The Hunters (29 page)

Parson's breathing came with pain, too, after that hard slam to his body armor. He judged his ribs were just bruised and not broken; he'd taken enough blows to know the difference.

After what felt like miles, though it must have been only dozens of yards, Geedi stopped. Parson saw nothing that looked like a bunker, only an abrupt rise of the ground in front of him.

“Right here,” Geedi whispered. “I'll need to use my flashlight for a second. Can somebody stand on either side of me to help block the light?”

Parson moved to Geedi's left side, and Chartier stood on the right. Geedi stuck his hand into a flight suit pocket and brought out a mini flashlight. He covered the bulb end with his palm and clicked on the light. The flashlight lit up the flight mechanic's closed fist with an ochre glow, emitting just enough light to reveal vines growing across the metal door of a bunker. The bunker's roof, long covered by earth, hosted small trees and scrub brush.

“Hold on,” Parson said. He decocked and holstered his pistol, and he reached down to unsheathe his boot knife. Pulled at the vines with one hand and slashed them away with the other. After a couple minutes, he had cleared the vegetation enough for Geedi to open the metal hasp over the door.

“Lucky this wasn't padlocked,” Geedi said.

Geedi passed the flashlight to Parson and pulled on the doorknob, but the door came open only a couple inches. The flight mechanic fingered the micro-light clipped to the zipper tab of his flight suit. Using the micro-light's green glow, Geedi examined the door more closely. Then, with ungloved hands, he gripped the edge of the door and pulled harder. Watching Geedi's unprotected fingers, Parson worried about spiders and scorpions, but he let Geedi continue. Getting everyone into some sort of cover ranked higher in importance than anything else.

While Geedi worked, Parson dug with one hand into his survival vest, looking for his GPS. He intended to mark the location of the bunker, just in case he had to leave and come back. When he found the GPS receiver, something felt wrong. As he pulled out the receiver, it made rattling noises he'd never heard before. He held it up in the moonlight and saw that a bullet had smashed through it—the same bullet that had knocked the breath from him.

“Shit,” Parson whispered.

“What?” Gold asked.

“They shot my fucking GPS.”

“Might have saved your life.”

Parson doubted that. The heavy vest alone probably would have kept him among the living. But he couldn't deny that the GPS unit had absorbed some of the round's energy—maybe enough to spare him cracked ribs. Certainly enough to destroy the damned GPS. He stuck the useless instrument back in his vest pocket. Now he'd have to navigate old-school, with nothing but a compass and a guess. He didn't even have a topo chart now, because his land-nav charts existed only in digital form on the GPS SD card. Parson knew he should be glad the bullet hadn't killed him, but he couldn't get past the frustration of losing such a valuable tool. It had taken days of phone calls and e-mails just to get an SD card for Somalia, because who wanted to hike in fucking Somalia? Parson muttered curses under his breath while Geedi yanked at the door.

After two hard tugs, the door squeaked halfway open, barely wide enough for the stretcher. Geedi took his flashlight back from Parson and ducked inside.

T
he bunker reminded Hussein of that children's tale his mother told him—about the mouse who led the prince through a hole in the ground to hide with the King of the Jinns. As soon as the
gaalos
shoved the stretcher through the rusty, half-opened door, Hussein's nostrils filled with the odors of dirt and decay. The place gave the impression of a giant grave, and when the
gaalos
closed the door and turned on their flashlights, the light did nothing to dispel that impression.

Surely if the King of the Jinns didn't have his own lair, he could have made do with this one. On the floor, Hussein noticed a scattering of bones, chewed by rats and bleached by time. No skull, only assorted ribs and a spine. Hussein could not tell if the skeleton had framed the flesh of man, goat, or dog, and he did not want to know.

In a corner lay the discarded yellow-haired head of a doll, its body nowhere in sight. How in the name of heaven had such a thing found its way into a place used by the army? Maybe children played here at one time, Hussein supposed, but he could not understand why any child, parented or orphaned, would come to this spot. If bandits or hyenas didn't get you, the jinns certainly would.

On the wall, a fading poster bore a face Hussein knew—not from any schooling but from his father's stories. The old government poster depicted a man nicknamed
Afweyne
, or “Big Mouth.” The dictator Siad Barre, ousted long before Hussein was born. Evil spirits of many kinds seemed to haunt this place.

“A'adu bilahi mini sheydani rajiim,”
Hussein prayed. Oh, Allah, I seek protection from
Shaytan
.

Hussein feared no man, but he feared enemies who had no body he could pierce with a blade or a bullet. Was it bravery or ignorance that let these infidels trespass in the haunts of the spirit world? Hussein hated them for bringing him here. What was wrong with these people?

They went about their business as if jinns did not exist. First, they cut off the sleeve of the one called Shartee and took care of his wound. From what Hussein could see, it wasn't serious. The bullet seemed to have left a deep graze wound. Blood had soaked Shartee's sleeve, now lying cut and torn on the floor, but Hussein had seen people bleed like stuck goats from small wounds before. The
gaalos
put an odd-looking bandage over the wound—the bandage somehow stuck together without being tied.

Strangely, Hussein felt almost glad Shartee wasn't hurt badly. Shartee had a kind face for a
gaalo
, and he had never given Hussein a mean look.

“What is happening?” Hussein asked the one called Geedi.

“In a minute,” Geedi said.

Geedi—and all the others, for that matter—seemed very interested in what their leader, Parson, was doing. Parson took a radio of some sort from his vest of many pockets. He turned it on and called somebody. At first, all the infidels seemed happy that he had made contact with whoever was on the other end of that radio beam. But then they didn't seem to like what they heard.

Hussein, of course, could understand none of the words. He didn't know if they were calling for help, or calling for instructions about what to do with him. He would have to ask Geedi—and trust that Geedi would tell the truth. Not understanding the conversations felt a lot like not being able to read: Hussein could rely only on the word of someone else. A weakness he knew he must remedy someday.

The one called Parson turned off the radio and spoke to the others. He gestured with his hands and talked a long time, like he was making a plan. Whatever the plan, Geedi seemed involved; Parson and Geedi talked to each other for several minutes. They included Shartee in the conversation, but he said little. Some of the time, the infidels appeared to argue. They looked at Hussein a lot while they were arguing. From time to time, Parson closed his eyes hard and held his side as if something hurt.

All the while, Yellow Hair stood guard at the door with Hussein's AK-47. Hussein wondered if the woman actually knew how to shoot. He doubted it, but one never knew about these infidels and their strange ways.

The main thing Hussein noticed was the way Geedi got treated. This boss Parson spoke to him in the tones one might use with a brother, not the way a commander would speak to an underling. And not the way Abdullahi had always spoken to Hussein. At the end of the conversation, Parson even patted Geedi on the back and smiled. Assuming these
gaalos
told the truth about anything, Geedi had once been a Somali boy like Hussein. How did he reach a place where these people treated him as an equal?

After a while, Geedi opened his backpack and took out the bundle of food the old man had given them. He unwrapped cloth from around a clay pot, and when Geedi removed the pot's lid, Hussein smelled the
isku-dhex-karis.
The food was still a little warm; it gave off tendrils of steam. To Hussein's surprise, Geedi came over and untied his hands. As Geedi worked, Hussein eyed the strange coveralls the man wore. Zippers and pockets everywhere.

“Why do you wear these coveralls?” Hussein asked.

“It is my flight suit, Hussein. The pockets are very useful.”

Geedi unzipped one of the pockets and took out a small packet. He tore open the packet and removed a folded, wet piece of paper. Geedi handed the wet paper to Hussein and said, “Wash your hands with this, and then we will eat.”

Hussein rubbed the wet paper over his fingers. The paper was wet with some kind of medicine; it stung all the little cuts and scrapes. While Hussein cleaned his hands, Geedi took a plastic water bottle from his backpack. He had a short conversation in American with Parson, and Parson took a small bottle of pills from his vest of many pockets. Parson gave Geedi one of the pills. Geedi unscrewed the cap on the water bottle, dropped in the pill, put the cap back on the bottle, and shook it. After a time, he handed the bottle to Hussein.

“Drink,” he said. “I know you must be thirsty.”

“Do you think I am a fool?” Hussein said. “I saw you put poison in the water.”

Geedi sighed. “It is not poison, Hussein. It is a pill to kill germs in the water.”

“You are lying.”

Geedi rolled his eyes and unscrewed the cap. He took a long drink from the bottle, then held the bottle out toward Hussein.

“Now do you believe me?”

Hussein did not answer, but he snatched the bottle from Geedi and took a drink. The water tasted strange, almost like undrinkable seawater. Hussein swallowed, then looked at the bottle and frowned.

“What is that awful taste?” Hussein asked.

“Water purification tablets always taste bad,” Geedi said, “but at least you will not vomit your guts out and die of dysentery.”

Hussein had seen people do exactly that, but he said nothing. He took another drink. The water gave no pleasure, but it quenched his thirst. Geedi pushed the pot of
isku-dhex-karis
toward him.

“Eat,” Geedi said.

“You want me to eat first?”

“Someone has to go first, Hussein.”

Hussein reached into the pot with four fingers and took some of the potatoes and camel meat. He stuffed the food into his mouth, wiped his hand on his shirt. Chewed slowly, eyeing Geedi. As he ate, gunfire spattered in the distance. With each volley, the
gaalos
looked around and talked among themselves.

“Why have you not killed me?” Hussein asked, his mouth full. “I would kill you if I got the chance.”

“That is not our way.”

“Your ways make no sense.”

“Lucky for you.”

Geedi dipped his fingers into the pot and began to eat with Hussein. The rest of the infidels went about their business. Parson looked over the RPK. He examined the magazine and looked disappointed. He probably found that it had few bullets left. Good, as far as Hussein was concerned.

“I wish you had not brought me here,” Hussein said. “I hate this place.”

“Why?”

“It is spooky. I think jinns live here. The King of the Jinns could live here; it feels like it is underground.”

“We brought you here because it is safer,” Geedi said. “What if your friends had found us in that cellar and dropped in a grenade?”

“Then they would have won victory over infidels.”

“And they would have killed you, too, Hussein. Do you think they would have taken the time to get you out first, in your crippled condition?”

Hussein did not answer. He just took another bite of the camel meat.

“My mother told me a story about the King of the Jinns,” Geedi said.

“About the mouse and the prince?”

“I do not remember a mouse, but there was something about a prince who needed a place to hide.”

“Yes, yes,” Hussein said. “That is the story.”

“Well, we needed a place to hide, too.”

“You say your family comes from the Rahanweyn?”

“They do,” Geedi said. “I told you that you and I are from the same tribe, and you did not believe me.”

Hussein made no reply. He began to think that on this matter, Geedi had actually told the truth, just like he'd told the truth about the pill in the water. If Geedi's mother knew the same childhood stories that Hussein had heard, maybe they really were from the same tribe.

If I ever get my chance to kill them, Hussein thought, perhaps I will let Geedi live because he spoke to me in honesty and is a fellow Rahanweyn. Could we even be distantly related? It is possible, Hussein considered.

He took another drink of the purified water. This time it tasted as if someone had sprinkled ashes into the bottle, but he forced himself to swallow. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Who did your boss talk to on the radio?”

“A friend.”

“What did they talk about?”

“Getting home.”

“How are you going to do that?” Hussein asked.

“We are not sure, exactly.”

“What are you going to do with me?”

“We do not know that, either,” Geedi said.

“You do not know much, do you?”

Hussein intended that remark as an insult, but Geedi did not seem to take it that way. He only chuckled and said, “Not as much as we would like.”

Geedi and Hussein took a few more handfuls of the food, and then Geedi took the pot and gave it to the infidels. While they ate, Geedi came back and sat next to Hussein. Hussein noticed an object clipped to the zipper tab of Geedi's flying suit. The object was the size of a small coin, but shaped with angles. Parson wore one, too.

“What is this thing you wear on your zipper?” Hussein asked.

“A tiny light,” Geedi said. He fingered the object, squeezed it, and it shone a beam of green light. “It is made for key chains, but we fliers wear them like this, on our flying suits. You never know when you might need to see in the dark.”

“Why is the light green?”

“That color works best with night-vision goggles.”

“You have those, too?”

“Not with us tonight, but our military has them.”

“And you are a pilot?”

“No. I am a flying mechanic.”

“You infidels have fine knives and gadgets, but strange ways.”

“I will not argue with you on that, Hussein.”

Hussein could not remember the last time he'd had a friendly conversation like this. This flying mechanic was not such a bad fellow. Yes, when the time came—if it came—Hussein would kill the others but, if possible, he would let Geedi live.