True Believer

by Carr, Jack

  His heart sank when he saw Gona leaning over Solomon, who was covered in blood. Reece unzipped the wounded man’s olive jumpsuit and quickly identified two bullet wounds, one to the upper chest and one to the abdomen. He gently rolled him over and determined that there was an exit wound on his back from the chest wound, but not one from the abdominal hit. Solomon was conscious but obviously struggling to breathe.

  “Gona, run back to the truck and get the aid kit. The red bag, hurry!”

  Gona took off at a dead run toward the truck as Reece tried to calm his wounded friend.

  “You’re gonna be fine, buddy. We’ll get you to a doctor.”

  Reece grabbed the Motorola and turned the volume up before keying the mic. “Base, this is James, over!” Nothing. “Base, this is James. Solomon has been shot. I say again, Solomon has been shot, over!” No response. “Breathe, buddy, relax and breathe.”

  Solomon’s eyes were wide as he struggled for breath. Reece knew that he needed to get the wound sealed up fast. On a deployment, he would have had the tools to provide immediate aid with a blowout kit secured to his gear, but here he had to wait for Gona to return with the bag, wasting precious seconds. Rifle in hand, Reece rose to a squat to peek above the low brush where Solomon was lying and confirmed that the clearing was still devoid of life. He heard movement behind him and spun his muzzle around to see Gona sprinting through the brush with the aid bag, dropping it at Reece’s feet. Reece handed him the rifle; Gona couldn’t drive but he was good with a gun. Without saying a word, the man took off at a jog, skirting the woods on the right side of the clearing to locate the two surviving poachers.

  “Stay with me, Solomon. This is going to help you breathe.”

  Reece unzipped the aid bag and dug around until he found an Asherman Chest Seal. He wiped Solomon’s chest with a gauze pad before tearing open the package and placing the adhesive seal on his chest. He rolled his tracker and repeated the process on the exit wound. Reece found a 2.5-inch needle and laid it on top of the Asherman on Solomon’s chest. Then, locating a spot above the wound, between the first and second rib, Reece held his left finger on the spot and, with the needle held in his right fist, stabbed it into the chest cavity. He heard a hissing sound and watched with relief as Solomon was able to take a breath. When the hissing stopped, he removed the needle and laid it back on the bandage.

  The breathing situation handled for now, Reece searched the bag until he found a large dressing. There was a small section of bowel herniating out of the abdominal wound that needed to be addressed. Reece used his fingers to spread the wound and moved the abdomen from side to side as he gently eased the exposed intestine back inside. The wound wasn’t bleeding much, so Reece was hopeful that the bullet hadn’t hit the liver. He covered it with the large dressing and wrapped the attached Ace-style bandage around Solomon’s body until the dressing was secure.

  “How’s your breathing?” Reece asked.

  “Water, Shamwari. I must have water.”

  Reece knew that putting fluid into the man’s body could blow out any clots that were forming on his abdominal wound.

  “I can’t give you water right now. We’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

  Reece tried the radio again, without success. Damn it.

  The closest medical facility was the clinic at Montepuez. They were two hours from the clinic and two hours from the airstrip at base camp. With solid comms, Reece could call back to the camp manager and have a MARS flight on its way to meet them, but, as it was, he couldn’t be certain that taking Solomon back to base wouldn’t add hours before treatment. Reece speculated that Solomon would survive the two-hour ride to the hospital, but he wasn’t sure that he’d survive waiting around for a plane that might take all day to arrive. With Gona unable to drive, Reece would have to deliver him to the hospital, which meant he’d be seen. Gunshot wounds meant police, and police meant questions. Still, there wasn’t even a choice; Solomon was a good man. They’d become teammates, and Reece wasn’t going to let one of his men die to protect his cover.

  He whistled to Gona, and they prepared Solomon for travel.

  CHAPTER 29

  BLOWING THROUGH SMALL VILLAGES and towns with Solomon slowly bleeding out in the back of the Land Cruiser, Reece did his best to avoid major bumps that would cause his wounded teammate any additional suffering, but he was also more than aware of the “golden hour” and that time waits for no one, least of all someone with a gunshot wound to the chest.

  Reece sped around women carrying goods on their heads, boys in donkey carts made from old cars and pickup trucks, and the occasional automobile. He certainly wasn’t winning any hearts and minds. He didn’t dwell on the men he’d just killed in the African bush. He was back in operator mode, doing what he did best. He was protecting his team, and to Reece, that was as natural as breathing.

  No more than a gas station with a few small stores, the tiny enclave of Montepuez was also home to a small medical clinic. It was located adjacent to an old Portuguese mission, the stone walls still dotted with bullet strikes from the civil war decades earlier.

  Reece pulled the Cruiser to a stop in front of the building and sprinted through the front doors. A queue of locals, mostly elderly men and women and mothers holding their children, waited in the room that served as the lobby. Rushing past the line and ignoring the young female aid worker who tried to block his path, he ran through a hallway that opened into a large room filled with two dozen mosquito-netted cots where a tall white man in scrubs with a stethoscope was attending to a patient.

  “Are you the doctor? I need your help right now.”

  The man turned and faced him, unfazed by his sense of urgency.

  “You’ll have to wait your turn, sir,” he said with an obvious British accent. “There are a great number of people here that need our help.”

  “I have a critical patient. Gunshot wound to the chest, he’s bleeding out in the back of my truck!”

  The doctor’s demeanor shifted instantly. “Drop everything and let’s get this man in here right now,” he ordered his staffers.

  Reece led the way back out front as the doctor and four other individuals in scrubs followed him carrying an old-fashioned canvas stretcher. They placed the stretcher on the open tailgate and eased Solomon onto it, Gona looking over their shoulders like a worried father.

  Reece kept pace with the physician as they made their way back inside.

  “He’s got a 7.62 round through the chest that exited and a second round to the abdomen that’s still in there. I put an Asherman on his chest and dressed the abdominal wound. The bowel was herniated, so I tucked it back in. He hasn’t had any fluids.”

  “How long ago was he shot?”

  Reece glanced at the watch on his wrist. “Just over two hours ago.”

  “You’ve done well. Now I need you to step aside while we get him ready for surgery.”

  The medical team carried Solomon into a smaller room, where they placed him on a table and began to examine him. Someone closed a curtain to block Reece’s view, signaling it was time to let the professionals take over.

  Leaving the clinic, Reece looked up at Gona staring down at him from the truck’s bed. “I think he’s going to make it. We got him here in time.”

  Gona nodded and sat down on the tailgate. Reece sat next to him, waiting in silence.

  • • •

  Reece was asleep in the bed of the truck, his legs dangling from the tailgate, when he felt someone grab his leg.

  “Sir, excuse me, sir. Your friend, your friend is going to survive.”

  “Huh?” Reece bolted upright and found the British physician standing by the truck.

  “Your friend’s doing better. He’s stable, and the prognosis is optimistic. Barring any infection, he will be ready to move tomorrow. We should arrange to get him to a hospital, where he can receive more advanced care.”

  “Great. Can I see him?”

  “Certainly. He will be groggy from the
anesthesia, but you can visit with him.”

  “Thank you so much, Doctor. I can’t thank you enough for saving his life.” Reece shook the physician’s hand.

  “You saved his life, Mr.———”

  “Bucklew, Phil Bucklew,” Reece said, conjuring up a name from the past. He trusted the team at Hastings’s concession but not an unfamiliar European working in a medical clinic.

  “Where did you receive your training, Mr. Bucklew? Clearly this isn’t your first time treating a gunshot wound.”

  “I was a medic in the army.”

  “The U.S. Army?”

  “Canadian.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, you may see your mate now.”

  Reece headed for the door and looked back at Gona, who sat timidly on the truck’s roof. He waved for Gona to follow him and went inside.

  Solomon was lying on a cot on top of a metal table, his chest and abdomen wrapped in bandages. An IV ran to his arm and an oxygen line wrapped below his nostrils. His face had a grayish hue and his ordinarily fit body hung limp. Reece stood by his side and put his hand on the man’s forearm. Gona entered the room slowly and stood in the corner, clearly uncomfortable.

  “It’s okay, Gona, doctor says he’ll make it. We’ll get him moved to a hospital and he’ll be back on his feet in no time.”

  Gona nodded, concerned for his close friend, but reassured by Reece’s words.

  Reece didn’t want Solomon to wake up alone, but he also knew that he needed to coordinate his transfer to a more advanced medical facility. They were out of radio range, so he decided it was best to head back to camp to get the ball rolling on the medevac. He took the cap from his head and placed it on the cot next to his tracker. Patting him on the arm, Reece headed out the door. Gona leaned close to Solomon’s ear and spoke to him in Shona before following.

  Reece found the doctor attending to a baby in her mother’s arms.

  “Hey, Doc, we’re going to head back to Rich Hastings’s camp and arrange to have him transported to a hospital. Where does he need to go?”

  “Well, if you have the funds, I would highly recommend getting him to Johannesburg or the private clinic in Pemba. There’s an airstrip three kilometers from here; we have an ambulance that can transport him there for the flight. The nurse in the lobby can give you a card with our phone number and you can call us from the camp to coordinate.”

  “Thanks, Doc.”

  “There’s one more thing, Mr. Bucklew, is it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “We run on a shoestring budget here, Mr. Bucklew. We are happy to help your friend, but we are perilously low on resources. A donation would be quite helpful.”

  “Understood. I’ll talk to Mr. Hastings about it.”

  “Very kind of you, Mr. Bucklew.”

  • • •

  The camp had received a broken transmission from Reece just after Solomon was shot. The game scouts were sent to investigate and found the elephant carcass along with the two dead poachers. They also found the wrapper for the chest seal and bandages but weren’t sure whether someone on Reece’s team was wounded or if he had wounded and then treated a third poacher. As soon as Reece was back in radio range, he heard Hastings frantically calling for him on their main channel.

  “Go for Reece.”

  “James, what’s going on? What’s your status, over?”

  “We encountered a group of elephant poachers and were compromised. Two enemy KIA and two squirters. Solomon was hit, but he’s stable at the clinic. Need you to arrange moving him to a real hospital, over.”

  “Roger that, James. Confirm that he is stable and at the clinic at Montepuez, over.”

  “Affirmative.”

  “We will get to work on that immediately. You headed back to camp, over?”

  “Roger that, I’m an hour out.”

  Hastings and his team worked quickly and efficiently. Every man on the team, black or white, was seen as part of the family and no expense or effort would be spared to ensure Solomon’s survival and recovery. The pilot, still waiting for a commercial flight to arrive in Pemba, was dispatched to Montepuez to pick up their wounded man. As soon as he was airborne, Hastings called the clinic to let them know that the plane was on its way. Solomon was loaded into the clinic’s humble ambulance and transported the short distance to the airstrip. Within three hours of Reece’s radio call, Solomon was being treated at the private hospital in Pemba.

  CHAPTER 30

  Tirana, Albania

  May

  AMIN NAWAZ SLID HIS aging fingers from one prayer bead to the next as he recited the Dhikr. This was his third location in as many nights, which is how he had lived into his fiftieth year, an old man in a profession where men died young.

  La ilaha illa’llah

  There is no god but God.

  To an outsider it would look like contemplation or meditation, which in a sense it was. In what had become a lifetime of war, the Dhikr had been a constant. An escape. The one place Nawaz found peace. The one place I can go to remember.

  The war against the West had entered a new phase. Nawaz had been at it long enough to recognize that. Today he was having a tougher time concentrating than usual. His collaboration with the Russian, a man exiled from the country that Nawaz had traveled so far to defeat in the Afghanistan of the 1980s, was a necessary evil. This time of war, terror, and treachery made for more than a few strange bedfellows, just as it had decades earlier when the United States and Saudi Arabia had collaborated to fund the mujahideen with money and weapons to turn against their common enemy. Little did they know they were sowing the seeds of a new battle in an ancient war.

  Nawaz was nothing if not a pragmatist. The Americans had been very successful in shutting down the flow of money that had once run so freely through Saudi Arabia. If the former Russian GRU colonel wanted to finance the al-Qaeda operation in Europe, so be it. That he understood hawala from his time in the waning days of the Soviets’ misadventure in Afghanistan allowed them to conduct business off the radar of the NSA, whose analysts fought their war with algorithms from climate-controlled offices in Fort Meade, Maryland. Nawaz would use the Russian until his usefulness expired. Then he would kill him.

  astaġfirū llāh

  I seek forgiveness from Allah.

  Performing the Dhikr never failed to transport Nawaz back to the humble home in the Kingdom he had shared with his mother, father, and two sisters. With the glow of an early morning dawn just beginning to illuminate his bedroom window, he had felt a presence. At first he had been startled, thinking it was a messenger of Allah, but then he smiled when he recognized the familiar shape of his father. His eyes were closed and he had rested his hand on his son’s head. His lips were moving, yet only slightly, and the young Nawaz strained to hear his words.

  Laa ilaaha illal laahu wahdahoo laa sharikalahoo lahul mulku wa lahul hamdu wa huwa ‘alaa kulli shai’in qadeer

  There is No God But Allah Alone, who has no partner. His is the dominion and His is the praise, and He is Able to do all things.

  His father slowly removed his hand from his son’s head and pressed a set of beads into Amin’s smaller hand. Then, like an apparition you convince yourself didn’t exist, his father was gone. Amin was puzzled, as his father had never visited him in the night. He rubbed the beads of the misbaha between his fingers as he had seen his father do many times. The prayer beads symbolizing the ninety-nine names of Allah were never far from his father’s grasp. The young boy curled back into a ball to ward off the early morning chill, the beads clutched tightly against his chest.

  The date was indelibly etched into his mind: November 20, 1979. A lifetime later Nawaz recognized his father’s visit for what it was: a good-bye given in the way of one who is not coming back.

  bi-smi llāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm

  In the name of God, the gracious, the merciful.

  Had the West known the chain of events that would be set in motion that early November morning, they might
not have sent the GIGN French commandos to help quell the two-week seizure of the Grand Mosque in Mecca. They might not have killed more than two hundred of the devoted rebels who had seized it, or publicly beheaded sixty-seven of the captured Wahhabist insurgents in the weeks that followed. The House of Saud might not have capitulated to the terrorists’ demands and reversed their progressive policies, adding fuel to the tactic of terror.

  Amin Nawaz was not the only one who lost a father that day. The Muslim clerics recognized this pool of new recruits, young fertile minds primed for indoctrination and ready to do battle with the West. The principles of Islam would guide them. Experience on the battlefield of Afghanistan against the Soviet invaders would hone them into mujahideen.

  Audhubillah

  I seek refuge in Allah.

  Nawaz first met Osama bin Laden in 1988 as a twenty-year-old Arab Afghan in the same mountains where he would return to fight the Americans in 2001. He had been one of al-Qaeda’s first recruits and had been with Sheik Osama at one of his last sightings before that Tuesday in September that changed the world forever. It had been at the wedding of one of his most trusted bodyguards where bin Laden had quoted the Holy Quran: “Wherever you are, death will find you, even if you are in lofty towers.” Only Nawaz and a few select others understood the significance of that remark.