Born of War Page 9
A small gray airplane was sitting in front of the hangar.
He looked again.
“So that is what one looks like.” He spoke the words underneath his breath as he stared at a Reaper drone, parked and ready for takeoff. He could make out cigar-shaped green objects under the wings. The bombs were either heading south to Somalia or east to Yemen.
Soon, some will be meant for me.
Omar was excited about joining the fight. This was the war that his uncle fought. And now Omar was becoming a soldier for Allah.
Some day, the Banu Najjar will be speaking of me.
In Mobile, they would say his name with shock and shame. But in the villages of the Banu Najjar he would be a hero.
I loved history. Omar rarely got less than an “A” in any class, but history was easy. He had read everything he could on Patrick Henry.
He was getting closer by the minute to the battlefield.
Although he was the only white man on board the airplane, he tried to strike up a conversation with his seatmate. He needed to blend in, and another person friendly to him would help.
“I am going to visit my wife’s grandmother.”
The woman was pleasant but not yet engaged.
“I just came from Cairo.”
This struck a chord with her and soon he realized that they both knew friends from his milk delivery days in Toronto. It was a pattern that he’d learned to capitalize on. He would keep talking and dropping names until one struck.
The airplane creaked and bumped as it left Djibouti. It was worn out and barely able to keep in the air. The seats were all filled as passengers carried with them every possession in the world. Plastic bags served as suitcases and were held in passengers’ laps. When the airplane hit an air pocket, he watched the bags fly up until passengers grabbed them and pulled them down. He too held on to his one plastic bag that held the few things he had brought.
After some time, the airplane landed in the city of Hargeysa.
I will never make this, he said to himself. He knew it only took one border guard to stop his trip to Mogadishu.
The airplane leaks fuel, he thought as he looked out at two men who were part of the ground crew. They were staring at the bottom of the wing with a look of amazement.
Several of the passengers remained on the airplane. He followed their lead and stayed in his seat. Only two others boarded the aircraft. The door was closed and it taxied out to the runway.
As the aircraft took off, the left engine sputtered.
“Allah.”
It was the first time he felt real fear. The aircraft dropped several hundred feet, and then the engine started to settle down. He could feel the airplane start to rise again and gain altitude.
It was dark when they finally arrived in Mogadishu.
Once off the plane, he could see a beaten and worn airfield. The hangars had doors that were on a tilt, and a broken aircraft, its engine in parts on the ground, sat next to one of them.
I am here!
The journey to his jihad had been completed.
And in America, his name was on every evening news story and his photograph was spread to the airports and immigration checkpoints. Omar had beaten the system. He had escaped.
“I need a computer.” Omar had spent the night in a house on the edge of the city. He was received by Musa as a hero and introduced to all of the brothers in the neighborhood.
“Yes, that is a good idea.” Musa sat cross-legged, patting his stomach after they had finished the meal brought by the women. “Faud wants you to write. Abu Zubeyr wants you to write! We have discussed this and want you to write to the world. Your jihad will be an inspiration !”
Omar smiled. He had only heard of Faud’s boss. Mukhtar Abu Zubeyr, or Godane, as he was called, was the leader of Al Shabaab.
“You will help us raise money and recruits!”
“I can.” He had been forming some ideas in his mind for several months. He would tell the world of the importance of his beliefs. He would become the Patrick Henry of his tribe. He would be quoted and seen on CNN. He would reach out to others wandering and in need of direction like he was years ago. “I know we will have other American jihadists.”
“We will get you a computer tomorrow. It is important while the bombing is fresh on the world’s mind that they know of your actions and see it came from a fellow soldier.
“And you need something else.”
Musa signaled with his hand and another man went around the corner of the room and returned. He was carrying an AK-47 machine gun.
“This is for you.”
Omar beamed as he felt the oily piece of metal. He stroked the wooden stock.
“We need a picture.” Omar said the words like a tourist who had no comprehension of what he was holding, or the consequence of this new life.
He dropped the magazine clip on the floor. It was empty. He showed it to Musa.
“We will get you some bullets soon. First, you must go into training!”
“I know how to shoot.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” He had killed a squirrel when in high school, well before he became more devoted as a follower. In fact, Omar had shot at a deer once and missed.
“But have you been shot at?” Musa was a hardened soldier who had served his time at the front lines.
“No.” Omar said it meekly.
“You will learn how to stay calm when that Ethiopian helicopter is firing at you. When you hear the first rounds over your head or see a brother fall, you will know the true meaning of the fight.”
“I will not run.” It wasn’t the first time that Omar would not know what awaited him. He would be either a coward or a warrior.
“Yes, of course,” Musa agreed.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“You are crazy.” Peter DuBose listened to Karen Stewart’s argument that the village needed help; that otherwise an epidemic of meningitis would spread across both Somalia and Ethiopia.
“We need to see what’s going on.” Karen Stewart had dumped everything out of her backpack and was picking out the most important items she needed. First, she was filling it up with several bottles of water. And then she was packing the bottles of antibiotics that they had.
“If you are right, and it is meningitis, those pills will not do much good.”
“You are right.” She hesitated. “But they may help stop it for the children not yet sick.”
Karen started toward the tent opening.
“Wait, let me talk to Mataa and figure out what is going on here.”
Stewart put her pack down on the end of the cot. She opened up a bottle of water and leaned against the tent pole. She watched as DuBose, the old man, and Mataa held a confab just outside. DuBose was waving his hands. He often spoke with his hands as much as with words. The old man pointed to the east. Mataa was shaking his head as the conversation continued.
Finally, DuBose turned back to the tent.
“Okay, he says the village is on the road to Beledweyne. We can follow the river. But if we have to cross the Shebelle, I told him that we are turning back. I will not let you go on any other condition.”
“Okay.” She knew that the river could be both deadly and unpredictable.
“Plus, he says it can’t be more than a couple of miles.”
“We can get there and see how things look.”
“Do you have masks and gloves? We aren’t going into this mess without some protection.”
Stewart had forgotten to pack those things.
“I will get them from the supply tent.”
“We aren’t going to be gone for very long.”
“I understand.” She knew that he was ultimately in charge of the encampment. He had veto power over any decision she made.
The four followed the road past the village and headed east into the desert. The road from Ferfer was just north of the river and paralleled the Shebelle for the entire hike. At least on the map it was supposed to par
allel the riverbed.
It was a sunny day and they moved quickly. A white man and a white woman looked odd as they followed the two from the village of Ferfer. They left their guard back at the encampment on the theory that his one weapon would do little good if they ran into anything dangerous. They trusted the village leader and his instinct.
“We need to get there quickly and get out.” DuBose was insistent.
“This will only be an assessment so that we can call in and advise them of the situation.”
“Yes.” She didn’t argue.
After less than two hours, they crossed over a rise and came down to the small village of mud huts. Two goats stood guard as they approached. There was no other movement.
“Do you have the masks?”
“Yes.” She swung her backpack off, placing it on top of a rock just off the road, opened the pack, and pulled out several gloves and masks. The old man particularly looked odd as she showed him how to place the mask over his mouth and nose. At first, he laughed, resisted, and then finally put the mask on. He refused the gloves and after some effort she gave up. He had been exposed to the boy for some time by now. His body had weathered years of exposures to micro creatures of all kinds. His face was pockmarked with his survival of smallpox or other diseases, and he had slept his entire life without a net. His risk was low.
As they entered the first hut she became covered with flies. The dead were in fetal positions in the corners of the huts. The children were still in the grasp of their mothers’ arms, and one child had been suckling her mother’s breast as both died.
They moved from hut to hut, finding more dead.
After leaving the last hut, they moved back to the west and the rock that she had used as a table for her backpack. She pulled off the mask, took out a bottle of water, and washed her hands. She then poured the water over DuBose’s hands, Mataa’s hands, and, with his great reluctance, the old man’s hands. He stared at her as if the Westerner didn’t appreciate the value of clear water. His water had been tainted with the red dust.
“They can’t even be buried.” DuBose looked back towards the village as he spoke.
“The contamination will probably not be a problem.” Stewart rationalized that death stopped the spread of coughing, sneezing, and the disease.
“The scavengers will clean this out by sunup.” DuBose pulled off the gloves and tossed them into the desert. “We need to get back.”
As they crossed the rise heading back to the east, the old man stopped. Stewart was looking down at her boots and barely thinking of anything other than putting one foot in front of the other. She looked up to see her three companions standing perfectly still.
A pickup truck was in the middle of the road. Several men with black keffiyehs wrapped around their heads, wearing loose, green military fatigues and holding AK-47 machine guns, were standing in front of the truck pointing their weapons at the four hikers.
Karen Stewart had been introduced to Al Shabaab.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The following morning the tarp was removed again from the truck behind the lodge. William Parker pulled out the key from underneath the brush guard, started the engine, and turned on the radio. He pulled the truck around to the river side of the farmhouse so as to lessen the static, and scanned until he heard an AM newscast.
“. . . a YouTube video has been released by the Al Qaeda–affiliated terrorist group in Somalia that calls itself Al Shabaab . . .” Parker turned up the sound to listen to the report. “An American by the name of Omar Fazul appears on the video claiming credit for the school bombing in Mobile, Alabama. He has been listed by the FBI as a person of interest.” Parker looked at the time on the truck’s dashboard.
He decided to take another trip. His wallet with the Phillip Berks license was inside the house.
I don’t need another call to the Gunny. The trip to Mobile and the arrest had been more action than both he and Gunny had seen for some time.
The cabin was painfully silent. He walked up the knotted, lacquered pine stairs that she once jumped two steps at a time. He hadn’t slept in the master bedroom for over a year now. He didn’t care if he ever slept in there again. The door remained closed.
Damn roof may have fallen in.
Parker stopped at the door for a moment. He put his hand on the wood. His thought that the roof could have fallen in wasn’t without merit. An old woman had owned and lived on the property before he bought it.
On his first visit to the cabin, Parker had called out her name several times before he noticed movement. He’d known her cousin, and this common link allowed a conversation to ensue. The cousin had been a Marine who had been killed in the Beirut bombing. Parker had met the young Marine years ago and told her that he remembered him. Parker had attended the funeral as an escort officer. He was a young captain at the time and, being from the same town, was assigned the duty. It was a responsibility that was far more difficult than any combat tour.
She’d invited him into the main room. There they talked of her cousin and the history of her land. She had twisted hands gnarled by years of untreated arthritis.
As he sat there, he looked around the main room to see the door to the kitchen and another to her bedroom open. The third door was closed.
After some conversation, she brought up the fact that she had thought of selling her land.
“It can be done.” He had known of the property for a long time. Once, years ago, he had hunted on the ridgeline that intersected with the river. No one knew that the clearing on top of the hill had a view for miles in all directions.
“You want something to drink?” she asked.
“Yes, I would like that.”
He sat down on a bench that she had on the front porch. She returned with a plastic cup full of ice and sweet tea.
“Here you go.”
“Thank you.”
They returned to conversation about the land.
“But I need to stay here.”
“What if you sell me the land and you live in this cabin as long as you want?”
“Yeah, but I got to be buried here, too. My family is here.” A small clearing was near the cabin with nothing more than large granite rocks marking the several generations that preceded her. They were lined up in a rough row with weeds as high as the rocks. In the midst of the weeds, each marker was surrounded by a tangle of roses. Antique roses that went back decades, they were considered nearly indestructible. They marked her family’s place on the land. It was her tribe.
“Sure, absolutely.”
They concluded the conversation and, at the end, she gave him a quick walk around the house without opening the last door. Parker pointed to it.
“I don’t want to pry, but the last door?”
“Oh, nothing.” She pushed the door open with her shoulder. Some time ago the roof had fallen in. It was easier to just shut the door, she’d said.
“Yeah,” he thought now, as he passed the master bedroom. “It can be easier to just shut the door.”
Parker now used the last bedroom at the end of the hall. It had a window looking out to the front of the farmhouse and another to the side. It was as close as any room came to being an outpost. From this upstairs room he could hear and see anyone who approached. He grabbed the fake license and left the cabin.
He pulled the truck out of the gravel road from his farm and headed north. In less than two hours, he took the exit near where the SunTrust Bank branch was that he so often used. This time he didn’t stop at the bank but continued on to the next stop.
He pulled into a parking lot near a brown and yellow brick one-story building and parked the truck. Parker passed under the entrance sign. He had been there enough times before that the woman recognized him but didn’t specifically recall his name. But he had a confident smile that he knew she always reacted to.
“Hello.”
“Yes, sir. Good to see you. Can I help?”
“Your computer room?”
Parker hadn’t been back to the library in nearly a year. It was a safe place, far from his farm, where he could research the world with virtually no backwash. He pulled up the Internet to immediately see the news stories on the bombing from Mobile. He was curious about the bomber.
The room was empty, so he pulled up Omar’s first YouTube video and watched the man with a beard and checkered black-and-white turban talk with glee of how the bombing had occurred. Every sentence had tagged onto it his request for blessings of Allah. The video told of Eddie, who was assured of seeing the face of Allah.
Parker pulled up Somalia and studied Al Shabaab. It was a gang that thought of itself as a tribe. The country was a mass of feuding tribes such as the Harti and Ma-reexaan, among many others. Parker looked carefully at the background of Omar’s video.
“His first mistake.” The background showed a building and palm trees. Intelligence would scan every detail and soon figure out exactly where the video was taken.
There were also banana trees lined up in a manner that suggested they had all been planted. The growth of the trees suggested a certain time period. The crumbled wall was another clue.
My guess is that this was near a river.
He would be correct. And with a river, the possible locations would be reduced again. He could cross-check Al Shabaab with its strongholds. There would be few that would be on a river. The process of elimination had begun.
“God, this place should be red with blood.” The Land of Punt went back over 11,000 years. Cave paintings had been dated as far back as 9,000 years before Christ. It had a continuous history of bloodshed for power. Brothers killing brothers for the throne.
The Marines will never be finished with war, he thought as he went through the news stories for hours. He read of a MSOT raid into the Kenyan village of Wajir, near its border with Somalia. The Special Operations Team had flown through the night, hit the target, and pulled out without casualties. They recovered over a hundred pounds of plastic explosives.