One Hit

by Jack Coughlin

  And in the back of his mind: Out of Somalia, hang up the rifle, quit the Corps, marry Molly, settle down, and help raise Lucky. The family he had never had was within his reach.

  THE SPY

  THE COBRA FELT PRIDE about the shot that he had made, which killed the marine. It was another milestone for him in the University of War. He had passed through the cannon-fodder stage of his development long ago, when he had been trained by Aidid’s foreign mercenaries to be more than just another black African child with a Kalashnikov. They had schooled him every day in how to kill with a knife and other weapons, and also with his hands and feet. Failure meant a quick shot to the back of the head and eternity in a shallow grave. The Cobra had survived.

  So why was the general furious? Omar Jama thought it would be just the opposite, but the man he had sworn to protect was storming around and shouting. “I did not order you to personally make the sniper attack! I told you to pick other men to do it. This was an experiment, nothing more.”

  “I killed the marine, sir. That was the objective.” The Cobra was confused. “It was easier to just do it myself.”

  “But it was not my objective!” The general was in his face, nose to nose. “I never doubt your bravery, Omar, but your eagerness to fight clouds your judgment. You are too valuable for me to lose in a minor skirmish. Do you not understand that?”

  “I don’t understand, General. I thought I was doing what you wanted.” He fondly remembered hiding far back in a darkened room on an upper floor, seeing the marines slowly edge forward, the pleasant stark smell of gun oil and ammunition rising to his nostrils, the care with which he had sighted on the target, and the sensuous, slow squeeze of the trigger. The aim was above the neck to avoid the protective vest, and the single bullet struck perfectly. Omar had repressed the urge to empty the entire clip, but discipline took over, and he withdrew and fled into the neighborhood.

  The general calmed. “You are one of my most able officers, Omar, as well as my personal protector. You have a nimble brain, and the strength of a horse, and that elevates you above the others.”

  The Cobra nodded. While Aidid had arranged for youngsters to learn among the mercenaries out in the bush, he also had furnished the brightest of them, future leaders of elite killing squads, with schoolteachers. Aidid had been educated in Moscow and Rome, and he needed lieutenants who could think. The foreign instructors opened the whole big world before their incredulous students, and religious instruction was provided by imams.

  “You are the last of your group, Omar. The others have died fighting our enemies. You must assume more of a leadership role. Long after I am dead, you will still be around to carry our movement’s legacy forward—my hand beyond the grave. I confide secrets with you, and you perform duties that I would not dare to give anyone else. But you must follow my orders to the letter.”

  “Yes, General Aidid. Whatever you wish.”

  The general backed away. His prize student was almost a finished product. “Excellent, my boy. Excellent. Once we are victorious and I become the president of Somalia, I intend to appoint you as an ambassador; you will go to foreign countries and travel widely. We shall practice terrorism without borders, as preached by al Qaeda, and you will carry it worldwide.” The older man smiled, remembering his own youthful days wandering the streets of Italy.

  “May I make one request, General? Before you make me wear a western suit and tie and polish the asses of diplomats? I still want to kill the Swanson Marine?”

  Aidid had been mulling over that very thing and had almost changed his mind. The visceral hatred of a single man was getting in the way of more important tasks. The marines eventually would leave and take Swanson with them, and it would be as if he had never been here at all. But if that particular bit of blood would pacify the Cobra, it was a small price to pay. “Certainly,” the general agreed.

  • • •

  DEQO SHARIF HANDED INSTRUMENTS to her husband as Lon calmly operated on another patient, this one a young man with a mangled foot. The patient was stoic, thankful that the physician had magically numbed the limb before starting with his sharp probes. Only a few weeks ago, no such medicine was available. The unfortunate victim would have been lashed to the table to restrain him.

  Everybody was starting to believe there was a chance that the tide might be turning. The changes at the Irish Aid Society medical clinic had outpaced many of the others because Kyle Swanson and his sniper teams had unofficially adopted the place. Big Mike Mancuso, Terry Smith, and David Delshay then brought in even more friends to help, for there was precious little else to do in the Mog. The bare-walled compound was cleaned and scrubbed, guys from a construction battalion of Seabees framed new interior walls of plywood, and the exterior was sandbagged. It was painted a gleaming white, inside and out. Visiting navy corpsmen showed up with better medical equipment and hung around to help Dr. Sharif with the patient workload. The battalion surgeon suggested a few more improvements, and better lighting and more potent medicines arrived. Cabinets were refinished to hold clamps, trays, scalpels, and other implements. The Irish place near the K-4 roundabout had been transformed into something resembling an antiseptic infirmary, with Molly Egan running the entire show like a circus ringmaster. Patients who would have died three weeks earlier were being saved. Children were eating.

  Sharif determined that the foot was not all that bad, just a series of deep cuts caused by a bad fall onto the rubble, so no broken bones had to be set. He picked out debris, swabbed the wounds liberally with antibacterial lotion—another blessing—and reached for the sharp needle and a length of synthetic polymer fiber, which Deqo had ready. They had done this together so many times that words were unnecessary. The stitches would eventually be absorbed by the body. The doctor wrapped the foot in fresh gauze while she shook a few penicillin pills into a little envelope to fight infection. When the injured man limped away, supported by a friend, Lon pulled his cloth mask beneath his chin, tossed away his rubber gloves, and actually smiled.

  Deqo was so proud of him. He had almost worked himself to death to help so many people during the worst of times, back in the famine days when the war raged at its worst and three hundred thousand Somali people were dying. Deqo had not yet mentioned the possibility of leaving Somalia to him. She and Molly and Kyle would make the pitch tonight after a special dinner in their single-room living quarters adjacent to the infirmary.

  Hadn’t he done enough? Imagine what he could accomplish in a real hospital. This might be the only chance for their grandson, Cawelle, to grow up in peace instead of poverty, someplace where he might have more opportunity. Molly was arranging letters of recommendation from the Irish and United Nations authorities, and Kyle was working on the travel arrangements and U.S. passports. They would gang up on the doctor tonight and try to save Lon from himself. No matter how much her husband might wish to believe differently, Deqo knew that Somalia eventually would kill him, too.

  • • •

  MARYAM ISMAIL WAS A middle-aged woman whose body was already bent with age, and her dark face was framed with frizzy gray hair. She had lost her husband long ago in the war against Ethiopia in the Ogaden, and, never having been blessed with children, she was on her own. She depended on her Habar Gidir clan for survival, although in Somalia no one received something for nothing.

  Omar Jama had discovered the woman had value because foreigners trusted her as a harmless housecleaner. She never stole so much as a cheap ring while dusting and polishing for the infidels, but Maryam listened to gather pieces of information that might be of interest to her clan leaders. At present, she had a job inside the Irish Aid Society. She also was a spy for General Aidid.

  “I have something about this man you seek, sir, this United States marine named Kyle Swanson.” She spoke softly and with great respect and gave a shy and almost toothless smile when she found Omar Jama at a table in the shade of a sheltered wall in Bakara Market.

  “Sit, mother,” the Cobra replied polite
ly, pointing her to a mat at his feet. He snapped his fingers, and a stall owner gave her a bowl of warm soup. “Tell me.”

  “The American is in love with the red-haired whore at the Irish agency, sir. They are together almost every day, and she speaks about him with her coworkers, even in my presence. They never notice me, of course. She is very much in love with him.” She had always disapproved of the foreign woman who flaunted herself in front of any man.

  Omar straightened his back and bit his lip with anticipation. Finally, an opportunity. He nodded for Maryam to continue, weighing a reward that would keep her happy. “Are they always just at that clinic?”

  “No, master. They spend many nights at the press hotel.”

  The Cobra was thinking faster. The Irishwoman with the hair like flame was the key to the Swanson.

  Maryam had fallen silent, so Omar handed her some coins and a wrapper filled with khat twigs and leaves. Her face brightened. “They stay in the safe zones, but sometimes wander away from the other marines. He does not want to share this white prostitute with his friends. Will you want me to continue to watch them close, sir?”

  “Yes. What else do you know of them?”

  Maryam shook her head. Yes. She knew something else that would show her worth. “Perhaps this will be of interest to you, master. They are getting together at the clinic tonight for a private meal with Doctor Sharif and his family. This I know to be true because my cousin, who also works there, was sent to shop in the Bakara for fresh food to cook. We came together.”

  Had this old woman actually found the answer? He knew of the Sharifs, and hated them for their work, which interfered with his own goals. “Is the clinic heavily guarded?”

  “No. They believe things are much safer now, and marines walk by sometimes at night, but no longer stay in shifts at the front gate. There is only one local guard. The Marine Swanson always carries a gun, sir.”

  The Cobra felt a warm glow in his belly. Here was a chance to catch the Swanson Marine away from the protective security cordons at the airport. As he counted out some more money and more khat, he watched greed grow in the woman’s watery eyes. “Mother, a final question. Can you help me enter the clinic tonight during their gathering?”

  A cackle erupted from Maryam Ismail as her new treasure mounted. “Oh, yes, sir. I will tell my cousin to expect your visit and to leave a door unlocked.”

  “She is to tell no one, and you are to tell no one else.”

  Maryam’s shoulders tightened, and she felt a chill. The big man stared down like a snake examining a mouse. She whimpered. “No, sir, of course not.”

  The Cobra dismissed her and rushed away to report the spy’s incredible information. The path to murdering the hated marine was open!

  General Aidid listened intently while watching the gleam in the eyes of Omar Jama. A promise was a promise, and it would make Omar content. “Make him suffer,” the general said, then flipped away his cigarette and turned to other matters.

  THE ATTACK

  DOCTOR LON SHARIF CALLED it a day. It had been a long but a good one. A friend had asked him to assist in a late surgery at the Banadir Hospital downtown, and, when that was done, Lon was surprised to find no waiting line of patients when he arrived back at the clinic. The aroma of spicy food welcomed him home, for the women had spent the afternoon preparing an exotic stew. Deqo told him that he even had time for a nap and a bath before evening prayers. The doctor welcomed the respite. There was no doubt that conditions were improving in favor of sanity. It was dark when he awoke, bathed, and wrapped a clean macawis sarong in a black and brown pattern around his waist.

  Tonight was an occasion that Deqo had planned in mysterious secrecy in some conspiracy with Molly Egan. The only outside guest would be Kyle Swanson. The war would remain far outside for a few hours, and Lon would find the reason.

  Kyle was already there, in civilian clothes with a long shirt that concealed the pistol in his rear waistband. He was playing with Lucky, who wore clean blue jeans and a T-shirt with a rock-band emblem. Deqo grunted with effort as she hoisted the heavy cast-iron stewpot onto the table amid the bowls and spoons and cups.

  • • •

  OUTSIDE, RAIN WAS FALLING as Omar Jama finished the trek from his downtown lair, immersed in shadows and keeping a keen watch for military patrols. A loaded Glock pistol was in his belt and the razor-edged machete was strapped diagonally across his back.

  The mass of the stadium loomed off to the right, bathed in bright lights so that it shined like a wet diamond. It was the safe place in which the boys from America lived. Far to his left was the airport, where more Americans and foreigners were billeted. He padded through the familiar streets to the roundabout without hurry. The city seemed to undulate and breathe around him in the African night. Mud tried to hold his feet. He looked to the left, then the right, and crossed the final road to the Irish clinic.

  The compound’s stucco walls had been reinforced with stacks of sandbags and tangles of barbed wire, but it was not a military outpost. He slowed, placing each step to avoid ground clutter, and eased up along the outside wall to the wide gap that was a crude gateway through the barricade. The lone guard had taken shelter from the rain and was nowhere to be seen.

  He again paused to take his bearings, then crossed into the small courtyard and flattened against an outside wall. There were several doors, and he did not know which led to the living quarters or the clinic’s rooms. The western side of the compound contained the medical facilities and the feeding station, which were closed for the night. The quietness disturbed him. Fear was absent here, replaced by the seductive hope of better lives. A thin dog with pale eyes trotted past, gave a sniff, and went along its scavenging way. Then Omar heard a burst of laughter and smelled the scent of food.

  A whispered tssshh and the cluck of a tongue brought his attention to a woman standing in the darkness. She pointed to a door and then disappeared. From inside that door flowed sounds of happiness.

  • • •

  “NOW YOU ALL LISTEN to me,” the doctor said, looking at them when the meal was done. Swanson had brought along boxes of delicious cream cookies that he swore had fallen from a truck. Sharif nibbled one and relaxed at the low table. “I am an old man, but I am not yet blind. You all have been as thick as conspirators for the last few days, and you set up this feast tonight. I want to know the reason.”

  Molly looked over at Deqo, who looked at Kyle. His face serious, Kyle reached into a deep pocket of his shirt and pulled out three blue booklets. He placed them side by side like playing cards on the flat surface. The marine felt as if his life was on that table.

  “These are legitimate United States passports in the names of Lon, Deqo, and Cawelle Sharif,” he said quietly, looking directly at the surgeon. “We want you to take your family to America. The paperwork is all arranged. All that is needed is your permission.”

  Doctor Sharif was speechless, but Kyle held up a palm. He didn’t want Lon to say anything yet. He turned his eyes to Molly. “You are not the only one with a big decision to make tonight, Lon.”

  He reached into his other pocket and withdrew a small box, changed position, and rose on one knee before Molly. Swanson opened the little box, and a diamond ring glittered in a nest of white silk. “Will you marry me, Irish?”

  Molly remained still, and her eyes locked onto him. “Are you serious?”

  “Yes, Molly. I am asking you to be my wife. Please?” The warrior had lowered his façade of steel. At that moment, he was just a man who knew he had somehow, against all odds, found the woman of his dreams waiting for him in this hellish country.

  Molly had her palms on her cheeks in astonishment, her mouth was in an O, and tears began to leak from her green eyes. Kyle removed the ring from the box and held it out. She had dreamed about such a moment since she was a little girl in Ireland, but had chosen instead to help people in some of the most dangerous places on earth. And it was in just such a place, here in Somalia, that she
had found love.

  “Yes!” She squealed. “Oh, yesyesyesyes!”

  The Sharifs clapped and cheered as Kyle slid the ring onto Molly’s finger, and she grabbed him in a big kiss.

  Lon was transfixed by the three passports on the table, the unexpected tickets to new lives, and simultaneously was taken aback by the marriage proposal between his friends.

  • • •

  THE COBRA WIPED HIS face once he was inside and slid the big knife from its sheath. The heavy handle filled his hand, and he felt the familiar prefight tingle that came when everything was going right. He walked down the narrow passage that remained in a hallway stacked floor to ceiling with boxes of supplies and found the inner doorway to the living spaces, which had been left ajar for him.

  He did a quick peek and saw a group sitting around a table. The old man lay on a padded mat about eight feet away. His wife was clapping her hands in delight about something. A little boy bounced like a happy ball. The white woman was seated cross-legged on the far side, and the Swanson Marine was on one knee, facing her, with his back exposed to attack.

  Omar hefted the machete handle up until it was just behind his right ear and the blade pointed back over his shoulder. He screamed a fanfare of triumph for the bloody victory that would be his in only a few moments and rushed inside.

  Deqo Sharif screeched in utter horror as the huge intruder swung the long knife down in an overhand cut that razored deeply into the neck of her husband. The blade hit with such force that it almost decapitated him, and a spray of dark arterial blood fountained out wildly. The doctor collapsed full length.

  Omar let the swinging blade finish the deadly arc, and his entire arm kept moving until his right bicep pushed against his chin. He ignored the women and the child and stepped past the spewing corpse toward Kyle Swanson, who had only then started his turn around to face the threat.