All the Young Warriors

by Anthony Neil Smith

  Told the dispatcher, "Detective Ray Bleeker, out in Eden Prairie. We've got a problem."

  "I'm sorry, you're a Detective in Eden Prairie?"

  "No, no, but yeah. Look, We need an ambulance. We need some back-up."

  "Why didn't you call—"

  "Listen, no time. I'm bleeding. How about 'off-duty officer needs assistance'? Can you put that out there?"

  She told him okay and started typing, and he told her the address. Was about to tell her the situation when he heard Mustafa's gun rattle to the ground. He glanced over his shoulder. The three standing sentries now had goddamned Glocks, covering Mustafa. Al Jones helped Rockstar off the box, started for the back stairs.

  Bleeker closed his phone, stepped forward. "No, no no no. You're staying here."

  "Let them go." Mustafa, disarmed, standing like a dead tree.

  "The police are on the way." Bleeker chased Al Jones, who escorted the Rockstar like he was James Brown. Hand on Jones' shoulder. A sentry stepped up, shoved the Glock against the side of Bleeker's nose. He blinked, looked away. Finally held up his hands. "All right, all right."

  Up the stairs, into the night. Jones and Rockstar were gone. One by one, the sentries backed up the stairs, the seriously injured man helped out first. Bleeker was sure they were going to fire. Last two witnesses, no need to keep them alive. But then…nothing. Mustafa and Bleeker stood alone except for the bodies of the Hassan's wife crumpled over the husband, his expression even more alarming when Bleeker took a second look.

  Mustafa let out a long breath, looked at Bleeker's arm. "How bad?"

  "Flesh wound. I couldn't even get shot in Iraq, but here, Jesus."

  Mustafa shook his head, sat on the couch. Knees wide, held his head in his hands. "Damn it, Ray. Listen, when they get here—"

  "How about I take care of that?"

  "No, you don't see it at all. You can't tell them about Jones. Not a word about Rockstar."

  "This isn't a game, man. What happened is what happened, and that's what we've got to tell the cops."

  "Then they'll die!" Mustafa's head lifted. Face bright with tears. "If you tell them what really happened, Jones is going to make a call, and Adem and Jibriil will die. Their own guys will cut their heads off, and they'll send me the videotape. But you'd like that. You want to see them dead. Justice, right? What they deserve, right?"

  Sirens, closing.

  "That's what he told you?"

  "I didn't make it up! He said…he can't tell me exactly where they are, whose command they're under, but he knows they made it. Alive. And they're still alive. He's alive. One call, and that's it."

  "Shit." Bleeker closed his eyes. True, if Mustafa was telling the truth about Jibriil, then watching him die would be sweet justice. Dying in the worst possible way, having his head sawed off in some godforsaken alien landscape. But if Adem was innocent, even if there was the tiniest whiff of doubt about his part in Cindy's murder, was it worth it?

  Less than a few minutes to decide.

  "You swear to me Adem didn't take any shots that night. Didn't egg on Jibriil, didn't have any idea the son of a bitch would do it, right?"

  Mustafa, exhausted and limp, swiveled his head. The heel of his hands press into his eyes. "I'd stake my life on it. I'm already done. When these police arrive, I'm in big trouble here no matter what. My whole family. And the best we can hope for is that Adem finds a way to survive without his own men killing him because of something I said."

  "You're giving up."

  "It's the only way to make sure he's safe."

  Bleeker knelt beside Mustafa, but then fell off his knees to the floor. Grabbed the Somali's knee to steady himself. Weak from blood loss, shock, fear, whatever. About to piss himself, but too tired to stand again and stumble around looking for a toilet.

  Sirens louder still. Fever pitch, then they stopped. Then voices, chatter, footsteps above them in the house.

  Shit.

  Bleeker tightened his grip on Mustafa's knee. "Hey?"

  Mustafa looked up.

  "Get lost. Go." Bleeker nodded. "Okay? You were never here."

  Shook his head. "I can't. I ... you can't."

  "I'm a fucking cop. I sure as hell can. Get out of here. Now."

  When Mustafa didn't move, Bleeker got up and grabbed Mustafa's shirt, dragged him to his feet, and threw him towards the stairs. "Now. Forget about me. Get out of here."

  Another moment of hesitation, then there were footsteps on the basement stairs. Bleeker huffed and bit his lip, and he was gone. Up and out.

  Radio noise. The footsteps stopped, a cop at the bottom of the stairs saying, "Uffda! Look at this shit."

  Bleeker thought, Yeah, fucking uffda indeed.

  FIFTEEN

  The baby eventually stopped crying. Adem wasn't sure if it had gotten well or if it had died. Didn't know if it was a he or a she. He didn't ask. Otherwise, day and night came and he stayed in bed and then day and night would come again. When he first awoke, he'd thought he was only a day or two away from a full recovery. But as the drugs ebbed and flowed and he tried to get out of bed when no one was paying attention—but it seemed someone always was, like the ever-present guard outside his tented bed—Adem discovered that the beating had been almost as bad as stepping on a mine. He hadn't lost his limbs or his eyes or his genitals, but another minute of boot stompings would've done the trick.

  Legs, bruised up and down, his left fibula broken in two places, some bones in his feet crushed. Broken right arm. Broken fingers on both hands. Possible bone spurs along his spine. One testicle, badly swollen. Broken nose. Lacerations all over his face and scalp. A few cracked ribs. And a knife wound across his neck.

  He had his eyes, his mouth, despite split lips, and his mind. Enough to survive. Enough to keep him afraid that at any moment, someone would come and pass more judgment on him, finish where his would-be executioner had failed. He slept lightly through the nights, only relaxing once the morning came and Sufia arrived to take care of him.

  He'd asked Jibriil more about her on his next visit. Was she a nurse? A soldier's wife? A visiting crusader like they were? His friend had smiled. "Are you getting ahead of yourself a little? Falling in love?"

  "I just…it's nice to have someone to talk to."

  "Someone who looks that good, too."

  "Come on, not like that." But it was and they both knew it.

  Jibriil had lowered his voice. "Adem, be careful, though. It's different here. Talk to her, but keep it casual. You want to rub one out thinking of her, fine. Don't let the guard find out. Be careful. Don't lose yourself."

  "I wasn't going to—"

  "Yes, I know you say that but then feelings get complicated. What if she really does like you? You going to take her out? A nice Italian joint? Sure, a night on the town. I'm sure her fathers and brothers and all of these teenage boys around here who hate you and can't fuck her will be fine with it."

  Adem promised nothing would happen. Nothing. He wouldn't risk her like that. But he asked that Jibriil make sure she would keep taking care of him. It was helping him grow stronger every day. With a wink, Jibriil left. Sufia kept coming around, maybe a little more shy than before. She was harder to engage in conversation. Kept flicking her eyes around as if someone was always watching. But Adem kept trying, anything to keep his mind off the pain. And sometimes he would hit a subject—books, music, cooking—that would open her eyes wider, make her spill more animated giggles, show her teeth. And that was reason enough for Adem to keep fighting the depression, the boredom, and the fear. He would do it. He would build his strength and go back to his patrol, standing tall amongst the men who had beaten him and wanted his head on a pike.

  He'd be fine. All he had to do was think of Sufia.

  *

  Seven, eight days in bed. Nine, ten. He wondered how far away from the camp he was. If this wasn't the hospital proper, then where had they set this up? Hidden from government troops, what few there were anymore. The building di
dn't shake so much when the artillery shells exploded. Like thunder and lightning, counting between the flash and the rumble.

  Another boring afternoon. Adem had a Quran and a four month old South African newspaper that Jibriil sneaked to him, which Adem then had to hide under his mattress. The leaders found so much to be "un-Islamic", like football, music, movies, books, newspapers, a list that grew longer everyday, including the rules for how men and women should and shouldn't interact—mostly, how they shouldn't interact at all. The boys in the army seemed to have a problem with women especially, as if blaming them for the lack of Islamic discipline amongst the citizens.

  Adem was surprised that Sufia was allowed to tend him, although it was only for mundane things. When it came to bedpans, changing bandages, a wet cloth to wipe down his skin, there were men to do that. Even once his colleague Garaad, not someone Adem had expected or hoped to see. He came to help clean his "brother", grabbed him by the hair above his bandage and pulled, wiped his face, his chest, his feet. Smiling as he did it. Regaling Adem with all the great battles he was missing. All the punishments doled out to the traitors. "But you feel sorry for them, no? Even though you killed a man for stealing bread."

  "I didn't mean to—"

  A hard yank on his scalp. "You did. That's all that matters."

  When he was done, Garaad peeled back the bandage from Adem's neck. Adem slapped at Garaad's hand, but the soldier easily grasped Adem's wrapped fingers, squeezed, sent a river of pain through Adem's arm, shoulder, neck. Garrad examined the neck wound with a slightly open mouth, almost titillated by it.

  "It would have been a deep cut. Right through half your neck. He knew what he was doing."

  Garaad poked the wound. Adem seethed.

  The soldier slapped the bandage back into place and stood. "Lucky man. Blessed, even. Or one might say 'privileged'? One might say."

  Adem caught on. Didn't answer. Some of the boys must have thought it was only because of Jibriil that Adem was recovering in such luxury. Or that he was recovering at all instead of his body being paraded up and down the streets as a cautionary lesson to other traitors.

  On his way out, Garaad made a finger gun and went "Pow, Cowboy," in English. Then he swept through and was gone, laughing.

  Adem closed his eyes and wondered what his friends at college were doing as the snow piled higher outside their dorms. He wished he could give them a call.

  *

  More days passed. A crutch, some practice, and he was up and around. The room wasn't as long as he'd thought, his bed being at the far end instead of floating in the middle of a sea of them. Adem never saw any doctors around. The closest was when Jibriil visited, which was less often as he improved, and asked what he needed. Like asking a surgery patient to guide the scalpel. But whatever he asked for—pain meds, clean bandages, antibiotics—showed up almost as soon as Jibriil had gone.

  Adem began chewing khat. It gave him a boost of energy, helped with the pain. Spit green out the windows. Loved to stand there, looking out while chewing, walking from window to window. Some afternoons, he saw children playing football in the lot behind the building.

  Sufia found him one afternoon, chewing, spitting, watching. She watched with him, didn't say anything.

  Adem said, "Isn't it dangerous for them to play that? Won't they get lashes?"

  "Since when do boys care about that? If they get caught, they'll run."

  "They're crazy for it. Willing to risk their hides for it."

  "What do you expect? It's football." Something else to make her laugh. A nice smile as she looked out the window. "As long as they're having fun. There's not supposed to be much of that anymore."

  He turned to her. "Then why are you here? We're working for the side that hates fun."

  "I can ask you the same thing."

  "I didn't know."

  Sufia turned her face to the floor. "What a terrible answer." She began to walk away.

  Adem hobbled behind. "I should have, you're right. Just another ignorant American. But please, why you?"

  "Let's not discuss this. It's not right." Busied herself, taking sheets from beds, balling them up.

  "Okay, okay, but, let's talk." Finally caught up, tried to get in front of her. "It helps me feel better."

  "Sure it does."

  "Do you like soccer?"

  Sufia stopped, rolled her eyes. "I thought it was bad here, I had no idea. In London, you'd think the college boys were on the team, the way they talked. 'We won. Look at us.' Is that a better obsession than the word of Allah? The will of the prophet? It's only a ball."

  "I know, right? The whole sport, so boring. I mean, you know, back in the states we really like basketball. That's got some speed to it, always moving, always taking a shot. Got to think quick, move quick."

  "I've seen it." Wrinkled her nose.

  "Really? You didn't like it?"

  She balled up the next sheet more fierce. "Sweaty boys in, in, baggy shorts. They're not shorts! They look like they're wearing a dress. At least the footballers are manly. That's how sinners are supposed to look."

  "Seen any American football?"

  She barked a laugh. Adem looked around. His guard was now at the window where they'd just been, watching the kids play until Sufia let that noise fly. Now he watched them both with angry eyebrows.

  "Isn't it time for you to get back to bed?" She said, still the hint of a smile there, fading into the gracefulness of her smooth, caramel skin.

  Adem wanted to reach out, touch her cheek. Maybe even lean in for a kiss. Simple things. Natural things. All the things the God of this army said he should never ever do. He didn't understand.

  "One day you can tell me more about London. I've never been."

  "Maybe that's a good thing." She carried her sheets away. He stood watching her go. Turned back to the guard. Still staring. Still had angry eyebrows. Adem winked at him and eased his way back to bed, all thirty-three excruciating steps.

  *

  Sufia finally told him about London. Whispered about it one morning when Adem ventured down the stairs and outside for the first time in nearly a month. She said it seemed the whole world could live there together and be perfectly fine. She had to be careful. It was so easy to get caught up in the world—the clubs, the shopping, the indulgent food, the books and movies.

  "Like my father told me when he called me home. He said, 'The devil throws everything he has at us because all we have is the Word. He knows what we've hidden and shines a light on it.'"

  They were slowly walking along the road in front of the building. Still in Mogadishu, but an area where the buildings weren't mostly rubble, the pavement wasn't broken, and where Adem thought he heard the ocean. Could be they were near the shore, sure. He would love to see it, would have to ask Sufia if it was a possibility.

  "Then why? If you had all that, what was it that made you come back here?"

  "Weren't you listening? All that was taking me further from what I had been taught. I wanted to see the country again. I want to see it beautiful again." Her face gave away something sad, though. "I thought…I mean, I still think one day…I thought it would be different, that's all."

  "Less hell, more heaven?"

  A nod. "I know war is ugly. Necessary, but…maybe you soldiers should remember that we're all on the same side."

  "Hey, don't blame me."

  "You know what I mean."

  Jibriil had found Adem some clothes, regular T-shirts and pants and sandals. They fit a bit loose, which was more than fine. Adem wondered if they were taken off dead soldiers. Any other place but here, he would not have worn them, but for the moment they were a blessing. His toes didn't send spikes of pain when he took a step. His nose bandage was down to a minimum. The cuts on his head, mostly healed. Only his leg held him up, and then the pain along his spine, the bone spurs. But when he was with Sufia, despite the looks of men and women and soldiers all around them, he felt as good as before the beating.

  Adem aske
d, "Would you ever think of leaving, though? For good? It's okay to love your country from far away."

  "It's not the same."

  "Think about it, though. London again? Or Dubai? Or, out on a limb here, the States?"

  Whatever rhythm they'd had froze over. Adem felt the chill. Sufia stopped walking. Adem nearly fell over trying to stop himself. He worked his way around until he was standing in front of her. Very close.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't know we couldn't say—"

  "I think it would be better if I left. I can go back to the camp and cook."

  "Come on, don't do that."

  "You are the one who's doing. This is very inappropriate."

  It was a strange feeling, looking into her eyes and knowing that every word she was saying, no matter how sharp and forceful, didn't express how she really felt. She wanted to say Yes, please, I'd love to see the States. She was curious like that. Sufia deserved to see the world, not told her "proper" place in it.

  He glanced over her shoulder. No one paying attention. Something so innocent, really. He took one more hobble towards her, took her arm in his free hand gently, leaned in for a kiss. At first she pulled back, but not so much. If she'd truly wanted away, all it would have taken was a step backwards. But she stayed. He kept on. A tiny, dry peck on the lips.

  He pulled away. Her eyes, wide open. She shivered beneath his touch. Blinked one two three four—

  Then cupped his face with her hand and kissed him for real. Bold, hard. He fought to keep his balance on his crutch. Wanted it to go on and on. But a few seconds later, she backed away, five feet. Held her hands together tightly. As if he was a stranger. What had he done? Adem felt as if every eye in Somalia was on him. Nothing was innocent. He should've fought the urge. Fighting urges was the whole point, now he realized. Oh God. How could he accept anything less than more after that kiss?

  "I have to go."

  "I'm sorry," Adem said.