Born of War

by Anderson Harp

  “A bad scenario.” The agent kept looking at the sheet. “He is an American, thinks like one, and is smart.”

  “Correct.”

  “Very dangerous.” The older agent looked up. “Perhaps another attack in the U.S.?”

  “Not impossible.”

  “Didn’t he spend some winters in Toronto with the Somalis?”

  “Yes, sir. I think he married one.”

  “Let’s let immigration know that the Canadian border is likely.”

  “Airlines?”

  “No, not to Canada. He isn’t stupid.”

  Smith thought a moment.

  “The last message? Where was it placed to?”

  “New Hampshire.”

  “Hell, he’s gone.”

  It had been nearly two days since the blast.

  “My guess is Africa.”

  Omar loosened up his tie as he left the airport in Cairo. It was important to buy proper Islamic clothes.

  America makes me sick. I can now leave it behind forever.

  Omar had progressively become more and more upset over the conflict of customs. With a Southern Catholic for a mother and a Muslim for a father, he was torn by faiths until he’d grown secure in his belief in Islam. Islam is my anchor. Omar thought of how the mosque had helped him grow in his faith, but to only a certain point.

  “I could be here going to Madinah.” It was the university that he had aspired to attend. But an American was too suspect. He would not be admitted no matter what pleas he made.

  At the airport in Cairo, Omar stopped for prayers, removing his shoes and washing before turning towards the East and Mecca. The Western clothes still caused him to receive odd glances. However, his vest and tie allowed him to only trim his beard before he passed through customs in Canada. Nevertheless, he was “randomly” picked at every gateway for an additional security check. They would ask him in Arabic where he was from. And Omar would act stupid, pretending not to understand what was being said.

  “Excuse me, I don’t understand,” he would say in English.

  “Where are you from?” they asked in English on the second try.

  “Toronto,” he replied. During the winter he’d acquired a passport that he had saved for this specific trip.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Meet my wife in Cairo. She’s returned home to have our baby.” He was telling the truth. She was pregnant and they both agreed to return to North Africa for the birth of the child. His wife was to follow in two days. If she missed the window of opportunity, she would be placed in a jail for months, if not years. He warned her of the risks, but she refused to be so quick in leaving her family. She was young and stupid. She only knew the requirements of her faith and that was to obey her husband.

  “You must go!” he had told her. He repeated it to her father; however, he was a stupid man as well.

  But I followed the faith. Omar had remained a virgin until he took his wife. He never shared a bed with another—especially not a Westerner.

  I could have, he thought as he left the prayer room and put his shoes back on. I was popular.

  There was a girl in eighth grade who thought he was cute. He was elected the class president in junior high school. And always got straight “A’s” until his trip to Syria. It was as if a light had been turned on. Upon his return, he spoke out, and as he spoke out more, he was thought of as being odd.

  They are all so stupid.

  Omar took the bus to the market, where he bought sandals and a change of clothes. He threw the Western dress into a trash pile near a bus stop. An old man looked at him and then went over to the pile and pulled everything out. Omar moved quickly, knowing that the old man would make a comment to another.

  Cairo was safe to a point. Here he could find a neighborhood of friends, fellow Westerners, and possibly others from Somalia.

  There have to be more who want to go to jihad and make Hijrah, he said to himself as he looked for a telephone store with booths for calling. Once he found one, Omar gave the clerk some money and took the back phone booth near the wall. He knew the number to call. “Hello,” Omar said. He recognized Musa’s voice on the other end.

  “Yes.”

  “I am beyond.” It meant that he was out of both the United States and Canada.

  “Allah be praised.”

  “Please tell all!”

  “Call the other number when you get to the next spot.”

  “Yes, I will.” Omar felt strangely comfortable in the Islamic clothes he was now wearing. It was as if he had returned to his true family.

  Omar knew that Musa was walking towards Faud as they finished speaking. It would be on the Internet later that day that two American soldiers of Al Shabaab had planned the bombing in Mobile. One had become a martyr.

  Much of the Middle Eastern world would be asking where Mobile was. It didn’t matter as much as the reply.

  “It is the United States!”

  “Allahu akbar!” Came back the cry.

  Omar was far from safe. His journey had several more dangerous legs but he was much closer to his new army of believers.

  Omar knew that Faud would be pleased. The American, or al-Amriiki, as Omar was known, would be posted on the Internet bragging of his deeds and beliefs. It would raise money. And Faud was good at raising money for Al Shabaab. The word was that he had raised some monies recently from several dedicated followers in Saudi Arabia. The money was for a special project that would tilt the balance of power in the region. And it would scare Israel to death.

  Omar would be the next step in achieving that goal.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Got an ID?”

  The police officer held the flashlight directly in William Parker’s eyes. He had a big barrel neck and bulky shoulders that stretched the uniform as tight as a drum.

  Parker held his hand up over his eyes. He could see more of the officer. The man was bigger than the frame of the window of Parker’s truck. He looked like a bear standing on its paws.

  “Yes.” William Parker reached for his wallet.

  “Easy there.”

  “Sure.” Parker held up his left hand so that the officer could see all of his slow movements. He pulled out a wallet that held nothing more than his license. The money was kept underneath the console.

  The officer held up the license with one hand while shining the light on both Parker and the faded picture. It was a poor reproduction.

  “Mr. Berks?”

  “Yes, Officer.”

  “Not a good place to be, especially at night.”

  “I understand.”

  “We have had a bad time here recently.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get out of the truck.”

  William looked surprised. He stepped out of the truck and turned to the hood. He heard the click of a holster and felt the Glock pushed into his ribs.

  “Can I help?”

  Even with the officer’s size, Parker could have taken him down in a moment. But this wasn’t the fight he was interested in now.

  “You are under arrest.”

  Parker looked forward as the officer held the pistol to his back while placing handcuffs on his wrists. He cooperated. Something else was going on with this particular officer.

  “You are interfering with a criminal investigation.”

  Parker couldn’t help but give him a look that said the charge was lame.

  “Get into the back.”

  The policeman shoved Parker into the back of the cruiser. It was like stuffing a large man into a box. His knees were up to his chest as he turned to get an angle across the seat. The cage was slanted in towards backseat passengers, giving most of them a feeling of claustrophobia.

  The policeman slammed the door shut, shoving the handle into Parker’s side. Parker grimaced as he shifted himself again. His eyes followed the officer as he crossed in front of the cruiser’s lights while talking on his radio. Parker couldn’t hear what was being said. He could, ho
wever, get a better view of the man. He had a naturally large and bulky frame. His hair was cut short. In fact, it was down to the skin on the sides, like a drill instructor’s high and tight. It was the haircut of a man who didn’t care for conversation.

  William scanned the front of the cruiser as the officer opened the door.

  “Ten-four. I’m bringing him in now. We need that tow truck for his vehicle.”

  Now, in the close space of the car, William detected the smell of Aqua Velva. He noticed the man’s hands as well. The nails were closely trimmed but the hands were large. It would have taken an extra, extra large pair of gloves to fit over this man’s hands.

  Every meal a plate of food. William envisioned a high school football lineman. He was the type who piled up a plate and then asked for seconds. Age would not be kind.

  “If you let me make a call on your cell phone I can probably get this cleared up.” William hadn’t been in the back of a patrol car since the bar fight at the Navy Yard as a young Force Recon lieutenant. A SEAL had jumped his captain and all hell had broken loose.

  The cruiser had a cup holder on its front console, and in the cup holder was a dark, beaten-up cell phone.

  The man looked through his rearview mirror, staring through the cage like a bear ready to attack. There was silence for a moment. He acted as if the question had never been asked.

  They drove to the station in complete silence. Only the squad car’s radio interrupted the quiet. At the station, the jailer searched Parker.

  “Damn, look at this dude.”

  The fellow jailer and the arresting officer stared at the scar on Parker’s shoulder.

  “Where did you get that?”

  Parker didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to aggravate the situation further. As they finished, another officer came into the booking room.

  “We got a winner!” He held up the wad of cash that Parker had kept in the console. They were like a bunch of teenagers in the locker room after a win on the football field.

  “One call?” Parker asked.

  “Sure, time to call your momma.” The jailer laughed. “That’s your bondsman.”

  “Thanks.”

  They didn’t understand who it was standing there. He dialed the number. Parker hoped he had the number right. Since he’d stopped carrying a cell phone, he hadn’t called Gunny in awhile.

  “Gunny.” Parker noticed the jailer raise his head when the word was mentioned. “I‘ve been arrested in Mobile.”

  The conversation was brief.

  “Okay, let’s go to the holding cell.”

  Parker felt the arresting officer stare at him the entire time. It was as if rage was being barely contained. The bear’s eyes followed his every move.

  “Open it up.” The watch officer pointed to the holding cell. He was just as displeased as the arresting officer but for a much different reason. His anger was not directed at Parker.

  “I am sorry, sir.” The lieutenant held out his hand in an apology.

  The two other jailers looked on in shock as they sat behind their desks while all of this was going on.

  “We have had a very bad week,” the lieutenant said sheepishly.

  “I understand,” said Parker.

  “Where is all of his stuff?”

  One of the jailers held up a brown paper bag.

  “Is the money in there as well?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Get it.” The jailer went to a safe behind the desk, swung the door open, and pulled out a plastic bag marked with a red strip. “Evidence” was printed on the strip. The lieutenant ripped it open and handed the stack of fifties to Parker.

  “You need to count it?”

  “No.”

  “Fellows, we need to delete this entire arrest.”

  Just as he said that, the arresting officer came back in the room. He stood in the rear with his back leaning against the wall. He didn’t say anything. He simply stared at Parker as Parker put everything back into his pockets.

  “The arrest photo?” the senior jailer asked the question that the others in the room were thinking.

  “Yes, everything. It all needs to be pulled. Nothing can remain in the computer.”

  “Why, boss?”

  “National security.”

  They all knew now where the scars came from. The two jailers were embarrassed and meekly bowed their heads.

  The room got silent.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The convoy of white Land Rovers bounced across the path through the desert heading east. The vehicles tossed and turned like small dinghies in a violent storm. Some seemed, at times, to come close to flipping over. The roads of east Africa could barely be called roads. They were more like paths occasionally passing through outcrops of sandy rocks. Each of the trucks was marked with the logo of the MSF. Doctors Without Borders had another encampment somewhere farther southwest, near Dolo. But this encampment was far more remote.

  The rains had started to come to east Africa, and with the rains, the danger of roads becoming torrents of water. When the ruts dried out, the mud and potholes full of water remained for several days. With the water came the mosquitoes. Sleep required a net or skin so toughened by a life in this wilderness that it was difficult for the insects to penetrate their prey’s skin. In all likelihood, many would get malaria and there was not enough medicine for all.

  Karen Stewart tried to concentrate on the vehicle in front of her. It seemed to make the vertigo less painful if she watched the vehicle ahead. They were a fleet of ships at sea. She held on to her backpack in her lap. She was in a rear seat with the security guard sitting directly in front of her in the passenger seat. He held his AK-47 out of the window. It had a rope as a sling. He had big white teeth in contrast to his dark face and a smile that helped put her at ease, but she had never been this close to a weapon before.

  As they passed through a village, the children and women would stare at the run of vehicles. Sometimes the children would hop onto the running boards and ride until they either got bored and jumped to the ground or were shaken off by a particularly bad bump in the road.

  Karen didn’t feel well. She knew it was a mistake but she drank some of the camel milk that the women carried on the top of their heads in large plastic jugs. It was intended to be a special treat. She could tell from their eyes as they pulled a jug down and offered to pour the warm liquid out into a steel cup. It tasted oddly sweet and did not sit well.

  The malaria pills didn’t help either. Her stubbornness did not let the thought of turning back enter her mind. “I warned you!” Dr. Pierre DuBose shook his head at her. He was sitting in the seat next to her. A veteran of this part of Africa, this was his third tour with MSF and he had learned from his many mistakes.

  “Okay.” She tried to lean her head against the truck’s brace but every time she did, another thump would knock her about.

  “It will be better when we get to Ferfer.” He was in his mid-thirties, a surgeon from Paris, and on his last tour. This was not his first tour to the eastern village next to the Shebelle River. The mud huts that formed the small circle on the rise next to the river had been in the same location for well over a thousand years.

  “The Shebelle has a cruel heart.” DuBose spoke above the noise of the truck as everything not tied down rattled. Occasionally, they had to stop when they noticed that something had fallen off onto the side of the road.

  “Really?”

  “It is only a cut in the rocks and the sand. When the rain starts it becomes a viper.” DuBose had a flair for the dramatic. “It will spread like a plague.”

  “Beyond its banks?”

  “Yes, it has swallowed up many children who got too close.”

  “Oh.” She wiped her face with the once-blue-and-orange blouse. It now had a tint of red from the constant dust that clung to everything. The rivers turned red and the water that they drank, even after filtering, had a red tint.

  “How far to the border?” She k
new that the Somali frontier was close.

  “Probably a hundred meters or so. They don’t have borders out here unless they want to.”

  The neighboring countries knew more by tribes or villages what was and what was not Somalia. It was not like the United States and Mexico.

  “When will we see patients?”

  DuBose let out a big laugh.

  “Yes, you are a rookie!” There would be no shortage of patients. The children had scars on their faces from smallpox and other diseases that they had survived. Some would limp in from the west of Somalia with poorly bandaged wounds from random fighting they had innocently stepped into. Many sought the refuge of the remote village of Ferfer simply because it was far from anything that should matter.

  The MSF camp was on a flat area amid a round of rocks that overlooked the valley and the riverbed. The village of Ferfer was just beyond. When the doctors opened up for business, the line of patients wandered up the hillside to the gathering of white tents. She had her wish granted. There was plenty to do. She had no shortage of patients in the encampment.

  After unloading the vehicles, Dr. Stewart fell asleep in her new tent for several hours. As the sun began to set, the chill of the desert set in and with it she awoke in near darkness. She leaned forward in her bunk and got a face full of net as her mind recognized where she was. It was a hard sleep. Her face was wet. She felt her pillow and it was also wet. The days of travel and riding in seats that didn’t recline had taken their toll. Stewart pulled the net back, turned to put her feet on the ground, and then felt for her boots. She had already learned to hit her boots together to make sure there were no scorpions that had climbed into the warmth of the boots. Like all the insect and animal life on this continent, the scorpions had a bite that was far worse than just being painful. She had brought a small LED flashlight with her, and with it she dug through her backpack until she found a Polartec jacket. As she left the tent, a cold still night air struck her. She pulled a scarf over her head for both warmth and as respect for this new world. She had learned already that a woman must wear a scarf or covering at all times.