The Hunters (34 page)

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.

T
he 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.”

•   •   •

H
ussein 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.

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.

•   •   •

M
ichael, 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.

•   •   •

H
ussein 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.