by Tom Young
I must remember this for later, Hussein told himself. If ever I need to throw off someone tracking me, I will take off my shoes and wrap rags around my feet.
A corner of his mind recognized his own spark of intelligence. Another boy, especially in such painful circumstances, would not have observed his own tracks and learned something useful for the future. Perhaps when he grew older he could study in an Islamic school and discover more things he could use. Hussein felt frustrated that he could not read and that he had so much yet to learn.
Did Allah mean for him to know so little? Or did men arrange it so? A mind without knowledge was like a bullet without a target, using all its speed and power in a path toward nothing.
No matter. Soon enough Hussein would gain knowledge. Through acts of strength and glory, like the one he now undertook, he would gain respect. Then no one—not even the leaders of al-Shabaab, not even Abdullahi—could deny him the right to learn.
The more he knew, the more powerful a jihadi he would become. Someday all would know him as a proud warlord, maybe even a leader of Somalis after the war ended. He would pray for wise counsel. He would kill the deserving, but show mercy to the innocent and forgiveness to the penitent. He would wear fine clothes, and on a sash around his waist he would carry a tooray, a traditional Somali dagger with a curved blade. A blacksmith would fashion the ceremonial weapon for him, forming the handle from the horn of a rhino or a Cape buffalo. The smith would inlay gold, silver, and jewels around the handle, and everyone would see that Hussein had been a warrior. These thoughts helped keep his mind off pain, hunger, and thirst as he trudged along the stream channel.
Hussein could take only a few steps at a time before needing to rest for a few minutes. The wound began bleeding a little faster; he could feel the rag grow soggy around his remaining toes. Now those vague tracks left by his right foot carried a spot of blood. He began to feel woozy, but he would not let weakness rob him. He had already won a great victory by stopping the infidels’ airplane. If he could kill or capture them now, especially if one of them was famous, his glory would become all the greater.
“Do not let me pass out,” Hussein whispered. “Let me fight on.”
He took deep breaths, sucked the warm air down into his lungs. A buzzing sounded in his ears, much like the ringing that had stayed with him after shooting many training rounds from his rifle. The ground began to spin beneath Hussein’s feet. He leaned on his weapon and lowered himself onto his left knee. In the process, he twisted his wounded foot just enough to press it harder into the ground—and damn all infidels, the pain flared like kerosene poured on a fire. Hussein clenched his teeth and hissed through them, and he felt sweat stream from his face.
These awful sensations came new and strange. Despite the danger and death that had surrounded Hussein all his short life, he had never before suffered a serious injury. He would have expected the wound to hurt, but not to bring these feelings of sickness.
He resolved to deal with that, too. Though he wanted to pursue his quarry with all the speed he could muster, he would take his time. Sometimes even a lion slowly stalked his prey instead of immediately running it down. If Hussein stopped when he felt sick, he could keep his head clear and still think like a soldier.
In his soldier’s clear mind, Hussein knew he needed a plan. Once he caught up to the infidels, how would he attack? That depended on a lot of things. If he found them in the open, he’d get low to the ground and start shooting. But what if they’d hidden somewhere? Hussein thought a village lay in this direction. Would someone turn kafir and take them in? Hussein doubted that. Why would any Muslim commit such a sin? Still, Hussein decided he should prepare for this unlikely possibility.
If someone hid the infidels, he thought, this hunt would turn into something like the hiding game he used to play with other children in Mogadishu. Except this time, the loser would pay with his life. Maybe several someones, God willing.
If I come to a village and I cannot find them, Hussein told himself, I will check every hut. I will ask the people who live there if they’ve seen gaalos. If they are lying, their eyes will give them away. And I will execute the gaalos and anyone who protects them.
During Hussein’s childhood days—what few that he had—no one could beat him at the hiding game. He would cover his eyes for a few moments and let the other children run away. Then he used different tactics on different playmates.
Mohammed—the laughing boy with one arm—always got nervous. He might disappear down an alleyway and remain perfectly invisible among the trash and rubble. Hussein knew he had only to walk down the alleyway slowly and make noise with his footsteps. No need to look for Mohammed at all. Eventually, Mohammed would get nervous and start to giggle, and give himself away.
Ali—poor dumb Ali—fell for the simplest ruses. If Hussein thought Ali might be anywhere within the sound of his voice, he would just call out, “I see you,” and Ali would come out.
Little Fatima could be the toughest to find. She could curl up under the smallest scrap of tarp and vanish. That was her habit; she liked to get under tarps or the remnants of plastic sheeting. Hussein learned to ignore every other hiding place when looking for her and just lift up each tarp. He won by thinking one step ahead.
And he would win that way now. He would use his wits to make up for his injury. Hussein rested on his knee for a few minutes until his head stopped spinning. The rest cleared his mind but stiffened his wound. The pain in his right foot doubled as he pushed himself back to his feet. More sweat ran down his brow, and this time the sweat was cold. He held his rifle with his right hand and propped the fore-end in the crook of his left elbow. Took another look at the infidels’ tracks, and pressed on.
22.
Nadif’s wife lit a fire in some sort of hearth or cooking pit outside. Parson could not see the hearth from the window, but the scent of wood smoke soon gave way to the aroma of searing meat. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was until he smelled the food, and his mouth began to water.
“Something smells good,” Geedi said.
“It does,” Chartier said.
“Remember,” Parson said, “you guys eat even if you don’t feel like it. God only knows when we can eat again and what you’ll need your strength for before this is over.”
Gold nodded. Carolyn Stewart seemed to pay attention to Parson’s words, but she made little eye contact with anybody and said nothing. Parson wondered why she’d become distracted. Perhaps now that she had time to think, she understood the danger around her.
When Nadif’s wife spread a multicolored mat on the floor of the hut, Parson assumed it was a prayer rug. Geedi set him straight.
“Traditionally, we eat sitting on the floor,” Geedi said. “And don’t expect a fork.”
“Thanks for the info,” Gold said. “Don’t let us do anything rude.”
“They’ll probably put all the food in common platters,” Geedi said. “Somalis usually eat with their hands, maybe with a knife for chunks of meat. Take all the food with your right hand.”
“Good thing we got you as a cruise director, Geedi,” Parson said.
Geedi smiled, and Parson figured his attempt at humor might have done at least a little good. Let people see the commander’s still in control. The remark did nothing for Stewart, though. She did not look up, and Parson realized he’d need to keep a closer eye on her.
He also needed to make contact with somebody on the outside. Parson had kept his radios off to save the batteries, but he decided to try again while waiting to eat.
“Hey, Frenchie,” Parson said. “Can you take the watch while I make a radio call?”
“Oui.”
Chartier rose and took Parson’s place at the window. Parson removed the nav/com radio from his survival vest and tuned it again to the VHF emergency freq. Dug out the earpiece and plugged it into the set, just to make sure no one outside
heard the crackle of transmitted English words. Pressed the talk button.
“Spear Alpha,” Parson whispered. “World Relief Airlift.”
The radio hissed and popped, but no answer came.
“Spear Alpha,” Parson repeated. “World Relief Airlift.”
The voice of Lieutenant Colonel Ongondo came back weak but readable.
“World Relief Airlift, Spear Alpha,” Ongondo said. “Very good to hear you. What is your status?”
The sound of a familiar voice boosted Parson’s morale. He pumped his fist into the air. Everyone else, unable to hear the conversation, looked at him with curiosity. Although the radio contact improved his mood, he knew he and his crew were still in a hell of a lot of trouble. Ongondo didn’t sound anywhere close.
“Spear Alpha,” Parson said, “my aircraft is damaged and unflyable. I’m at a location—”
Parson paused. Better be careful about giving away my position on a nonsecure radio, he thought. No point in transmitting that unless Ongondo could get friendly troops to him quickly.
In Parson’s present circumstances, even asking for help got complicated. On a military mission, he could report his position over nonsecure radios as much as he wanted—because he’d describe that position relative to a SARDOT: a random, fixed, and classified position somewhere in the region. For example, he could say he was two nautical miles from the SARDOT on a bearing of one-six-zero.
Once again, on this civilian mission of mercy, that was one more thing he didn’t have. He felt deprived of his most basic implements, a sailor without sailcloth. The situation reminded him of an ancient tale in which the young champion swordsman must pass a final test by defeating a lion—without his sword.
Except Parson didn’t feel much like a champion. And he sure as hell didn’t feel young.
“Ah, Spear Alpha,” Parson continued. “I’m at a hide site for now. My personnel are accounted for and uninjured.”
The radio hissed for several seconds. Parson could imagine Ongondo taking in that information, considering how it affected the battle space. No doubt, the Kenyan officer didn’t need any more complications.
“You should stay hidden,” Ongondo said. “The situation is fluid right now. We will send help when we can.”
Sounded like he was choosing his words carefully, too, for the same reasons of security. Over the radio, two shots echoed in the background. Parson couldn’t tell whether the rounds were incoming or outgoing.
“By the way,” Parson asked, “were you able to pick up the supplies we brought?”
“We got most of it,” Ongondo said. “Then we had to move.”
“Glad to hear it,” Parson said. “And we’ll stay out of sight. World Relief Airlift out.”
Parson removed the earpiece from his ear and turned off the radio. Gold looked at him and raised her eyebrows.
“What did you find out?” she asked.
“The good news is Ongondo is still out there,” Parson said, “and he hasn’t forgotten us. He got the medical stuff we offloaded, too, so at least we didn’t do this for nothing. The bad news is that he’s tied down somewhere. He couldn’t say where on an open channel. While I was on the radio, did anyone hear two shots?”
“Non,” Chartier said. Everyone else shook their heads.
Parson explained how that told him something: He’d heard the shots over the radio. If no one else heard them, that meant Ongondo’s unit was so far away that even rifle fire was out of hearing range.
“What about air support from Djibouti?” Gold asked. “Can they send a helo to pick us up?”
“I was just thinking that,” Parson said. “You got your sat phone with you?”
“Got it right here.”
Gold opened her backpack and rummaged around. Retrieved her satellite phone and pressed the power button.
“Thanks, Sophia,” Parson said. “Lemme know when it initializes.” The phone would need a few moments to connect with a satellite.
“You think Djibouti will have an aircraft to send for us?” Geedi asked.
“I sure hope so,” Parson said. “But this whole goat rope came down unexpectedly, and I don’t know what aircraft they’ll have available.”
He kept all these things on his mind as Nadif and his wife finished preparing the meal. They brought in a plate of round, flat pieces of bread that looked a lot like the naan bread Parson had seen in Afghanistan.
“That looks good,” Parson said.
“It is,” Geedi said. “We call it sabayaad. I’ll show you how to eat with it when the time comes.”
“Thanks.”
In a better situation, Parson would have seen this dinner as an interesting cultural experience. Gold had taught him to appreciate the customs and habits of people he met on missions around the world. But now he worried mainly about keeping his crew and benefactors safe—and not offending his benefactors in the process.
A few minutes later, the wife entered the hut, carrying a clay pot covered by a metal lid. She set the pot on the floor beside the bread and removed the lid. Steam rose from the food, and Parson saw the pot contained rice with chunks of meat. He smelled a light seasoning he didn’t recognize.
While Gold waited for her satellite phone to connect, she tried to bring Stewart out of her funk. Apparently, Parson wasn’t the only one to notice the actress needed watching.
“Carolyn,” Gold said, “as I recall, this won’t be your first documentary.”
Stewart brushed the hair from her eyes and glanced up. “Ah, no,” she said. “I went to Rwanda in 2014 to interview survivors of the genocide there.”
“Your film was called Truth and Scars, right?”
“Yes. Nominated for an Academy Award,” Stewart said. “Close, but no cigar.”
Parson didn’t know the film, but he knew a little about the subject. In 1994, members of Rwanda’s Hutu majority killed some eight hundred thousand people in only a hundred days. Good on Stewart for not letting people forget, Parson thought. But visiting Rwanda twenty years later was one thing; keeping your shit together in an active combat zone was quite another. Given the mess they now faced, Parson kicked himself for letting her come along. He looked over at Gold and asked, “Is that phone awake yet?”
Gold checked the screen. “Still searching,” she said. Parson nodded, tried not to show impatience. If there was any way possible, he wanted to get a helicopter en route immediately.
Geedi spoke in polite tones with the Somali couple, then translated.
“That’s goat meat in the rice,” he said. “She’s poured ghee over it. That’s melted butter with sorghum meal and a touch of myrtle.”
“Smells wonderful,” Gold said.
“They don’t eat like this all the time,” Geedi said. “I can assure you of that.”
Geedi’s remark reminded Parson of an admonition he’d heard back in survival school. If you’re shot down somewhere and people take you in and feed you, the instructors said, don’t dare complain about the food. Whatever it is, they’re probably giving you the best they have.
The memory made Parson feel even more guilty. By letting the old couple take in his crew and passenger, he’d not only put them in danger; he’d also given them several mouths to feed—a burden they could hardly afford. Parson resolved to relieve them of this burden as soon as possible, by getting out.
He also wondered if he could repay them in some way. He had no cash in his wallet. They’d probably have little use for anything in his survival vest, and he might need those items for himself. Nothing in his flight suit pockets seemed worthwhile as a gift: a dirty handkerchief, two pens, a pocketknife, the folded pages of an outdated weather forecast, keys to his car and truck back in the States.
But then there was the medical bag. Chartier had lugged it all the way from the airplane. What was in that thing?
“Fre
nchie,” Parson said, “can you hand me the med ruck?”
Chartier lifted the medical bag—essentially a tactical backpack filled with first-aid supplies. Parson took it, placed it on the floor, and unzipped it.
He had ordered the bag online, and he’d not looked closely at its contents before. Parson saw it contained more than first-aid supplies; this thing had stuff a trained combat medic might use. He found scissors, a stethoscope, burn dressing, a fluid pack of Lactated Ringer’s solution and an IV needle, forceps, adhesive bandages, splints, latex gloves, and antiseptic cream. No wonder the damned thing had cost more than two hundred bucks.
Parson fished out the scissors, some Band-Aids, two bottles of Advil, and a tube of antibiotic ointment. “Tell them these are a gift,” he told Geedi. “Tell them that medicine is for pain, and we wish we could repay them better.”
“I will,” Geedi said.
Geedi translated, and as Nadif listened, he placed both of his hands together and bowed.
“Alhamdu Lilaahi,” Nadif said.
Geedi smiled.
“What does that mean?” Parson asked.
“Literally,” Geedi said, “it means gratitude to Allah. It’s a way of saying thank you while acknowledging that all blessings ultimately come from Allah.”
“That’s a whole lot of meaning in a couple words,” Parson said.
“Sure is,” Gold said. She glanced down at her phone, frowned, picked it up. “Sat phone’s initialized,” she said. Held out the phone for Parson.
“What’s wrong?” he asked as he took the device.
“I got a low-battery light, but that doesn’t make sense. I charged this thing before we left.”
Parson examined the phone. Sure enough, a tiny red light indicated a weak battery. For a moment, he considered taking the batteries from his radios. Then he remembered the phone took a specially made battery. He ground his teeth and fought the urge to curse.
