The Hunters (35 page)

I
n 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 lifting 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.

•   •   •

T
hough Hussein had never flown before, he made no effort to look out a window. He kept his eyes on Geedi, who lay on the metal floor, grasping the hand of Yellow Hair. Red Mouse took pictures with her camera, while tears streamed down her face.

Geedi wore the face of a man in great pain. Hussein had seen this face many times. He had caused it many times.

“You must not die, big brother,” Hussein said. “You must not die.”

Geedi took in a long breath. “I will die someday, Hussein,” he said. “But I do not think it will be today.”

“Why do you think this?”

“Sergeant Major Gold says the bullets did not hit my arteries. But one broke a bone.”

“Who says this?”

Geedi cut his eyes at the woman holding his hand.

“You mean Yellow Hair,” Hussein said.

“Yes, the woman with the yellow hair is Sergeant Major Sophia Gold.”

“That is a hard name to say.”

“You will learn to say other English words.”

Hussein looked at Yellow Hair. How odd to respect a female—yet respect was exactly what he felt for this woman with the unpronounceable name. She had kept his friend from bleeding to death. Hussein turned and looked to the front of the airplane. There he saw the one called Parson and the one called Shartee working at the strange controls. Taking him into the unknown, into a new life. Hussein breathed in and out for a long while, trying to comprehend all that had happened—and all that he had done—in the last several minutes.

“Peace be upon you, big brother,” Hussein said. “Peace be upon all of you.”

•   •   •

P
arson leveled off at what looked like about five thousand five hundred feet, though without an altimeter he couldn't be sure. The altimeter on Chartier's side wasn't working, either. Parson nudged the elevator tab to trim the pressure he was holding on the yoke, then turned toward Chartier.

“Let me get this straight,” Parson said, “You're telling me Hussein shot a bad guy?”

“Oui, c'est ça.”

Parson rested his hand across the prop and mixture levers, glanced back into the cargo compartment.

“Well, that's the damnedest thing I've ever heard,” he said. “Little son of a bitch tries to kill us, and then he helps save us.”

“I know,” Chartier said. “But in a way, it is not surprising.”

“Surprises the hell out of me.”

“Think about it. He is a teenager. If a teenager has no parents, against whom will he rebel? Anybody telling him what to do. Al-Shabaab has been telling him what to do. And maybe he did not like what they told him to do.”

Parson looked back at Hussein again. There was logic to what Frenchie said, but Parson figured things were a hell of a lot more complicated than that. God only knew what that boy had seen and done.

“Well, whatever. I'm just glad he didn't shoot one of us.”

“He had a weapon and he made his choice.”

“Yeah, I guess he did.”

A quick scan of the fuel gauges reminded Parson he was flying on fumes. According to the airplane's panel-mounted GPS, the Kiunga airfield should be in sight off his eleven o'clock.

“Do you see the field, Frenchie?”

Chartier adjusted his sunglasses and leaned forward, peering through the windscreen.

“Ah, I think I have it.
Bon.
”