Let's Go Swimming on Doomsday, page 22
Pulling them up and burning them doesn’t make all the rest of the people better.
I want to scream it so hard that my throat shreds.
The Doctor stands, his kind face searching for my understanding. “Are you ready to get back to work?”
I don’t scream. And I don’t scream. And I don’t scream.
I stand up. “Yes, sir.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I walk back toward my unit. My legs are stiff, and they are jelly all at once. The Boys I pass are busy with a drill. They thrust the muzzles of their guns up over their heads, over and over, like they’re trying to slice holes in the sky.
FORTY-ONE
THEN: OCTOBER 4
THE FORT, SOMALIA
“You have to eat something,” I say. Through the flap on the door I push the bowl of stew closer to Safiya’s curled form. Her bloody back is to me, as good as an accusation. Bashir has covered it in a sticky mix of iodine and aloe, but it doesn’t stop the flies from crawling and buzzing all over the stripes of puckered and oozing flesh. I shudder, peering through the slot into the dim cave of a cell, remembering my time here. It’s as filthy as ever. There’s no way she won’t get an infection.
“It’s not as good as what you’d make, but it will give you some strength,” I say. “The other girl made it, Lul. She’s taken over while you’re . . . sick.”
No answer.
“Or at least eat some canjeero,” I plead. “You don’t have to talk to me, just eat.”
The only thing that moves are the flies and her side rising and falling with her breath.
I lean back and put my hand over my eyes. The sun feels like a serrated knife, clawing into my skull. I am so tired. I didn’t sleep again last night. Whenever I closed my eyes, I could only see my lash coming down on Safiya’s back, or the woman in Merka’s head snapping sideways, or my brother, arms outstretched like a saint, disappearing in a cloud of fire. I tried to think about my family instead, but that was even worse.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice makes my spine stiffen, and I turn slowly.
Bashir is walking toward me, carrying a gourd. It’s the traditional kind used to hold camel milk. I wonder where he got it; they don’t serve camel milk here at the Fort. Then I remember that Bashir is resourceful. If he can find romance novels in Somalia, he can find camel milk.
“I brought her something to eat,” I say, feeling useless.
“Did she eat?”
“No.”
Bashir brushes past me. “She hasn’t been able to keep much down.”
He unlocks the door and kneels next to Safiya. He murmurs something to her, but I can’t hear if she responds. He lifts her head, his hands suddenly soft like he’s handling something as delicate as a butterfly wing. She pushes herself up onto one elbow, sending the flies into a tizzy. Bashir puts the gourd to her lips.
I feel like I’m watching something private, so I step away, lowering my eyes. I should leave, but I can’t. My feet are stuck. And I don’t know where to go. I’ve skipped out of tactical, and I can’t very well show up midway through. I’ll go as soon as Bashir tells me to get out of here, I decide, which should be any second now.
But he doesn’t. Safiya takes a few weak sips, then lies back down again.
“How is she?” I ask.
“Not great, thanks,” Bashir says, still not looking at me.
I cringe. “Can I help?”
His shoulders go slack and he sighs. “She’ll be okay, as long as nothing gets infected. I’ve been putting ointment on her, and now she just needs to rest.” He waves his hand viciously, sending flies off in other directions.
“How long will she be in here?” I ask.
He shrugs. But I can see the fear in his face. Once she gets better, will they put her back to work, or send her away? They can’t send her away, I tell myself; she knows too much about the Fort. But what if she doesn’t get better fast enough? What if she can’t work? How long will they let her lie here? I shudder, trying not to think about the alternative. They won’t just let her sit around uselessly, one more mouth to feed.
Watching Safiya’s back, something the Doctor said yesterday comes to mind, clearly in focus now. He said that the people he wants Khalid to kill are beyond talking to, beyond redemption. It was the same with Safiya. This is what he meant. He didn’t want to talk to her, to explain why he thought the book was wrong. He’s given up trying. The whip was easier.
“I’m so sorry, Bashir,” I say, my voice barely a breath.
He lets out a long hiss of air. “I know you are, doqon,” he finally says. “Don’t forget I had to whip her too.”
We don’t say anything for a while.
Then, “I’m sorry about your brother.”
“Yeah. Me too,” I say.
He looks around. “The guards will pass by here on patrol in a few minutes. We need to go. Where are you supposed to be?”
“Tactical. You?”
“Weapons.”
Neither of us moves.
Finally I open my mouth. “Bashir, I—”
“Shut up,” he says tiredly. “Just . . .” He raises his hand, like he can’t bear to hear anymore. “. . . don’t.”
We sit in silence for a minute longer, and then Bashir goes into the cell to whisper to Safiya that he’ll be back again soon. When he comes out, his face is set in hard lines. He locks the door again, then says, “Come on. Let’s get to the perch before anyone sees us. We’ve got a lot to figure out.”
FORTY-TWO
THEN: OCTOBER 4
THE FORT, SOMALIA
“No,” Bashir says. “We can’t tell Mr. Jones.”
I gape at him. “What? What do you mean? This is it! This is what we’ve been waiting to hear!”
Seagulls mew and dip on the breeze coming off the water below us. They dive for fish in the chop of the waves hitting the rocks, fight over what they pull out.
“Don’t you see? He’ll just bomb us all to hell.”
“But he said he wouldn’t, if we can get him what he wants!”
Bashir shakes his head. “I’ve been thinking about it, and here’s the thing: Why would he keep a promise to us? Why would he not bomb the Fort, if he knows for sure the attack will be staged from here?”
“Because . . .” I trail off.
He’s right. Jones has no loyalty to us. He says he wants to stop the attack with as little killing as possible, but like Bashir’s already reminded me, it wouldn’t be the first time the Americans bombed Al Shabaab bases. Just look at Jilib and the 112 dead Boys. Jones has made it clear he’s got no qualms about snuffing us out.
“At the very least he’ll kill your brother before he has a chance to blow anything up.”
“So what do we do?” I say, trying to fight off a choking sense of desperation. “We have to tell Jones something.”
“We’ll tell him just enough so he knows the attack is happening, and when, and that we’re going to stop it. But not so much that he can take things into his own hands.”
I almost laugh. “We’re going to stop it? How?”
“I’m not sure.” Bashir sighs. “I mean, not without getting killed.”
A gull swoops past us, pursued by two others. It holds a shimmering, squirming thing tightly in his beak. I frown. “Not without getting killed . . .”
A rueful smile passes over my friend’s face. “Look, I like you, man, but I’m not sure I’m ready to die for you. I need to be alive to spend my money and take care of my lady. No hard feelings.”
But as the surf breaks below, an idea begins to take shape in my head. I think about that day in the schoolyard three years ago. I think of Khalid hanging halfway over the wall. He must have known even then that what he was about to do would one day cost him his life. One way or another. He did it anyway.
He did it for me.
“No, not you,” I say. “It has to be me. I have to die.”
* * *
• • •
I’M WORRIED that Jones isn’t going to play along when we explain my idea to him. Or part of my idea, anyway. We tell him only that we found out that the attack will happen on the eighteenth in Mogadishu, and that it will be coordinated among a bunch of different Al Shabaab bases. We don’t know which ones. That way even if Jones does decide to bomb all the bases he knows about, there’s no guarantee he’ll stop the attack.
Jones was pissed, which we expected, but in the end he promised he wouldn’t bomb the Fort, for what that’s worth. And he agreed to help us with a few key parts of the plan. But he left us with a warning. “I’m taking a real risk on you kids, so here’s what I expect in return: The attack gets stopped. That goes without saying. But I want the Doctor or the General, preferably both, alive, in my custody, by the end of the night of the eighteenth. Otherwise no families go free, no payouts happen. And you might as well start considering yourselves dead martyrs.”
Two weeks seemed like plenty of time to get our plan in place and make sure we’re ready, but it’s not like the General’s letting us slack off. All our time is still scheduled. Until we leave for Mogadishu, I’m still expected to crawl around in the dirt and do target practice and make sure no one drowns during swim lessons. When I’m able, I go early or stay late at the beach, timing myself to see how long I can swim underwater, picking up rocks off the ocean floor and testing how much weight I can carry before I sink. At night, before I fall asleep, I practice holding my breath. At first I can only go a minute, but soon I’m able to count to 115.
Bashir’s got even less time because he’s supposed to be working on the bomb and also still catering to the General. We don’t get called in for any more strategy discussions, and when I ask Khalid why, he only says that we’ll get more info once we get to Mogadishu. Basically, no one’s telling us any more than they need to. Bashir and I meet to discuss things when we can, but sneaking away to the perch is even harder now. I get the sense that the General is keeping an extra-close watch on all of us who are on the team. Bashir does manage to let me know that the vest the General wants him to make is supposed to have a blast radius big enough to take out everyone in the restaurant. Maximum destruction.
On the fourteenth the new moon is sighted, which is the official start of Ramadan. Normally, Ramadan is the best time of the year. The fasting is tough, but back home everyone moves a little more slowly, takes it easier. Hooyo and Aabo always invited all our relatives and neighbors and shared food as if the supply were endless, because, as Hooyo would remind us fiercely, wasn’t that our duty? After all, there were others even poorer, and Ramadan was a time for charity. But here, nothing changes. Not for the better, anyway. Instead of dates and fat sambusas and fried kac kac, we break fast with the same old beans and bread, plus extra helpings of prayer. We still have to do all the same exercises. The hard-core religious guys get right into their holy deprivation, but it makes the rest of us irritable and homesick, even if no one dares say anything.
This year there’s also the possibility that my brother will blow up a resort and kill a few hundred people, so, like, yeah, Ramadan Kareem, everybody.
“But what if Jones decides not to put up the posters?” I ask Bashir for maybe the thousandth time as we walk to the technicals in the early morning haze. The seventeenth has finally arrived and we’re headed to Mogadishu before exercises start, when our departure won’t be noticed by too many of the Boys.
“Don’t doubt the plan, Da’ud,” he tells me. “Do you think James Bond gets his shorts all in a twist right before he’s about to go on a mission?”
“You’ve never even seen the movies.”
“But I know James Bond is a steel-jawed, no-second-guessing sort of dude. We gotta be like that. Jones’ll have the posters up by the time we get there. He’ll do it, don’t worry. I could hear it in his voice.”
The first part of our plan involves Jones getting Khalid’s face plastered on “Wanted” posters all over Mogadishu so there’s no way my brother can just waltz into the Ocean View Resort. But Jones has to do it today, after all of our team is already there in Mogadishu and there’s not enough time for the Doctor or the General to think too hard about a replacement. They’ll have to either scrap the whole plan, or . . . we move on to part two.
Bashir looks toward the kitchen, maybe hoping to catch a glimpse of Safiya before we leave. I do too, but we can’t see much through the mist. Safiya’s been put back on duty. She’s doing okay, but you can tell she’s still in some pain. There’s a stiffness to her movements. She won’t talk to me. She’s not talking to anyone but Bashir, actually. Not that I blame her. Hopefully, after all this, she won’t have to think about me or any Boy ever again. She and Bashir can take their money and . . . but that’s getting too far ahead of myself. One step at a time.
First, we’ve got to get to Mog with the Boys without getting stopped by AMISOM at checkpoints. We’re being extra careful today, and instead of one of our trucks dropping us off on the outskirts of town like we do on tunnel supply missions, we’ll only go as far as Afgoye. From there we’ll split up and take minibuses into Mogadishu. All of our gear has been smuggled into town already in the back of a charcoal truck, and will be waiting for us in the new tunnel below the hotel.
Khalid is standing by the technical when Bashir and I get there. Like us, he’s in civilian clothes, a soccer jersey like one he would have worn back before he was kidnapped, and the sight of it sends a sudden pang of homesickness through me. I swallow it down, making sure my face is smooth by the time I’m close. Soon, I’ll see Hooyo and the others, Inshallah.
The General, Commander Rashid, and Muhumed are with Khalid, but where’s Scarface? And why is Nur here?
General Idris looks us over. “We have a change to the mission team. Scarface’s arm isn’t healed enough, and he’s being replaced by Nur.”
Bashir and I exchange a tense look. Doesn’t the General remember what a loose cannon Nur is? Or maybe he was chosen precisely because he’s so zealous and isn’t afraid to bash women’s heads in. The change won’t affect our plan, but I wish the General would have chosen someone—anyone—else to replace Scarface.
“I will be in close contact with Commander Rashid. He’s in charge, and I expect you to follow his every order with speed and to your utmost ability.”
“Yes, sir,” we say.
“Then there’s nothing else to say except God go with you.” The General gives us one final salute.
We all salute back. Then we load up, and pretty soon we’re through the gates.
I take a last look at the Fort as we’re leaving, and hope I never see it again as long as I live.
* * *
• • •
THE MINIBUS I pack into with Muhumed is cramped and noisy. It’s made for fifteen people, but like always it’s packed with closer to twenty, and that’s not counting babies. It always seems like there are more people coming into Mogadishu than leaving. It’s where the markets wait with open arms, where young people come to try to make their fortunes, where the quiet desert countryside abruptly becomes a teeming, pulsing city.
A plastic replica of an open Quran and a fuzzy purple monkey sway from the minibus’s rearview mirror. Every time I catch myself in the reflection, it’s a shock. I look so different now. Hollow, bug-eyed, like someone I wouldn’t want to meet on a dark street.
We pass endless shops covered in hand-painted advertisements: an array of possible hairstyles on a barber’s; sides of meat on a butcher’s; mobile phones, wedding dresses, breakfast food. Tuk-tuk taxis buzz around the minibus, searching for passengers like bumblebees search for flowers. We go through three AMISOM checkpoints, but each time the soldiers just open the door and take a good look at us, as if someone’s going to pop up and confess to being a terrorist. Sometimes they poke inside people’s bags, or ask for ID, but nearly everyone on the bus is from the countryside and most don’t have ID, so at least we’re not alone when we shrug helplessly. It’s almost too easy, but that doesn’t mean I’m not sweating bullets the entire ride.
At the last stop before we’re in the city, the soldiers pull one guy off that they must not like the look of. He goes with them, hands raised, a plastic sack of bananas dangling from his thumb. He doesn’t seem angry or confused at being pulled aside, just tired, like maybe this has all happened before, and as long as he doesn’t make any sudden moves, everything will be fine. I watch him as we pull away until he disappears in the dust, feeling oddly guilty for leaving him behind.
The bus drops us off near the roundabout under the Daljirka Dahsoon monument. The ring of blue-and-white flags flutter around the obelisk like little slices of sky. We’re all supposed to make our way to a half-defunct hotel by noon, staggering our entrances. As we walk, I scan building walls.
“Where are they?” I mutter to myself.
“What?” Muhumed asks.
“Nothing,” I say. But I keep my eyes peeled. Jones is supposed to have put up the “Wanted” posters by now, but my brother’s face doesn’t look back from any of the walls. Maybe this isn’t the right sort of street? Maybe he hasn’t gotten to this area yet? Maybe Bashir was wrong, and Jones is laughing at us, planning his drone strike at this very moment. We pass some sort of municipal building and I see “Reward” posters. My eyes skitter over the faces, stark black and white. I recognize the General and the Doctor, but all the posters are wrinkled and old; there are no fresh faces here. Definitely not my brother’s.
My chest tightens. Maybe Jones hasn’t had enough time yet. After all, this isn’t even where Bashir asked him to concentrate them. He’s supposed to get fliers distributed to the police and AMISOM, and plaster them around the markets and the Ocean View Resort.
