The Hunters (22 page)

T
he sky had grown dark by the time Geedi returned to the hut. He slipped in without knocking and closed the door as quietly as he could. Nadif's oil lamp lit the single room with an orange glow; in the dim light Parson could see no sign that Geedi had been hurt. Parson had spent the last hour worrying and listening for gunfire.

“Where have you been?” Parson asked. His attempt to whisper sounded like an angry hiss, though he didn't mean for it to come out that way. Gold, Chartier, and Carolyn Stewart looked as anxious as he did.

“Looking and listening, sir, just like we said.”

“And?”

“The good news is I saw no sign of al-Shabaab. The bad news is they'll probably be back. Everybody knows we came in on a plane and that plane is still here. And the locals say al-Shabaab is looking for a famous American.”

Geedi lifted his shirt, pulled the Beretta from his waistband, and gave it back to Parson. Parson took the weapon and looked over at Stewart.

“I think that means you,” Parson said.

“How would they know?” Chartier asked.

Parson wondered the same thing. A stricken look came over the actress's face. The dim light from the oil lamp made her auburn hair appear a burgundy color. Strands hung out of place across her cheek, untied from the knot at the back of her head.

“I'm so sorry,” she said.

Parson gazed at her, puzzled.

“Sorry for what?” he asked.

“I, I tweeted that I was flying in Somalia on a mission of mercy. Just to keep the fans interested. I didn't think—”

“You're damn right you didn't think,” Parson interrupted. “Didn't we tell you not to post anything online while you're here?”

Parson felt that old anger burning in his chest. His crew now faced greater danger. Because someone had screwed up, disobeyed an order.

“Yes, but it was only—”

“But, nothing,” Parson said. “We've gone around our ass to accommodate you, and we asked you just one thing: Stay off the net. You couldn't even do that for us.”

“Michael,” Gold said, “take it easy. She's not military. She doesn't have our training.”

“Does she have fucking common sense? Can she understand English? Does she not know who's in charge here?”

Stewart placed her head in her hands and began to weep silently. Nadif and his wife looked on in utter confusion.

Parson had never before felt this much anger toward a woman. A strange brand of rage, one he did not know how to channel. He felt no urge to strike her; he was no bully. But neither did he feel any urge to hold back the harsh words he'd have for a crew member who made such an inexcusable error.

“Lady,” Parson continued, “do you think this is some kind of movie? Do you think if my flight mechanic got his ass shot out there, some cokehead director would call ‘cut,' and he'd get up and dust himself off?”

“Michael,” Gold said.

Parson ignored her.

“Please tell me what the fuck you were thinking,” he said.

“Michael,” Gold said. Her sergeant major command voice. “Stop it. Now.”

Stewart raised her head. Tears streamed from her eyes, glinting in the flame of the lamp.

“This place just seemed so far from my fans back home. I couldn't understand why you didn't want me to put anything on the Internet.”

Parson wanted to launch into her again, but Gold spoke up first.

“If you didn't understand, you should have asked,” she said. “And Michael, just drop it.”

He knew Gold was right; this was not the time for a verbal court-martial. Stewart had made a bad mistake, and she knew it. She couldn't undo it any more than she could call back a bullet.

When someone endangered Parson's crew, whether through malevolence, incompetence, or thoughtlessness, he got very, very angry. That was the one thing that caged his gyros, that let his emotions trump his judgment. Gold recognized that tendency more quickly than he did, and she had a way of pulling him back from the brink.

“I'm so sorry,” Stewart said.

Parson let her apology hang in the air. Though he shouldn't have gone off on her as if she were an errant recruit, the fact remained she'd screwed up and should have known better. Terrorist leaders might not have NSA satellites and decrypting technology, but they sure as hell had laptops. And they could sure as hell find stuff out from the open Internet.

“Did you learn anything else?” Parson asked Geedi.

“Not really. Saw some lion tracks. Big guy.”

“Did you see the cat itself?” Parson said.

“No.”

“So, what do we do now?” Chartier asked.

Parson thought for a moment, and he looked up at Nadif and his wife. He didn't want them to wind up like the family who had given him refuge in Afghanistan. And he couldn't count on AMISOM troops to keep the bulk of the al-Shabaab fighters tied down indefinitely. Sooner or later, the bastards would come looking through Nadif's village.

“We need a better place to hide,” Parson said.

“Like where?” Geedi asked.

“I don't know. See if Nadif has any ideas.”

Parson didn't like saying those first three words. A commander always should know. If he didn't know, he should know how to find out. But now, grounded and on the run, he had almost no options. Gold, Chartier, and Geedi were experienced military people. No point bullshitting them.

Geedi spoke in Somali with the old couple. After two or three minutes of conversation, Geedi said, “They want to put us in their cellar.”

“Where's that?” Parson asked.

“The entrance is out back, outside the house.”

Not an ideal solution, Parson knew. If al-Shabaab came through here in a hurry, they might just check the houses and leave. If they did a thorough search, however, they'd surely look in cellars and outbuildings.

“They can't think of anyplace else?” Parson said.

More chatter in Somali. Nadif shook his head, waved his hands.

“Nothing nearby,” Geedi said. “He says this area is pretty remote, even for Somalia. And it's too dangerous to take us into the town of Ras Kamboni itself.”

Parson considered the bad news. “Yeah,” he said. “I suppose he's right. Sophia, Frenchie—any thoughts?”

“If he feels safer with us in the cellar,” Gold said, “I think we should go there until we think of something better.”

“D'accord,”
Chartier said. “I don't like it, either. But it is either that or go out into the field.”

Sneaking around outside aimlessly held no appeal for Parson. That just increased the chance of running into the wrong people.

“Once we get everybody squared away in the cellar,” Geedi said, “I can do some more scouting and see what turns up.” Geedi found his flight suit on the floor. He opened one of the pockets, dug out his watch, and buckled it onto his wrist. Dropped the filthy flight suit.

“I don't know if I'm letting you go out there again,” Parson said. “But for now, we better hole up as best we can.”

“Yes, sir,” Geedi said. He spoke again to Nadif and his wife. Nadif responded with a few short syllables in Somali, then stepped out of the hut. After several minutes, he came back and made a beckoning motion with his hand.

Parson and the others collected their backpacks and medical ruck, weapons, and dead sat phone, and followed Nadif. Outside, a canopy of stars lit the sky, an infinity of silver dust. No headlights or street lamps intruded to dim the galaxies. Night insects trilled in the trees and grass. The evening exuded a false peace that Parson found almost heartbreaking.

Nadif led the group around to the back of the hut. In the starlight, Parson watched him pull a sheet of plastic from over a wooden door frame built into the ground. Nadif unlatched a metal hasp and pulled open the door on squeaking hinges. He pointed through the doorway, into a hole of such deep black it might have led to Hades.

In a leg pocket of his flight suit, Parson found a penlight. Clicked it on with his thumb. He shoved his hand down into the darkness, well below the doorway, and let the light shine into the cellar.

The beam illuminated a room not much bigger than the cockpit of a C-5. Rotting wooden steps led down to a dirt floor; warped boards lined the walls. Parson guessed Nadif had dug the cellar with nothing more than a shovel and shored it up with scrap wood.

Shelves built from lumber placed across stacked bricks held an assortment of jars and boxes. The jars contained filmy liquid that apparently preserved whatever food was inside. Baskets on the floor brimmed with yams covered by a dusting of lime. Five people sitting among the baskets would barely fit. Before Parson even entered the cellar, he knew this was only a short-term solution, and a poor one at that. He steadied himself by taking hold of the door frame with his free hand, placed his foot on the first step, and lowered himself into the cellar. The place gave off a dank smell of root vegetables and soil.

When he felt his boots on the floor, Parson turned around and reached up to help Gold descend the steps. She took his hand and climbed down. She gave his fingers a brief squeeze before she released his hand. Parson took that as a gesture of forgiveness, or maybe reassurance and encouragement.

Once again, he thought, my guardian angel keeps me from making an ass of myself. Or at least she keeps me from making
more
of an ass of myself.

Stewart came down behind Gold; Parson offered the actress his hand, as well, and she did not reject it. He pointed with his flashlight to a clear spot on the floor where she could sit. Chartier climbed down next, and Geedi came last. Geedi stood on the steps and exchanged whispers with Nadif. Nadif started to close the door.

“Wait a minute,” Parson said.

Geedi spoke in Somali, and Nadif paused.

“Tell him whenever he comes to open that door, cough twice,” Parson said. “We're going to take turns keeping watch. Anybody we don't know who opens that door just might get shot.”

“Good plan,” Geedi said. “I'll tell him.” Geedi spoke again in Somali, and Nadif nodded.

Parson knew it was not a good plan. In fact, it sucked. If al-Shabaab came calling, he might get the first one or two bad guys. But a grenade tossed into the cellar would wipe out everybody inside. A two-second spray of automatic rifle fire would accomplish the same thing. The cellar made for a terribly vulnerable hiding place.

It seemed even more vulnerable when Nadif closed the door and blotted out the stars. Nadif had the good sense to leave the hasp unlatched, so Parson and the others could escape if necessary. Yet the cellar felt like a grave, especially when Parson heard the rumble of Nadif pulling the plastic tarp over the door. The situation reminded Parson of those horror stories about people getting abducted and buried alive. His penlight cut only a small slit of light in the cellar's gloom.

“I hope Nadif is a brave man,” Chartier whispered.

“Me, too,” Gold said.

Parson understood what they meant. If Nadif lost his nerve or got greedy, he could betray them to al-Shabaab and claim whatever reward the terrorists might offer. Seemed unlikely, given Nadif's family history. But you never knew about these things. Put a man in a place with no law except force, and give him an opportunity for short-term gain—or at least short-term safety—and what would he do?

“You guys try to get some sleep,” Parson said. “I'll stand guard for a couple hours. You can take off the body armor now.”

Parson's crew groaned with relief as they shed the armor. Down in this hole, he knew, flying bullets at ground level wouldn't hit them. Might as well let everyone sleep a little more comfortably.

He slid his own armor off his shoulders, along with the survival vest. Pulled his handgun from the survival vest, checked to make sure the weapon's magazine was seated and the safety was off. Though the Air Force taught airmen to carry the Beretta M9 that way, Parson usually preferred to keep the safety on. But right now he didn't want to risk fumbling in the dark if he needed to fire quickly. He kept his finger out of the trigger guard, with the muzzle pointed in a safe direction.

When he clicked off his penlight, the dark became complete. In the modern electrified world, true darkness was a rare experience. In all of Parson's travels to the most far-flung parts of the globe, he had experienced such blackness only two or three times.

He sat on the cellar steps, robbed entirely of sight but with his hearing finely tuned. Above, the night insects continued their song. A dog barked once. Parson listened most closely for human sounds: excited voices, engines, gunfire. He heard none of those.

At his feet, his crew and passenger settled down to rest. No one spoke, and eventually their breathing grew regular and slow; presumably at least some of them had managed to fall asleep. Parson hoped so. They might need to move quickly and think fast at any moment, so they needed to catch up on sleep if at all possible.

As an aviator, Parson felt entirely out of his element. A man of the sky, hiding in a hole in the ground. His aircraft out of reach—and wrecked. But as an officer, the predicament seemed almost . . . natural: leading a group of people trying to do the right thing, cut off from command and control, teammates looking to him for guidance. Throughout his career, his teammates had always seemed to trust him—even the ones who didn't necessarily like him.

After a time, Chartier whispered, his voice disembodied by the darkness.

“Mon colonel,”
he said, “can I relieve you for a while?”

Parson checked his watch. The luminescent hands appeared as only a ghostly suggestion of a timepiece. They told him he'd been on guard for about two hours. He wanted to stay up longer and give Frenchie more time to sleep, but he'd already felt himself drowsing. Falling asleep on watch could be disastrous; that's why they used to shoot people for it.