chunks of steel and then queued up to receive the ammunition passed down to them, hand over hand, by the remaining men on the helicopter. This, twenty-two rounds only, didn't take that long.
Once again, at his crew chief's signal, Cruz pulled pitched and scooted away. He, followed by the other two, headed generally west. They had some time to burn, about fifteen minutes worth, to allow the mortars to set up to fire.
In the event, it took the mortars only about ten minutes before they called on the radio to announce they were ready to support. Cruz dialed in the frequency to the Merciful and said, 'Send the air strike in now.'
D-Day, MV
Luis had been trained to fire the machine gun mounted on the right side of the plane he had helped build. They even trained him to shoot wearing the funny goggles that let you see at night, like the ones the coyotes sometimes used to slip you across the border. But he'd never actually fired it from a moving aircraft. Still, how different could it be from firing off the side of the ship at a floating container?
On the other hand, taking off from the ship? Well, he'd also helped patch together one plane from the two that had been wrecked. And he'd gotten his hands pretty bloody from that salvage job, too. He was . . .
'Senor,' he said to the pilot, Harley, 'I don't mind telling you I am scared shitless. I thought I was just getting into something harmless, like running drugs or maybe something like that. But this . . . ' The Mexican sighed heavily.
'Too late now, amigo,' the pilot said, just as the signal was given for him to take off. The plane began to vibrate as he gave it the gas. In moments it was moving at an ever-increasing pace down the PSP flight deck.
Luis closed his eyes. He'd never liked flying and this was worse than most. His stomach dropped as the plane lurched upward.
'Cheer up, Luis,' the pilot shouted over the engine. 'Nothing much to worry about now except the landing.'
Looking to his left, Luis saw a bunch of boats tied up near the shore or pulled right up on the sand. Some of the bigger ones looked fast. He thought, maybe, too, they might be armed.
'I'll go in low,' Harley said, 'for this first pass. I'll expend the rockets on the big ones. You can try your luck with the little ones on shore. Got it?'
'Si, got it, senor.'
'Good man,' Harley said. 'Now hang on to your balls, Luis, you're in for one fuckin' helluva ride.'
D-Day, Bandar Qassim, Ophir
Gutaale looked west from the roof of his main residence in this, the largest city of his almost-country. Even at this distance, the light from the flames of fourteen burning aircraft was enough to notice.
Who would do this to me? the chief wondered. Who could do this to me?
An aide came to the roof and coughed politely.
'Yes, what is it?' Gutaale asked.
'It isn't just an attack on the airfield, Chief,' the aide said. 'Someone also seems to have stolen a boat from the naval warriors. Their leader has sent one of his faster boats in pursuit. Also . . . '
‘Yes?' Gutaale asked, impatiently.
'Also the chief of the naval mujahadin says one of his boats went missing. Supposedly it, and the stolen boat, were in pursuit of a fat prize. The boat that was later stolen returned with engine trouble but the other continued on. It hasn't been heard from and does not respond to its radio.'
That aide stood there, awaiting his leader's orders, when another one came up to the roof.
'Sir,' said the second aide, 'your brother has called. His village, Bandar Cisman, is under attack.'
With a curse, Gutaale gave his orders. 'Launch the entire fleet of naval mujahadin. Get my personal guard company in trucks and have them assemble here. And tell the armored force near Rako to mount up and go to my brother's aid.
'And I want a status report on everything, everywhere!'
D-Day, Suakin, Sudan
There was a guard not far away, standing in the light reflected off the waters from the prison on the mainland. The guard was pretty sure the boy wouldn't try to escape and, even if he did, that the blame would lie upon Labaan's head. For his part, the captive sat on the edge of the island, looking at the mainland wistfully, but also reminded by the prison's lights that things could have been much, much worse.
So many miles to the north, Adam had no idea that this day, rather this night, had any particular significance. All he knew was that it was somewhere around the fifth or sixth month of his captivity, and that that captivity had become, in many ways, altogether too comfortable. That, and that Makeda didn't approve of 'parole.'
On the other hand, the girl was realistic. Life had slapped her around far too much for her to be anything else. 'Since you can't escape unless you're outside and you can't escape from outside if we're manacled together and since you had better not try to escape without me, since you gave me your word, too, I suppose we'll have to live with it. And, if your word to Labaan wasn't good, I suppose it wouldn't be any good to me, either.'
He found himself, from time to time, comparing her with his old girlfriend, back in Boston, Maryam the Ethiopian. Those comparisons did not generally favor the latter.
What was Maryam, after all? Adam wondered. Her father worked for the UN. She grew up among the people Labaan sometimes calls 'tranzis.' She was going to school on the UN ticket. She lived a sheltered life, an artificial life, with almost no idea of Africa as it was.
Compare that with Makeda, who not only knows Africa as it is, but has experienced the very worst of it, first hand.
Maryam was dark and moody, despite her ignorance and sheltered life. Makeda is bright as the sun, despite her utterly shitty one. I would prefer day over night . . . and . . .
I wonder if, perhaps, Labaan didn't do me the biggest favor of all in taking me.
D-Day, Rako, Punt
'Speak up, dammit!' Major Muktar Maalin shouted into his cell phone. Between the shouting, the massed shuffling of feet, the ascending roar of tank engines, and the cursing as some of those engines failed to roar, it was something besides easy to make out the frantic words of one of his uncle's, Gutaale's, minions.
Whoever was on the other end of the connection forced himself to calm down and enunciate. 'Your uncle . . . the chief . . . wants . . . you to . . . take your . . . battalion . . . and go . . . to the aid . . . of your uncle . . . his brother . . . in Bandar Cisman. He is . . . under . . . attack.'
Since the minion seemed to be having no trouble understanding Maalin's words, the major said, quickly, 'Tell the chief I put my soldiers on alert when his brother called. We will be ready to roll within the hour.'
'Hurry! Our chief's brother . . . urges all haste.'
