The Hunters

by Tom Young

  “What are you doing?” Hussein asked.

  “I am going to try to give you a ride,” Geedi said. “But I cannot talk now, little brother. I have much to do.”

  • • •

  To Parson’s tremendous relief and surprise, the condition of the DC-3 was not much worse than when he left it. Not that those al-Shabaab bastards hadn’t tried. He sat in the left pilot’s seat, sweating in the hotbox interior of the aircraft, and surveyed the damage to the instrument panel. Some asshole had smashed the altimeter, probably with the butt of a rifle. Shattered glass from the face of the instrument crunched on the floor beneath Parson’s boots, and the bent needles indicated the impossible altitude of thirty-one thousand three hundred feet. The throttle levers were broken off, but when he pushed on the remaining stubs with the heel of his hand, they moved smoothly. Someone had stolen the tablet computer from Parson’s flight bag, naturally, but he could live without that. No classified information on it, just charts and approach plates.

  Whoever had come on board had clearly intended to render the plane unflyable, but must have gotten interrupted. Maybe the course of the battle had allowed no more time. Somebody swinging a rifle stock could have torn things up a lot worse in just a few more seconds, so the bastards evidently left in a hurry. Fortunately, they’d not stolen his headset. And the panel-mounted GPS screen was scratched but intact.

  Parson felt lucky to have an airplane at all. He’d half expected to find that one of the al-Shabaab geniuses had opened a filler cap on a fuel tank and dropped in a match—thereby earning martyrdom and the Darwin Award.

  As it was, Parson figured he could manage with what he had: He could still control his power settings, and he didn’t need the altimeter for a quick VFR flight over the border into Kenya. Assuming, of course, Geedi could get the tire changed and fix whatever else needed fixing. And assuming both engines started. Before the fires got here. Or the bad guys.

  After only a few minutes inside the sun-beaten aluminum, sweat made Parson’s flight suit cling to his limbs, and his wrists bore red mackling from the heat. He rose from the pilot’s seat to help Geedi move the spare tire and the jacks—which, thank God, remained strapped down in the back. So did the little motorized pump to provide hydraulic pressure for the jacks.

  Parson released the tie-downs and rolled the tire to the door. Geedi and Carolyn Stewart took the tire and carried it to the left landing gear while Chartier and Gold stood watch. Parson wasn’t sure how well Frenchie could shoot, given the arm wound, but the man sure as hell couldn’t lift heavy equipment. Geedi climbed back on board, and he and Parson wrestled the jacks and pump out of the aircraft. Carolyn Stewart shot video as they struggled with the hardware.

  “I don’t know how well this will work,” Geedi said, “but I guess we don’t have any choice. Do we still have cargo chains?”

  “I’ll look,” Parson said. “What do you want those for?”

  “I want to chain the strut so it doesn’t extend any farther. Then I won’t have to jack the plane so high.”

  “Good thinking there, flight mech.”

  “Thanks, sir,” Geedi said. “This operation’s going to be dicey enough as it is.”

  Parson understood Geedi’s concern. Normally, you jacked an airplane on a flat, hard surface of asphalt or concrete. Here, if the weight of the airplane pushed the jacks deep into the dirt, Geedi could never change the tire. Parson climbed back into the cargo compartment and checked the chain boxes. He found two ten-thousand-pound-test chains.

  “How many chains you need, Geedi?” Parson shouted.

  “Just one, sir.”

  The metal links clattered as Parson pulled them from the chain box. He jumped down from the doorway and brought the chain to Geedi.

  “Perfect,” Geedi said.

  “At least the plane’s light,” Parson said. “No cargo and almost no fuel.”

  “Hey, no fuel,” Geedi said. “Nice we got that going for us.”

  Light was a relative term, Parson realized. For a DC-3, that meant about eighteen thousand pounds.

  Geedi positioned the jacks under the wings and went to work. He connected the hoses between the pump and the jacks, and he looped the chain over a trunnion bar on the side with the bad tire. He secured the chain around the landing gear, taking care not to block the lower axle clamp. Then he yanked the starter cord for the pump. The pump sputtered to life and chugged with a sound much like a lawnmower.

  Over the noise of the pump motor, Parson heard rifle fire popping in the distance, and he resisted the temptation to tell Geedi to hurry the hell up. This kind of combat repair reminded him of stories he’d heard early in his career, when the Air Force still had people who’d served in Southeast Asia.

  They told harrowing tales of fixing C-130s that had broken down on dirt strips in Vietnam or Laos—sometimes where the enemy owned the night, and fliers needed to get their mortar magnets off the ground before sunset. Crew chiefs and flight engineers came up with ways to field-repair their airplanes that Parson found truly ingenious: They learned that when a pneumatically operated engine valve failed, they could connect the valve to the anti-icing system—who needed anti-icing at low altitude in Vietnam?—and actuate the valve by flipping on the anti-ice. If an engine wouldn’t start because a speed-sensitive switch failed, they got around the problem by wiring the pins in the switch’s cannon plug. If a failed reverse-current relay left them with a screwed-up electrical system, no problem. They’d just rig a jumper wire and get the hell out of Dodge. And they thought up this stuff in combat and under fire.

  The Air Force realized that when these guys retired, the military would lose all that hard-won knowledge. So they wrote down and institutionalized these last-ditch fixes and gave them an official-sounding name: Hostile Environment Procedures. Parson remembered crusty old instructors talking about what to do “when Charlie’s in the wire.”

  Today it was al-Shabaab instead of Charlie, and there was not even a perimeter wire for defense. And Geedi, Parson, and Chartier would have to make up their own Hostile Environment Procedures for their antique airplane.

  To make matters worse, the environment looked more hostile all the time. Flames danced in the grass and thickets, the closest only eight hundred yards away. The distance made it hard to judge the direction the blaze was moving, but if the wind kept blowing, the wildfire would soon reach the DC-3. And every time Parson began to hope the enemy had left the area, he heard another rip of gunfire.

  “Frenchie,” Parson said, “how many rounds you got in that RPK?”

  Chartier ejected the weapon’s magazine, checked it, smacked it back into place.

  “Trois,” Chartier said.

  “Three? That’s all?”

  “Oui. Remember, you fired a couple rounds into that poor devil who was burning to death.”

  Of course Parson remembered. Under the circumstances, a high price for mercy. But he did not regret it.

  “What about the AK-47?” Parson asked.

  Gold slid the AK off her shoulder and checked the magazine. “Seven rounds,” she said.

  “Well,” Parson said, “let’s hope we don’t need them.”

  With so little ammo in the long guns, Parson and his crew had enough firepower to fight back a determined enemy for about four seconds. He still had a full fifteen-round mag for his Beretta, but that was a close-range weapon. The same held true for Frenchie’s revolver, despite its massive caliber. Parson held out his handgun with the grip toward Gold.

  “Here, Sophia,” he said, “take my weapon. I gotta focus on the airplane from here on in.” Gold set down the medical ruck near the DC-3’s tail, took the pistol, and checked the red indicator on the extractor to see that the chamber held a round.

  Note to self, Parson thought: Next time bring your own AR and plenty of rounds. Better yet, don’t let there be a next time, at least not li
ke this.

  He decided to try to call Lieutenant Colonel Ongondo. The AMISOM officer would want to know Parson’s team had made it to the airplane. Parson walked behind the airplane to get away from the noise of the hydraulic pump. He pulled the nav/com radio from his survival vest and switched it on. Adjusted the squelch control, pressed the transmit button.

  “Spear Alpha,” Parson said. “World Relief Airlift.”

  Parson waited several seconds for an answer. When Ongondo finally came on the frequency, he sounded out of breath. And, given the clarity of the signal, he also sounded close.

  “World Relief Airlift,” Ongondo said. “Go ahead.”

  “We’ve reached the LZ. Thanks for your help.”

  The radio hissed for a moment, then Ongondo responded: “That is good news, my friend. Be advised there is enemy movement to the north of your position.”

  Hell, Parson thought, I just can’t catch a break.

  “I was afraid of that,” Parson said.

  He started to ask whether the L-39s would hit the bad guys again, but he stopped himself. That wasn’t a question to ask over an open channel. And he already knew the answer: He heard no jet noise now. Even if the planes had returned to their base to refuel and rearm for another sortie, they probably wouldn’t get back in time to do him any good. Parson settled for a more general question.

  “Spear Alpha,” he called, “will we see you today?”

  Long pause.

  “Unknown,” Ongondo said. “We are on the move.”

  “Copy that,” Parson said. “World Relief Airlift out.”

  Just as Parson released his talk switch, he heard the popping and groaning of aluminum. The whole airplane shuddered as the jack pistons extended. Geedi moved away from the jack on the left side and went around to check the right side of the aircraft. The DC-3 shuddered and creaked. Parson looked at the flattened left tire. It hovered about an inch off the ground. . . .

  And then it scuffed back to earth when the jack sank into the dirt.

  • • •

  Something upset the gaalos, or at least the men. Hussein was watching them work on the flying machine—he gathered that they wanted to lift it up to change the tire—and things went wrong. Geedi and the one called Parson kept talking and pointing at the metal objects they had attached to the airplane. That language of theirs sounded even more unpleasant when they spoke in urgent tones.

  All the while, Red Mouse kept taking pictures, and Yellow Hair stood near Hussein. Her job, apparently, was to keep an eye on him. He wished Yellow Hair spoke his language. He wanted to know what was going on, but she could not communicate with him, and Geedi was too busy to talk.

  Hussein had still not decided on a course of action. No opening had yet presented itself, anyway. He considered the possibilities. Yes, he knew some heroic Muslim brothers had flown airplanes into buildings in America. However, Hussein had no idea how to drive a car, let alone fly an airplane. If he had possessed more knowledge, he might have come up with a way to use this airplane to strike a blow for Allah, to use it as a weapon against infidels. But he had mixed feelings about these particular infidels. And Geedi—he was not even an infidel, but a Muslim of a different sort. Was there more to the faith than the older al-Shabaab men had told him? Hussein wanted glory, yes, as any good soldier of God. But he also wanted knowledge. Could this airplane take him to a place where he might gain knowledge, learn of new things?

  Perhaps. Except right now it looked like this flying machine was taking no one anywhere.

  I need a sign, Hussein thought. Allah, please give me a sign.

  Geedi and the other men began searching the ground as if they had lost something. Hussein wondered what they could possibly be looking for, and curiosity so overcame him that he ventured to ask.

  “Stones,” Geedi answered. “Big, flat stones.”

  “What for, in the name of heaven?” Hussein asked.

  “To put under the jacks.”

  After several minutes of searching, Geedi and the one called Parson found a couple rocks that seemed to meet their need. The one called Shartee found a wooden ammunition crate. Shartee climbed inside the flying machine and came out with a strange-looking ax. With the ax, using mainly his good arm, he whacked at the crate until he reduced it to boards.

  Geedi and Parson removed the metal things—jacks, they were called—from the airplane. That task involved a lot of struggling and grunting and sweating. It reminded Hussein of when he had seen men try to start a car by pushing it. Then the fliers put the stones and boards under the jacks, and they connected the jacks to the airplane again. While they worked, the men coughed from time to time. Clearly the smoke had bothered them, too. But Hussein’s lungs now felt strong and clear.

  Once more, Geedi began the slow process of lifting up the flying machine. The machine made squeaking and popping noises as the jacks pushed on it.

  The stones and boards must have done whatever the gaalos wanted them to do, because suddenly the men looked happy. Especially the one called Parson—and in Hussein’s brief experience, that man never looked happy. Parson patted Geedi on the back and pointed to the flat tire, which had risen several inches off the ground.

  Then the sound of explosions cut short the gaalos’ celebration.

  38.

  The smoke-shrouded landscape yielded few clues about the source of the blasts. To Parson, they sounded like grenades, way the hell too close. The clatter of rifle fire followed. He thought he saw figures running through the smoke a few hundred yards to the west, but he couldn’t be sure.

  Gold gave Hussein a gentle push to get him to lie down. He kept trying to look around, heedless of the danger from shrapnel and stray bullets. Carolyn Stewart lay prone, still recording video. She panned the scene, then aimed her lens at Geedi, who cranked at bolts to remove the flattened tire. His elbows pumped as he worked the wrench as quickly as he could.

  Parson wished he could order everybody aboard, sit down in the cockpit, and begin running checklists. That way, as soon as Geedi brought the jacks down, he could start engines and get moving. But the DC-3, jacked on uneven ground, was unsteady to begin with. Adding weight and moving around inside would invite disaster. So Parson tried to think of something his crew could do outside the plane to prepare for departure.

  “Frenchie,” he called, “can you do a walkaround while I pull the props through?”

  “Bien sûr,” Chartier said.

  Chartier slung the RPK over his shoulder, then began a preflight inspection on the DC-3. While the Frenchman examined the aircraft, Parson took hold of a blade on the right engine’s Hamilton Standard propeller. He pulled the blade down until he could reach the next of the three blades, then grabbed another blade and pulled some more. He worked gently, mindful that the aircraft stood on spindly jacks, and he felt no unusual resistance that would indicate a hydraulic lock in the cylinders. When he finished with the right prop, he moved to the left side and repeated the effort. No lock there, either. So far, so good.

  When Chartier finished his walkaround, he reported no damage to the flight controls. But he said he found a couple bullet holes in the left wing—and the bullets might have pierced a main fuel tank.

  “Geedi,” Parson said, “what do you think about these holes? Are we gonna lose fuel through them when the plane rolls into a bank?”

  The aircraft might have already lost fuel through those holes, but Parson could do nothing about that. Right now he just wanted to conserve what little fuel he had left.

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’ll plug them anyway.”

  “You got plugs?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good man.”

  In the Air Force, crews carried hostile environment kits that included wooden plugs for sealing bullet holes. A mechanic or flight engineer could jam a plug into a hole and saw off the excess. If the plug got
wet with fuel, it expanded to seal tighter. Geedi had carried over that knowledge to his civilian job.

  As Parson looked over the DC-3, a warning from Gold reminded him he had worse problems than fuel leaks.

  “Michael,” Gold said, “the fire’s getting closer.”

  Parson stepped out from under the wing and looked to where Gold was pointing. Sure enough, the fire had jumped the dry creek bed and now advanced toward the landing field. The grass blackened and curled under orange feathers of flame.

  “Geedi,” Parson said, “we’re running out of time.”

  • • •

  Hussein began to worry. The smell of smoke grew stronger. Not nearly as strong as when the infidels carried him across the field, but strong enough to remind him with every breath that the fire was advancing. What if these gaalos could not make their airplane go? He didn’t think the infidels would leave him to burn, but too many different things could go wrong. If worse came to worst, Hussein could move on his wounded foot; he’d already proven that to himself. But he doubted he could move quickly enough to outrun a racing wildfire. He wasn’t fast like a cheetah anymore.

  The infidels began to chatter as if something excited them. Their attention focused on Geedi, who had freed the bad tire from the grounded machine. Geedi said something to Yellow Hair, who adjusted the AK-47’s sling to place it higher on her shoulder. The woman took a tool from Geedi and put it inside the airplane. Hussein followed her every movement.

  For a moment, he thought she might put down the AK-47. If she’d done that, he could have reached the weapon in four or five steps. What if such an opportunity presented itself? Yellow Hair had a pistol, too, stuck under her belt. She might try to shoot him with the pistol, but perhaps she would miss. What would Allah have him do?

  The one called Parson squatted down beside Geedi, and together they wrestled the bad tire out of the way. As they rolled the tire, Hussein noted the damage done to it by his grenade. The punctures and cuts in the rubber made him think of the flayed hide of a dead camel.

  Parson and Geedi let the flattened tire fall over on the ground a short distance from the airplane. They moved to the new tire, raised it with much grunting and groaning, and rolled it into place underneath the wing. Parson stood back, and all the infidels watched Geedi work.