut off his escape—by simply chucking one damned grenade. He should be droning back to Mogadishu now. He and his crew could have topped off the tanks there and flown back to Djibouti before nightfall. Hit the bar to celebrate pulling off a glorious tactical mission with next to nothing for equipment and support.

  Now they had to survive with next to nothing.

  Chartier and Carolyn Stewart pulled themselves to the creek bed. The Frenchman held his Smith & Wesson in his right hand, and he kept his left on Stewart’s back. He carried the medical ruck slung over one shoulder. Sweat matted his hair, and a hole had ripped open at the elbow of one of his sleeves. Stewart looked a mess—hair tangled, jacket torn and dirty, a bloody scratch across the bridge of her nose. When she and Chartier dropped into the creek bed, Parson saw that the actress had tied the strap of her backpack to her belt. Snipers sometimes carried drag bags that way as they crawled to within firing distance of a target.

  “Hey, that was smart,” Parson whispered, pointing at the backpack.

  “Alain suggested it,” Stewart said.

  “Good move, Frenchie.”

  Chartier paid no attention to the compliment. He held his weapon upraised, hammer cocked, like some Western gunslinger.

  “I thought I heard footsteps a minute ago,” Chartier said.

  Parson had hoped nobody saw him and his crew escape to the creek bed. No such luck, apparently.

  “You guys stay down,” Parson said.

  He raised his pistol and peered above the top of the embankment. He saw nothing but grass blades rustling in the breeze, dry from weeks without rain. Chartier kneeled beside him with the revolver. Despite the reliability of Parson’s Beretta and the large caliber of Chartier’s Smith & Wesson, both weapons were woefully inadequate against terrorists with AKs.

  Parson could think of no better plan than to stay in the creek bed and travel along its length. He had no idea whether that would take his crew closer to Ongondo’s AMISOM troops, but any place seemed better than here. Stray rounds still zipped overhead. Sooner or later the al-Shabaab fighters would catch up and cut down everybody with a burst of fire. No choice but to keep moving.

  “Follow me,” Parson said.

  He stepped around Chartier to lead the way down the creek bed. The dry channel ran roughly west to east. Parson decided to evade in an easterly direction. That would take them nearer to Ras Kamboni. Maybe the AMISOM troops had moved into the village to protect locals.

  As he turned, Parson caught a flicker of movement above the creek bank. Chartier fired twice. The booms sounded so close that it hurt. Ears ringing, Parson pointed his weapon and scanned in the direction where Chartier had aimed.

  “What did you see, Frenchie?” Parson asked.

  “That kid who shot at us. He got up out of the grass and came running.”

  “Did you hit him?”

  “Non. He dropped, but not like he was hurt. He’s really fast.”

  Great, Parson thought. In a better world, that damned kid would be captain of the school track team instead of a pain in my ass. Welcome to fucking Somalia.

  And he’s a smart little son of a bitch, Parson noted. The boy knew enough to make a brief dash and then get down again. The average jihadist moron would have kept running, firing wildly, and caught Frenchie’s half-inch slug in the chest.

  “Can you cover us while I reload?” Chartier asked.

  “You got it,” Parson said. He kept scanning, holding his Beretta with both hands.

  Chartier had fired three rounds from his five-shot revolver. When he pressed the release latch, the heavy cylinder dropped open like a lead ingot on a hinge. Chartier extracted the empty brass and reached into his pocket for more ammo.

  The .500 Magnum cartridges, topped with seven-hundred-grain bullets, put Parson in mind of the bolts on the landing gear of big airplanes. He had killed elk with bullets a quarter of that size. The Frenchman had chosen to arm himself with one of the most powerful handguns commercially available. A hunter could use it as a backup weapon to stop a charge by a Cape buffalo.

  Chartier dropped in three fresh rounds and slammed the cylinder closed. He looked over the edge of the creek bank and raised the weapon once more. Propped himself against the creek bank. He let his elbows dig into the soil to brace his arms for holding the big handgun. At that same moment, Parson thought he saw movement in the grass. Not weeds swaying in the breeze, either. Something else.

  Carolyn Stewart started to raise herself for a better view.

  “Stay down,” Gold whispered.

  Parson touched the first joint of his index finger to the trigger of his Beretta. Kept both eyes open as he scanned over the barrel. He swept right to left, pointing the weapon where he looked, ready to squeeze off a snap shot. Or two, or three, or ten.

  There.

  Among the blades of grass and stems of wilted weeds, Parson made out the unmistakable front sight post of an AK-47.

  Parson aimed int
o the grass and fired double-action. Shooting the pistol in that condition made for a longer trigger pull; with one motion he cycled the hammer to its cocked position and fired. The effort pulled his aim off a bit: The muzzle dipped down and to the right.

  The bullet burned a path through the grass. Parson could not see if his round struck anything except vegetation. Just when he felt the pistol’s recoil, the AK-47 sight post disappeared.

  Chartier held his fire. Wise move by Frenchie, Parson thought. You don’t blast through your ammo, firing for effect, when you have only five shots at a time.

  Parson waited, watched, waited. Where was that little fucker?

  Time stopped. To Parson, the moment felt like an aircraft simulator put on freeze: instruments still showing speed and altitude, but no forward movement. The breeze still rustled, though the world froze on its axis.

  Now that Parson had fired, his weapon’s hammer remained poised in the cocked position. His next shot would require a much lighter trigger pull, and he could fire more accurately. He felt like a hunter expecting a wounded lion to charge out of the grass. No use in running; you could only stand fast and keep firing.

  But instead of a lion’s charge, what came was a fusillade of lead. From an unseen position, the boy terrorist opened up on full auto.

  The 7.62-millimeter bullets tore over Parson’s head. They slammed into the opposite creek bank and churned the soil like an invisible harrow. The passage of that much kinetic energy so near felt like the close strike of lightning bolts, power in its purest expression, raw and formless. The air itself seemed to rip and burn.

  Gold grabbed Stewart’s shirt collar to keep her head low. Geedi stayed hunkered to the ground.

  Parson pumped three rounds in the general direction of the shooter; Chartier fired once: pop, pop pop, WHAM.

  One of the shots must have connected; the storm of bullets from the AK-47 stopped. Parson snapped two more shots toward an enemy he still couldn’t see.