All the Young Warriors

TWENTY-FIVE

"Bring him out." The guard waved his hand as he said it. He looked young, maybe nineteen, but ancient compared to the boys around him. Some hadn't even reached puberty. They all handled their guns as if they'd been trained from birth.

It had taken them four days to get here, finally, to the outskirts of Mogadishu. Plenty of trouble along the way-flat tire, questions about the white man (told some he was a holy man from Turkey, others he was a reporter, still others he was a prisoner being escorted to his beheading), sickness, lack of water. They had guns, at least one apiece. Had to hide them carefully in order to avoid the soldiers taking them. They had money, had to have money, in order to pay off so many men along the way. They had gas. Lost some of it to bandits, others who stopped the Rover, searched it, never telling them exactly what it was the men found worth seeking. Humiliated, tired, dirty, irate with each other, but here they were.

The guard said it again. Then in English, as if they hadn't heard him. Bleeker sat in the back between Mustafa and Warfaa. Mustafa opened his door, slid out, and took Bleeker by the arm. Pulled him. Bleeker fought back, but Warfaa yelled at him, pushed his head. Kept saying, "Out! Out! Out!"

One more push and Bleeker fell to the ground. The boys with guns laughed. Warfaa kicked him. "Up! Up!"

Mustafa helped Bleeker to his feet. The guards looked at him the same way they looked at camels. They recognized Adem, sitting in-between the cousins up front. They clamored around, calling out for "Mr. Mohammed", like he was a TV star. Some of the young men climbed onto the hood of the Rover. "It's him! Look, it really is."

They hadn't expected that. But once it happened, they played it up, Adem smiling for the soldiers, talking to them. Had to have seen him on TV, or online. The negotiator who stood up to the Americans! Well, the Canadians, anyway. And he was hauled off in handcuffs, only to escape in a firefight with American mercenaries! Yes! A folk hero in the making.

Soldiers put their hands on the windows, and Adem pressed his palms against the opposite side. Three, four, five, six times.

The guard examining Bleeker didn't have a reason to do it. He just wanted to. Bleeker knew by the way this guy circled him, sniffed him. Bullshit stuff.

Mustafa finally said, "He's from the Canadian ship. Mr. Mohammed has brought back a prize for the men."

The teenage leader smiled. "Okay. You leave him here?"

"We take him. He goes to Jibriil."

"No, is okay. We take him to Jibriil. You leave him here."

Mustafa had a blade at the kid's throat before he had a chance to make a threat. All the others, starstruck by Adem, slowly took notice, turned to watch. The guard and Mustafa, eye to eye, tip of the knife at the guard's throat.

"You want credit, get your own prisoner, jackass." Mustafa, unwavering.

The guard's eyes were wide, unblinking. A few moments passed, Mustafa smiled, laughed. Let his arm droop. The guard knocked the blade down with a weak elbow, embarrassed but defiant. "Go on, go on."

Warfaa manhandled Bleeker into the backseat again. They got in on both sides of him. The young soldiers clambered off the truck but stood close around it, mesmerized, making it difficult for the driver to navigate. But he steered through, back onto the road. Desert finally gave way to modern buildings, pavement, greenery, and smoke that carried both the smell of death and spices.

They drove slowly, not wanting any more attention than they'd already attracted. Nearly there. Only a vague idea what to do once they arrived.

"We'd better hurry," Bleeker said. "Those guys are going to blow our cover. I know it."

Chuckles around the rover. Mustafa was the one who said, "They've known almost since we started. All the bribe money? Soon as we had driven away, they were on their mobiles, telling Jibriil where we were."

"So we never had a chance?"

"I don't think he knows I'm here, and he sure as hell doesn't know what to make of you. So all these boys could tell him is that Adem is returning with a carload of protection and a white guy."

"Will they be waiting for us?"

"They think we're coming from the previous checkpoint. But we're going to circle the city, try sneaking in. That won't buy much time, but enough."

"Enough for what?"

Mustafa put his finger to his lips. That was that.

The driver took a sudden left and sped up on a vacant road leading back into the wild.

*

When they stopped again, hours later, it was behind a building miles from the soldiers' camp. Adem wasn't sure he would be able to navigate from here, a part of the city he'd never seen before. It took a pair of binoculars and twenty minutes to find some landmarks and build a map in his head. He should've been scared out of his mind, he knew, but was instead excited. Thoughts of Sufia, waiting for him to come and take her away. They could hit Cairo later. First, Minneapolis. She would enjoy the lakes, the woods, the art. It sure as hell wasn't Somalia, but the expatriates somehow made it work, Little Mogadishu in much better shape than the real thing.

They were all out of the Rover, sunset coming fast, beginning to pick up eyes watching from alleys and windows. Adem buttoned his suit coat, straightened the knot on his tie, and cleared his throat. The men turned to him. He didn't exactly know what to say, but this was all about him. Him and Bleeker. And they would all die for what these two wanted if they had to.

"I'm going to find Sufia. I'll go alone. Jibriil is looking for me, so if he finds me, I don't want to hold you up."

His dad shook his head. "I have to come with you. I can't let you out of my sight."

"What good is this if you come? He catches you, he'll kill you. He'll know what's going on."

"Then why are we even here? What's the point?"

"Just…I didn't think about that. But you can't…I want Sufia out of this. That's all."

"Then tell me what she looks like. I'll go find her."

"I can't take that chance. You don't know her. I have to be the one to ask her. It's complicated."

Dad looked at Warfaa. Both nodded one time. Warfaa stepped over to Adem and took him by the arm. "Back in the truck."

Adem snatched his arm free. "What are you talking about?"

"You have to stay here. You can't go in there alone, and we've got work to do."

Warfaa took Adem's arm again, pulled him towards the Rover. Adem tried to snatch it back again but Warfaa had a better grip. Adem said, "No!" Then louder and louder. Then he planted his feet, tried to loosen the grip with his free hand. Went limp. Went spastic. Shouting, crying. On the ground. Warfaa leaned over and slapped him on the face. Again and again until Adem got it together. Warfaa helped him to his feet, then to the back of the Rover. Helped him inside. Closed the door.

Dad opened the opposite door, leaned inside. "Listen, okay? Listen to me. I can't let you go. I came all this way because of this shit you pulled. I'm not going to let you die here. You're going home."

Adem stared straight ahead, sniffing.

"If I can find your girl, I will, I promise. But if not, we've got to leave. We have to get Jibriil and leave."

No response.

"For fuck's sake, boy, I'm willing to die for you! That white cop with me is willing to die for you! Jibriil killed his woman, and he's still here for you."

Adem swallowed hard. Turned his head away.

"I've got to go." Dad grabbed his shoulder, gave it a squeeze. Adem stared out the opposite window, sniffing.

Dad closed the door. Blinked away tears. Swallowed anger. Warfaa told the driver to watch Adem, and to drive the hell out of there if anyone got too close, especially the soldiers. Drive for the border, clear across the desert, and get the kid on a plane. The other men huddled, talked it out.

"You and Ray." Dad lifted his chin at Warfaa. "Go find Jibriil. He won't know you like he does me. And Ray, cover your face or something. You're target practice here. Dawit and I will go talk to some women, see if they know Sufia. As soon as you get Jibriil, call us and we're done. That's all there is to it. Back to the truck."

Dawit spit on the ground, licked his teeth, and said, "Shouldn't we pray first?"

Warfaa turned to Adem's dad. His decision.

He said, "No."

And started walking into town.

*

Warfaa let Bleeker use his headscarf to cover his face. Helped him fashion it the way the soldiers wore it. Eyes only. Then they split from Mustafa and Dawit and made their way through the streets like they belonged there. Burned out buildings, people in the streets covered in dust, as if they'd been digging in the ruins, trying to rescue their belongings. Some stalls were still open, some storefronts intact but worse for wear.

Adem had given them a general direction to follow, but once in the streets they lost their sense of direction-the sights and smells and random pops of gunfire overwhelming, especially contrasted against the deep blue sky. Above, a painting. Below, a morgue.

Warfaa led them through streets, then through alleys, trying to keep out of sight. They came across a news crew at one point, surprised they were in the city. BBC, it looked like. Doing hit and run spot pieces, avoiding the boys with guns. All Bleeker had heard led him to believe the capital was a wasteland, but hey, look, life all over. They either chose not to leave, couldn't leave, or showed up to see for themselves. But they were the exceptions. No reason to ask himself "Why Minneapolis?" anymore. After living through something that did this sort of damage to the city, of course they'd want someplace cold. Someplace serene. Frozen in place.

Warfaa rounded the next corner, then whiplashed into Bleeker, stepping on his feet. Seethed, "Get back! Get back!" Bleeker retreated, flat against the wall. Warfaa too.

"Soldiers. Ten or more. Backtrack."

Down the alley again, not even getting to the end before hearing the unafraid, barking laughter of more teenage soldiers. Shit. Looking right at them. A handful. Two in full camo garb with their faces covered by the trademark red-and-white checkered scarf. Another shirtless. The others in everyday shirts you could pick up at Wal Mart back home. They stopped, stared.

Warfaa spoke up. Something about Jibriil. And "prisoner". So much easier to understand the language in New Pheasant Run when he asked them to repeat it and they peppered sentences with English phrases.

One of the covered faces waved his hand towards Bleeker. "But he's got a gun."

Of course. He knew that phrase. The one time it would've been better not to…

Warfaa said something else. Bleeker was guessing at this point. What would make the most sense? It's not loaded. He's Mr. Mohammed's prisoner. The gun is just a disguise.

Or something.

The soldiers weren't looking anymore convinced. The shirtless one lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

Right before he fired, he said something in Somali that Bleeker thought sounded an awful lot like, "Bullshit."