The Hunters

by Tom Young

  Geedi removed a panel and handed it down to Parson. Parson placed the sheet of aluminum on the tarmac beside the ladder. The flight mechanic dug into one of his leg pockets and produced a mini-flashlight. He shone the light into the engine and looked around.

  “See anything?” Parson asked.

  “Not really. No obvious damage, anyway.”

  “Hmm,” Parson said. Though he’d experienced most of the problems that caused turboprop and turbojet engines to fail, he had logged little flight time on radial piston engines. Didn’t know where to start speculating about the source of the problem. That’s why he flew with a flight mechanic.

  “Sir,” Geedi said, “you don’t have to stay out here. This might take a while. You can go inside if you want.”

  “Thanks, Geedi,” Parson said. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Inside, Parson found more activity than he’d expected. About forty people milled about in a room the size of a basketball court. No ticket counters or baggage carousels, just wooden benches along the walls. At an unpainted rough-hewn table, a woman stirred a pot that rested on a grate above a can of burning Sterno. Steam rose from the pot. The smell of something edible filled the air; Parson could not identify the food. Four men stood around Gold as she addressed them in Arabic while Chartier looked on.

  “Hassalan,” one of the men responded. Parson didn’t know the words, but the tone sounded like “okay,” “you got it,” or “will do.” The men wore UN ID tags on chains around their necks. They walked outside, and through a broken window Parson saw them begin to unload the bags of rice and boxes of rations from the airplane. The armed guards, still out on the ramp, seemed more alert during the unloading. They eyed the parking areas, the fences, and the road to the airport. One of them hooked his right thumb over the safety lever of his AK, ready to click it into firing mode.

  “How come those guys are so spring-loaded?” Parson asked. “Is my flight mechanic safe out there?”

  “He’s as safe as we are in here,” Gold said. “We don’t know of any specific threats.”

  “But you have general threats,” Chartier speculated.

  “We do. All the older people remember when warlords hijacked aid shipments to use hunger as a weapon. They wonder if al-Shabaab will take a page from that playbook. Everybody’s pretty tense, especially when food comes in.”

  The woman at the cook pot called out in Arabic, and Gold answered. Then she turned back to Parson and Chartier.

  “Lunch is ready for the staff,” Gold said. “Do you want to eat something?”

  A question Parson hadn’t anticipated. He gave Gold a puzzled look.

  “Not if food for these folks is an issue. I can wait till I get back to Djibouti.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Gold said. “You just brought us tons of food. I think we can feed you lunch.”

  Several Somalis, presumably on the UN payroll, lined up at the food table. The cook began spooning something into paper bowls. The Somalis ate with relish, though not as if they were starving. Parson and Chartier followed Gold into the line, and when Parson’s turn came, he received a bowl of rice cooked in goat’s milk. He dipped a plastic spoon into the bowl and began eating.

  “Not bad,” he said, though he thought the rice could use some pepper.

  “Bon appétit,” Chartier said.

  “Can I take a bowl to Geedi?” Parson asked Gold.

  “Of course.”

  “You won’t have to,” Chartier said. “He’s coming inside.”

  Parson looked out the window and saw the flight mechanic heading for the terminal, wiping his hands with a red rag. When Geedi came in, Parson said, “Take a break and get some lunch. What did you find?”

  “Thank you, sir,” Geedi said. “I didn’t find anything. I think it was just water in the fuel. I drained several cups from the main tank sump on that side. Drained some out of the carb bowl, too.”

  Parson frowned. “Didn’t you check the sumps before we took off?” he asked.

  “I did, and I found a little water then. I think more of it settled out of the fuel later on.”

  Entirely possible, Parson knew. They’d filled up at Djibouti, and heaven only knew the quality of fuel storage there. Water could have contaminated the airport’s storage tanks. It seemed the worst of the watery fuel had gone into the DC-3’s right main tank, and not all the water droplets had settled around the sump drain when Geedi first checked it. The water, heavier than gasoline, eventually pooled at the bottom of the tank. In flight, when Parson switched from the aux tank to the mains, the right engine apparently ingested a big slug of water. When flying in this environment, Parson realized, you couldn’t take anything for granted. Hell, you couldn’t even count on your fuel to burn.

  “So, do you think we’re good to go?” Parson asked.

  “I’d like to run the engine,” Geedi said. “If it fires up and stays running, I don’t know what else to check.”

  “You the man.”

  Geedi dug into a pocket and found a wet wipe in a paper pouch. He tore open the pouch, unfolded the wipe, and washed his hands as best he could. The flight mechanic stood in line for a bowl of the rice and milk, and he chatted pleasantly in Somali with other people in the line. After he received his bowl, he stood next to Parson and dipped a plastic spoon into the food.

  As Geedi ate, Parson asked, “Is this a typical meal around here?”

  “It is if they’re lucky enough to have rice and milk at the same time,” Geedi said.

  Gold moved to the other side of the room and made a call on her satellite phone. Checking with the UN office in New York, Parson assumed. She looked like a woman in her element—chatting easily with local hires one moment, and in the next moment parlaying with high officials across oceans. Whatever she did, she made it look natural: from holding her own in a firefight—which Parson had seen more than once—to negotiating the bureaucracy of the UN.

  The call lasted about ten minutes. When that call ended, Gold punched in another number and made another call, then another. Parson couldn’t hear the conversations, but he guessed something was up. Eventually, she turned off the phone and returned to Parson and his crew.

  “Can I ask a favor?” Gold said. “Could I hitch a ride back to Djibouti with you guys?”

  “Of course,” Parson said. “You know you can fly with me any day. What’s happening?”

  “We’re getting a special guest. Carolyn Stewart is coming to shoot a documentary. They want us to meet her in Djibouti and escort her around Somalia.”

  Parson knew the name. An A-list actress, Carolyn Stewart had appeared in several top-grossing films over the past few years. In Arlington, she’d played the wife of a soldier killed in Iraq. In With Extreme Prejudice, she’d played an Air Force drone sensor operator torn by conflicting emotions about her job. Reasonably hot, by Parson’s reckoning. Mid-thirties, long red hair, nice figure.

  Though Parson couldn’t remember the details, he knew Stewart also had a second career as a documentary filmmaker. Maybe a bit like Kevin Bacon’s side project as a musician, or Angelina Jolie’s deal as a UN special envoy. Stewart was a bit too liberal for Parson’s taste, though. She had a thing about animal rights and vegetarianism. But if she wanted to draw attention to the plight of Somalis, Parson couldn’t fault her for that. To him, it made a lot more sense to worry about human beings than calves destined for veal.

  “Très bien,” Chartier said. “My girlfriend will be jealous.”

  “You mean your girlfriends, plural?” Parson said.

  “Oui.”

  Gold shook her head and smiled. “Do you think you guys can concentrate on flying, with her in the airplane?”

  “Nope,” Parson said.

  “Absolutely not,” Chartier said.

  “No way,” Geedi added.
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  “All right,” Gold said. “Try to inspire a little more confidence when she gets on board.”

  All in all, Parson thought, an interesting twist for this mission. He hadn’t met many celebrities, and it could be fun to fly one around for a few days. He’d just avoid talking politics—usually a good policy with anybody, let alone a VIP.

  But the mood turned serious when Gold told her Somali coworkers about Stewart’s visit. She spoke in English and Arabic, and then the Somalis talked to one another in their own language. They didn’t seem happy about meeting an American movie star. Parson kept hearing one word over and over: khatar.

  “What’s khatar?” Parson asked.

  “Dangerous,” Geedi said.

  4.

  Once again, Hussein found himself riding in the gun truck, or “technical truck,” as the men called it. As always, the Sheikh and Abdullahi rode in the cab, and the young soldiers of God occupied the back. The pickup bed offered even less room than usual for Hussein and the five other boys. Next to the Kord machine gun, a heavy green box rattled with every rut and hole in the unpaved road. About five feet long and several inches thick, the box looked like a case for some special weapon. Metal latches held the plastic box closed.

  “Do not sit on it,” the Sheikh had ordered. “Do not open it. Do not touch it.”

  The boys had received no instructions to man the gun or to stay alert. We control this part of the country, Hussein guessed, though the older men never told him such things.

  Hussein had no idea where he was. He could no longer see the ocean; the truck had driven inland. Coastal sand dunes gave way to choking dust, and scrubby vegetation clung to life in the dry soil. The truck rolled past a few cultivated fields. Some farmer had tilled the soil with a hoe to prepare for seed, just the way Hussein’s father used to do. But no one worked the fields today.

  Women were not supposed to be in the fields on any day. The Sheikh and other men had taught Hussein that women should not show themselves outside the home. Violations would be punished: anything from flogging to amputation to stoning, depending on what the woman was doing outside.

  But it seemed strange to see no men, either. Yes, Hussein thought, al-Shabaab does control this area. The sinful fear us, as they should. These farmers must have sinned.

  The truck bounced through a deep gulley, and each sway of the suspension deepened the pangs in Hussein’s stomach. Each boy had received an orange that morning before setting out on the journey. Hussein had already eaten the juicy sections of fruit, but the peels remained in his pocket, saved for later.

  He decided he could no longer wait. Hussein shifted his AK-47 from his right hand to his left and dug into his trouser pocket. He pulled out a handful of orange peels.

  The pickup hit another rut, and the impact knocked two pieces from his hand. The other boys lunged for the peels. Hussein’s instincts took over.

  “That’s mine!” Hussein shouted.

  He grabbed at the nearest boy who’d snatched a fragment of rind. All of Hussein’s orange peels went flying, and the other boys fought for them. Fists and elbows flew. Hussein punched a boy in the face. Blood spurted from the boy’s nose. The boy raised his rifle with both hands as if to smash Hussein with the stock.

  The Sheikh stuck his head out of the window and shouted, “Silence! Or I will have Abdullahi flog you all.”

  The fight ended immediately. The boys settled back into their places. Hussein found himself with only one piece of rind no bigger than a ten-senti coin. Dirt from the pickup bed covered the rind, but he popped it into his mouth anyway. Felt the grit grinding in his teeth as he chewed.

  He turned his face into the rushing wind as the truck raced along. Hussein hoped the air would dry the water welling in his eyes. He would not let the other boys see him cry. He was just as strong as they were. He was a soldier of God.

  Hussein swallowed the dirty remnant of his orange. One boy smirked at him, but the gloating went no further. At one point or another, they had all felt the back of Abdullahi’s hand or the sting of his lash. The older men must be obeyed, for they were the leaders of the soldiers of God.

  “They are taking us for training,” one of the boys supposed.

  Orange peels forgotten now, everyone’s attention returned to the box and whatever it contained. Training could mean anything.

  Training could mean target practice. Several times since the older men had found Hussein hungry in the streets of Mogadishu, they had let him shoot his beloved AK, his symbol of manhood. The first time, a rusting oil drum on the beach served as a target. Abdullahi showed him how to load the Kalashnikov and how the lever on the right side of the weapon worked.

  The weapon would not fire with the lever all the way up. With the lever in the middle, the weapon would shoot all the bullets at one burst.

  With the lever clicked all the way down, Hussein had to pull the trigger each time he fired. “Usually you will use it this way,” Abdullahi told him.

  Hussein held the rifle at his waist when he fired at the oil drum. He missed, and the bullet slashed into the surf. A jet of foam shot upward from the impact. The sense of power Hussein felt from the bang left him immediately when the other boys laughed.

  Then Abdullahi showed Hussein how to hold the Kalashnikov to his shoulder, to line up the front and the rear sights. What magic, to put the sights on the target and make the bullet go there. Hussein pulled the trigger and hit the center of the drum.

  “Again,” Abdullahi said.

  Hussein fired again. Another hole appeared in the drum, less than a finger’s length from the first.

  “Very good,” Abdullahi said.

  Hussein shot six more times, and all the bullets struck in a space the size of his fist. The men gave him two tangerines that day.

  Training could also mean a long talk by the Sheikh. He might preach the glories of sharia law, how you could find your place in heaven by enforcing God’s law. For example, he declared music haraam. Forbidden.

  Hussein saw the Sheikh enforce sharia one day in a market, in the town of Jowhar. The Sheikh and his soldiers were patrolling the market, ensuring women remained indoors. Ensuring no youths played with soccer balls, and no music defiled the air. Kafirs and infidels sought always to spread the devil’s music, alcohol, and sins of the flesh. The soldiers of God had to remain vigilant.

  Everything seemed in order. Carrying a pole flying the black banner of jihad, Hussein followed the Sheikh and some of the other al-Shabaab men. No one in the market showed any signs of infidelity—until a man’s mobile phone chimed. Not a monotone buzz, but three descending notes of a tune Hussein did not know.

  “Where is that?” the Sheikh demanded. “Get him.”

  The phone chimed once more, and the soldiers of God found the offender. The man looked terrified when Abdullahi grabbed him. The man had good reason for terror—kafirs and infidels must die. It was written.

  But the Sheikh must have been in a good mood that day. Abdullahi and two other fighters dragged the offender before the Sheikh.

  “Give me your mobile,” the Sheikh demanded.

  Trembling, the man handed over the flip-open phone. The Sheikh opened the device, cracked it backward against its hinge, and broke it in two. He dropped one half of the phone, and from the other he extracted some sort of metal chip.

  “You know music is forbidden,” the Sheikh said.

  “I know, brother,” the man said. “I play no music. I keep God’s law.”

  “You lie,” the Sheikh said. “Your mobile just sounded forbidden notes.”

  “I did not—”

  “Silence. Because I am merciful I will give you one chance to redeem yourself.”

  “Anything, brother. Anything.”

  The Sheikh held out the little chip.

  “Eat the SIM card,” the Sheikh demanded.

  “Wh
at?”

  Abdullahi slapped the offender. Grabbed him by the front of his shirt.

  “Are you deaf?” Abdullahi said. “You heard the Sheikh.”

  With shaking hands, the man took the card and put it in his mouth. Crunched as if eating a nut. Swallowed hard, once, twice, three times. Abdullahi pushed the offender so hard that the man fell to the ground.

  Hussein felt proud of his small role in keeping God’s law. And yet he wondered how one could always know what God wanted. If Hussein had owned a mobile phone, would he have realized its ring could be sinful? An unimportant question; he could no more own a phone than own the sky.

  People blessed with such wealth should know, he decided. Hussein was but a simple fighter.

  His mind returned to the present when the technical truck finally stopped by the side of the road. Was something wrong? No buildings, no villages, no one in sight. What could the Sheikh have in mind?

  Abdullahi turned off the engine. He and the Sheikh got out of the cab.

  “Drop the tailgate and pull the box onto it,” the Sheikh said.

  One boy opened the back of the pickup, and Hussein and another boy dragged the box by handles on both ends. They left it on the tailgate.

  “Today we will show you a demonstration,” the Sheikh continued. “Infidel nations such as America and Britain are sending unclean food to Somalia. With this food they hope to bribe us away from the true path and make our souls impure to God. This haraam food comes on airplanes. Sometimes the airplanes going to and from Baidoa pass over this spot.”

  Abdullahi opened the box. Inside lay some sort of metal tube.

  “Is that a grenade launcher?” one boy asked.

  Looked like one to Hussein. He had never fired such a weapon, but all good fighters knew rocket-propelled grenades had taken down American helicopters in Mogadishu. Maalintii Rangers, they called it. Day of the Rangers.