by Margaret Kay
“You speak English?” Elizabeth asked. “I am a Sister, and this is a doctor. We stayed behind because these two boys were too injured to be moved when Al-Shabaab attacked and the others fled.”
The man ignored her. He approached the young boy. He spoke to him in rapid sentences in what Elizabeth recognized as one of the many clan dialects in Somali. The boy replied. The conversation went on for a few minutes. Then the man moved to examine the other boy.
“He lives?”
Doc nodded. “Yes. He’s weak and unconscious, but he lives.”
The officer’s eyes swept between Elizabeth and Doc, who still held his rifle. The two men who had entered the cave with him had their guns trained on Doc. “Guns down,” he told Doc.
Reluctantly, Doc complied. He sat his rifle to the ground, unholstered his two sidearms, and then raised his hands into the air. They hadn’t shot him upon breaching the cave. He hoped that meant something. He wasn’t sure how reliable or trustworthy the regular Somali military was, if that is who they were. He knew there were many factions that had broken from the regular military and acted as warlords over regions. And those factions were criminals.
“Bring them,” the man in the officer’s uniform said, motioning to the two boys.
Elizabeth’s eyes were on Alexander’s looking for direction. He moved in and scooped up the heavier of the two boys. He nodded to the other. “Can you get him okay?”
“Yes,” she said.
She pulled her headscarf into place first and then lifted the little boy from the table. She followed Alexander from the cave, through the clinic, and out into the early morning light, squinting her eyes against its brightness. Three men were carried out of the clinic, bleeding. Doc had shot them.
Doc viewed the village. Four military troop transport trucks lined the road. About two dozen men milled around, weapons in hand. Some were in uniform, or in portions of uniforms, most were not. Even those in uniform looked rough, dirty, unkept. The men who’d entered the cave were the only ones who looked like regular military. A gnawing in the pit of Doc’s stomach warned him that they were in a shitstorm of trouble.
The officer approached Doc. He grabbed his comms, which hung around his neck. “Djibouti?”
Doc nodded.
The officer broke the comms, tearing the wires and smashing what was left. He threw it to the ground. Then he pointed to the back of the lead truck in front of them. “In!”
“These boys might not make it in a truck,” Elizabeth protested.
“Be quiet and do what they say,” Doc corrected her.
“Alexander,” she began to argue.
“Not another word, Sister!” Doc yelled, already moving towards the rear of the truck. These men did not need to know a helicopter was on its way for them.
She froze, an outraged expression on her face. When she saw the serious look on Alexander’s, she suddenly became terrified. She knew of the many factions that broke away from the regular military, but even those factions had always given the Sisters deference. Something about this situation though made Alexander fearful. She accepted that his experience may make him realize things she didn’t.
He nodded to the truck. She followed. He laid the boy to the bench and then he took the little one from her arms and climbed back in. The Somali officer pushed her in, none too gently.
“This is a Sisters of Mercy village,” she told him, watching his face. His expression remained unchanged. He didn’t care.
The three wounded men were loaded in next. “You will treat their injuries,” the officer told them. He sat Doc’s backpack onto the floor in front of them.
“Sister help me with these patients,” Doc said, pulling her deeper within the truck.
She remained quiet; her eyes locked on his. They spent a good half hour treating the wounded men. Only one had a serious wound, a bullet in his abdomen. Doc applied a QuikClot bandage to it. He couldn’t dig the bullet out. He was sure it would kill him. The other two just had flesh wounds. They’d be fine.
The truck filled with men. The officer was the last to get in. He sat near the rear of the truck. Then the truck rolled forward. Elizabeth held the littlest boy tightly in her arms. He was still unconscious. She tried her best to stabilize his broken and splinted limbs.
The truck bumped and lurched over the rocky terrain for well over two hours, picking up speed on the straightaways of the more established roads. Elizabeth was parched and exhausted before the truck pulled to a stop, the others behind it.
The men rose and jumped down. The officer motioned to them to get out. They were the only ones left in the truck.
“Let me get down first, then I’ll help you,” Doc said to her. His voice sounded scratchy.
He moved to the rear of the truck with the boy in his arms. The boy had lost consciousness again, but his sutures held, at least externally. A man stood ready. He took the boy from Doc.
“Be careful with him. He has extensive internal injuries.”
The man nodded.
Doc wasn’t sure if the man understood him or not. Then Doc looked around. They were in front of a large mansion style house. A dozen other buildings were scattered in the compound, that was surrounded by a twelve-foot high fence. He turned and helped Elizabeth down from the truck. She still cradled the smaller boy tightly in her arms. Another man came in and reached for the boy. The man who took the first child was gone.
“We’ve got him,” Doc said, wrapping his arm around Elizabeth and the boy protectively.
One of the pseudo-soldiers pulled Doc away. A second hit him in the gut with the butt of his rifle. Doc groaned out and the rapid expulsion of air from his lungs amplified the sick sound. He doubled over.
“No!” Elizabeth yelled. Another soldier pointed his weapon at Elizabeth. The man took the boy from her arms. She ran to Alexander and wrapped her arms around him. He was still doubled over. “Are you okay?”
Doc tried to speak, but it came out as a grunt. When he stood, he had fire in his eyes. He took a second to catch his breath. “Where are the children? They need medical care!”
“They are no longer your concern,” the officer said.
Doc let out a low growl and went for him, his hands around the man’s throat.
Elizabeth watched in horror as one of the armed men struck Alexander in the head with the butt of his rifle and Alexander crumpled to the ground. She heard a scream, more of a screech, and she realized it had come from her. Her eyes went to the officer, standing smugly in front of her, Alexander’s still form at his feet.
“Please don’t hurt him any further. He’s just trying to protect those children,” she pled.
“Make your friend cooperate and no further harm will come to him,” the officer said. Then he nodded to his men. Two of them lifted and dragged Alexander away. Another man took hold of Elizabeth’s arm and pulled her to follow, towards the house.
The lobby of the home was lavish, wealth unimagined by all the people who sought refuge with the Sisters. She cooperated and walked up the grand staircase, following the men who dragged Alexander. At the top of the stairs the man holding her, released her and walked the length of the hall beside her.
They passed many doors, all closed. In a far corner, one of the men opened a door and motioned her in. She stepped into the room. It was a large bedroom. They dropped Alexander to the wood floor just within and then retreated, closing the door. She heard a lock engage.
Immediately she knelt beside Alexander. There was a laceration on his head where he’d been hit. The blood ran down saturating his t-shirt. She looked around the room. An open door on one of the walls revealed a bathroom. She went within and grabbed the two white washcloths from the stack of towels on the bench. There was a sink, running water. Then she noticed there was a toilet and a bathtub too. This was unheard of wealth for most in Somalia. She wet one of the cloths and rushed back to Alexander.
After cleaning Alexander’s wound with the wet cloth, she grabbed one of the two
pillows from the bed, used the dry washcloth as a bandage and positioned his head on the pillow. Then she sat beside him, said a prayer, and just held him, willing him to wake.
Doc felt pain everywhere as consciousness slowly came to him. He felt a soft caress on his cheek that traveled down his neck, across his shoulder, over his arm, before his hand was held. Then he felt a kiss press to his forehead.
“Alexander, please wake up.”
Through the fog in his head, Doc heard the familiar voice. He struggled to remember where he was and whose voice it was. Slowly, realization dawned on him. He moaned as he fought to fully wake. Elizabeth and the two boys needed his protection.
Bright blue eyes, a sweet young face, and a relieved smile greeted him. He felt the soft caress return to his cheek.
“Thank God you’re awake,” Elizabeth said.
He tried to move, but she placed her hands on his chest, pressing down. “Stay still. You have a head wound. Do you remember what happened?”
Doc raised a hand and felt over his splitting head. Yeah, he remembered all right, he remembered everything. “Yeah. Are you okay?”
“I am. I didn’t try to attack them like you did. But they took the boys. I don’t know where they are.”
Doc glanced around, confused by the surroundings. A well-furnished bedroom was not where he would think they would be. He brought his wrist to his face to view his watch. It was just past zero-nine-thirty. He hadn’t been out that long.
“How bad is my head?”
“Just a superficial laceration, probably a mild concussion. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. What were you thinking, attacking that man?”
He knew she was right, again. “I guess I wasn’t thinking.”
“Please stop attacking them. I need you Alexander and I don’t want to see you hurt anymore.”
He took hold of her hand, which tenderly held his shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll cooperate unless there is a viable opening for escape for us. Do you have any idea who these guys are? What faction?”
“No, but I’m going to assume they split from the regular military, probably a clan militia. This region is full of them, warlords who control different areas. They usually give us Sisters reverence and don’t interfere with our ministry too much. I’m going to assume that is why we are in a bedroom rather than a cell, or worse.”
Doc nodded. The jamboree in his head was quieting. “Help me to sit up.”
Elizabeth protested, but as he pulled himself up, she assisted. He scooted so his back rested against the bed. She readjusted the make-shift bandage on his head. The bleeding had stopped.
Then he looked around the room. He was surprised to see the bathroom against the far wall. He was sure this was the least lavish room in this mansion. Even so, this room was luxurious compared to how the vast majority of Somali’s lived. Just the fact that there was indoor, modern plumbing, and glass windows boasted wealth.
He pulled at the bedcovers. The bed had both a top and a bottom sheet over a real mattress. Yes, the owner of this mansion had great wealth and had visited modern, wealthy cities. He looked up. A ceiling fan circulated the air. Power, a rare commodity in this country.
When he finally felt more stable, he had Elizabeth help him to his feet. He went to the door first.
“It’s locked,” Elizabeth said.
That was what he expected. But he examined it anyway. The doorknob was loose. There was no deadbolt. It must be secured with an exterior lock of some sort, most likely a sliding bolt action lock. He’d have to hear it open or close to be sure.
He looked out of each of the three open windows at the large compound, then the fourth within the bathroom. He saw over fifty armed men, many women, and even children. The women were fully covered wearing garments with long sleeves and headscarves. There were a dozen buildings, dozens of vehicles, even bulldozers and tractors, all within the twelve-foot high barbed wire fence. Interesting.
When he turned back to Elizabeth, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him with pleading eyes. He forced a pleasant expression, trying to ease her worry. “I think we are somewhat safe, for now. If they meant us harm, we’d be in a cell or worse as you said. It’s a thriving village out there, not that it isn’t a militia camp too, the jury is still out on that.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I just wish the boys were with us. I hope they haven’t been harmed.”
“That officer and the boy spoke in the cave. I have to think that boy is one of theirs. That gives me hope those boys are being tended.”
“I hope by someone with some degree of medical knowledge,” Elizabeth voiced.
Echo
Cooper pushed through the doors to the conference room just down the hall from the Operations Center at Camp Lemonnier. Lambchop and the Undertaker were but steps behind, keeping up with the rapid pace he set the second he jumped from the helicopter upon its return to the base.
He locked eyes with Madison. A meaningful nod was exchanged between the husband and wife. It would be noticed by only their team members as a sign of the love they shared. The remainder of the team plus a half-dozen men he didn’t recognize were in the room.
Cooper’s eyes went to the base intel officer who stood at the head of the conference table, the keyboard and mouse in front of him. Then Cooper’s eyes went to the wall-mounted monitor displaying an aerial view of the compound his man, his friend, Doc was brought to.
“Tell me you have good intel on this compound so we can plan the mission to go in and get our man,” Cooper said.
“Good enough,” the intel officer said. He nodded to the four men who lined one side of the table. “Fire Team Green is at your disposal.”
Cooper viewed the men, obvious Operators. Their designation was that of a Navy SEAL assault team. He nodded. “Thanks, we’ll gladly take the assistance.”
Madison took control of the keyboard. She tapped into the Shepherd Security tracker software and isolated Doc’s. She overlaid the compound view with it. Doc’s tracker was stationary in the northwest corner of the main house, an eighty-two-hundred square foot mansion.
“We won’t know what floor of the building Doc is in, until we are on site with a handheld tracker locator, but we plan our mission for all variables,” Cooper said. “Miller, you’ll remain here in the Ops Center. Jackson and Sloan, you’ll be strategically placed in sniper positions here and here,” he said pointing to the two buildings to the north and the west of the target building. We’ll breach the target building at these three points.” He pointed them out. “Take out any and all who see you. We get our man and the Sister and then we retreat to the primary pick up point here.” He pointed out the primary LZ. “Or the backup point.” He pointed that out next. “We’ll go in after dark. Get some sleep and be ready to move out at twenty-thirty.”
The lock bolt slid open loudly on the door. The door swung open. Doc and Elizabeth both came to their feet but didn’t move towards the man in the officer’s uniform they were very familiar with. A man stood behind him, rifle in hand, aimed at them. Doc raised his hands into the air.
Another man entered. He carried a stack of neatly folded clothing. He sat them on the table near the door. A second man brought in a tray with some food and a bottle of water. He sat it on the table beside the clothing. Then they both backed out.
“Bathe and clean up and then dress in the fresh clothing. You have three hours until General Halima returns. I will be back for you then. He will make the decision on what is to be done with you, if you shall live to see tomorrow or not.”
The door closed and Doc heard the lock slide closed. He went to the clothes and held each article up. A beautifully embellished dirac, a regional dress, in blues and purples and a matching dark blue headscarf was on top. Beneath, was a crisp, bright-white, cotton dress shirt, men’s large. On the bottom of the pile were a pair of men’s military dress pants in olive. He held them up. They appeared to be a few sizes too large for him. He found these formal articles
of clothing confusing.
Elizabeth crumpled to the bed. She drew her legs up to her chest and hugged her knees. “General Abdi Ishmael Halima is known as one of the worse butchers in Somalia, even when he was a part of their regular military. He preaches death to non-Muslims but has never come into our region before. I don’t know if he is with Al-Shabaab or Boka Hiram, but there are rumors he helps to fund them and helps to provide safe transport to them. This just went from bad to worse.”
Doc sat beside her and drew her into an embrace. “At least we know who we’re dealing with now. We plan our strategy accordingly.”
“Our strategy?” She demanded. “We are his prisoners.”
