The Hunters (20 page)

N
adif's wife lit a fire in some sort of hearth or cooking pit outside. Parson could not see the hearth from the window, but the scent of wood smoke soon gave way to the aroma of searing meat. He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he smelled the food, and his mouth began to water.

“Something smells good,” Geedi said.

“It does,” Chartier said.

“Remember,” Parson said, “you guys eat even if you don't feel like it. God only knows when we can eat again and what you'll need your strength for before this is over.”

Gold nodded. Carolyn Stewart seemed to pay attention to Parson's words, but she made little eye contact with anybody and said nothing. Parson wondered why she'd become distracted. Perhaps now that she had time to think, she understood the danger around her.

When Nadif's wife spread a multicolored mat on the floor of the hut, Parson assumed it was a prayer rug. Geedi set him straight.

“Traditionally, we eat sitting on the floor,” Geedi said. “And don't expect a fork.”

“Thanks for the info,” Gold said. “Don't let us do anything rude.”

“They'll probably put all the food in common platters,” Geedi said. “Somalis usually eat with their hands, maybe with a knife for chunks of meat. Take all the food with your right hand.”

“Good thing we got you as a cruise director, Geedi,” Parson said.

Geedi smiled, and Parson figured his attempt at humor might have done at least a little good. Let people see the commander's still in control. The remark did nothing for Stewart, though. She did not look up, and Parson realized he'd need to keep a closer eye on her.

He also needed to make contact with somebody on the outside. Parson had kept his radios off to save the batteries, but he decided to try again while waiting to eat.

“Hey, Frenchie,” Parson said. “Can you take the watch while I make a radio call?”

“Oui.”

Chartier rose and took Parson's place at the window. Parson removed the nav/com radio from his survival vest and tuned it again to the VHF emergency freq. Dug out the earpiece and plugged it into the set, just to make sure no one outside heard the crackle of transmitted English words. Pressed the talk button.

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

The radio hissed and popped, but no answer came.

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

The voice of Lieutenant Colonel Ongondo came back weak but readable.

“World Relief Airlift, Spear Alpha,” Ongondo said. “Very good to hear you. What is your status?”

The sound of a familiar voice boosted Parson's morale. He pumped his fist into the air. Everyone else, unable to hear the conversation, looked at him with curiosity. Although the radio contact improved his mood, he knew he and his crew were still in a hell of a lot of trouble. Ongondo didn't sound anywhere close.

“Spear Alpha,” Parson said, “my aircraft is damaged and unflyable. I'm at a location—”

Parson paused. Better be careful about giving away my position on a nonsecure radio, he thought. No point in transmitting that unless Ongondo could get friendly troops to him quickly.

In Parson's present circumstances, even asking for help got complicated. On a military mission, he could report his position over nonsecure radios as much as he wanted—because he'd describe that position relative to a SARDOT: a random, fixed, and classified position somewhere in the region. For example, he could say he was two nautical miles from the SARDOT on a bearing of one-six-zero.

Once again, on this civilian mission of mercy, that was one more thing he didn't have. He felt deprived of his most basic implements, a sailor without sailcloth. The situation reminded him of an ancient tale in which the young champion swordsman must pass a final test by defeating a lion—without his sword.

Except Parson didn't feel much like a champion. And he sure as hell didn't feel young.

“Ah, Spear Alpha,” Parson continued. “I'm at a hide site for now. My personnel are accounted for and uninjured.”

The radio hissed for several seconds. Parson could imagine Ongondo taking in that information, considering how it affected the battle space. No doubt, the Kenyan officer didn't need any more complications.

“You should stay hidden,” Ongondo said. “The situation is fluid right now. We will send help when we can.”

Sounded like he was choosing his words carefully, too, for the same reasons of security. Over the radio, two shots echoed in the background. Parson couldn't tell whether the rounds were incoming or outgoing.

“By the way,” Parson asked, “were you able to pick up the supplies we brought?”

“We got most of it,” Ongondo said. “Then we had to move.”

“Glad to hear it,” Parson said. “And we'll stay out of sight. World Relief Airlift out.”

Parson removed the earpiece from his ear and turned off the radio. Gold looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“What did you find out?” she asked.

“The good news is Ongondo is still out there,” Parson said, “and he hasn't forgotten us. He got the medical stuff we offloaded, too, so at least we didn't do this for nothing. The bad news is that he's tied down somewhere. He couldn't say where on an open channel. While I was on the radio, did anyone hear two shots?”

“Non,”
Chartier said. Everyone else shook their heads.

Parson explained how that told him something: He'd heard the shots over the radio. If no one else heard them, that meant Ongondo's unit was so far away that even rifle fire was out of hearing range.

“What about air support from Djibouti?” Gold asked. “Can they send a helo to pick us up?”

“I was just thinking that,” Parson said. “You got your sat phone with you?”

“Got it right here.”

Gold opened her backpack and rummaged around. Retrieved her satellite phone and pressed the power button.

“Thanks, Sophia,” Parson said. “Lemme know when it initializes.” The phone would need a few moments to connect with a satellite.

“You think Djibouti will have an aircraft to send for us?” Geedi asked.

“I sure hope so,” Parson said. “But this whole goat rope came down unexpectedly, and I don't know what aircraft they'll have available.”

He kept all these things on his mind as Nadif and his wife finished preparing the meal. They brought in a plate of round, flat pieces of bread that looked a lot like the naan bread Parson had seen in Afghanistan.

“That looks good,” Parson said.

“It is,” Geedi said. “We call it
sabayaad
. I'll show you how to eat with it when the time comes.”

“Thanks.”

In a better situation, Parson would have seen this dinner as an interesting cultural experience. Gold had taught him to appreciate the customs and habits of people he met on missions around the world. But now he worried mainly about keeping his crew and benefactors safe—and not offending his benefactors in the process.

A few minutes later, the wife entered the hut, carrying a clay pot covered by a metal lid. She set the pot on the floor beside the bread and removed the lid. Steam rose from the food, and Parson saw the pot contained rice with chunks of meat. He smelled a light seasoning he didn't recognize.

While Gold waited for her satellite phone to connect, she tried to bring Stewart out of her funk. Apparently, Parson wasn't the only one to notice the actress needed watching.

“Carolyn,” Gold said, “as I recall, this won't be your first documentary.”

Stewart brushed the hair from her eyes and glanced up. “Ah, no,” she said. “I went to Rwanda in 2014 to interview survivors of the genocide there.”

“Your film was called
Truth and Scars
, right?”

“Yes. Nominated for an Academy Award,” Stewart said. “Close, but no cigar.”

Parson didn't know the film, but he knew a little about the subject. In 1994, members of Rwanda's Hutu majority killed some eight hundred thousand people in only a hundred days. Good on Stewart for not letting people forget, Parson thought. But visiting Rwanda twenty years later was one thing; keeping your shit together in an active combat zone was quite another. Given the mess they now faced, Parson kicked himself for letting her come along. He looked over at Gold and asked, “Is that phone awake yet?”

Gold checked the screen. “Still searching,” she said. Parson nodded, tried not to show impatience. If there was any way possible, he wanted to get a helicopter en route immediately.

Geedi spoke in polite tones with the Somali couple, then translated.

“That's goat meat in the rice,” he said. “She's poured ghee over it. That's melted butter with sorghum meal and a touch of myrtle.”

“Smells wonderful,” Gold said.

“They don't eat like this all the time,” Geedi said. “I can assure you of that.”

Geedi's remark reminded Parson of an admonition he'd heard back in survival school. If you're shot down somewhere and people take you in and feed you, the instructors said, don't dare complain about the food. Whatever it is, they're probably giving you the best they have.

The memory made Parson feel even more guilty. By letting the old couple take in his crew and passenger, he'd not only put them in danger; he'd also given them several mouths to feed—a burden they could hardly afford. Parson resolved to relieve them of this burden as soon as possible, by getting out.

He also wondered if he could repay them in some way. He had no cash in his wallet. They'd probably have little use for anything in his survival vest, and he might need those items for himself. Nothing in his flight suit pockets seemed worthwhile as a gift: a dirty handkerchief, two pens, a pocketknife, the folded pages of an outdated weather forecast, keys to his car and truck back in the States.

But then there was the medical bag. Chartier had lugged it all the way from the airplane. What was in that thing?

“Frenchie,” Parson said, “can you hand me the med ruck?”

Chartier lifted the medical bag—essentially a tactical backpack filled with first-aid supplies. Parson took it, placed it on the floor, and unzipped it.

He had ordered the bag online, and he'd not looked closely at its contents before. Parson saw it contained more than first-aid supplies; this thing had stuff a trained combat medic might use. He found scissors, a stethoscope, burn dressing, a fluid pack of Lactated Ringer's solution and an IV needle, forceps, adhesive bandages, splints, latex gloves, and antiseptic cream. No wonder the damned thing had cost more than two hundred bucks.

Parson fished out the scissors, some Band-Aids, two bottles of Advil, and a tube of antibiotic ointment. “Tell them these are a gift,” he told Geedi. “Tell them that medicine is for pain, and we wish we could repay them better.”

“I will,” Geedi said.

Geedi translated, and as Nadif listened, he placed both of his hands together and bowed.

“Alhamdu Lilaahi,”
Nadif said.

Geedi smiled.

“What does that mean?” Parson asked.

“Literally,” Geedi said, “it means gratitude to Allah. It's a way of saying thank you while acknowledging that all blessings ultimately come from Allah.”

“That's a whole lot of meaning in a couple words,” Parson said.

“Sure is,” Gold said. She glanced down at her phone, frowned, picked it up. “Sat phone's initialized,” she said. Held out the phone for Parson.

“What's wrong?” he asked as he took the device.

“I got a low-battery light, but that doesn't make sense. I charged this thing before we left.”

Parson examined the phone. Sure enough, a tiny red light indicated a weak battery. For a moment, he considered taking the batteries from his radios. Then he remembered the phone took a specially made battery. He ground his teeth and fought the urge to curse.

“Perfect time for the battery to go tango uniform,” he said. “Maybe it's got enough juice for one call.”

Parson dialed the number for the operations desk at Camp Lemonnier in Djibouti. He knew the number by heart from his tour at U.S. Africa Command. The phone rang four times, then someone picked up. Parson felt excitement swell inside his chest; this might work after all.

“Combined Joint Task Force–Horn of Africa,” a voice said. “Lieutenant Wilkerson, nonsecure line.”

Though the line wasn't secure, Parson doubted al-Shabaab had the capability to hack into sat-phone comms. He started to explain what he wanted.

“Wilkerson, this is Colonel Michael Parson. You don't know me, but I used to be your boss's boss. I need—”

The phone beeped three times, then went dead.

“Son of a bitch,” Parson spat. He let his right hand, holding the phone, drop into his lap. Disappointment hit him like sudden nausea. He realized he was as cut off from help as he'd been during that storm in Afghanistan.

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Gold said. She wore a look that showed as much disappointment as Parson felt. Parson tried to tamp down his own feelings. You don't get to throw a tantrum, he told himself. You got a crew to lead.

“It's not your fault, Sophia,” Parson said. “Batteries don't have unlimited life.”

“I'd have brought a spare, but we were just hopping down to Mogadishu for the day.”

Parson had faced life-threatening situations often enough to know he could not afford self-recrimination—from himself or anyone else. He wanted everyone to focus solely on surviving. When you got back—if you got back—there would be plenty of time for Monday-morning quarterbacking.

“Don't worry about it,” he said. “We'd have done a lot of things differently if we'd known we were going to fly a tactical arrival to a hot LZ. When they asked us to give Ongondo an emergency resupply, the answer was either yes or no. It's not like we had time to fly all the way back to Djibouti to gear up for a no-shit combat mission.”