by Tom Young
“He needs a doctor,” the woman said.
“There are no doctors among them,” the man said.
Doctors among who? What were these people talking about?
Hussein wanted his rifle. Maybe the old couple were faithful; he did not know enough to judge. But he did not like the sound of this conversation.
He sat up. Caught a glimpse of his AK lying on the floor, just a few feet away. Hussein tried to stand and reach for the weapon—and he collapsed. The woman came back with the wet rag.
“Stop, my child,” the woman said. “You are hurt.”
“Why were you alone?” the man asked. “Were there others with you?”
“I do not know where they went,” Hussein said. Then he cursed himself. He should not have answered the question without knowing more about these people.
“As my wife says,” the man continued, “you are hurt. You are only a boy, and they should not have made you fight. There are people here with a bag of medicine, and they may be able to help you. You must stay quiet and still.”
Now Hussein really worried.
“I am not a boy,” Hussein said. “I am a man, and I am a fighter. You know nothing. I have killed kafirs and infidels.”
“For your own sake,” the man said, “you must rest, keep your voice down, and do what we tell you.”
Such talk angered Hussein. Got the better of his judgment. Made him forget his resolve to tell these people nothing.
“I am a jihadi,” he hissed. “You must do as I say.”
He tried to get up again, but the man kneeled beside him and pushed him back down. On any other day, Hussein could have overpowered the old man, driven a blade through his throat. But Hussein had no strength to resist. The man held him to the floor with one arm.
“Tie his hands,” the man said. “And find something for a gag. He has decided to make himself a nuisance.”
Hussein struggled, pointlessly. He could do nothing except wear himself out. In a few seconds, the old couple bound his wrists together in front of him and tied a rag over his mouth—the same wet rag that had brought him such relief minutes ago.
“I will kill you,” Hussein tried to growl. The gag garbled his words.
“You are lucky we haven’t killed you,” the man said, “after what your kind has done to my family. But I cannot murder a child.”
If you have felt Allah’s justice, Hussein thought, then you deserved it. Hussein lacked the strength to fight his bonds. He lay back sweating, breathing hard.
The old couple spoke to each other again. This time they made no effort to keep Hussein from hearing.
“Shall we show them?” the woman asked.
“I do not think it matters,” the man said. “Perhaps they can help him in some way. If they cannot, and if the boy must be killed, then none of this will make any difference.”
They? Who was they?
Realization came over Hussein like the exhaustion and shock that had turned his muscles to jelly. He had tracked and found his infidels, all right. Except now he was at their mercy.
• • •
Parson heard footsteps approaching the cellar. Now everyone was awake. Parson and Chartier stood with their pistols ready, and Geedi shone the penlight up at the closed door.
Was an al-Shabaab terrorist marching Nadif at gunpoint to the hiding place? Entirely possible. Parson thumbed back the hammer on his Beretta. He could have fired it easily enough with the hammer down, but by cocking the weapon, he placed it in a configuration that required a much shorter trigger pull. That translated to a more accurate shot. And he knew he might get only one, if that.
Two coughs sounded from above. That was the arranged signal, and Parson relaxed just a bit. But he took no chances, and he kept his weapon upraised.
He heard Nadif—or someone—pulling the tarp from over the door. The person seemed to work without urgency. Maybe this was just old Nadif by himself.
“Look before you shoot,” Parson whispered, “but be ready.”
“Absolument,” Chartier whispered in the darkness.
The door hinges groaned with a rasp of rusted metal. Someone lifted the door and revealed the glittering cosmos above.
A shadow in the shape of a man blocked out the stars. The shadow carried no weapon and stood alone.
Geedi moved the penlight, and the beam showed the worried face of Nadif. The two Somalis spoke in their own language. Judging from the tone of Geedi’s voice, he seemed not to believe what Nadif was telling him.
“What’s going on?” Parson asked.
“They found an al-Shabaab guy passed out right in front of their house,” Geedi said. “He’s shot in the foot.”
“Oh, hell,” Parson said. “Where is he now?”
“Inside. They tied him up.”
“Mon Dieu,” Chartier said.
“What the fuck did they take him inside for?” Parson said. “Are they nuts?”
Geedi spoke in Somali again. The tone implied a pointed question. Nadif gave a long answer and shrugged.
“He is just a boy,” Geedi translated. “They could not bring themselves to kill him. But they didn’t want him to be seen, either, and maybe cause more al-Shabaab to come here.”
“The guy who hit our plane with a grenade and tried to kill us was just a boy, too,” Parson said. “Maybe the same one.”
“Nadif says the child is in very bad shape. He wants to know if we can help him.”
Parson gaped at Geedi, his face visible in the edge of the penlight’s beam. Geedi wore no expression. Parson glanced up at Nadif.
“He’s fucking with us, right?” Parson said. “We’re hiding from al-Shabaab, and he wants us to babysit one of their Cub Scouts?”
Parson let his question hang in the air. From the blackness around him, he heard Gold speak up.
“The boy is a wounded prisoner now,” Gold said. “If we have any ability to give him medical treatment, we’re obligated.”
Once again, Parson thought, she’s the voice of my better nature. Sometimes I wish my better nature would shut the hell up.
Parson could think of several reasons to disagree with her: The protections of the Geneva Conventions applied to lawful combatants, not terrorists. And this was between Nadif and the little murderous son of a bitch he’d taken in. Right now, Parson thought, we should just blow out of here and take our chances in the bush.
But Parson knew their chances would be pretty slim. Sooner or later his group would encounter terrorists again, and the next al-Shabaab fighter they ran into probably wouldn’t be unconscious. Or a kid.
And all his reasons to disagree with Gold were technical, hair-splitting excuses. Yes, Parson was on leave. As far as the military was concerned, he was on vacation. Instead of coming to Somalia, Parson could have hopped a space-A flight to Spain and spent this time by the sea at Rota. He knew a beach bar where they served garlic shrimp, and the owner loved American jazz. Instead of running from al-Shabaab, Parson could be sitting under the cabana, feeling breezes off the Gulf of Cádiz. Sipping Rioja and listening to Dave Brubeck. Watching the women go by, some with bikini tops, some without.
But no. He had come to a war zone to court mayhem. And, on leave or not, he was still a senior officer of the United States Air Force.
Guess I better act like one, Parson thought. Even if I don’t want to.
“Damn it,” he said. “Somebody grab the medical ruck.”
• • •
When Hussein saw the gaalos come into the hut, he thought his life was over. The old couple, those kafirs, had betrayed him to Crusaders. They would all burn in hell for this. Hussein’s eyes widened, and he struggled once more against the bonds that held him. Useless.
Just let them shoot me, he prayed. But if they torture me, let me resist like a man.
Through his gag, Husse
in mumbled, “There is no god but God, and Mohammed is his Prophet.” He wanted his profession of faith to serve as his final words.
But the gaalos did not kill him. At first, they did not even touch him. They stood around him and talked in their harsh language. American words, he supposed. Their words reminded him of a knife against a whetstone, all sharp edges and hard corners. Yes, even their speech was unclean.
There were two white women, both with their heads shamelessly uncovered. They even wore their sleeves rolled up so that their arms were bare. What manner of harlotry was this? And why did the infidels bring women with them into a war zone? Could they not live without their whores for even a few days?
The group also included two white men, one a little older than the other. Hussein assumed the oldest was in charge. Both carried pistols. One of the weapons was an automatic like Hussein had seen many times. The other handgun looked strange, all silvery and old-fashioned looking, with a very wide muzzle. More than likely, the bullet that tore up his foot came from one of those guns. If not for the gag, Hussein would have spat at these Crusaders.
Neither of them pointed a weapon at Hussein. What were they waiting for? They talked among themselves and made no threatening moves.
The strangest member of the group was a young man who looked like he could have been Somali. The man was several years older than Hussein, though not as old as the al-Shabaab bosses like the Sheikh. He wore normal clothes—not the odd coveralls of the white men, but he spoke their ugly language.
Obviously this Somali man conspired with the gaalos. A kafir, perhaps, paid to join the forces of infidelity. Maybe someone who had even betrayed his God and become a Jew or a Christian. Surely he would burn in the hottest corner of hell.
The young man kneeled beside Hussein.
“My name is Geedi,” the man said in Somali. “You are hurt and very sick. We will not harm you. We are going to help you.”
Help me? Hussein wondered. How could this unbelieving, Crusader-loving enemy of God help me?
“Get away from me,” Hussein tried to say. He could not force the words through his gag, and the effort to speak made him more tired and weak.
Behind the infidel Somali who called himself Geedi, one of the white men opened a backpack. From inside the pack he took a clear plastic bag that contained some kind of liquid.
They’re going to poison me, Hussein thought. Or give me some kind of potion to convert me to their false religion.
“Infidels,” Hussein tried to shout. “Help me, brothers.”
Calling for help was pointless. The gag smothered his words, and even without the gag he could have hardly spoken above a whisper.
The older white man took out a needle and attached it to some kind of tube. Then he attached the tube to the bag of poison.
“You are very dehydrated,” the one called Geedi said. “And your wound could get infected. We will give you the fluids you need. The needle will sting just a little.”
“Liar,” Hussein growled into his gag. What did dehydrated mean, anyway?
They could poison him, but they could not make him betray his religion. There is no god but God, Hussein recited in his mind, and Mohammed is his final prophet.
The older man came at him with the needle. Hussein jerked his arm away. The movement sent a jolt of pain from his foot that spread agony all through his body. The one called Geedi held down Hussein’s arm.
“Stop this,” Geedi said. “I told you we would not hurt you. If we wanted to kill you we could have done it ten times by now. Don’t be stupid.”
Hussein lay still. He hated this apostate Somali. But the apostate’s latest words rang true. The infidels could have killed him quickly and easily. What were they doing?
The older man slid the needle into Hussein’s right arm. The needle did not sting nearly as much as he expected. The liquid felt cool going into his vein. It did not hurt; it did not burn. Perhaps it wasn’t poison, then. Maybe it was some infidel potion to make him change his religion.
I will not turn into a Jew, Hussein thought. They will not make me a Crusader. There is no god but God.
26.
Parson had little medical training, but he’d spent enough time around flight medics to know how to stick a needle into a vein. When the Lactated Ringer’s solution started flowing, the boy terrorist seemed to relax.
“Do you think he’s the one who hit our plane with the grenade?” Chartier asked. “I didn’t get a good look at him at the time.”
“Me neither,” Parson said, “but he could be.”
“Can we take that gag out of his mouth?” Gold asked. “He doesn’t look like he has the strength to shout, and he’s probably uncomfortable enough as it is.”
Parson thought for a moment. Oh, what the hell, he mused. Removing the gag isn’t any crazier than what we’re already doing.
“Yeah,” Parson said. “Geedi, just tell him that gag’s going back in tighter than ever if he starts yelling.”
“Yes, sir,” Geedi said. He spoke a few words in Somali. The boy did not respond, but Geedi untied the gag anyway. For whatever reason, the boy did not scream or shout. He just lay still, breathing heavily, eyes darting around the room.
“Is it all right if I get some video of this?” Carolyn Stewart asked. “It would be great—”
Parson opened his mouth to tell her what she could do with that damned camera of hers. Before he spoke, Gold glanced his way, and he decided to hear Stewart out.
“It would be great to show you guys helping this kid who maybe tried to kill us,” the actress said.
“All right,” Parson said. “But keep Nadif and his wife out of the frame. And make it a close shot. Don’t have anything in the background that could identify where we are.”
Letting Stewart shoot video—just like taking her along to begin with—ran against Parson’s better judgment. But this situation fell so far outside his norm, he wondered how much to trust his judgment. As a military aviator, everything in his training and mind-set tended toward operational security. Hearts and minds were somebody else’s job.
Now he found himself in a weird gray area between the civilian and military worlds. Normal rules of engagement didn’t necessarily apply. Parson had no standards to rely on except his own moral compass—with some headings provided by Gold. He just hoped he plotted the right course, because a moral compass, just like the compass in an airplane, was not always easy to read. Back in the days of open cockpits, silk scarves, and leather helmets, pilots learned to anticipate a compass’s natural magnetic error: lead to south, lag to north. Errors in your moral compass were harder to catch.
Stewart dug out her video camera and began recording. She ad-libbed a narration in a low voice: “The World Relief Airlift crew, stranded after al-Shabaab terrorists damaged their airplane, is trying to remain hidden from terrorists. After making their way to a hiding place, they ran across this boy, apparently an al-Shabaab straggler. Wounded and dehydrated, he needs a doctor. There is no doctor among the aircrew, but they are giving him what help they can with their own emergency medical kit.”
Not bad, Parson thought. In fact, it sounded pretty damned good. Parson usually had little use for media people. He’d run across embedded reporters in Iraq and Afghanistan, and a lot of them just reported on how cool it was to be an embedded reporter. However, this desperate situation placed Stewart so close to the story that she couldn’t help but get it right. Parson figured she’d probably make a darn good film, in the unlikely event he got her out of here alive.
Stewart panned from the boy to Parson, and she focused on Parson’s face for a moment. He nodded but he did not smile. Stewart stopped recording.
“Geedi,” Gold said, “did our new friend say his name?”
“No ma’am,” Geedi said. “I’ll ask him.”
Geedi spoke a short sentence in Somali. At first it
appeared the boy was ignoring the question. He just stared up at the ceiling and breathed in and out.
“Hussein,” he whispered finally.
Geedi followed up with another sentence. Hussein answered with one word. When Geedi replied to the answer, Hussein cut his eyes at the flight mechanic as if something surprised him.
“Looks like you hit a nerve,” Parson said. “What are you guys talking about?”
“I asked him what tribe he’s from,” Geedi said. “He’s of the Rahanweyn. So am I.”
“Small world.”
“I don’t think he believes me.”
Gold gazed down at Hussein. Her eyes seemed to stop on his foot and the bloody, dirty rag wrapped around it.
“We need to see about cleaning that wound,” Gold said. “Tell him I’m going to take off that filthy bandage and that I’ll try not to hurt him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Geedi said.
He spoke a few more words in Somali. Hussein responded in a testy tone. Geedi answered with soft syllables. Hussein glared.
“He wants us to leave him alone,” Geedi said. “He says he does not need anyone’s help but Allah’s.”
“Sounds like one of our surly teenagers in France,” Chartier said.
“Or America,” Stewart said.
“Shall I tell him he’s grounded?” Geedi asked.
Gold and Chartier smiled. Parson appreciated Geedi’s brand of humor, but this was no laughing matter. And this was not just a surly teenager. As far as Parson was concerned, this little bastard was a radicalized killer. Okay, so you had to show him mercy because you had to live with yourself. But it was like showing mercy to a wild animal. You could feed him and bandage his wounds, and he’d still turn around and bite you.
“No,” Parson said. “Just tell him Sophia’s going to change that bandage so he maybe doesn’t get gangrene. And tell him if he kicks her, I’ll slap that hateful look right off his face.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Gold said. “Just tell him to hold still.”
Geedi spoke just two or three words in Somali. Hussein said nothing.