by Tom Young
“Well,” Geedi said, “here goes.”
Without hesitating or looking back, Geedi stood up and started walking toward the wattle-and-daub huts. Their thatch roofs appeared cut from the same kind of grass Parson and his group had crawled through earlier. Around the dwellings, the earth looked almost polished—a sheen left by generations of feet and hooves. The firm soil reminded Parson of packed clay runways at forward bases in Afghanistan.
Geedi knocked on a wooden door that hung on a single broken hinge. The door did not open at first; cautious words came from behind it. Parson, of course, understood none of the conversation. The tone sounded matter-of-fact—no one inside seemed to panic or to threaten Geedi. Gold listened closely, too. She spoke no Somali that Parson knew of, but he supposed she judged the tone just as he did. Except, with her experience as an interpreter, she could make a more expert evaluation. She looked interested but not worried.
As Geedi negotiated, begged, or whatever he was doing, Parson recognized a classic blood chit moment. Blood chits were squares of cloth carried by military aviators. The chits bore the image of a U.S. flag, and they carried a message in local languages: I am an American aviator. Misfortune forces me to seek your assistance. I will not harm you, and in return for your aid, my government may try to repay you. During World War II, some fliers sewed silk blood chits into the linings of their flight jackets. You couldn’t do that anymore; nowadays blood chits were made of Tyvek and treated as a controlled item—issued before each military mission and collected upon return. And on this civilian mission, a blood chit was just one more damned thing Parson didn’t have.
Turned out he didn’t need one. The door swung open to reveal a thin old man.
“As-salaamu alaikum,” Geedi said.
“Wa alaikum as-salaam,” the man replied.
With a sweeping gesture, Geedi motioned for Parson and the rest to come to the hut. Parson looked around for signs of the enemy, then stood up and trotted. He kept his Beretta angled toward the ground, finger across the trigger guard. Gold and Stewart followed, with Chartier bringing up the rear, medical ruck still over his shoulder. The old man hastened everyone inside, and Geedi closed the door.
For a few seconds, the hut seemed dark except for slivers of sunlight cutting through cracks in the daubing. When Parson’s eyes adjusted, he found himself in a one-room dwelling. The hut looked much like those he’d seen all over the Third World, whether made of tin, cinder blocks, or mud. Blankets covered a thin mattress on a warped timber floor. The floor creaked whenever anyone took a step, but Parson supposed a floor of anything other than dirt qualified as a luxury. The furniture consisted of two mismatched chairs: a wooden chair with broken slats and a folding camp chair with rusty metal framing. Parson saw no means for cooking, but the place smelled of bread; maybe the residents cooked on a hearth outside.
The old man wore canvas trousers frayed at the cuffs. His purple shirt was untucked but buttoned all the way to his neck. His short, thick hair had turned white, and his arms looked thin enough to break at a touch. An elderly woman, presumably his wife, stood in a corner. She wore a loose-fitting garment, like a sarong. Her multicolored wrap and her limbs—as thin as her husband’s—put Parson in mind of a frightened tropical bird.
Stewart reached into her pack for her video camera. Gold shook her head. The actress nodded and left the camera alone.
Geedi spoke with the old couple in hushed tones. The language had a pleasant patter to it; Parson’s years of working with Gold had helped him notice such things. As the old man talked, he seemed not to emphasize particular syllables like an English speaker. The words flowed in a more even pace, with a pause every now and then as the man assembled his thoughts. Geedi folded his arms, nodded, uttered short comments and questions. Finally, Geedi said something Parson understood.
“He says the fighting has gone on here for two days,” Geedi said, “and he has no idea who is winning.”
“I couldn’t raise Ongondo on the radio,” Parson said, “so that sure as hell ain’t a good sign for our side.”
“Is it safe for him to take us in?” Gold asked.
Parson liked the way she posed the question. Typical Sophia Gold, more concerned with the old couple’s safety than with her own.
“I’ll ask,” Geedi said.
While the conversation continued in Somali, Chartier holstered his pistol in his survival vest and put down the medical bag. Parson decocked his Beretta and holstered it as well. Took out his GPS receiver and pressed MARK to store the location of the hut as Waypoint Two. He noted that Waypoint Two was more than two miles from Waypoint One, near the airplane. A damned long way to low-crawl through grass and evade down a creek bed. With his position stored, Parson powered down the GPS to save the batteries.
“He says he doesn’t care if it’s safe,” Geedi said. “If al-Shabaab takes over again, he doesn’t want to live. He says he will help us or die trying.”
“Tell him we’re grateful,” Parson said. “And we’re sorry to drop in on him like this. What’s his name?”
“I did. And his name is Nadif.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Nadif?” Parson asked.
“No, sir. It doesn’t work like that. For a Somali’s full name, you use a given name, his father’s name, and his grandfather’s name. You don’t have a surname that the wife takes.”
Nadif began speaking again, in long sentences and grave tones. Geedi nodded, spoke short replies, listened with his index finger over his lips. When the man finished talking, Geedi translated a tale that explained why the old couple so quickly offered refuge to foreigners on the run from al-Shabaab.
Sometime before the terrorist group first took control of the region around Ras Kamboni, a relief organization dug a well in the village. The well house hummed with electrical power. Villagers did not need to pump water by hand; they had only to flip a switch to activate an electric pump. The motor pushed the water through a cleansing filter; Nadif said he’d never seen or tasted water so pure. Deaths from cholera—especially deaths of children—plummeted.
“Life here was still hard,” Geedi translated, “but at least people weren’t dying that awful vomiting and shitting death.”
Sometime in 2010, when al-Shabaab controlled most of southern Somalia, the group declared the well unclean. Because infidels had built it, the terrorists declared, Muslims could not use it.
At the time, Nadif’s son and daughter-in-law had just had a baby. The grandchild—a boy—was the light of Nadif’s life. The family hoped to send the boy to school when he grew old enough; maybe he’d become something other than a trash collector like his father and grandfather.
When the villagers abandoned the new well and began using water that was truly unclean, cholera came roaring back to Ras Kamboni. Infants and children began to die. Nadif’s son determined he would not let that happen to his child. So he began sneaking to the well at night to collect drinking water in a pail.
The noise of the electric pump gave him away. Naturally, al-Shabaab had posted guards in the trees nearby, and the terrorists grabbed him and held him for a show trial.
According to Nadif, the “judge” had no more training in Islamic studies than in brain surgery; he presided over a sharia court nonetheless. To show the mercy of sharia law and the leniency of al-Shabaab, the judge decreed Nadif’s son would not face the death penalty.
He would only lose his right hand.
The judge ordered dozens of villagers to watch as three thugs held Nadif’s son to the ground. They pressed his arm over a board the way one might place a fish on a piece of wood before cleaning it. A fourth terrorist wielded a hacksaw. With nothing to kill the pain, they sawed off the arm below the elbow.
“He says they took their time about it, too,” Geedi said. Nadif said he could hear the echoes of screams even now. He could still see the arm lying on the ground, the blood gushing from the st
ump.
Al-Shabaab allowed no doctor to examine Nadif’s son. They only covered the stump with a bandage and tied a tourniquet to stop the bleeding. The son’s wound became infected. And without clean water, the little grandson became sick.
“His son died of tetanus,” Geedi said, “and his grandson died of cholera. His daughter-in-law took her own life. He did not say how.”
“No wonder he hates al-Shabaab,” Stewart said.
“Nothing more dangerous than a man who has nothing to lose,” Chartier said.
“Please give him our condolences,” Gold said, “for what little that’s worth.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Geedi said. He spoke again in Somali, and Nadif replied with quick words and waves of his hands.
“What is he saying?” Chartier asked.
“He says he will give us food, shelter, anything we want,” Geedi said.
“Very generous,” Gold said, “but I hate to put this household in danger.” For the first time today, she looked anxious.
Parson knew why. Years ago in Afghanistan a family had sheltered him and Gold, and the family paid for it with their lives. He sure as hell didn’t want more deaths like that on his conscience. At the same time, he had a crew and a passenger to protect. He hooked his thumbs into pouches of his survival vest and looked over the old couple.
“They might be all right if nobody saw us come in this direction,” Parson said, “and I doubt anyone did. I hope we hit that little bastard who was shooting at us. Even if we didn’t, I don’t think he followed us.”
The bad guys, Parson figured, would probably assume he and his crew had left with the AMISOM troops. In fact, that’s exactly what Parson would have done if he’d had the chance. As it was, he had no idea where the AMISOM troops were. Things must have gotten pretty hot for Lieutenant Colonel Ongondo not even to answer the radio.
“Fair enough,” Gold said. “But let’s tell him to let us know if he gets any hint that al-Shabaab is searching houses.”
“Agreed,” Parson said. “And, Geedi, please give him our thanks again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Geedi spoke just a few words in Somali, and Nadif replied in longer sentences. Finally, Geedi translated.
“He says the stars turn in their courses and we in ours,” Geedi said, “and that we’re welcome to stay.”
“Very poetic,” Chartier said.
“I think he means whatever happens, happens,” Geedi said.
Parson could understand why a man who’d lost so much would take a fatalistic view of things. Maybe the old guy even had a death wish. If he did, Parson had no intention of helping him fulfill that wish. We’ll hide here as long as it’s safe—for everybody, Parson thought, and we’ll move if we have to. With some luck, maybe Ongondo and his AMISOM guys will get reinforcements and sweep back through this area.
“All right, then,” Parson said, “we’ll take turns keeping watch. I’ll take the first couple hours.”
Parson settled himself underneath the hut’s single window. It offered a limited view, which made “keeping watch” a relative phrase. He’d just have to make do. He reminded himself to listen carefully as well. Perhaps he could hear threats he could not see.
“Can we take off the body armor now?” Carolyn Stewart asked.
Parson sighed, thought for a moment. He really wanted to shed the weight and heat of the armor, but this mud hut offered zero protection from bullets.
“Nah,” Parson said. “We better keep it on—as much as I don’t want to.”
Geedi, Chartier, Gold, and Stewart sat cross-legged on the floor. Parson could see from their movements that the armor allowed them no position that was comfortable. Nadif spoke to his wife, and the wife went outside.
“I think they’re going to feed us,” Geedi said.
“Good,” Parson said.
“I hate to take anything from these people when they’re already so poor,” Gold said.
“I know what you mean,” Parson said. “But you know the drill in a survival situation: Eat as much as you can when you can, because you don’t know when you’ll get food again.”
Gold nodded, acknowledging the truth of Parson’s words even though she didn’t like it.
“Sir,” Geedi said, “you can’t see very much from there, can you?”
Parson looked outside. Though the enemy could come from 360 degrees around him, Parson could scan only about 60 degrees. He saw nothing but bare dirt that led to a grassy field and two acacia trees.
“I can’t see shit.”
“I have an idea. If Nadif will let me borrow some clothes, I’ll get out of this flight suit and go outside to look around from time to time. I can blend in the way you white folks can’t.”
Parson chuckled. “Thanks, Geedi,” he said, “but I don’t want you taking crazy chances.”
“It’s not crazy, sir. I’m not much bigger than Nadif, so his clothes will fit me. If I don’t speak English, no one will have any idea I’m not from around here.”
“You got a set of brass balls, Geedi. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks, sir. Just think about it.”
“I will.”
Parson gazed out at what little he could see. Considered how best to keep his crew and passenger safe, without needlessly endangering Nadif and his wife. For all intents and purposes, Parson had just become responsible for two more lives. And, all too often, Somali lives got swept away as easily as smoke from their cooking fires.
21.
God willing, perhaps Hussein had killed some of the infidels who inflicted such pain upon him. He had fired wildly in their direction. As someone who took pride in marksmanship, he almost never sprayed rounds like that. Better to aim and kill with one shot than to miss with many. But maybe Allah had directed his unaimed bullets to their target.
Hussein wanted to find out. If he’d missed, he wanted to keep hunting his enemies despite his injury. He had managed to get to his feet, and he continued hobbling toward where he had last seen the infidels.
They were either gone or dead; that much Hussein knew already. Now that he stood in plain view, they’d have shot him down if they could have. He moved his right foot forward and took another step.
The throbbing agony turned his vision gray and fuzzy. Hussein took a deep breath, and the signal from his eyes to his brain cleared.
As his vision refocused, he made out a dip in the terrain in front of him. A creek bed or a swale. So, that’s where those infidels had hidden.
God willing, Hussein thought, I will find them. And I will find glory.
He took another step. Ground his teeth and looked skyward to fight the pain. The angel shape that had drifted above him earlier was gone now, replaced by mere rags of clouds torn by the wind. The heavens themselves seemed to reflect his suffering.
Allah, Hussein prayed, please help your poor soldier.
He checked the fire selector on his AK-47, set for single shots. No more wasted bullets. He would find his skill and strength again. And as he took more steps, he found he could think through the misery, master his pain the way he’d mastered his fear.
A short, halting walk brought him to the edge of the creek bed. In the dry channel, he saw boot prints and expended brass, but no bodies. Perhaps Shaytan had guided those gaalos to use the earth itself as cover from his bullets.
Hussein placed the stock of his rifle to the ground and lowered himself to a sitting position. With legs dangling over the dry creek bank, he wiped sweat from his eyebrows and glanced at his right foot. It still bled, but not too badly. Four red drops fell from his makeshift bandage and spattered into the parched soil.
He saw no blood in that dirt other than his own. Not a single stain. Apparently he had failed to wound even one infidel. How could he have missed with every round? Maybe Allah would forgive his poor shooting if he kept u
p the pursuit.
“I will get them,” Hussein whispered to himself. “God willing, I will get them.”
He slid down the bank to the center of the creek bed. As he moved, he kept his wounded right foot off the ground and used his left as a brake. Digging his good heel into the soil, he controlled his descent down the embankment until he reached the bottom. Hussein sat leaning on his rifle, panting.
They were right here in this spot, he thought. Just a short time ago my enemies lay in this very place. If I could have gotten closer I might have killed them all.
Hussein did not allow himself to waste time worrying about missed chances. Time lost, like water spilled on the ground, was never coming back, and one could only move ahead.
What to do now? Track them, he decided. They could not have gone far. They were weakling gaalos, not toughened Somalis accustomed to a harsh land. They did not know the terrain, and they did not speak the language.
Even wounded, Hussein thought, I can find them. To those pampered white hunters who visit Africa, a lion becomes most dangerous when injured.
The same held true for a lion of jihad.
With the eyes of a wounded lion, he studied the ground around him. The infidels’ boots had trampled the soft dirt, and all the footprints led in one direction. He hadn’t noticed exactly how many people escaped from the airplane. But from the looks of the footprints, Hussein was following four people, maybe five. These gaalos would be as easy to track as a herd of rhinos.
Again Hussein used his AK-47 as a crutch; he placed the butt to the ground, gripped the fore-end with both hands, and pushed himself up. He shifted most of his weight from the rifle to his left foot, while the injured foot touched the ground lightly. He began to limp along the dry creek bed, following the infidels’ tracks. Hussein left tracks of his own—the print of one bare foot, along with another less distinct print. The dirty bandage obscured the mark of his wounded foot, leaving little but a heel print. The trail left by his right foot looked more like the marks of a bleeding hoof.