The Hunters

by Tom Young

  Everything seemed to depend on the Somali-turned-American. These gaalos, for all their knowledge and money and power, would very soon die of fire or gunshot without Geedi—who had much in common with Hussein. The thought gave Hussein even more satisfaction than the sight of what he had done to the infidels’ tire.

  Geedi reached for another of his tools.

  Gunfire pounded from inside the smoke.

  A black-clad figure, a brother from al-Shabaab, emerged from the gray cloud. The man pivoted to fire at something off to his side; Hussein could not see the target. The brass from three expended rounds flipped from the chamber of the brother’s weapon. Then the man leveled his weapon at the airplane.

  • • •

  Michael, look out!” Gold shouted. Taken by surprise, with the AK slung over her shoulder, she had quicker access to the Beretta in her waistband. In one fluid motion, she brought up the pistol and began firing.

  Parson turned from the tire and strut to see a gunman shooting at the DC-3. Two rounds popped into the fuselage just at the wing root.

  Chartier, standing with the RPK at the nose of the aircraft, fell to his knees. A gut-turn of fear twisted through Parson’s stomach; had Frenchie been shot?

  Frenchie brought the RPK to his shoulder. He had dropped, Parson realized, so he could see underneath the wing.

  The RPK spat three rounds. The bolt locked open. Empty.

  Forty yards from the airplane, the attacker fell and lay still. Chartier tossed away the long gun and drew his revolver. Gold held the Beretta with both hands.

  “Geedi, you’ve done the best anybody could do,” Parson said, “but we might have to run for it.”

  The flight mechanic never took his eyes off the wheel-and-tire assembly. He jammed a socket onto a socket wrench and spun the ratchet.

  “Just a few more seconds, sir. I’ve almost got it.”

  More gunfire popped and sputtered. This time Parson could not see a gunman, but another round pinged into the aluminum hull.

  Quick ratcheting sounds came from Geedi’s wrench. He yanked the socket off a bolt and shouted, “Done! Let’s get this thing off the jacks. Sir, can you help me?”

  “Tell me what to do,” Parson said.

  “This isn’t by the book, but we’re going to bleed the pressure off these jacks all at once. You see this release valve?”

  Geedi pointed to a tiny valve at the base of the jack.

  “Yeah.”

  “Sir, you go to the jack on the other side. When I count down to one, turn the valve handle counterclockwise.”

  “You got it.”

  Parson scrabbled under the airplane and found the release valve on the right-side jack. He placed his hand on the valve’s little T-handle.

  “All right, sir,” Geedi shouted. “Three, two, one.”

  Parson and Geedi twisted the valves simultaneously. Hydraulic fluid hissed through the hoses, and the airplane creaked and popped as it settled. Geedi ripped the chain away from the left strut. The steel links clanked into loops at his feet. Geedi turned his attention to disconnecting the jacks.

  “When you get the jacks unbolted, just pull them out of the way and leave them,” Parson said.

  “Works for me,” Geedi said.

  More shots hammered nearby. Chartier’s pistol answered. After the boom from the magnum came three quick shots from Gold firing the Beretta.

  “Michael, here they come!” Gold called.

  • • •

  Hussein saw men emerge out of the smoke from all directions. Some wore the green camouflage of AMISOM; others, the black headscarves of al-Shabaab. Yellow Hair fired the automatic pistol until it locked open and empty, while the one called Shartee thundered with his big revolver. Yellow Hair stuck the pistol in her waistband and swung Hussein’s AK-47 off her shoulder.

  Some of the men fired at one another. Two or three on both sides fell, closer to Hussein than the length of a soccer field. Hussein could not tell if any of the al-Shabaab brothers were shooting at the airplane on purpose. But some of their bullets, aimed or stray, smacked into its silver body.

  Geedi ignored the firefight. He concentrated on nothing other than getting the jacks unhooked. The effort seemed to involve the spinning of many nuts and bolts. Yellow Hair fired the AK at an al-Shabaab fighter who disappeared back into the smoky trees to the west.

  The rest of the brothers vanished, though the firefight did not end. Shooting continued, only a little farther from the airplane. The noise rose and fell as the battle ebbed and flowed in and out of the open field. Geedi pulled the jack out from under the left wing, then went to the jack under the right wing. There was much talking, pointing, and shouting among the infidels, as Parson jumped into the airplane. Through the plane’s window, Hussein saw him sit down in the driver’s seat. A few seconds later, humming noises came from the airplane, perhaps because Parson was turning things on. Shartee climbed aboard and sat down next to Parson in the other front seat.

  Geedi dragged the jack out from under the right wing. He made no effort to salvage the jacks; he just left them in the weeds to the side of the flying machine. He took what looked like wooden pegs from a cloth bag, and he jammed the pegs into some of the bullet holes in the wings. Hussein could not imagine why Geedi would take the time to do such a thing now.

  Hussein gave up thoughts of looking for an opening, waiting for a chance to do something. Things were happening too fast; events ran beyond his control. He could barely comprehend what was happening, let alone take action to control it.

  “It is time to go, little brother,” Geedi said. Yellow Hair handed Geedi the AK-47, then ran to get the bag of medicine.

  Hussein’s heart pounded as if it might burst through his breastbone. Should he let them take him with them, or run to his al-Shabaab brothers? He raised himself by his arms, prepared to move in one direction or another.

  More gunfire came from behind the screen of smoke. More bullets pinged into the flying machine.

  A voice called to him. A voice strangely familiar.

  “Strike them, Hussein! Strike them, you fool!”

  Abdullahi emerged from the smoke and fire. Geedi began to shoulder the AK. Abdullahi fired a burst.

  Geedi went down.

  Hussein scrambled over to the mechanic. Stumbling on his injured foot amounted to torture, but he ignored the pain. He saw no wounds to Geedi’s head or chest. But bullets had struck both legs. Blood was already spreading under Geedi’s knees and thighs.

  “Get on the airplane, little brother,” Geedi whispered through clenched teeth.

  Hussein had no intention of getting on the airplane. Not at this moment.

  He grabbed his AK-47, ripped it from Geedi’s hands. Yanked the weapon to clear the sling from around Geedi’s arm.

  “This is mine,” Hussein said.

  Yellow Hair ran toward him, but not fast enough to stop him. Hussein was a hunter, a soldier of God. Now he felt no pain.

  On his knees beside Geedi, Hussein clicked the rifle to full automatic. Brought the weapon to his shoulder. Closed his left eye. Lined up the front and rear sights—and emptied the last rounds into Abdullahi.

  39.

  In the cockpit of the DC-3, the stub of the right throttle scratched Parson’s hand as he nudged it out of the idle position. The firefight raged nearby, and he ignored the thud and jar of grenades while he flicked on the battery switch and the right boost pump. Sweat dripped off the end of his nose and spattered on the control yoke.

  Everybody should have boarded by now, but Parson heard commotion outside the airplane. He looked over at Chartier, sitting in the copilot seat.

  “Frenchie,” Parson said, “find out what the hell’s going on.”

  “D’accord.”

  Chartier climbed out of the cockpit. Two seconds later, Parson heard him shout, “Geedi’s
been shot!”

  Parson turned in his seat. “How bad?”

  Looking aft into the cargo compartment, Parson saw Chartier in the door, using his good arm to grab Geedi by the collar. Pain contorted the flight mechanic’s face. Geedi pressed his lips together tightly and squeezed his eyes shut as the Frenchman and Gold lifted him aboard. Blood stained his flight suit from the waist down.

  “He’s shot in the legs,” Chartier called.

  “Have we still got the medical ruck?” Parson asked.

  “Yeah,” Gold answered. She held Geedi underneath the knees and helped Chartier place him on the cargo compartment floor. Gold turned toward the door and caught the medical bag, apparently thrown from outside by Carolyn Stewart.

  “Frenchie,” Parson called, “make sure everybody’s on board and shut the door. Stay back there and help stop that bleeding. I can start this beast by myself.”

  “Absolument.”

  Come on, baby, Parson thought. Come on, come on, come on, crank for me. He wanted to start both engines at once, like he’d done before. But with the batteries sitting unused and uncharged for days, he didn’t trust them to have enough juice.

  He flipped the right engine’s mags to the BOTH position, shoved the mixture to AUTO RICH, and hit the starter.

  Nothing.

  “Don’t pick now to be a bitch,” Parson muttered. He released the starter switch, pressed it again.

  Still nothing. The right prop did not budge. Another grenade exploded outside, this time close enough to fling shrapnel against the side of the airplane.

  “Shit,” Parson cried. He pounded the top of the main panel with his fist—and that gave him an idea. A grizzled crew chief had once told him that when an engine doesn’t start, sometimes it’s just corroded contacts in a starter switch. Especially if the switch is old.

  The fix was simple: Air Force guys called it repair by “malletizing.” Kick it. Shove it. Swat it with a mallet. Scare those electrons into going where they should.

  Parson grabbed the switch between his thumb and forefinger. He cycled it rapidly between the on and off positions, then smacked the switch assembly with the heel of his hand. Pressed the switch with his thumb.

  The right prop rotated, and the right engine’s cylinders began to fire and cough. Wreathed in exhaust smoke, the Pratt sputtered to life. The prop blades whirred into a translucent disc. Parson shook his hand, wrist still stinging.

  He watched the oil pressure come up, and he let the engine idle at six hundred RPM. Glanced back to see Stewart and Chartier lifting Hussein on board. Hussein chattered in Somali, and Geedi said something back. Geedi’s blood spilled across the metal floor. Gold appeared to be holding pressure on one of Geedi’s wounds with one hand and digging into the medical ruck with the other.

  In a corner of Parson’s consciousness, dread tried to invade his thoughts. He had seen men bleed to death from leg wounds: Sever the femoral artery and you got a serious problem. He forced himself into a temporary and artificial callousness, as if a check valve held back the worry. Gold would take care of Geedi; the best thing Parson could do was to get this pig in the air.

  He repeated the start procedure for the left engine: boost pump, mixture, mags, starter. The left engine barked as soon as Parson hit the starter switch. The propeller spun up, and the Pratt hummed at idle.

  In quick succession, Parson flipped on the generators, the inverters, and the avionics master switch. The radios hummed to life, but right now he had no intention of talking to anyone. He hadn’t even bothered to put on his headset.

  Parson twisted in his seat and looked aft. Gold, Chartier, and Stewart kneeled beside Geedi. Hussein sat on the cargo compartment floor, holding the opened medical ruck. Gold was wrapping a pressure bandage over a compress on Geedi’s left leg. A bandage already covered the wound on his right leg.

  “Hey, guys,” Parson shouted over the engine noise, “hang on, ’cause we’re going! How’s it looking back there?”

  “I got it,” Gold called.

  “All right, Frenchie,” Parson yelled. “I’m gonna start taxiing. Come up here and make sure I haven’t missed anything.”

  Chartier stood and ran forward. Ducked into the cockpit and slumped into the right seat. Winced in pain from his arm wound. Geedi’s blood slicked his hands. He wiped his palms on the tops of his thighs before he touched anything. The Frenchman grabbed a checklist and put on his headset, and Parson donned his as well.

  Parson held the yoke back to keep the tail down, and he shoved up the stubs of the throttles. The airplane began to roll. He placed his feet on the rudder pedals, ready to apply brakes if necessary. Behind him, the ancient hydraulic pressure regulator groaned as fluid coursed through it. Parson leaned forward in his seat and scanned outside.

  Smoke drifted across the landing field, obscuring his view. The fire had reached the acacia trees at the far edge of the field, and flames leapt through the branches. Cinders flew with the breeze, and Parson knew the cinders would spread the wildfire even farther.

  From the flow of smoke and cinders, he gauged the wind direction as he taxied. Tried to position the airplane to take off into the wind, which would shorten the takeoff roll. Parson wanted every advantage he could find. Getting off the ground two yards earlier could make the difference between clearing the burning trees or not.

  “Gimme one notch of flaps for a short-field takeoff,” Parson said. “How are we looking on that checklist?”

  Chartier reached down and set the flap handle, then spun the trim tabs to neutral and shoved the prop controls to full low pitch. Touched the fuel selectors to double-check they were set to the main tanks. Before the Frenchman could say anything, two dark figures appeared among the smoke and blowing ash, directly in front of the airplane. Both held weapons, and both of them fired.

  Two white holes exploded in the windscreen. Shards of glass pricked Parson’s face. He felt thumps as other rounds slammed into the nose of the aircraft.

  In that instant, Parson could do nothing. He could not move the DC-3 fast enough to keep those assholes from riddling the cockpit. He expected a burst on full auto to blast open the windscreen and tear him and Chartier apart.

  However, a burst of fire came not from the front, but from the left side of the plane, practically under the wing. The gunmen in front of the aircraft crumpled. Parson turned to see Lieutenant Colonel Ongondo and two AMISOM soldiers firing into the smoke. Ongondo lifted his hand in greeting, then swept his arm forward as if to say, “Go!”

  Parson held the brakes, shoved the throttles forward. The big radials screamed at full power, and the entire aircraft vibrated with pent-up energy. Chartier scanned the instruments.

  “Power’s good,” the Frenchman said.

  Parson released the brakes, and the DC-3 began to roll. The bodies of the two al-Shabaab triggermen passed under the nose and between the main wheels. Hard jolt when the tailwheel ran over the bodies. For an instant, billowing smoke dropped visibility to zero, but Parson let the airplane accelerate. The plane emerged from the thickest smoke, and through hazy, thinner smoke, Parson saw the burning trees getting bigger and bigger.

  The airspeed needle came alive, and Chartier began calling the numbers.

  “Thirty,” Chartier said.

  Parson held the throttle stubs to keep them from edging backward. Up ahead, a man ran to get out of the way of the airplane. Parson could not tell if the man was AMISOM or enemy.

  “Fifty,” Chartier said.

  The DC-3 bucked and bounced over uneven ground.

  Parson pushed forward on the yoke, and he let the tail rise off the ground. Now the plane felt like it was flying more than rolling.

  “Seventy,” Chartier said.

  The acceleration felt a little sluggish. No doubt the rough ground made for a lousy takeoff surface. Parson hoped to get above ninety miles per hour before li
fting off.

  “Eighty,” Chartier called.

  The acacias, now fully wrapped in flame, rushed at Parson. Embers fell from the sky. This must be what it looks like, he thought, to make a short-field takeoff from hell.

  Parson had only seconds to gather speed, to make enough air—filled with smoke and cinders—rush over the wings to generate lift. He wanted badly to hear Frenchie say “Ninety.”

  But he ran out of ground and time.

  With no other option than to plow headlong into the flaming trees, Parson pulled back on the yoke.

  “Fly for me, baby,” he whispered. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go.”

  Barely above a stall, the DC-3 staggered into the air. The burning terrain dropped away. Sparks and ash rising from the acacias showered the aircraft as it cleared the fire. Smoke and burning debris rushed through the bullet holes in the windscreen.

  A tiny ember scorched Parson’s hand, then flamed out and went dark. He let the airplane accelerate for a few seconds, then pitched for best angle of climb. Parson held the throttles at full power, engines straining for every foot of altitude. Bullets could still reach him here.

  None did. Below, men ran among the smoke and fired at one another, but not up. The airplane climbed until the wildfire appeared as a gray quilt spread across a parched landscape. Parson turned onto a southerly heading, and the Indian Ocean rolled into view to his left, a glowing, brilliant blue.

  “Hah-hah,” Chartier shouted, “you did it, mon colonel.”

  In the back, Gold and Stewart hooted and cheered.

  “Gear up, Frenchie,” Parson said.

  Parson eased the power back to thirty-five inches of manifold pressure. Wiped sweat from his eyes with the sleeve of his flight suit. Glanced at the GPS screen to confirm what he already knew: The Kenyan border was already passing under his wings.