by Tom Young
“Perfect time for the battery to go tango uniform,” he said. “Maybe it’s got enough juice for one call.”
Parson dialed the number for the operations desk at Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. He knew the number by heart from his tour at U.S. Africa Command. The phone rang four times, then someone picked up. Parson felt excitement swell inside his chest; this might work after all.
“Combined Joint Task Force–Horn of Africa,” a voice said. “Lieutenant Wilkerson, nonsecure line.”
Though the line wasn’t secure, Parson doubted al-Shabaab had the capability to hack into sat-phone comms. He started to explain what he wanted.
“Wilkerson, this is Colonel Michael Parson. You don’t know me, but I used to be your boss’s boss. I need—”
The phone beeped three times, then went dead.
“Son of a bitch,” Parson spat. He let his right hand, holding the phone, drop into his lap. Disappointment hit him like sudden nausea. He realized he was as cut off from help as he’d been during that storm in Afghanistan.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gold said. She wore a look that showed as much disappointment as Parson felt. Parson tried to tamp down his own feelings. You don’t get to throw a tantrum, he told himself. You got a crew to lead.
“It’s not your fault, Sophia,” Parson said. “Batteries don’t have unlimited life.”
“I’d have brought a spare, but we were just hopping down to Mogadishu for the day.”
Parson had faced life-threatening situations often enough to know he could not afford self-recrimination—from himself or anyone else. He wanted everyone to focus solely on surviving. When you got back—if you got back—there would be plenty of time for Monday-morning quarterbacking.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said. “We’d have done a lot of things differently if we’d known we were going to fly a tactical arrival to a hot LZ. When they asked us to give Ongondo an emergency resupply, the answer was either yes or no. It’s not like we had time to fly all the way back to Djibouti to gear up for a no-shit combat mission.”
Gold gave him a look that showed she appreciated his words—but she still appeared unhappy with herself. Nadif and his wife talked quietly with each other; Parson guessed they realized something else had gone wrong. But they finished setting out the meal just the same. Nadif placed a bowl of soapy water and a towel on the floor near the food.
“That’s for everyone to wash their hands,” Geedi said. He took the bowl, washed his hands, and dried them with the cloth. The flight mechanic passed the bowl and towel to Parson. Parson washed his hands, saw the water turn browner from all the dirt, and passed the bowl on to Gold.
From a large kettle, the wife poured tea into small porcelain cups. The coppery liquid steamed as it flowed from the spout, and it gave off a sweet aroma. With a motion of her hand, the woman bade Parson and the others to drink. He lifted his cup, nodded thanks to the couple, and sipped.
The tea carried hints of ginger and cloves; Parson said he had never tasted anything quite like it. Geedi carried a cup to Chartier, who remained on watch by the window. The Frenchman accepted the cup and took a sip.
“Merci,” Chartier said. “This is very good.”
Geedi translated both the French thanks and the English comment. He broke off a piece of bread and used it as a makeshift spoon to dip into the rice and goat meat. Parson followed Geedi’s example and bit into a section of bread rolled around the rice.
The stuff tasted so good Parson had to force himself to stop and take some of the food over to Chartier. Parson had eaten nothing since leaving Djibouti that morning and he was starving. Judging from the way everyone else got quiet and concentrated on eating, they were hungry too.
When the meal ended, Parson felt especially grateful—and especially guilty for taking from the very people he’d come to help. And he admired the couple’s eagerness to help, here in this place where catastrophes came and went like seasons.
Gold, sitting beside Parson, remained quiet after she finished eating. Parson supposed she was still berating herself about the sat-phone battery. He leaned over, put his arm around her, pressed his lips into her hair for just a moment. Perhaps that helped; she gave that little half smile of hers.
“I want you guys to know how brave this girl is,” Parson said. “Last fall, when everybody was losing their minds about Ebola, she went to Liberia with the UN to help out. Of course, I tried to talk her out of it, but she wouldn’t listen to me.”
“C’est admirable,” Chartier said. “She obviously survived. Sophia, did you work closely with patients?”
“No,” Gold said. “I just helped counsel people who had lost loved ones. Michael’s too kind; my job was easy. The brave ones were the doctors and nurses.”
“You all were,” Parson said. He shifted his arm from her shoulder and stroked her back. “I don’t think I’d have the guts to face down a killer I couldn’t see. Give me a bad guy with a gun any day.”
As the old couple cleared away the cups and platters, Geedi said, “Colonel Parson, I’d like to ask Nadif for one more favor. I want to borrow some clothes and go have a look around, like we talked about before.”
Not no, Parson thought, but hell no. All his instincts told him to protect his crew, to minimize risks. But he needed information, and he had damned little of it now. Were al-Shabaab gunmen lurking in the area? Were friendly forces nearby?
If he didn’t let Geedi find out, Parson realized, he’d have to ask Nadif to do it. And Nadif had already done more than enough.
“Damn it, Geedi,” Parson said. “I don’t like it one bit. But I don’t have any better ideas. You be careful, though. And take my gun.”
“I don’t think I’ll need a gun.”
“You will take my gun. That’s an order.”
On this civilian relief mission, Parson’s military rank carried no more authority than Geedi decided to give it. However, Parson knew that once a person put on a uniform, he never completely took it off. Geedi had worn the uniform, and maybe he’d listen. Parson didn’t want to boss him around; he just wanted him to stay safe.
“Yes, sir,” Geedi said.
“Good man, Geedi. Thank you.”
Parson checked to make sure his Beretta was on safe, and he handed it to his flight mechanic. Geedi took the weapon and spoke in Somali to Nadif.
Nadif’s reaction required no translation. He shook his head, waved his hands. Geedi insisted. Nadif spoke in the tones of a father trying to talk a son out of something dangerous. Geedi would have none of it. Finally, the old man relented. He went to a trunk at one end of the room, opened it, and after a few seconds produced a plain brown pullover shirt and trousers. He handed the clothing to Geedi with a look of regret. Nadif then spoke to his wife, who covered her eyes with her hand.
Geedi sat down, placed the pistol beside him on the floor, and untied his flight boots. He slid the boots off his feet, stood up, unfastened his body armor, and unzipped his flight suit.
“Pardon me, folks,” he said. “I guess this isn’t a time for modesty.”
He pulled off the armor and flight suit, revealing his t-shirt and boxer shorts. Parson hated for him to go outside without armor, but the whole point was to look like a local. Geedi dressed in Nadif’s clothing.
“In those pants and shirt,” Gold said, “you do look like a Somali villager.”
“Well, I am,” Geedi said. “Except my village is Minneapolis.”
The flight mechanic slid Parson’s Beretta into his waistband, then let the shirt drape over it. No one would know Geedi was armed.
“All right,” Geedi said, “guess I’ll go for a walk.”
He glanced through the window, said a few quick words to Nadif, went to the door, and stepped outside.
23.
Hussein felt weak and sick. He wanted to move on, to close with the enemy again. But his foot
pulsed with pain, his head swam, and the flies and flying ants tormented him. In his dizziness, heaven and earth seemed to circle each other.
Each step along the creek bed became an agonizing chore. His right foot left ever-larger splotches of blood in the dust, and his weapon grew heavier and heavier. The sun hung low in the sky; the orange orb shimmered just above the horizon. A trio of seagulls flapped across the sun, dark images against the bright backdrop. At this moment, Hussein saw nothing that thrived except those gulls, who fed on things that washed up dead.
Night would fall soon, making it that much harder for him to find the infidels. Every impulse in his fighter’s spirit wanted to pursue, but every cell in his body needed rest. And water. And food.
“Allah, forgive my weakness,” Hussein muttered.
He closed his eyes, held out his arm for balance. As he lowered himself to a sitting position, it seemed each muscle and bone in his body connected to a tendon that pulled painfully on his wounded foot. Hussein leaned back until his shoulders rested against the creek bank.
It would feel so good just to sleep for a while, Hussein thought. Only his mission kept him going. Who were these gaalos, especially the famous one? A noted soccer player, maybe? Perhaps an American warlord. Did Americans have warlords? Hussein knew only a few ways someone might earn fame.
And one way was to kill and capture infidels, especially important ones. Soon he would earn his own fame. And those gaalos would learn they should have stayed home.
Despite Hussein’s best efforts to stay awake, he drifted into a netherworld between sleep and loss of consciousness from dehydration and shock. He dreamed of—or perhaps he merely recalled—his father’s stories about how Somalia was once a great and prosperous nation.
People still called a northern section of the country Puntland. At one time, the ancient Land of Punt drew traders from across the known world. Egyptians came for gold, myrrh, fine hardwoods, and ivory. Queens and pharaohs made pets of Punt’s exotic animals such as baboons and leopards. The people of Punt, Hussein’s father had told him, were the business partners and equals of the greatest civilizations of the time. Allah had blessed the nation that eventually would be named for Samale: according to folklore, the ancestor of all the tribes of Somalia.
How had Somalis fallen so far, to where they could not govern or even feed themselves? Hussein’s father never offered any opinion, but the leaders of al-Shabaab did. It was the fault of the infidels, and of the kafirs who became the infidels’ stooges. Because the descendants of Samale had turned away from the true path, Allah had withdrawn his blessings.
Only by driving out the infidels and punishing the kafirs could Somalis restore their former glory. The Youth, the soldiers of God, would punish by bullet, blade, and stone. Blood would redeem the nation.
As thoughts of jihad turned over in Hussein’s mind, he felt a strange presence. Something woke him from his sleep. Not a sound, not a touch. Just a feeling. When he opened his eyes, he did not know if he’d really awakened, or if through pain and exhaustion he had begun to see visions.
Across from him, atop the creek bank, crouched a lion. An enormous beast; its tail alone appeared longer than Hussein was tall. The big cat looked ready to pounce, to spring through the air and shred Hussein in a fury of teeth and claws. But the creature’s presence was impossible. Any wild animal, even one as fearsome as a lion, would have long fled the din of battle.
Yet there it was, tawny fur the color of melted butter, with darker streaks in its mane. Hussein’s eyes widened with fright. He feared no human, but the speed and power of the wild cat terrified him. This animal could take down the strongest man before he could even scream. The creature possessed strength enough to rip open a zebra’s rib cage with one effortless swipe of its claws.
How had the lion found him? The smell of blood, Hussein presumed. He had certainly left an easy trail to follow. Hussein had remained so intent on tracking his prey that he’d forgotten he could become prey himself. The hunter could become the hunted.
The lion’s yellow eyes burned at him. Such beautiful eyes for a killer. The mouth, slightly open, revealed a long pink tongue that lolled with each breath. And those fangs—as big as the nails a butcher uses to hang a carcass.
Every impulse screamed for Hussein to run. But he knew even if he could run, he’d take only a step or two before the cat clawed his throat.
His right hand rested on his AK-47. The rifle lay on the ground, pointing down the creek bed, away from the lion. Could he bring up the weapon, bring its muzzle to bear on the cat, and fire in time?
No, Hussein decided. Probably not even if he were unhurt, well fed, and well rested. Certainly not in his weakened state. And a sudden move might trigger the predator to leap.
The animal flicked its tail. The tuft at the end of its tail carried a mark unusual for a lion, a white blotch in the middle of the black tip. Are you some special sort of lion? Hussein wondered. Have you come to take me out of this world, to bring me unto Allah?
The answer came in a soft growl as the cat breathed in and out. If that answer had any meaning, Hussein could not divine it.
So, what could he do? How could he save himself?
Though he could not bring up his rifle quickly, he could do it slowly. Maybe Hussein could swing the muzzle gradually to aim at the cat. If he got that far, he could probably squeeze the trigger as fast as the animal could attack. He’d get only one shot. Maybe two or three, if he set the lever so the rifle kept firing with one pull of the trigger. If he missed, the cat would be on him.
Hussein raised the weapon just inches off the ground. With his elbow fully extended, the rifle felt terribly heavy. The wound had weakened him even more than he’d realized.
The cat cut his eyes to the rifle. The white whiskers twitched.
Anh-anh, the lion seemed to say. Do not make me angry, my boy.
If the whiskers carried a warning, Hussein ignored it. He moved the barrel through a languid arc. The muscles of his upper arm burned with the weight. He would have found it so much easier to swing the weapon all at once and let it rest on his knee.
The cat did not pounce. The whiskers twitched, the tail flicked, and the animal seemed to show every confidence that it could leap before Hussein could aim and fire.
Finally, Hussein brought the AK’s fore-end to his knee. From there, he angled the rifle so that the rear sight, the front post, and the cat’s throat all lined up. He checked the lever on the side of the rifle—set to shoot only one bullet at a time.
Just as well, Hussein thought. One bullet will do the job if it connects. Two or three more won’t help if they miss.
Hussein tightened his finger across the trigger. He knew the weapon well, and he remembered the play in the trigger, the wear in its parts. He felt all of those parts tighten and collect to within an instant of firing.
But he did not shoot.
If I fire, he thought, I will alert the gaalos. I still stalk my prey as you do yours, my friend. I am a hunter like you.
The lion’s whiskers twitched again.
What are you trying to tell me? Hussein wondered. Am I dreaming or are you real? And why have you shown me such mercy?
Hussein knew he could break the tension with one shot. Kill the lion, give up on the gaalos, sneak back the way he had come. Show off his wound, tell of the face-off with the cat, receive honor as a fighter who had done his job.
But that would mean settling for a lesser prize. And it would mean death for this magnificent animal, which had, for reasons of its own, allowed Hussein to live—for now, anyway.
We have reached an understanding, my friend, Hussein thought. I will not hurt you if you will not hurt me.
Surely this animal brought a message from Allah. But what could it be? Hussein thought if his faith were stronger, he’d understand the meaning of this. Once again, he felt frustrated at knowing s
o little.
The lion tired of Hussein. Or maybe the cat felt it had conveyed its message. Whatever the reason, it backed away from the creek bank just as slowly as Hussein had moved his rifle. The claws remained sheathed. With a final low growl, more a word of parting than a threat, the creature turned and melted into the grass. The last of the lion that Hussein saw was the black-and-white tip of its tail, floating above the vegetation. The rustling blades of dry grass closed behind the animal like waves in the ocean.
Hussein gave the lion time to get well away, and then he tried to stand. The rest had done him no good. He felt a mere husk of himself, famished and parched, wounded and sore. Once again he used the rifle as a crutch; without it, he would never have gotten to his feet.
He struggled along the creek bed, more unsure than ever of his fate.
24.
The sky had grown dark by the time Geedi returned to the hut. He slipped in without knocking and closed the door as quietly as he could. Nadif’s oil lamp lit the single room with an orange glow; in the dim light Parson could see no sign that Geedi had been hurt. Parson had spent the last hour worrying and listening for gunfire.
“Where have you been?” Parson asked. His attempt to whisper sounded like an angry hiss, though he didn’t mean for it to come out that way. Gold, Chartier, and Carolyn Stewart looked as anxious as he did.
“Looking and listening, sir, just like we said.”
“And?”
“The good news is I saw no sign of al-Shabaab. The bad news is they’ll probably be back. Everybody knows we came in on a plane and that plane is still here. And the locals say al-Shabaab is looking for a famous American.”
Geedi lifted his shirt, pulled the Beretta from his waistband, and gave it back to Parson. Parson took the weapon and looked over at Stewart.
“I think that means you,” Parson said.