Authors: Tom Young
“There's a copse of trees to the north,” Gold said. “I don't see any bad guys in that direction.”
Parson looked where Gold was pointing. About two football fields away stood four or five acacia trees at the edge of the expanse of tall grass he'd seen from the air. Probably as good a place as any to take cover and rally up. Parson leaped from the DC-3.
As soon as his boots hit the ground, he saw what had happened to the plane. Something had shredded the tire. The little fucker with the grenade had thrown the damned thing and it must have detonated right next to the tire.
Grenade shrapnel had also punctured the wing. Fuel from the aux tank trickled from at least three holes. Chartier moved to crouch near the left main gear. He raised his pistol.
“Don't shoot, Frenchie!” Parson yelled. “You got gas all around you.”
“Merde,”
Chartier said. Lowered the weapon.
“Run,” Gold shouted.
Chartier ducked around the rivulets of fuel and ran for the copse of trees. When he got well away from the aircraft, he raised his Smith & Wesson and fired at something. The slam of the .500 Magnum sounded more like a shotgun than a pistol.
Geedi sprinted behind Chartier. Parson grabbed the back of Stewart's jacket, and he and Gold ran with her. The gunfire between al-Shabaab and AMISOM came in convulsions. Parson had little idea what to do except flee. Nothing prepared him for rejecting a takeoff at a field the enemy had overrun. Where were Ongondo's men? Where was the enemy? The firefight had devolved into battling mobs. The copse that Gold saw offered the nearest cover. Parson, Gold, Stewart, and Geedi caught up with Chartier under the acacias. Slugs zinged through the branches just overhead. Splinters and twigs sprinkled down from the limbs.
“Get down,” Gold said. We're back in
her
territory, Parson realized. Ground combat.
Parson pushed Stewart flat to the dirt. Gold and Geedi dropped to prone positions. Tall grass beneath the trees offered some concealment, but zero protection from gunfire. Gold lay with the Beretta in her hands, pointing the weapon back toward the landing zone. Chartier crouched low, and he poised to fire, the hammer cocked on his revolver.
From two hundred yards, Parson eyed his airplane. The DC-3 listed to the left, and the left wing still leaked fuel. He expected a tracer round or an RPG to ignite the avgas at any moment and turn the plane into a burning hunk of twisted aluminum. But gunfire held the al-Shabaab fighters back, at least for the moment.
No sign of the kid who'd lobbed the grenade, either. Parson wished he could take the little bastard's AK-47 away, grab the barrel, and beat him to death with the stock.
Think, Parson told himself. For all intents and purposes, you just got shot down. What's the first thing you do after bailing out? Disappear.
“We need to hide somewhere before those jackasses start looking for us,” Parson said.
“The sooner the better,” Gold said.
“D'accord,”
Chartier said.
But where to hide? Parson wanted to find a deep ditch, a cave, an abandoned building, anything that provided shielding from gunfire. He decided to scout around for a place to hole up. Use the firefight to his advantage. Those al-Shabaab assholes might be too busy to look for him and his crew now, but that could change at any minute.
Parson unzipped a pouch on his survival vest. Took out what looked like a woman's makeup compact, except it was olive drab. He opened the container of camo face paint and started dabbing green and black stripes across his cheeks and forehead. When he finished, he wiped his hands on the legs of his flight suit and put away the face paint. Then he dug for his handheld GPS. He kept his eyes on his surroundings and found the GPS by feel alone; its stubby little quad helix antenna gave the Garmin receiver a distinctive shape.
He pressed the power button on the GPS and waited for the unit to initialize. A status page told him he was receiving a good signal from ten satellites. More than enough. No buildings out here to screw with reception.
To record the location of the airplane, Parson pressed
MARK
. The GPS displayed the coordinates and field elevation of the spot where Parson stood. He pressed
ENTER
, and the receiver stored the location as Waypoint One.
“I'm going to look for better cover,” Parson said.
“Here,” Gold said. “Take this.”
She flicked the safety lever on the Beretta to decock it. Then she flicked the lever again, taking the weapon's safety off to make it ready to fire once more. With the hammer no longer set to strike on a hair trigger, she could safely hand the pistol to Parson.
“No, you keep it,” Parson said.
“Negative, Michael,” Gold said. “If you find cover and don't make it back, you haven't done us any good.”
Parson couldn't argue with that; this was no time for his protective feelings toward her to sway his judgment. He took the weapon. After she let go of the pistol, she placed her fingers around his wrist and gave it a brief squeeze.
“All right,” Parson said. “You guys stay as low and small as possible. I'll try to find a better place to hide. Frenchie, you got that little radio I gave you?”
“Oui.”
Chartier patted a leg pocket on his flight suit.
“Good. Turn it on and keep it on channel ten. I'll call you when I find something.”
Parson left the medical bag with Chartier and prepared to set out on his own. He hated to leave the crew, but he knew if he led a gaggle of four other people, not knowing where he was going, the group would become a target too big to miss. Better to find a hideout and come back for them. A lame-ass plan, he realized. As lame as his mail-order survival gear and little pissant civilian radios.
He felt a twinge of irony in his nearly hopeless circumstances. During the Iraq War, he had a chance to get out of the Air Force and make big bucks flying in Iraq for a civilian contractor.
Big
bucks. Piloting a twin-engine turboprop on night-vision goggles, carrying ex-military badasses for Blackwater, Triple Canopy, and other companies. But he didn't take the job. He worried that if he got into trouble, he might not have all the resources of the Air Force to come help him. Now he found himself in that very situation.
But not for big bucks.
For nothing. Zilch. Nada. For charity.
I just created a whole new level of stupid that didn't even fucking exist before now, Parson told himself.
He held the Beretta in one hand, and he began to snake through the grass on his knees and elbows. Had no idea where he was going except farther from the airplane. Sweat darkened by face paint dripped from his nose. From time to time he heard the supersonic crack of a bullet passing overhead, a reminder to stay as low as possible. Perfect, Parson thought. If a stray round doesn't get me, I'll probably come eye to eye with a spitting cobra.
Pebbles and grit ground through his clothing. Blades of grass scratched at his face. The gear in his survival vest dug into his ribs and stomach. After fifteen minutes of miserable, slow progress, Parson came to a dry creek bed. The creek bed dipped four feet lower than the surrounding landscape; in heavy rains it probably channeled torrents that cut deeper each season. For now, though, it offered a slight margin of safety.
Parson let himself roll into the creek bed. He checked the GPS for a bearing back to the landing zone. After catching his breath, he'd go back and lead the others here. First, however, he decided to try calling Ongondo. Maybe the AMISOM commander could spare a squad to protect Parson and his crew.
From a vest pocket, Parson took his flier's nav/com radio. He knew of no method to contact Ongondo except what he'd used in the air: the VHF emergency frequency. He turned on the radio and punched in 121.5. Static fried as he adjusted the squelch. He pressed the transmit button.
“Spear Alpha,” Parson called, “World Relief Airlift.”
No answer.
“Spear Alpha,” Parson transmitted, “this is Parson. Are you up on freq?”
No reply except static and the rips of distant gunfire.
S
urely Allah had guided Hussein's hand. The infidels' flying machine had passed so near he felt the blast of its spinning blades. Then he'd thrown the grenade as hard as he could.
Hussein aimed ahead of the airplane. No one had trained him for this, but common sense told him that when aiming at a moving target, one must allow for the forward motion. The grenade bounced in front of the wing. It exploded just as the tire rolled by.
And then, praise be to Allah, the airplane shuddered and stopped. Hussein fired at it, hoping to cut down the infidels as they ran out of the machine like unbelieving rats.
But the stooges organized themselves enough to fight back as they retreated. Their bullets came close enough to make the soil dance at Hussein's feet. So once more, Hussein ran like a cheetah.
He felt Allah had given him three great gifts: a clear mind for thinking, good eyes for shooting and throwing, and fast legs for running. And in this matter of the airplane, he had used all three in less time than it takes to stone a man to death.
Hussein knew that measure of time from experience.
He had seen Allah's justice delivered in this way.
Rajam
, it was called. Described and ordered by the Prophet, according to the Sheikh. It had happened early in Hussein's training, a few weeks after al-Shabaab picked him up, starving, off the streets of Mogadishu.
In the village of El Bon, the Sheikh had declared a man guilty of adultery. At a field outside the village, some of the older men dug a hole three feet deep. A group of locals sat on bleachers assembled for the occasion. The villagers waited silently. Hussein wondered if they were eager to see this rare form of entertainment or if they wished not to be there at all.
Their wishes did not matter. One of the soldiers of God stood beside the bleachers with a rifle, forbidding anyone to leave.
Four al-Shabaab fighters stood next to a pickup truck. Two held rifles; two were unarmed. Hussein and four other young recruits watched the proceedings from the shade of a mirimiri tree.
When the men finished digging the hole, the Sheikh barked an order: “Bring the condemned.”
Two men at the pickup opened the tailgate and grabbed at something Hussein could not see. Then he realized the sinner lay in the bed of the truck, hidden until now. The men dragged him out by his ankles.
The sinner's feet were bound, but his hands remained untied. He wore a dirty light blue shirt with buttons down the front and plain gray trousers. Probably the clothes he'd worn the day he was arrested. No shoes. The man's head was shaved, and his arms looked as thin as matchsticks. The skin stretched tight around his skull; he looked like the face of death even in life.
The two unarmed al-Shabaab men took the condemned by the elbows, and they pulled him toward the hole. The sinner's bare feet left drag marks in the dry red dirt like the hooves of a dead goat dragged by a lion.
“Be merciful, my brothers,” the sinner moaned.
Hussein wondered what the man meant by that. Did he mean let him go? Why would the soldiers of God let a sinner go? Hussein supposed one might beg for one's life no matter how hopeless the circumstances. Or did the sinner mean just kill him quickly? Perhaps so.
The al-Shabaab soldiers dumped the man feetfirst into the hole. The fighters who had dug the hole began scooping dirt and refilling the hole around the sinner. One tossed a shovel full of dirt into the sinner's face, and the men laughed. The condemned man brushed dirt from his eyes and head as the men buried him up to his waist. He looked weak and pitiful, like a bird with a broken wing.
“I have harmed no one,” the man pleaded. Then he cried out in a singsong voice, appealing to Allah for mercy, for justice.
“Silence,” the Sheikh shouted. “You shall have justice.” The Sheikh turned and ordered, “Bring the stones.”
Four al-Shabaab men returned to the pickup. Two of them climbed into the bed. They lifted a wooden crate. The two grunted and strained as they worked, and they handed the crate to the men on the ground. Then all four carried the crate, and they dumped the stones a car's length from the sinner. At the sight of the stones, the condemned man began to wail.
“Townspeople,” the Sheikh called out in a loud voice, “some of you may think this punishment harsh. However, showing mercy to a sinner is itself a sin. Allah demands strength and steadfastness from His people. Today, the Youth will school you in such strength and steadfastness.”
The Sheikh pointed to Hussein and the four other new boys. He motioned for them to come forward.
“You five will begin the execution,” the Sheikh said. “You must learn to strike hard for Allah, to serve as His arm and sword.”
Three of the boys ran to the pile of rocks. Each of them grabbed a stone and began to prance and bob, eager for the order to throw. Hussein and another boy walked more slowly. Hussein sensed the eyes of the crowd on him; his fingertips buzzed with nervousness.
He felt honored, frightened, and confused at the same time. He had never killed anyone. Did Allah really want him to do this? The sinner, buried up to his waist, looked like a small child playing in the dirt. The Sheikh apparently saw Hussein's reluctance.
“Go on,” the Sheikh said. “Pick up a stone.” He spoke in an almost fatherly voice, as if teaching a son to build a house with rocks.
Hussein chose a rock. A white one, large enough that he could not wrap his fingers all the way around. Holes and facets marked the stone; perhaps it was ancient coral eroded from coastal ground. Hussein hefted the rock, and he looked at his target.
The sinner made no sound now, but tears streamed muddy tracks down his face. His eyes looked as big as the shells of clams, and with them he seemed to beg for release. When Hussein was little, he once saw older boys stone a puppy, and the animal's eyes looked the same way before it died.
Hussein's anxiety came from more than drawing blood for the first time. At first his thoughts flowed cloudy; he could not set words to what bothered him. Then a memory gave form to his troubles: Before his time with al-Shabaab, he had met a girl. Another hungry orphan, scrounging for food. One night on the seashore they kissed.
If the al-Shabaab men knew, would they stone him, too?
The Sheikh's next command gave Hussein no time for thought, no room for doubts.
“If you are ready to be men,” the Sheikh said, “if you are ready to serve as soldiers of God, carry out the sentence.”
One of the prancing boys threw the first stone. It missed wide, sailed over the sinner's head. The condemned man watched the rock pass as if it had no connection with his fate whatsoever.
The miss infuriated the boy who threw it. He grabbed rocks in both hands. With his right, he flung another stone. That one missed, too. He transferred the other rock from his left hand to his right, and he let fly again.
That rock hit the sinner in the chest. The man let out a grunt like when you step on a dead puffer fish. Then he began to scream.
Hussein threw his rock. Struck the man in the side of the head hard enough to silence the screams. The sinner swayed as if his powers of balance had left him. Blood poured from his temple, stained his shirt, and dripped into the freshly turned soil around him.
The man covered his head with his arms, and he leaned face-forward onto the ground. Now Hussein understood the reason for leaving his arms untied. The sinner would instinctively cover himself. And that would prolong his agony. More than likely, killing blows would not crush his skull until his arms were too broken to hold up and protect him.
“Joogso,”
the sinner moaned.
“Joogso, joogso.”
Stop, stop, stop.
One of the boys laughed. Some of the older men joined the boys at the rock pile. Now stones flew like storm-driven hail. The ones that missed the man bounced and rolled all around him.
The condemned raised himself. One of his arms hung limp, twisted, and bloody. The other covered his eyes. A stone cracked into the elbow of the upheld arm, and that arm dropped, too. Another rock hit the man's face so hard that dust flew from his head. His left eye dangled from its socket. The next stone tore away the eye.
Hussein did not pick up another stone. He gaped in silence, paralyzed by a mixture of fear, excitement, and power. Yes, power. He had delivered the first damaging blow to this sinner.
Perhaps for that reason the Sheikh did not berate Hussein for not flinging more rocks. When someone else's well-thrown rock cracked the sinner's skull and exposed his brain, Hussein felt only horror.
Did Allah really demand so much blood? Hussein was glad the Sheikh and the other men could not know his thoughts.
The condemned man slumped as stones continued to pulverize him. He fell back at a contorted angle, almost surely dead by now. Yet the Sheikh did not stop the stoning. Rocks pounded the man's face to a flat, bleeding pulp. The boy who had thrown the first stone began slinging more rocks sidearm, one after another as fast as he could. They struck the ground or the man's torso, then bounced away, spinning.
By the time the rocks stopped flying, only the red-stained clothing gave any sign that the dead thing had been a man. The wind rose, died away, and gusted again. It seemed to Hussein that the land itself was breathing. If Allah meant this as some kind of sign, Hussein could not decipher it.
The stone-throwing men and boys milled around with an unnatural wildness in their eyes. They looked like people who had chewed too much khat and could not stand still.
Such memories came to Hussein without his willing them, both in times of calm and in times of action. Now, in this time of action, he forced his mind to think about the fight at hand. A soldier of God must focus.
Hussein hid in a clump of tiger bush and clutched his rifle. He could see neither Abdullahi nor the Sheikh. Al-Shabaab men ran among the tiger bush, grass, and acacia trees, but not with any organization that Hussein could see. Rifle shots snapped in twos and threes; Hussein couldn't spot any of the shooters.
He'd been waiting for a chance to approach the airplane again. Maybe spray its motors with gunfire. But the Sheikh had seemed more interested in the people from the flying machine than in the machine itself. Was one of those people the famous person the Sheikh had mentioned? If I can kill or capture this person so revered by the infidels, Hussein thought, I can win glory.
He gazed across the field. He did not see any of the
gaalos
now, but he knew the direction they'd fled. Preparing himself for another cheetahlike dash, he felt his bones and tendons contract. His limbs, muscles, and connective tissues collected themselves into a coiled spring. At this moment, he did not feel tired at all.
Hussein waited and watched, hoping the stooges' gunfire would die down and give him a chance to hunt his prey. He would not run foolishly into the arms of death, but neither would he shirk his duty. The thought of dying did not frighten him; he did not care why the
huur
had flown overhead. Its ways remained mysterious; Hussein did not recall seeing a
huur
on the day of the stoning.
Today, however, that awful bird had come for a reason. No doubt about that. And no matter what the bird's purpose, Hussein had a mission to complete.
A plan formed in his mind: He would sprint to the airplane and hide under it for a moment. In the time he would need to cover that distance, only the most expert infidel shooter could bring up a weapon, center his sights, and fire. Behind the shield of the airplane's tire, perhaps, he would catch his breath. Then he would choose another goalâa tree, a clump of grass, a destroyed vehicle, any point that brought him closer to the
gaalos
.
He would chase them wherever they went. If necessary, he would chase them all the way to Mogadishu. He would chase them to the sea or to the desert. Surely they had strong weapons and expensive training. Hussein had his AK, his quick feet, and the blessings of Allah.
For maximum speed, he kicked off his sandals. Hussein liked the feel of grit flicking from beneath his feet when he dashed as hard as he could. He considered it a sign of Allah's infinite wisdom that one could run fastest without shoes. Man could not improve on Allah's work.
In an instant, Hussein uncoiled himself and sprinted. Only his toes and the balls of his feet touched the ground.