The Hunters (19 page)

“Fair enough,” Gold said. “But let's tell him to let us know if he gets any hint that al-Shabaab is searching houses.”

“Agreed,” Parson said. “And, Geedi, please give him our thanks again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Geedi spoke just a few words in Somali, and Nadif replied in longer sentences. Finally, Geedi translated.

“He says the stars turn in their courses and we in ours,” Geedi said, “and that we're welcome to stay.”

“Very poetic,” Chartier said.

“I think he means whatever happens, happens,” Geedi said.

Parson could understand why a man who'd lost so much would take a fatalistic view of things. Maybe the old guy even had a death wish. If he did, Parson had no intention of helping him fulfill that wish. We'll hide here as long as it's safe—for everybody, Parson thought, and we'll move if we have to. With some luck, maybe Ongondo and his AMISOM guys will get reinforcements and sweep back through this area.

“All right, then,” Parson said, “we'll take turns keeping watch. I'll take the first couple hours.”

Parson settled himself underneath the hut's single window. It offered a limited view, which made “keeping watch” a relative phrase. He'd just have to make do. He reminded himself to listen carefully as well. Perhaps he could hear threats he could not see.

“Can we take off the body armor now?” Carolyn Stewart asked.

Parson sighed, thought for a moment. He really wanted to shed the weight and heat of the armor, but this mud hut offered zero protection from bullets.

“Nah,” Parson said. “We better keep it on—as much as I don't want to.”

Geedi, Chartier, Gold, and Stewart sat cross-legged on the floor. Parson could see from their movements that the armor allowed them no position that was comfortable. Nadif spoke to his wife, and the wife went outside.

“I think they're going to feed us,” Geedi said.

“Good,” Parson said.

“I hate to take anything from these people when they're already so poor,” Gold said.

“I know what you mean,” Parson said. “But you know the drill in a survival situation: Eat as much as you can when you can, because you don't know when you'll get food again.”

Gold nodded, acknowledging the truth of Parson's words even though she didn't like it.

“Sir,” Geedi said, “you can't see very much from there, can you?”

Parson looked outside. Though the enemy could come from 360 degrees around him, Parson could scan only about 60 degrees. He saw nothing but bare dirt that led to a grassy field and two acacia trees.

“I can't see shit.”

“I have an idea. If Nadif will let me borrow some clothes, I'll get out of this flight suit and go outside to look around from time to time. I can blend in the way you white folks can't.”

Parson chuckled. “Thanks, Geedi,” he said, “but I don't want you taking crazy chances.”

“It's not crazy, sir. I'm not much bigger than Nadif, so his clothes will fit me. If I don't speak English, no one will have any idea I'm not from around here.”

“You got a set of brass balls, Geedi. I'll give you that.”

“Thanks, sir. Just think about it.”

“I will.”

Parson gazed out at what little he could see. Considered how best to keep his crew and passenger safe, without needlessly endangering Nadif and his wife. For all intents and purposes, Parson had just become responsible for two more lives. And, all too often, Somali lives got swept away as easily as smoke from their cooking fires.

G
od willing, perhaps Hussein had killed some of the infidels who inflicted such pain upon him. He had fired wildly in their direction. As someone who took pride in marksmanship, he almost never sprayed rounds like that. Better to aim and kill with one shot than to miss with many. But maybe Allah had directed his unaimed bullets to their target.

Hussein wanted to find out. If he'd missed, he wanted to keep hunting his enemies despite his injury. He had managed to get to his feet, and he continued hobbling toward where he had last seen the infidels.

They were either gone or dead; that much Hussein knew already. Now that he stood in plain view, they'd have shot him down if they could have. He moved his right foot forward and took another step.

The throbbing agony turned his vision gray and fuzzy. Hussein took a deep breath, and the signal from his eyes to his brain cleared.

As his vision refocused, he made out a dip in the terrain in front of him. A creek bed or a swale. So, that's where those infidels had hidden.

God willing, Hussein thought, I will find them. And I will find glory.

He took another step. Ground his teeth and looked skyward to fight the pain. The angel shape that had drifted above him earlier was gone now, replaced by mere rags of clouds torn by the wind. The heavens themselves seemed to reflect his suffering.

Allah, Hussein prayed, please help your poor soldier.

He checked the fire selector on his AK-47, set for single shots. No more wasted bullets. He would find his skill and strength again. And as he took more steps, he found he could think through the misery, master his pain the way he'd mastered his fear.

A short, halting walk brought him to the edge of the creek bed. In the dry channel, he saw boot prints and expended brass, but no bodies. Perhaps
Shaytan
had guided those
gaalos
to use the earth itself as cover from his bullets.

Hussein placed the stock of his rifle to the ground and lowered himself to a sitting position. With legs dangling over the dry creek bank, he wiped sweat from his eyebrows and glanced at his right foot. It still bled, but not too badly. Four red drops fell from his makeshift bandage and spattered into the parched soil.

He saw no blood in that dirt other than his own. Not a single stain. Apparently he had failed to wound even one infidel. How could he have missed with every round? Maybe Allah would forgive his poor shooting if he kept up the pursuit.

“I will get them,” Hussein whispered to himself. “God willing, I will get them.”

He slid down the bank to the center of the creek bed. As he moved, he kept his wounded right foot off the ground and used his left as a brake. Digging his good heel into the soil, he controlled his descent down the embankment until he reached the bottom. Hussein sat leaning on his rifle, panting.

They were right here in this spot, he thought. Just a short time ago my enemies lay in this very place. If I could have gotten closer I might have killed them all.

Hussein did not allow himself to waste time worrying about missed chances. Time lost, like water spilled on the ground, was never coming back, and one could only move ahead.

What to do now? Track them, he decided. They could not have gone far. They were weakling
gaalos
, not toughened Somalis accustomed to a harsh land. They did not know the terrain, and they did not speak the language.

Even wounded, Hussein thought, I can find them. To those pampered white hunters who visit Africa, a lion becomes most dangerous when injured.

The same held true for a lion of jihad.

With the eyes of a wounded lion, he studied the ground around him. The infidels' boots had trampled the soft dirt, and all the footprints led in one direction. He hadn't noticed exactly how many people escaped from the airplane. But from the looks of the footprints, Hussein was following four people, maybe five. These
gaalos
would be as easy to track as a herd of rhinos.

Again Hussein used his AK-47 as a crutch; he placed the butt to the ground, gripped the fore-end with both hands, and pushed himself up. He shifted most of his weight from the rifle to his left foot, while the injured foot touched the ground lightly. He began to limp along the dry creek bed, following the infidels' tracks. Hussein left tracks of his own—the print of one bare foot, along with another less distinct print. The dirty bandage obscured the mark of his wounded foot, leaving little but a heel print. The trail left by his right foot looked more like the marks of a bleeding hoof.

I must remember this for later, Hussein told himself. If ever I need to throw off someone tracking me, I will take off my shoes and wrap rags around my feet.

A corner of his mind recognized his own spark of intelligence. Another boy, especially in such painful circumstances, would not have observed his own tracks and learned something useful for the future. Perhaps when he grew older he could study in an Islamic school and discover more things he could use. Hussein felt frustrated that he could not read and that he had so much yet to learn.

Did Allah mean for him to know so little? Or did men arrange it so? A mind without knowledge was like a bullet without a target, using all its speed and power in a path toward nothing.

No matter. Soon enough Hussein would gain knowledge. Through acts of strength and glory, like the one he now undertook, he would gain respect. Then no one—not even the leaders of al-Shabaab, not even Abdullahi—could deny him the right to learn.

The more he knew, the more powerful a jihadi he would become. Someday all would know him as a proud warlord, maybe even a leader of Somalis after the war ended. He would pray for wise counsel. He would kill the deserving, but show mercy to the innocent and forgiveness to the penitent. He would wear fine clothes, and on a sash around his waist he would carry a
tooray
, a traditional Somali dagger with a curved blade. A blacksmith would fashion the ceremonial weapon for him, forming the handle from the horn of a rhino or a Cape buffalo. The smith would inlay gold, silver, and jewels around the handle, and everyone would see that Hussein had been a warrior. These thoughts helped keep his mind off pain, hunger, and thirst as he trudged along the stream channel.

Hussein could take only a few steps at a time before needing to rest for a few minutes. The wound began bleeding a little faster; he could feel the rag grow soggy around his remaining toes. Now those vague tracks left by his right foot carried a spot of blood. He began to feel woozy, but he would not let weakness rob him. He had already won a great victory by stopping the infidels' airplane. If he could kill or capture them now, especially if one of them was famous, his glory would become all the greater.

“Do not let me pass out,” Hussein whispered. “Let me fight on.”

He took deep breaths, sucked the warm air down into his lungs. A buzzing sounded in his ears, much like the ringing that had stayed with him after shooting many training rounds from his rifle. The ground began to spin beneath Hussein's feet. He leaned on his weapon and lowered himself onto his left knee. In the process, he twisted his wounded foot just enough to press it harder into the ground—and damn all infidels, the pain flared like kerosene poured on a fire. Hussein clenched his teeth and hissed through them, and he felt sweat stream from his face.

These awful sensations came new and strange. Despite the danger and death that had surrounded Hussein all his short life, he had never before suffered a serious injury. He would have expected the wound to hurt, but not to bring these feelings of sickness.

He resolved to deal with that, too. Though he wanted to pursue his quarry with all the speed he could muster, he would take his time. Sometimes even a lion slowly stalked his prey instead of immediately running it down. If Hussein stopped when he felt sick, he could keep his head clear and still think like a soldier.

In his soldier's clear mind, Hussein knew he needed a plan. Once he caught up to the infidels, how would he attack? That depended on a lot of things. If he found them in the open, he'd get low to the ground and start shooting. But what if they'd hidden somewhere? Hussein thought a village lay in this direction. Would someone turn
kafir
and take them in? Hussein doubted that. Why would any Muslim commit such a sin? Still, Hussein decided he should prepare for this unlikely possibility.

If someone hid the infidels, he thought, this hunt would turn into something like the hiding game he used to play with other children in Mogadishu. Except this time, the loser would pay with his life. Maybe several someones, God willing.

If I come to a village and I cannot find them, Hussein told himself, I will check every hut. I will ask the people who live there if they've seen
gaalos
. If they are lying, their eyes will give them away. And I will execute the
gaalos
and anyone who protects them.

During Hussein's childhood days—what few that he had—no one could beat him at the hiding game. He would cover his eyes for a few moments and let the other children run away. Then he used different tactics on different playmates.

Mohammed—the laughing boy with one arm—always got nervous. He might disappear down an alleyway and remain perfectly invisible among the trash and rubble. Hussein knew he had only to walk down the alleyway slowly and make noise with his footsteps. No need to look for Mohammed at all. Eventually, Mohammed would get nervous and start to giggle, and give himself away.

Ali—poor dumb Ali—fell for the simplest ruses. If Hussein thought Ali might be anywhere within the sound of his voice, he would just call out, “I see you,” and Ali would come out.

Little Fatima could be the toughest to find. She could curl up under the smallest scrap of tarp and vanish. That was her habit; she liked to get under tarps or the remnants of plastic sheeting. Hussein learned to ignore every other hiding place when looking for her and just lift up each tarp. He won by thinking one step ahead.

And he would win that way now. He would use his wits to make up for his injury. Hussein rested on his knee for a few minutes until his head stopped spinning. The rest cleared his mind but stiffened his wound. The pain in his right foot doubled as he pushed himself back to his feet. More sweat ran down his brow, and this time the sweat was cold. He held his rifle with his right hand and propped the fore-end in the crook of his left elbow. Took another look at the infidels' tracks, and pressed on.