Impossible Odds

Land Cruiser and get into the backseat while Poul climbs into the passenger seat in front of me. Abdirizak, our locally hired security manager, climbs into the backseat behind the driver. I’ve already noticed this driver is new, but I don’t know anything about him. Ordinarily, I’d ask for an explanation, but Poul appears to be in a hurry to get going and doesn’t show any concern over the driver. I sit there balanced between relative safety or mortal danger and decide I’ve spoken too much of my concern.
    After spending the entire training session eager to be anywhere but there, it feels wrong to second-guess things now. I remain quiet about this unfamiliar driver while the caravan pulls away with us.
    It’s a routine ride—for about ten minutes.
    •  •  •
    The attack begins as if an umpire has just blown a starting whistle. A large car roars up beside us and careens to a stop, splashing mud all over our windows. Men with AK-47s encircle our car, pounding on the doors, shouting over each other in Somali. Their behavior is ferocious.
    My heart goes straight to my throat. Adrenaline sends a jolt of fear from head to toe. The terror feels like heat, like we are suddenly being roasted alive inside this car.
    The men scream in hyped-up fury; there are many distinct dialects in Somali, some unintelligible among the various speakers. I can’t understand any of it except by trying to read gestures and tones of voice. None of the messages are good.
    My brain is seizing up from trying to process this. I hear a little version of my own voice in the back of my skull chanting: This is really bad this is really bad this is really bad, and for some reason I can’t get myself to stop.
    Two Somali men outfitted in Special Protection Unit (SPU) uniforms yank open the doors. They may or may not be real SPU members, in this zone of dubious authority. Whatever they are, the men close behind them have gun barrels trained on us.
    I know nothing in this moment except to show no reaction, avoid doing anything that looks aggressive, but also not to cower. Hold still. With or without training, every mouse knows to freeze in the presence of vipers.
    The attackers leap into the passenger compartment. One pullsopen the rear door and grabs Abdirizak, our useless “security manager,” from behind the driver’s seat. The attacker looks somewhere between thirty and forty years old. His face is a tarmac of acne scars, punctuated by the crazed eyes of somebody who has had plenty of khat leaves to chew that day. The stuff is a stimulant in low doses and a mind-bender at higher doses over time. It’s a national scourge because those higher quantities are eventually sought by all regular users.
    The attacker will later tell me his name is Ali, though he doesn’t just yet, and he is bigger than the average Somali male, maybe 1.8 meters—around six feet in height. His amped behavior is completely intimidating. I turn to our Abdirizak for a little assistance, but that’s really grasping at straws, because I can’t help but notice good old Abdirizak really could look a lot more surprised. Predictably, he does nothing at all to defend us, and in the next instant the crazy-eyed Ali drags him through his seatbelt and out of the car.
    Ali makes a show of beating Abdirizak to the ground to establish superiority, but he doesn’t appear to inflict any damage. It’s mostly an assault of stark male voices bellowing at the top of their lungs. They behave more like brothers in arms who just happen to be on opposite sides of the fence on this day. Maybe they’ll go for a beer tomorrow.
    And with that, everything slips into slow motion.
    Crazy-eyed Ali climbs in next to me with his AK-47 pointed at my head. The moment plays out in a language of images—he is close enough that I can see the weapon’s ammo cartridge, glimpse the bullets, notice there are plenty of them. The beat-up gun is probably older than I am. I imagine it’s been used to kill plenty of people.
    My body constricts, moving on its own with the expectation of being shot. The other attacker scrambles through the rear hatch, and our last line of hope for escape collapses when our“this-is-my-first-day” driver reveals who he is really working for. He speeds away with us like a furious drunk, slamming us around in the passenger compartment while Ali screams the first English word to us I have heard so far:
    “Mobile!” (meaning our cell phones) and then, “Thuraya!”