by Tom Young
Wakefulness came with a flood of relief; the bloody fiend was not real. Still, Hussein feared he would have that same dream again. He had seen things he could never unsee.
The bunker door stood half open, and the first hint of dawn grayed the sky. The infidels were gathering their belongings. Were they going to move again?
What they were not doing was preparing any kind of food. They seemed to have nothing to break their fast, and Hussein found that disappointing. Familiar fingers of hunger pulled at his stomach, and he’d assumed the infidels would feed him again. No matter; he had spent most of his days hungry.
When Hussein sat up, the one called Geedi came over to him. Geedi brought a half-filled water bottle.
“Good morning,” Geedi said in a soft voice. “Do you want a drink of water?”
Hussein held out his hand and took the bottle. He tipped the opening to his lips and took a drink. The water had that same awful taste that supposedly kept you from getting sick. He swallowed and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.
“Are we going somewhere?” Hussein asked.
“That is exactly what I want to talk to you about,” Geedi said. “We are going to try to fix our airplane and get out of here. That woman over there,” Geedi added, pointing, “is a famous person in our country. She wants to help you.”
Hussein’s mouth dropped open. He looked at the infidel woman with her hair the color of a rusting shipwreck. This was the famous person the Sheikh had wanted? This red-haired mouse who sat in the corner and said nothing?
“To help me what?” Hussein asked.
“To help give you a new life. A life without all this killing and dying.”
“Why would she do this?”
“She is sorry that you were hurt looking for her. But it is more than that. She tries to help people in poor countries.”
Hussein stared at Geedi and blinked. He might have expected all manner of vile deeds from these gaalos. If they had torn up a Quran in front of him, that would not have surprised him. If they had tortured him to death, that would not have surprised him. If they had tried to make him renounce his faith, that would not have surprised him.
But this? He had believed he remained always one step ahead of them, in thought if not in deed. He had anticipated every possibility, and he was still waiting for them to make a mistake and give him his chance to kill them—except Geedi, perhaps. But he had not for one moment anticipated that they would make an offer like this.
“To give me a new life where?”
“We do not know,” Geedi said. “Not necessarily in America, but possibly. Maybe Europe. Maybe somewhere else in Africa. Anyplace other than Somalia.”
“How can she do this?”
“She is on the board of directors for a refugee organization.”
“A board? What is a board of directors? What is a ref— What is this word?”
“Refugee.”
“What is that?”
“It is you, perhaps.”
“It is an insult word?”
“No, Hussein. It is someone who needs a new life. I would say you qualify.”
Hussein opened his mouth to reply, then stopped himself. He might not possess the gift of reading, but he was no fool. He knew when to stop talking. His first impulse was to tell them all to go to Shaytan, to go to the devil. But this thing—this miracle from Allah—presented opportunities. He could tell them yes and they might trust him, let their guard down. Perhaps give him a chance to get a weapon and let them all meet Shaytan face-to-face. Except for Geedi.
Or, maybe . . . No, this was too much to consider all at once. Hussein could hardly get his mind around the possibilities. Surely this was a time to keep one’s thoughts to oneself.
“Let me think about it,” Hussein said.
“You may not have long to think.”
“Why? Are you leaving today?”
“Perhaps. We do not know.”
“Wait—you cannot. I destroyed your airplane. I kept you from taking to the sky. You can go nowhere. Because of me.” Hussein slapped his chest with his right hand.
“You did a pretty good job, Hussein. I will admit that. You damage airplanes, and I fix them. Perhaps we will see who is better, huh?” Geedi gave Hussein a playful slap on the arm.
Hussein smiled, and he almost laughed. Then he forced the smile from his face. He must not get too friendly with these gaalos. Not even Geedi. He intended to spare Geedi because Geedi treated him with respect. But when the time came, the situation might force him to kill this flying mechanic along with the others.
“I will think about it.”
“Very well. Think quickly, little brother.”
Brother? Had Geedi really said that? This was all very confusing.
Hussein tried to let his thoughts settle down—much the way a flock of pigeons might settle down after a cat has run through them and forced them into the air. Just keep quiet and think, Hussein told himself. Talk about simpler things.
“Do you have any food?” Hussein asked.
“We ate everything Nadif gave us last night. I can see if anyone has a little something left, but I doubt it.”
Geedi turned and began talking to the infidels again. While they spoke, more gunfire clattered from afar, and it set off more talking among the infidels. The one called Parson pointed in the direction of the firefight, and he and Geedi and Shartee spoke for long moments in that sharp-edged language of theirs.
Hussein did not know what to make of what Geedi had said about a new life. A part of him resented having to make such a big decision with so little time to think. If he had not gotten wounded, if this temporary weakness had not placed him at the mercy of these gaalos, he would never have faced such a choice. But fate had put him in a position where he could strike a mighty blow for Allah—or he could travel in directions unforeseen. Even though he was only fourteen, Hussein knew moments like this came rarely. The doors of fate could snap open and shut very quickly.
The conversation among the infidels ended, and Geedi began searching through his backpack. He pawed through the main compartment and did not find what he was looking for. He unzipped little pockets on the outside and looked into them as well. Finally, he pulled something out of one of the pockets and brought it to Hussein. Something small, in a paper wrapper with writing all over it.
“I found some food after all,” Geedi said.
Hussein tore open the wrapper. Praise be to Allah, it was a chocolate bar. He bit off a third of it and began to chew. Saliva flooded his mouth at the first taste of this food of angels.
He had eaten chocolate only two or three times in his life, and this tasted a little different. Maybe not quite as sweet, though certainly very good. But very thick. Hard to chew. A gooey substance stuck to Hussein’s molars, though that was a good thing. It kept him from wolfing the bar, made the treat last longer. Hussein swallowed that first bite, wiped his mouth, and paused before taking another.
“This is different,” Hussein said. “My teeth do not grind it so easily.”
Geedi laughed. “It is a protein bar, Hussein. Maybe you had a Hershey bar before, but yes, this is different.”
“What is this ‘protein bar’?”
“Ah,” Geedi said. He looked up at the ceiling as if trying to find words. “It has more food value than a normal chocolate bar. It is not just candy. I keep them with me when I work, for energy.”
Hussein took another bite, again attacking the thick substance with his back teeth.
“This helps you work harder?” Hussein asked, his mouth still full.
“Perhaps. Sometimes I eat them after I work out.”
“What do you mean, ‘work out’?”
“I lift weights, do push-ups, run.”
“Why do you do this?”
“To make myself stronger, little brother. My i
mam says a healthy body is a gift from Allah. One must take care of it.”
“Your imam tells you this?” Hussein asked.
“Yes, he does.”
“Where is your imam?”
“In a city called Minneapolis.”
“You live in that city?”
“I do, when I am not flying,” Geedi answered. “I have since I was little.”
Hussein stopped chewing and regarded Geedi.
“What is this place like?”
“It is very cold, Hussein. Cold like you have never known. But most people have more than enough to eat. Most people do not worry about getting shot.”
Hussein tried to picture a cold city. He had seen magazine photos of white people in heavy coats, sometimes with white, frozen rain on the ground. He tried to picture a market with so much food. How did they keep people from stampeding to take the food before it ran out? Perhaps because it never ran out? Hussein had so many questions he hardly knew where to begin. But with the searing images of last night’s dream still in his head, he found a starting point.
“Your imam,” Hussein said. “What else does he tell you?”
Geedi pressed his lips together in thought. “Well,” he said, “he tells us to avoid the temptations of alcohol and drugs. He tells us not to miss prayers. And, Hussein, he tells to avoid false teachings by those who use the faith for their own purposes.”
“Has he ever made you do something you did not want to do?”
From the darkened expression on Geedi’s face, Hussein could see that the flying mechanic did not understand the question.
“Like what, Hussein?”
“Like . . .” Hussein paused. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”
Hussein turned his eyes downward. He looked at his bandaged foot. The foot hurt with a strange kind of pain, almost as if the missing toes were still there. If Hussein had not known better, he would have thought he still had his big toe and that he had just stubbed it hard on a rock.
“We will change those bandages again before you have to move,” Geedi said.
Hussein looked up. “How do you know I will go with you at all?” he asked.
“I suppose I do not,” Geedi said. “But you do not have long to decide. Perhaps you will know what to do when the time comes. I hope you choose well, Hussein. You will never get a chance like this again.”
No, I will not, Hussein thought. For that reason, he wanted to keep all his options open for as long as possible.
“Take me with you,” Hussein said.
34.
The heat woke Parson. Following a restless night, he had drifted into sleep after that first burst of gunfire at dawn. Now the air warmed around him as the sun rose, as if the landscape ran a fever.
He sat up, rubbed his eyes, and tugged at the sleeves of his grimy flight suit. Then he just listened—for the sound of gunfire, of aircraft, of explosions.
Nothing. Parson heard only the exhalation of the wind and the squawk of a seabird.
Everyone was awake. Frenchie had the watch. He sat by the door on the overturned bucket, holding the AK-47 like a dove hunter sitting on a field stool with a shotgun. His Smith & Wesson revolver rested in a holster on his survival vest. Geedi kneeled beside Hussein, chattering in Somali. Gold was looking through the medical ruck; Parson supposed she meant to change Hussein’s or Chartier’s bandage. Carolyn Stewart stood near the back of the bunker, brushing her teeth with a toothbrush she must have kept in her pack for emergencies—though she’d probably never imagined an emergency like this. She spat white foam and wiped her mouth with a handkerchief.
Parson wondered if Hussein had decided to take her offer of help, but he didn’t have to wait long for an answer. When Geedi saw Parson awake, the flight mechanic came over.
“Good morning, sir,” Geedi said, keeping his voice low. “He says he wants to go with us.”
That surprised Parson. He’d expected—hoped, even—that the boy would say he wanted nothing from the evil infidels. That would have made Parson’s life a little simpler. He glanced at Hussein. At the moment, Osama Junior didn’t look like a dangerous terrorist; he looked like a clueless, homeless kid. But Parson knew appearances could deceive.
“All right,” Parson said, “we’ll take him with us, then. Once we land—assuming we ever get airborne—he’s Carolyn’s problem. Don’t let your guard down. I still don’t trust that little fucker.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you trust him?” Parson asked.
Geedi sucked in air between his front teeth the way Parson had seen other Somalis do when they were thinking.
“He’s a wild card,” Geedi said. “Who knows what trauma he’s seen? He just said something to me about somebody making him do things he didn’t want to do. I can only imagine what that might have been. Maybe he’s decided he wants to get away from all that.”
“Hmm,” Parson said. “Well, anyway, now that he’s said he wants help, it’s hard not to give it to him. But watch him.”
“I will.”
Parson’s career had required him to make a lot of tough calls, some quickly and under fire—but he’d never anticipated a dilemma quite like this. He hoped this decision didn’t turn out to be one of his worst.
Despite having eaten his fill last night, Parson felt hungry now. His crew had no more food, so he told himself to suck it up and press on. He stood up, found a bottle with about two inches of water left in it. He picked up the bottle and sloshed the liquid inside.
“Anybody thirsty?” he asked.
When no one answered, he turned up the bottle and poured its contents into his mouth. Swished the water around and swallowed it. Picked up his survival vest, which he had taken off during the night, and found the nav/com radio. The earpiece was still plugged into the set. Parson carried the radio to the half-open door for better reception, and he slipped the survival vest over his body armor.
“See or hear anything?” Parson asked Chartier.
“Just a few random shots about an hour ago,” Chartier said. “Since then, rien. Nothing.”
Maybe that was good news, and Parson knew only one way to find out. He placed the earpiece in his ear, turned on the radio, rolled the squelch control until the hiss stopped. Pressed the transmit button.
“Spear Alpha,” he called, “World Relief Airlift.”
No answer.
“Spear Alpha, World Relief Airlift,” Parson repeated. “You up?”
After a long pause, Ongondo answered. “Spear Alpha here,” he said. “Very glad to see you made it through the night.”
“Same to you, friend. Hey, it’s pretty quiet at our location. Do you think it’s safe for us to . . . Ah, do you think we should proceed now as briefed?”
What Parson wanted to ask was whether it was safe to move in the open. But he didn’t want to say it out loud on a nonsecure frequency. Instead, he had to hint at what he wanted to do and hope Ongondo understood. A bit like being a teenager, Parson thought, and trying to ask a girl out on a first date without being too direct. Stakes a little higher this time, though. Parson would have given six months’ pay for a proper military radio, so they could use encryption and stop talking in circles.
“Negative,” Ongondo said. “Negative. We have some eyes to help us. You need to wait for showtime.”
Eyes to help you? Parson wondered. Ah, maybe eyes from that drone I thought I heard back at Nadif’s. Surveillance for an air strike?
For the moment, it didn’t really matter. Ongondo clearly wanted him to stay put for now.
“Copy that, Spear Alpha,” Parson said. “World Relief Airlift out.”
Parson turned off the radio and removed the earpiece. Chartier, who had heard only half the conversation, asked, “What did he say?”
“I think he’s still expecting an air strike,” Parson said. “But whe
n I asked if we could go to the airplane now, he said negative.”
“If he does not want us moving, it probably means the bad guys are moving.”
“Yeah,” Parson said. “I think he might be getting data from that Predator we saw the other day.”
“The aircraft will find them. I would like to show these terrorists a thing or two in my Mirage.”
“I bet you would. Put a hurting on those bastards.”
“Ça, c’est sûr.”
With little to do but bide his time, Parson sat by the door with Chartier and looked out into the trees. A discarded plastic bag tumbled with the breeze until it lifted into the air and caught on a low, stunted branch. The occasional gust whipped grit into the air, and the airborne dirt made Parson squint. So did the sweat running into his eyes as a result of the rising temperature. No animal life moved within the woods, not even a wayward bird.
“I feel like a critter waiting to get sprung from a trap,” Parson told Chartier.
“Moi aussi,” Chartier said. “Me, too. I wonder if my pépère felt this way at Dien Bien Phu.”
“Your granddad was there, too?”
“Oh, yes. And if things had turned out a little differently, I might never have known him.”
Parson had read of the French defeat at Dien Bien Phu, which effectively ended their hold on Indochina—and helped lead to the American entanglement in Vietnam. The French tried to establish a strongpoint near the border with Laos, to cut off Viet Minh supply lines. The Viet Minh would have none of that; they brought up artillery and placed Dien Bien Phu under siege.
“From March until May of 1954,” Chartier said, “that valley was a cauldron. Things got so bad that they asked for volunteers to parachute into the battle to replace soldiers who had died.” Some of those volunteers, Chartier explained, had never jumped from an airplane before. Including his grandfather.
“Damn,” Parson said. “He must have been scared to death.”
