The Hunters (3 page)

Parson looked up. Four Somali men walked toward the airplane, brandishing automatic weapons. Three of them carried AK-47s, but one wielded a PKM, a belt-fed machine gun. Bandoliers of ammunition dangled from his neck. The armed men strolled casually, and they wore civilian clothes and ratty tennis shoes.

Alarmed, Parson wished he could take off on one engine. But if these guys wanted him to stay on the ground, they could riddle the engine—or the cockpit—before he ever got airborne. Parson pulled the left mixture control to idle cutoff, and the propeller spun down to a stop. Without taking his eyes off the gunmen, Chartier reached overhead and turned off the magnetos.

Underneath his flight suit, in an elastic bellyband holster, Parson wore a Beretta nine millimeter. A lame defense against a PKM, but all he had. He unzipped the suit, drew the weapon, zipped his suit back up. Parson held the pistol low, below the cockpit windows, invisible to the gunmen on the ramp. Clicked off the safety.

“You're armed?” Geedi said. “We're not supposed to be armed.”

“Neither are they,” Parson said.

F
our armed men surrounded Parson's airplane. In one of the world's most lawless countries, he knew anything could happen next. What did happen was the last thing he expected. Sophia Gold came out of the terminal building. Or what passed for a terminal building, with its broken windows, peeling paint, and sagging electrical wires. She wore her ever-present green-and-black Afghan scarf, a green bush shirt, khaki tactical trousers, and desert combat boots. Given her choice of clothing and her straight-postured walk, even a civilian would have pegged her as ex-military. A former U.S. Army sergeant major, Gold now worked for the United Nations. Still, Parson was surprised to find her here. When he'd spoken to her on the phone yesterday, she was in Mogadishu.

Gold talked with the armed men, and she smiled as if greeting cousins. Chatted briefly with the PKM guy, put her hand on his arm for a moment. She looked up at the cockpit and waved to Parson. Parson waved back, still a little dumbstruck.

Parson put his weapon on safe and slid it back into his concealment holster. Wiped sweat from his nose with the sleeve of his flight suit. Now, on the ground in the Somali sun, the DC-3's aluminum hull turned into an oven.

Chartier had also drawn a pistol—the biggest stainless-steel revolver Parson had ever seen. The third big surprise in the space of about a minute.

“Damn, son,” Parson said. “What the hell is that?”

“A Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum.”

“You planning on shooting elephants or something?”

“If necessary,” Chartier said, grinning. “As your southern Americans say, my
maman
didn't raise no clown.”

Parson laughed. “You mean fool,” he said. “Your mama didn't raise no fool.”

“
Oui.
She didn't raise no fool.”

“I agree, but put that thing away before we scare Sophia's friends.”

“D'accord.”

Chartier stowed the big revolver in his flight bag. Geedi smiled and shook his head. Outside, Gold disappeared under the wing as she headed toward the door near the back of the DC-3.

“Well,” Parson said, “let's not just sit here. Open the door and let the lady in the airplane.”

“Yes, sir,” Geedi said.

The flight mechanic unstrapped and headed aft. Parson heard him stepping around the cargo, and then the boarding door squeaked open. Now that Parson no longer worried about getting shot, he turned his thoughts to his other problem. He took off his headset, unbuckled his harness, and looked over at Chartier.

“I wonder why that engine failed,” Parson said. “These Pratts are old, but they're usually pretty reliable.”

“How much time have they flown since the last overhaul?”

“Less than forty hours.”

Chartier shrugged. “Geedi will figure it out.”

Parson didn't doubt that; he knew he had a good flight mechanic. He worried more about how long they'd stay stuck in this rat hole of an airport. Had the engine thrown a rod or cracked a piston? What if they had to wait until a newly rebuilt engine could be flown in?

Like any sensible flier, Parson carried an emergency overnight bag. But he didn't relish the idea of sleeping in the terminal on his bedroll. Better to get back to the Sheraton Djibouti Hotel, preferably before happy hour. Get cleaned up and sip an old-fashioned while looking out over the Red Sea. He flew pro bono for WRA, but at least they put him and his crew in decent quarters. Mama didn't raise no fool.

The sound of Gold's voice interrupted Parson's thoughts. She had climbed aboard, and Parson heard her exchanging pleasantries with Geedi. He turned to see her making her way through the cargo compartment toward the cockpit—an uphill walk in this big taildragger. She smiled when she saw him. Parson had last seen her two weeks ago in Djibouti; running into her today was a bonus.

“I see you guys made a dramatic entrance,” Gold said. “What's wrong with the engine?”

“We don't know yet,” Parson said. “What are you doing here? I thought you were in Mog.”

Gold stepped into the cramped flight deck. Parson rose to greet her, but in the cramped cockpit, he managed to stand up only halfway. Gold embraced him and kissed the top of his head. Even in Somalia's heat and dust, she smelled of scented lotion.

“I was, but I had to come out here to arrange for more security guys,” Gold said. “You saw them when you taxied in.” Gold turned to Chartier, who remained sitting in the copilot's seat. “Hello, Captain Chartier. I'm delighted you could volunteer your time and talent.” She took his outstretched hand.

“Enchanté,”
Chartier said. “Call me Alain.”

“Or Frenchie,” Parson said. “He answers to that, too. And Froggy Bastard.”

“We'll make it Alain,” Gold said.

“You see?” Chartier said to Parson. “She does everything with class. Why can't you be more like her?”

Parson smiled. For him, or anyone, to be like Sophia Gold would amount to a tall order. He considered her the smartest—and toughest—person he knew, and Parson knew a lot of military badasses. He had first met her in the worst of circumstances. Years ago, she had boarded his C-130 Hercules at Bagram Air Base, Afghanistan. At the time, she served as an Army interpreter accompanying a high-value Taliban prisoner. Soon after takeoff, a shoulder-fired missile downed the Herk. After the crash, Parson and Gold endured a winter ordeal as they evaded capture and kept the Taliban mullah in custody.

They had shared many missions since then, most recently in North Africa to stop a terrorist group armed with chemical weapons. That's when they'd met Chartier.

Parson loved her dearly, though their relationship defied definition. No strings, but strong ties. Because Gold wanted to save the world, Parson had agreed to spend his military leave hauling relief supplies in an antique airplane.

And getting paid nothing—except time with her.

The humanitarian work did have another appeal: He'd gotten checked out on the DC-3, one of the classic machines of aviation history, and he could write off the expense as charity. He was even considering taking a longer break with a new sabbatical deal the Air Force offered. Under the Career Intermission Pilot Program, he could take off one to three years for charity work, a graduate degree, or whatever struck his fancy—then resume his military career.

“So who are those choirboys out there?” Parson asked. “You got the U.S. and French air forces working for you. Did you manage to recruit al-Shabaab, too?”

“Oh, no,” Gold said. Her tone turned serious. “Don't even joke to those guys about that. They
hate
al-Shabaab, like a lot of Somalis.”

“Sorry, no offense.”

“It's okay. Actually, they're private security. And al-Shabaab is the reason the UN hired them.”

“How's that?” Parson asked.

“With all the refugees coming home, Somalia's government wants to show it can handle the situation. Al-Shabaab wants to prove the government can't.”

“Bastards,” Chartier said.

Parson considered the implications. The terrorists might try anything. Interrupting food shipments—a tried-and-true tactic in Somalia. Attacking government facilities. Assaulting civilian crowds. The African Union Mission in Somalia—AMISOM—provided troops to fight al-Shabaab, but the terrorists remained active and dangerous.

And here we are in the middle of it, Parson thought. With a geriatric airplane and two pistols. Perfect.

He didn't blame Gold for getting him into a risky situation. After decades of anarchy, piracy, civil war, and Black Hawks going down, he hadn't expected a trouble-free Somalia. If Parson had wanted to spend his leave doing something easy, he'd have gone fishing. But he liked to keep moving, to keep facing challenges. Though he loved the solitude of water and woods, those quiet moments gave him too much time to think, invited painful memories.

Clanging noises came from the cargo compartment. Parson glanced back. Geedi was removing cargo straps from an aluminum ladder. The flight mechanic needed the ladder to inspect the bad engine.

“Lemme help you with that, Geedi,” Parson called.

“Thanks, sir.”

“I see you met our flight mechanic,” Chartier said to Gold. “He comes from the Somali American community in Minneapolis.”

“He's a good dude,” Parson said. “Knows his shit. But I better give him a hand with that ladder before it falls on his skinny ass.”

Parson went aft and helped Geedi lift the ladder that had been strapped to the floor. They slid it halfway out the boarding door, and Parson jumped down from the aircraft. He took the ladder by its base, and he and Geedi moved it out of the DC-3 and set it up under the right engine.

Black droplets of leaking oil already spattered the dusty pavement beneath the engine, but that was normal. Geedi climbed the ladder. He wore a Leatherman multi-tool in a sheath attached to the waist strap of his flight suit. The flight mechanic took out the Leatherman, opened a screwdriver blade, and began turning the Dzus fasteners that pinned the cowling panels in place. He worked with a practiced hand, popping open each fastener with a quick leftward flick of his wrist.

Gold and Chartier emerged from the airplane and headed toward the terminal.

“I'll get some people to unload your cargo,” Gold called.

“Thanks, Sophia,” Parson answered. “Just make sure they don't take our oil and stuff.” In addition to the relief supplies, the DC-3's cargo compartment also contained cartons of oil and hydraulic fluid, a spare tire, jacks, spark plugs, and other items Geedi used to maintain the old airplane.

“Will do,” Gold said.

Parson waited underneath the wing to see what Geedi might find. He unzipped a chest pocket on his flight suit, took out his aviator sunglasses, and put them on. While Geedi examined the engine, Parson folded his arms and admired the DC-3's lines.

The old girl had style, no doubt about that. The sweep of the wings' leading edges, the rounded nose, the twist of the three-bladed props hinted of 1930s art deco. Built originally as a twin-engine airliner, by modern standards she was small for a passenger plane: She'd have carried twenty-one people. The plush seats had been removed long ago to make way for cargo. A decal on one of the blades read
HAMILTON STANDARD PROPELLERS
. Reliable enough to survive decades of constant flying, she was a tough plane designed to handle tough conditions and do it with class.

Geedi removed a panel and handed it down to Parson. Parson placed the sheet of aluminum on the tarmac beside the ladder. The flight mechanic dug into one of his leg pockets and produced a mini-flashlight. He shone the light into the engine and looked around.

“See anything?” Parson asked.

“Not really. No obvious damage, anyway.”

“Hmm,” Parson said. Though he'd experienced most of the problems that caused turboprop and turbojet engines to fail, he had logged little flight time on radial piston engines. Didn't know where to start speculating about the source of the problem. That's why he flew with a flight mechanic.

“Sir,” Geedi said, “you don't have to stay out here. This might take a while. You can go inside if you want.”

“Thanks, Geedi,” Parson said. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

“Yes, sir.”

Inside, Parson found more activity than he'd expected. About forty people milled about in a room the size of a basketball court. No ticket counters or baggage carousels, just wooden benches along the walls. At an unpainted rough-hewn table, a woman stirred a pot that rested on a grate above a can of burning Sterno. Steam rose from the pot. The smell of something edible filled the air; Parson could not identify the food. Four men stood around Gold as she addressed them in Arabic while Chartier looked on.

“Hassalan,”
one of the men responded. Parson didn't know the words, but the tone sounded like “okay,” “you got it,” or “will do.” The men wore UN ID tags on chains around their necks. They walked outside, and through a broken window Parson saw them begin to unload the bags of rice and boxes of rations from the airplane. The armed guards, still out on the ramp, seemed more alert during the unloading. They eyed the parking areas, the fences, and the road to the airport. One of them hooked his right thumb over the safety lever of his AK, ready to click it into firing mode.

“How come those guys are so spring-loaded?” Parson asked. “Is my flight mechanic safe out there?”

“He's as safe as we are in here,” Gold said. “We don't know of any specific threats.”

“But you have general threats,” Chartier speculated.

“We do. All the older people remember when warlords hijacked aid shipments to use hunger as a weapon. They wonder if al-Shabaab will take a page from that playbook. Everybody's pretty tense, especially when food comes in.”

The woman at the cook pot called out in Arabic, and Gold answered. Then she turned back to Parson and Chartier.

“Lunch is ready for the staff,” Gold said. “Do you want to eat something?”

A question Parson hadn't anticipated. He gave Gold a puzzled look.

“Not if food for these folks is an issue. I can wait till I get back to Djibouti.”

“Don't worry about it,” Gold said. “You just brought us tons of food. I think we can feed you lunch.”

Several Somalis, presumably on the UN payroll, lined up at the food table. The cook began spooning something into paper bowls. The Somalis ate with relish, though not as if they were starving. Parson and Chartier followed Gold into the line, and when Parson's turn came, he received a bowl of rice cooked in goat's milk. He dipped a plastic spoon into the bowl and began eating.

“Not bad,” he said, though he thought the rice could use some pepper.

“Bon appétit,”
Chartier said.

“Can I take a bowl to Geedi?” Parson asked Gold.