The Hunters (24 page)

“Stop this,” Geedi said. “I told you we would not hurt you. If we wanted to kill you we could have done it ten times by now. Don't be stupid.”

Hussein lay still. He hated this apostate Somali. But the apostate's latest words rang true. The infidels could have killed him quickly and easily. What were they doing?

The older man slid the needle into Hussein's right arm. The needle did not sting nearly as much as he expected. The liquid felt cool going into his vein. It did not hurt; it did not burn. Perhaps it wasn't poison, then. Maybe it was some infidel potion to make him change his religion.

I will not turn into a Jew, Hussein thought. They will not make me a Crusader. There is no god but God.

P
arson had little medical training, but he'd spent enough time around flight medics to know how to stick a needle into a vein. When the Lactated Ringer's solution started flowing, the boy terrorist seemed to relax.

“Do you think he's the one who hit our plane with the grenade?” Chartier asked. “I didn't get a good look at him at the time.”

“Me neither,” Parson said, “but he could be.”

“Can we take that gag out of his mouth?” Gold asked. “He doesn't look like he has the strength to shout, and he's probably uncomfortable enough as it is.”

Parson thought for a moment. Oh, what the hell, he mused. Removing the gag isn't any crazier than what we're already doing.

“Yeah,” Parson said. “Geedi, just tell him that gag's going back in tighter than ever if he starts yelling.”

“Yes, sir,” Geedi said. He spoke a few words in Somali. The boy did not respond, but Geedi untied the gag anyway. For whatever reason, the boy did not scream or shout. He just lay still, breathing heavily, eyes darting around the room.

“Is it all right if I get some video of this?” Carolyn Stewart asked. “It would be great—”

Parson opened his mouth to tell her what she could do with that damned camera of hers. Before he spoke, Gold glanced his way, and he decided to hear Stewart out.

“It would be great to show you guys helping this kid who maybe tried to kill us,” the actress said.

“All right,” Parson said. “But keep Nadif and his wife out of the frame. And make it a close shot. Don't have anything in the background that could identify where we are.”

Letting Stewart shoot video—just like taking her along to begin with—ran against Parson's better judgment. But this situation fell so far outside his norm, he wondered how much to trust his judgment. As a military aviator, everything in his training and mind-set tended toward operational security. Hearts and minds were somebody else's job.

Now he found himself in a weird gray area between the civilian and military worlds. Normal rules of engagement didn't necessarily apply. Parson had no standards to rely on except his own moral compass—with some headings provided by Gold. He just hoped he plotted the right course, because a moral compass, just like the compass in an airplane, was not always easy to read. Back in the days of open cockpits, silk scarves, and leather helmets, pilots learned to anticipate a compass's natural magnetic error:
lead to south, lag to north.
Errors in your moral compass were harder to catch.

Stewart dug out her video camera and began recording. She ad-libbed a narration in a low voice: “The World Relief Airlift crew, stranded after al-Shabaab terrorists damaged their airplane, is trying to remain hidden from terrorists. After making their way to a hiding place, they ran across this boy, apparently an al-Shabaab straggler. Wounded and dehydrated, he needs a doctor. There is no doctor among the aircrew, but they are giving him what help they can with their own emergency medical kit.”

Not bad, Parson thought. In fact, it sounded pretty damned good. Parson usually had little use for media people. He'd run across embedded reporters in Iraq and Afghanistan, and a lot of them just reported on how cool it was to be an embedded reporter. However, this desperate situation placed Stewart so close to the story that she couldn't help but get it right. Parson figured she'd probably make a darn good film, in the unlikely event he got her out of here alive.

Stewart panned from the boy to Parson, and she focused on Parson's face for a moment. He nodded but he did not smile. Stewart stopped recording.

“Geedi,” Gold said, “did our new friend say his name?”

“No ma'am,” Geedi said. “I'll ask him.”

Geedi spoke a short sentence in Somali. At first it appeared the boy was ignoring the question. He just stared up at the ceiling and breathed in and out.

“Hussein,” he whispered finally.

Geedi followed up with another sentence. Hussein answered with one word. When Geedi replied to the answer, Hussein cut his eyes at the flight mechanic as if something surprised him.

“Looks like you hit a nerve,” Parson said. “What are you guys talking about?”

“I asked him what tribe he's from,” Geedi said. “He's of the Rahanweyn. So am I.”

“Small world.”

“I don't think he believes me.”

Gold gazed down at Hussein. Her eyes seemed to stop on his foot and the bloody, dirty rag wrapped around it.

“We need to see about cleaning that wound,” Gold said. “Tell him I'm going to take off that filthy bandage and that I'll try not to hurt him.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Geedi said.

He spoke a few more words in Somali. Hussein responded in a testy tone. Geedi answered with soft syllables. Hussein glared.

“He wants us to leave him alone,” Geedi said. “He says he does not need anyone's help but Allah's.”

“Sounds like one of our surly teenagers in France,” Chartier said.

“Or America,” Stewart said.

“Shall I tell him he's grounded?” Geedi asked.

Gold and Chartier smiled. Parson appreciated Geedi's brand of humor, but this was no laughing matter. And this was not just a surly teenager. As far as Parson was concerned, this little bastard was a radicalized killer. Okay, so you had to show him mercy because you had to live with yourself. But it was like showing mercy to a wild animal. You could feed him and bandage his wounds, and he'd still turn around and bite you.

“No,” Parson said. “Just tell him Sophia's going to change that bandage so he maybe doesn't get gangrene. And tell him if he kicks her, I'll slap that hateful look right off his face.”

“Don't tell him that,” Gold said. “Just tell him to hold still.”

Geedi spoke just two or three words in Somali. Hussein said nothing.

From the medical kit, Gold took a pair of shears. Nadif held the oil lamp over her shoulder as she cut away the bloodstained rag from Hussein's foot. The scene put Parson in mind of Civil War surgery: drummer boy wounded at Petersburg.

Gold put down the shears and took hold of Hussein's ankle with one hand. With the other hand, she began to peel away the clotted cloth. The boy's foot twitched, and he squeezed his eyes shut. A high-pitched whine came from behind his clenched teeth, but he did not cry.

“Tell him I'm sorry,” Gold said. “I know this hurts, but this dirty rag has to come off.”

Geedi translated, and again Hussein offered no response. He neither resisted nor cooperated; he just lay there with his bound hands clasped together. Gold pulled the rag the rest of the way off his foot. The boy opened his eyes wide and cried out.

The bloody bandage looked like the freshly skinned pelt of some small animal. The foot made for an even worse sight. The big toe and two others were blown off or torn off. The ball of Hussein's foot was mangled, too. Splintered bones stuck out from what looked like ground meat.

“Dear God,” Stewart said. “I can't believe he walked on that.”

“He won't walk on it again if it gets infected,” Gold said.

“Did he step on a mine?” Geedi asked.

“No,” Parson said. “If he'd stepped on a mine, he'd have lost the whole foot at the very least. I think he caught a stray bullet.”

“A very big bullet,” Geedi said.

“And maybe not stray,” Chartier said. His revolver hung in its holster on his survival vest. Chartier did not touch or even look at the weapon as he spoke.

“You don't know it was your gun that did that,” Parson said. “And if it was, you were defending us. Don't start feeling guilty.”

“I do not feel guilty,” Chartier said. “Just sad. This boy should be at home, working on his multiplication tables.”

“This ain't Toulouse, Frenchie. It's fucking Somalia.”

“C'est dommage.”

Gold kneeled beside the medical ruck and unzipped it until the front flap was completely open. She rummaged through its pockets and pouches, apparently not finding what she wanted. Looked up at Parson, hands on her thighs.

“This kit has all kinds of good stuff,” she said, “but I don't see anything to give him for pain.”

“There was nothing except Advil,” Parson said, “and I gave that to Nadif.”

“He needs morphine, but we'll have to make do. Can we see if Nadif will get him some water and a couple of the pills?”

Parson shrugged. Geedi spoke to Nadif and his wife in their language. The wife disappeared into the shadows for a few moments, then came back with a clay cup of water in one hand and two caplets in the other. She kneeled beside Hussein and spoke to him softly. He turned his head toward the wall and did not answer. Geedi said a few words in Somali. The boy answered with something that sounded curt, never taking his eyes off the mud wall.

“He thinks we're trying to turn him into an infidel,” Geedi said.

“With
Advil
?” Parson said. “He's starting to try my patience.”

Geedi spoke again in Somali. This time Hussein turned his head and looked up at Geedi. They exchanged a few more words. Hussein sounded skeptical about whatever Geedi was telling him, but he opened his mouth. Nadif's wife placed the caplets on his tongue. Before she could offer him the water, he chewed the painkillers. Hussein's face twisted at the taste, and he did not resist when the woman placed the cup to his lips. He drank until he drained the cup.

Since the boy didn't know to swallow the pills with water, Parson wondered if he'd ever been given medicine of any kind.

“What did you tell him to get him to open his mouth?” Parson asked.

“I told him I'm a Muslim, too,” Geedi said. “Why would I make him change his religion?”

That probably helped, Parson thought, but the boy has probably figured out by now we aren't going to hurt him. What would the boy have done if our situations were reversed? Not likely he'd be trying to talk us into taking something to ease suffering.

“Ask him if he's the one who chucked a grenade at our airplane,” Parson said.

Geedi put the question to Hussein. The answer took more words than Parson expected.

“He says he did,” Geedi said. “He wishes he had killed us all.”

“He came damn close,” Parson said. “What the hell gave him that idea?”

More conversation between Geedi and the boy. Geedi hesitated before speaking again in English, but then said, “He says he was told to stop the plane because a famous person might be on it. He wants to know if it was the famous person who shot him.”

Carolyn Stewart lowered her head, placed her hand over her eyes. Turned away. Gold looked up and said nothing. She opened a packet of antiseptic wipes.

Nadif brought a dish of water and a sponge. As gently as she could, Gold moved Hussein's foot so that it rested over the dish. She nodded thanks to Nadif, soaked the sponge, and squeezed it so the water dribbled out of her fist and over the wound. The water trickled back into the dish, clouded with blood and soil. Hussein sucked in air between his teeth.

“He'll need surgery on this foot,” Gold said.

“No doubt,” Chartier said.

Parson had no idea where the nearest doctor was. And even if there was a doctor as close as Ras Kamboni, he might as well be on the moon, because this little bastard's friends could be anywhere. No way to get Hussein to real medical help, or to get real medical help to Hussein. Parson supposed that in Somalia, people died for that reason all the time.

Gold unfolded one of the antiseptic wipes from the packet she'd opened. The damp wipe smelled like rubbing alcohol.

“This is probably going to sting pretty badly,” she said, “but we have to get that wound clean. Tell him I'll get this over with as quickly as I can.”

Once again, Geedi spoke to Hussein. The boy said nothing; he just lay there with his eyes wide, cutting from Parson to Geedi to Gold. The look in those eyes made Parson think of a feral animal, half wild, but with a dim memory of human kindness, frightened and unsure whom to trust.

Gold dabbed the wipe over the torn flesh and splintered bones. Hussein's muscles spasmed as if electrocuted, and that keening sound came from between his lips again. He did not sob or scream, but the pain brought tears to his eyes. The boy turned his head so Parson couldn't see the water roll down his cheeks.

He sure has a lot of pride, Parson thought. Why does he care if we think he's tough?

Blood soaked into the wipe. Gold wadded the used wipe into a ball and unfolded a clean one. She dabbed the wound some more. From the way Hussein tensed up, Parson could tell it still hurt, but maybe not as bad as before.

Nadif said a few words in Somali, pointed to an AK-47 and one of those old Soviet-style ammo vests lying on the floor. The gear also included a long-bladed machete in a sheath.

“Those are the boy's weapons,” Geedi translated.

“One hell of a juvenile delinquent,” Parson said.

Nadif spoke to Geedi again, and he motioned toward the outside.

“He says the sun will be up soon,” Geedi said. “He says if we want to keep taking care of the boy, we need to hide him in the cellar.”

Parson wished he could just send Hussein on his way. But that was impossible for a couple reasons. One—the boy couldn't walk anymore; it was a wonder he'd traveled as far as he did. Two—he'd tip off al-Shabaab to the crew's whereabouts. The situation reminded Parson of the SEAL team a few years back that ran across three goatherds while conducting surveillance in Afghanistan. The team's rules of engagement and their sense of right and wrong would not let them kill the civilians. The SEALs had no choice but to release the Afghans, and the team paid an awful price for doing the right thing. Enemy forces, likely alerted by the civilians, attacked the four-man team. Three died, and one suffered serious injuries.

When Gold finished cleaning Hussein's wound, she took a tube of antiseptic cream from the medical ruck. She unscrewed the cap, which revealed the foil seal over the opening of the unused tube. Gold pierced the seal with the plastic point molded onto the top of the cap, and she squeezed a rope of goo onto a clean gauze bandage. Folded the gauze in half and rubbed the two halves together to saturate the cloth.