Born of War (9 page)

T
he old man stood outside the medical tent with a small, bony boy standing next to him. The child was leaning on the old man like a grandchild might lean on his grandfather. Karen Stewart was cleaning a deep cut on the foot of a woman when she noticed the two waiting to be seen. She was amazed at the people she had already met in the short time that she had been there.

Karen would put a stitch or two in the foot. DuBose had told her that no numbing injection was required.

“Save that for the more serious injuries.”

What do you mean “more serious”?
She looked at the cut. It was from a piece of metal, which was rare in this part of the world. The woman had limped and walked for miles to get to the clinic and was being seen only because her husband had come with her. He was a suspicious man and stood outside the tent as Karen treated the wound.

The woman did not budge at all as the needle of the suture entered her leathered skin.

Just like a pit bull dog.
Karen remembered from camp as a teenager once that a dog had wandered into the row of cabins. It was also cut deeply. All of the girls screamed as it lay down under a planked step to the cabin.

The dog's owner showed up and apologized for the dog. He was trying to calm the counselor with promises that the dog would never come this way again. It was wounded after cutting through a barbed-wire fence that caught him in just the wrong way.

While the counselor kept the others calm in their cabin, Karen snuck outside the cabin entrance and watched the owner. He pulled the dog out by its collar. It was a pit bull dog. He lifted it up and placed it on the top step. The man pulled out a small kit, threaded a string in a needle, and started to sew up the wound. The dog lay there without flinching. It was impervious to pain.

DuBose was on the other end of the tent helping a woman with a difficult birth. She had been bleeding for some time. It was not likely that DuBose would save either the woman or her child. Her screams penetrated the entire medical camp. Bleeding was the one thing that a patient's will could not stop.

“Mataa, can you see what the old man needs?”

She had one assistant who helped with the patient load. It had already become clear to her that they could work from dawn to dusk and never catch up.

“Peter, do you need some help?”

“No, it is Allah's will.” Peter wasn't being sarcastic. He had already taught her how the people who lived in this valley thought. Karen had cried for a day when the first child was lost. And Peter pulled her aside.

“Ask the mother what she thinks tomorrow.”

“What?”

“No, really, it is a part of your education.”

Karen sat down next to the mother, who was laughing and smiling the next day as she played with a young daughter near her cot.

“I am so sorry,” Karen said with tears in her eyes.

The woman had a strange look on her face as she talked to two others who were sitting on the ground nearby. Her reaction to Karen's tears mystified Karen.

Mataa interpreted some of the woman's words.

“She says that ‘it is.' ”

“Nothing more?” Karen asked.

“Nothing else need be said.” Mataa said.

Acceptance was a mandate to survival. Another child would be born and another child would die.

It was the eyes that Karen could not forget.

She taped the wound on the foot of the woman in front of her.

“Mataa, tell her to keep it clean.”

“Ya, lady doc.” Mataa had started to call her that.

It didn't really matter. The woman would not keep it clean but her body had built up such a resistance to every possible type of infection that the tape would wear off, the wound would heal, and life would go on.

Karen walked out to the old man and the boy.

“
Al-salamu alaykum
.” She pulled the scarf around her head. It was taking some time for her to remember to do so, but every time she forgot, the looks were a quick reminder.

“
Wa alaykum s-salam
.” The old man pushed the boy forward towards the doctor.

“Oh, my. Hello.”

He had brown eyes that followed her with the occasional blink. His head was on a slight tilt, as if he was protecting his neck. She felt his head and it was burning up with fever. She tried to move his head and the child whimpered. Other doctors may not have known what to suspect. Karen was, however, the daughter of the number-one expert in the world on this disease.

“Mataa?” she called for the helper. “Please ask how long the child has been sick.”

“He says two days. He doesn't sound very sure.”

“Why not?”

“The child is from another village just to the east.”

“Okay.”

“Should I give this child a cot?”

“Yes, but not in the tent. Take one out of the last tent and put it there, between the rocks.” It was the best that could be done for an isolation ward.

 

 

“So, what do you think it is?”

Karen was perched on top of the highest rock with the satellite phone. Peter was standing nearby. She wanted to cry when she heard her father's voice.

“Meningitis. No doubt.” Karen plugged her finger into her ear so as to hear his voice clearly. “Which strain, I don't know.”

“Can't be a surprise. You're in the middle of the meningitis belt.” Paul Stewart used his clinical voice when he talked of medical cases.

“We have put him on the strongest antibiotic we have, but we don't have vancomycin.”

“I understand. Just make him comfortable.”

It was clear that the child might not survive. He could be in admissions at an emergency room in a major medical facility and still not make it to sundown.

“Yes.” She didn't like what was being said, but she knew the truth well before she'd made the call.

“Can you get me a sample of his blood?”

She knew he was right. It may help others to know what strain was involved.

“We have a satellite link. I think we can send a picture to you.”

They had a remote location link and a generator that could be powered up when needed. She would have a picture of the slide to him before the end of work the next day in Atlanta.

“Thanks.”

“Is everything going well?” It was the father's voice that was now kicking in.

“Yes, I am learning so much.”

“Well, you will be finished before you know it.”

“I know. Dr. DuBose has been a great help.”

“Love you. Bye.”

The link cut off.

“Mataa, ask the old man how we get to the boy's village.”

The nurse hesitated. “I don't know.”

“We need to see if we can stop the spread of this disease before it goes farther.”

Stewart had been fully inoculated to include the meningitis vaccination. It may have not been the right one, but her risk of getting sick was fairly low. However, the disease could spread quickly. Neisseria meningitidis could infect an entire village within hours. Others would get sick, and death could soon follow. And it was a horrible death.

Mataa spoke to the old man. He shook his head as they talked. Finally, he seemed to agree. He, himself, would take the doctor to the village.

 

 

Paul Stewart stayed late and then came in early, still waiting for the slide to come across the Internet. The director had called him several times and left messages that Stewart ignored. He still wasn't ready to give them a response on the other job.

Finally, he opened his email and found the one from his daughter. The slide was attached to the email but was of poor quality. He tried to enlarge it as best as he could.

“Damn!” One enlargement said what he needed to know. It was the same strain as the one from Yemen. The cells were linked together in the purple tint like chains, angry chains, with spikes on the sides. It was also identical to the strain in Afghanistan. He called his assistant.

“Where is Hernandez?”

“The one with security?”

“I need to see his friend.”

O
mar took the flight the next day from Cairo to Dubai. Every ticket had to be bought as a round-trip. A one-way would cause suspicion that could keep him in place for days or, even worse, cause him to be turned back to Cairo. In Dubai, he took a bus to the market and nearby he found the Daallo Airlines office.

There he bought a round-trip ticket to Mogadishu, never intending to use the return leg.

The airplane was Russian, old and hot. With his broken Arabic, Omar realized that the flight wasn't going to Mogadishu. Rather, it was flying to Djibouti.

The airplane landed at the Djibouti airfield and taxied past lines of gray military aircraft. Most had the markings of the U.S. Air Force. He had stepped into the beehive.

He was already feeling ill from the heat and smell of the aircraft and its passengers. Every look from an airline clerk caused his heart to jump.

What now?
He still had the Toronto Blue Jays hat on and he pulled it down around his eyes. The baseball hat actually helped him fit in with the crowd of passengers, as many of the younger ones wore a mishmash of American clothes and hats. He looked like a cross between an L.A. rapper and a young Muslim. As he moved farther into the Arab world the Canadian passport did cause more scrutiny.

“I need to just keep moving,” he thought as he walked down the steps from the aircraft. Another plane was parked next to his and as he entered the room that served as a terminal, Omar realized that the signage for the other aircraft was to Mogadishu.

He watched the mix of civilian aircraft still carrying people from one war-torn country to another. At the same time, the other side of the runway was an encampment of aircraft heavy with bombs. New container buildings stretched from one corner of the runway to another. He stopped for a minute on the tarmac looking at a hangar on the opposite end of the military complex. He pulled his baseball hat down so as to block out the glare.

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.

Omar was excited about joining the fight. This was the war that his uncle fought. And now Omar was becoming a soldier for Allah.

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.

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.