The Hunters (26 page)

Geedi searched the shelves and found a couple nearly empty glass jars, about the size of Mason jars back home except the glass was smoked nearly to black. He passed them to Parson, and Parson looked inside. Just some dirt and dried roots. He shook out the debris; the jars would serve his purpose.

Gold and Chartier woke up. With everyone awake except Hussein, Parson no longer worried about keeping his voice at a whisper.

“Good morning, guys,” he said. “Something tells me this joint doesn't serve a champagne brunch.”

“Bonjour,”
Chartier said. “Were you on watch the whole time?”

“Yeah,” Parson said, “but I couldn't sleep anyway. I'll give you the weapon now.”

“D'accord.”

Chartier took the AK from Parson and checked its fire selector. Parson had left it on safe. Gold tugged at her sleeves, tucked her shirt.

“Good morning, Michael,” Gold said. “Any plan for today?”

Parson sighed. “I got a plan,” he said, “but I don't like it.” He explained what he wanted Geedi to do, and why.

“Don't worry, sir,” Geedi said. “I got this.”

“You're a good dude, Geedi.”

Hussein slept for another hour. By the time the boy woke up, Parson was tapping his foot in impatience to urinate. He grabbed a corner of Hussein's blanket and motioned for Hussein to slide off it. Parson took the blanket and strung it across a corner of the cellar. When he finished, the blanket and jars made for a makeshift latrine only a little less primitive than the urinals in the cargo compartments of old C-130s.

Parson started to unzip his flight suit, then had a second thought: Better let Hussein go first. Otherwise, the little bastard might throw a full jar of urine on somebody.

“Tell him to go to the bathroom behind the blanket if he wants to,” Parson told Geedi. “And when he's done, he better not do anything with the jar except put it down.”

Geedi spoke in Somali to Hussein, and he helped Hussein get to his feet. The boy took a jar and limped behind the blanket. Parson heard the trickle of liquid spilling into the jar. He thought about pointing his pistol at the boy to discourage any mischief. But after Hussein finished, he just left the jar on a shelf, came out from behind the screen, and sat down.

Parson and everyone else took a turn behind the blanket. The end result was two foul-smelling jars, filled to the brim.

“I'll get rid of those,” Geedi said, “and I might as well get started on another look around.”

“Wait,” Carolyn Stewart said.

Geedi looked at her with a puzzled expression. Parson wondered what the hell she wanted. Hadn't she already done more than enough to complicate things?

“Your watch,” Stewart said, pointing to Geedi's wrist.

“Oh, I forgot,” Geedi said. “Guess I wouldn't look much like a local, wearing a Bulova.” He took off the watch and stuffed it into the pocket of the trousers he'd borrowed from Nadif.

“Ah, good catch, Carolyn,” Parson said. “How did you think of that?”

“He's playing a role,” Stewart said. “His costume needs to be right.”

Fair enough, Parson thought. This lady had screwed up real bad, no doubt about that. But maybe she wasn't a total idiot.

Without another word, Geedi took the urine jars and placed them on the top step. He climbed up and pushed open the door a few inches. He reached up, took hold of the tarp that covered the door, and slid it out of the way.

Geedi peered outside in all directions. The light pouring down from the entrance made Parson squint.

Apparently satisfied that no enemy lurked close by, Geedi pushed the door all the way open. For a glorious moment, full daylight flooded the cellar. The flight mechanic took the jars and climbed outside.

“For God's sake, be careful,” Parson said.

Geedi poured the urine onto the ground. Then he closed the door, and the cellar went dark again.

W
hile waiting for Geedi to come back, Parson tried to make a radio call. He climbed to the stop of the stairs with his nav/com radio, and he slid the antenna through a crack in the door. Plugged in the earpiece and inserted it into his ear. He turned the volume knob to click on the radio, and he turned the squelch control until he got a constant hiss. Pressed the transmit key.

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

No sound but the sizzle of static.

“Spear Alpha,” Parson repeated, “World Relief Airlift. Do you read?”

Within the static came a slight warble, and Parson tweaked the volume a little higher. The sizzling rose to a surf's roar, and the warbles became coherent enough to recognize as words. But the words were not in English, and definitely not from Ongondo. Just the tailings of a stray transmission that had somehow bounced through the sky and snagged Parson's antenna on the way to infinity.

Parson cursed under his breath and turned off the radio. Yanked the earpiece out of his ear, descended to the bottom of the stairs. Transmitting from a hole in the ground, he hadn't really expected to make contact with Ongondo. But he had thought it worth a try. Learning otherwise put him in a worse mood.

Even if the sat-phone battery hadn't died, help still might remain out of reach. Given the drawdown of American forces, there might be no rescue helicopter available from Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. Parson did not remember seeing one there when he first left on this godforsaken mission.

He felt completely isolated. Getting help would first require getting a message out, and even that seemed impossible now. Then he'd have to wait for a transport helicopter to come from God knows where. Maybe Nairobi. How long would that take?

Parson blamed himself for getting everyone stranded. A good pilot always has an out, he thought. You never put yourself in a situation where you have only one option. If fog socks in your destination, you fly to the alternate. If the weather really sucks, you file two alternates. You plan for reserve fuel. You carry spare parts and extra fuses. You don't get down to where Plan A has to work because there's no Plan B.

But in my eagerness to get supplies to the AMISOM troops, Parson thought, that's exactly what happened. Like arriving over the airfield with minimum fuel and finding the weather down to zero-zero.

He had nothing to rely on but his crew and whatever resources he could scrounge. If we're ever getting out of here, he realized, we're going to have to get creative. And damned lucky.

Parson began to worry about Geedi. He checked his watch; the flight mechanic had been gone nearly two hours. What the hell could Geedi be doing out there for so long?

Hussein sat up and stared at the dirt floor. Gold and Stewart sat close to him, and whenever he looked up, Gold tried to give him a nod or a smile. As far as Parson knew, she didn't speak Somali, so she couldn't communicate with the boy in any meaningful way. Hussein never smiled back at her, but neither did he glare. Chartier leaned against the shelves with the AK-47 cradled in his arms.

After a time, Gold moved over to Parson at the foot of the stairs. As she settled back to a sitting position, she leaned her head on his arm. Her hair smelled of shampoo, sweat, and smoke. She said nothing, but her touch took the edge off his anxiety. He'd hoped this trip would involve more quality time with her in Djibouti, but now he felt grateful for this brief moment—even in a hole in the ground in Somalia. He placed his hand on the back of her neck, let his eyes close for a few seconds.

“You should get some sleep,
mon colonel
,” Chartier said. “I have the watch now.”

“I know, Frenchie,” Parson said. “I don't know if I
can
sleep. Wish I could make contact with Ongondo or somebody before I try to rest.”

“I understand,” Chartier said. “A fighting man hates getting cut off from help. It happened to my grandfather more than once.”

“Your grandfather?”

“
Oui.
He fought in Indochina.”

Chartier explained how his granddad served with French forces in Southeast Asia during the war that raged from 1946 to 1954. The war led to the partition of North and South Vietnam, and that division set the stage for the American war a decade later. As the Frenchman began his story, Stewart took out her video camera and held it up with a question on her face. Chartier nodded.

“Thanks,” Stewart said. “It's too dark for good pictures, but I might use the audio.” The actress recorded as Chartier told of his grandfather's service.

“My
pépère
was a sergeant,” Chartier said, “and they often left him in command of a
post kilométrique
, a kilometer post along a road. Just him and nine men in a bunker.”

Surrounded by jungles or mountains that hid Viet Minh guerrillas, Chartier explained, the French soldiers would string barbed wire around their perimeter. Along the wire, they hung empty ration cans that would rattle to warn of an insurgent's approach. Sometimes the troops didn't have enough wire to encircle their position, so they'd resort to sharpened stalks of bamboo.

“These PK posts were often too spread out for any kind of mutual support,” Chartier said. “When one got hit, the men were on their own. And that's what happened when my grandfather's post was attacked.”

One night, Chartier said, Viet Minh “Death Volunteers” blew through the wire with Bangalore torpedoes. They charged into the perimeter screaming
Tiên-lên!
or
Forward!
The Frenchmen popped parachute flares to see the attackers, and the otherworldly glow revealed dozens of insurgents armed with rifles and grenades.

The elder Chartier opened up with an FM 24/29 light machine gun, while his men fired their MAS-49 semiauto rifles. The bodies of the first wave of attackers weighed down the barbed wire, and soon the Viet Minh could cross the barrier on the backs and stomachs of their fallen comrades.

“For some reason,” Chartier said, “I still remember how my grandfather said the FM 24 had two triggers—one for full automatic and one for semi. He burned through several magazines on full auto.”

Eventually, one of the Viet Minh got close enough to put a grenade through the bunker's embrasure. The blast killed three Frenchmen, disabled two others, and sent a shard of hot metal ripping into Sergeant Chartier's thigh. Despite wounds that caused severe blood loss, the sergeant kept firing along with his men. And they held their position at the lonely
post kilométrique
.

“My grandfather received the
Croix de Guerre des Théâtres d'Opérations Extérieures
,” Chartier said with obvious pride.

“Had no idea your granddad was such a fighter,” Parson said.

“We prefer to talk about him rather than the distant cousin who collaborated with the Vichy government,” Chartier said.

“Every family tree has a nut,” Parson said.

“So your grandfather went home a hero,” Stewart said.

“
Oui
, but not then. They sent him to a hospital in Hanoi, and—”

Before Chartier could finish his story, the thud of footsteps sounded from above. Parson and Gold moved away from the steps to make room for Chartier to point the AK up toward the door. Then Parson pulled his Beretta and aimed it in the same direction. Unless this was Geedi or Nadif coming, Parson knew he might be about to make a last stand much more hopeless than the one Frenchie had just described.

Two coughs sounded from above.

“Don't shoot,” someone said from up top. Geedi's voice. “I'm back.”

Geedi opened the door, and once again light flooded the cellar. Parson squinted and turned the muzzle of his pistol toward the floor. He kept a close eye on Hussein to make sure the boy didn't try to bolt for the exit. Hussein only shaded his eyes, and Parson realized he was probably in no shape to bolt for anything.

The flight mechanic descended the first two steps, then reached up and closed the door behind him. He paused on the steps for a moment to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Hopped down the last steps to stand on the floor.

“Talk to me,” Parson said.

“I found an old bunker,” Geedi said. “It's about a mile from here, and nobody seems to be using it.”

“A mile in what direction?”

“Ah, east. It's between here and Ras Kamboni.”

“See any bad guys?”

“Yes, sir. A patrol of five dudes came down a dirt road west of here about half an hour ago. They all had AKs. They wore black smocks or just ratty civilian clothes, so I'm pretty sure they were al-Shabaab.”

“Good eye, Geedi,” Parson said. The flight mechanic had fallen back on his military training, and he'd apparently remembered the SALUTE acronym for reporting enemy movement: size of the unit, activity, location, unit identification, time and date, equipment observed.

“Did they see you?” Gold asked.

“They did, and I wandered around so they wouldn't see me coming back here. They didn't bother me, so they probably thought I was just a camel boy or something.”

“That's good,” Chartier said.

“Great work, Geedi,” Parson said. “Sit down and try to get some sleep.”

Geedi fished his Bulova out of his pocket, nodded to Carolyn Stewart, and placed the watch back on his wrist. Stewart gave a weak smile.

Parson still hated that he'd sent Geedi out on such a dangerous recon mission. But no one else could have pulled it off, and now Parson had a little more information: There was another hiding place nearby, and the enemy still lurked in the area.

Now that he knew about another refuge, the question was whether to use it. If al-Shabaab fighters were looking for him and his crew, the bunker might be a place they'd check. But maybe they'd already checked it.

Worst case, Parson thought, if they find us in the bunker, we can defend that position better than this death-trap cellar. And we won't get Nadif and his wife killed in the process. And if I'm above ground, he considered, maybe I can communicate.

Parson did not have to make a decision right now. In no case would he move in daylight, so he had the rest of the day to catch up on his sleep and think about it.

•   •   •

P
art of Hussein felt relieved when Geedi came back. At first he'd hoped this
kafir
who consorted so easily with
gaalos
would get killed out there. Hussein had no idea why the man had left the cellar for so long, and after a while he'd assumed Geedi had encountered the al-Shabaab brothers and received the punishment deserved by all infidels.

But, Hussein realized, without Geedi there was no way to communicate with his captors. He would not believe their lies, of course, but hearing anything at all might give him clues.

“How do you feel?” Geedi asked in Somali. The
gaalos
looked on as if they could understand.

“Almost half my foot is blown off,” Hussein said. “How do you think I feel?”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you cannot.”

Geedi stopped talking for a couple minutes, and Hussein felt glad. He wished this sinner, this friend of Crusaders, would shut up and die. But Geedi did not shut up and die. After a few moments, he spoke again.

“You do not look like a bad sort,” Geedi said. “How did you get mixed up with al-Shabaab?”

Bad sort? Who was this
kafir
to say something like that?

“I am a soldier of God, and you are His enemy,” Hussein said.

“I already told you, I am a Muslim, too. All my life.”

“You lie!” Hussein said. Here they went with their tricks and deceit again.

The one called Geedi did not seem insulted. He even smiled. The other infidels looked on. That irritated Hussein even more; this was none of their business.

“Hussein,” Geedi said, “if not for the grace of Allah I could be in your place. I simply got lucky.”

What foolishness was this? Crazy, vexing words from this lover of
gaalos
.

“You think yourself lucky?” Hussein asked. “You are going to hell. You will scream in pain forever.”

The idiot smiled again. “No, Hussein, I will not,” he said. “I have read the Quran. Someone has misled you. Our faith should not be twisted into a cult of blood.”

Hussein wanted to kill this
kafir
, to drive a blade right through his neck. Bragging of his ability to read, Hussein thought, and trying to confuse me. Because of his wound, Hussein could not strike out. He could only seethe and listen to this blasphemy.

“My friends have shown you mercy,” Geedi said, “partly because you are so young. I do not know what they will do with you, but I do know they will not hurt you unless you try to hurt them. This could be your last chance to do something with your life other than throw it away.”

One of the women, Yellow Hair, said something in American or whatever awful language they spoke. Geedi and Yellow Hair talked for a long time, all the while looking at Hussein as if he were livestock, a goat tethered to a tree.

Near midday—the darkness of the cellar made it hard to tell—the old man Nadif brought bread and tea. Hussein did not want any of his wicked gifts, but by now he was starving. The steam rising from the teapot smelled like heaven itself, and the sight of the bread made his mouth water. He decided he would eat their food and get stronger, and he would kill them when he could.

“Are you better?” Nadif asked.

Hussein looked up at Nadif and did not answer. He started to tell the old man to go to the devil, but a strange thought kept him silent. If my father had not been killed, Hussein thought, he would be almost as old as Nadif. Would he look like this man? Hussein tried to imagine how his father would appear now.

“I am hungry,” Hussein said finally.

“Then eat,” Nadif said.

The old man's voice had an even, cool tone. He did not sound friendly, but he did not sound hateful the way Abdullahi often did.