The Djinn

The streets and sidewalks of Mogadishu baked under the blast furnace of a sun. Peter Hayes, sweating through his thin cotton shirt and light khaki pants, worked his way through the teeming foot traffic to the streetside café. He was several minutes late for the meeting, something he disliked, but the impression of the American operation was one of lounginess and Hayes was ordered to maintain that image. His organization did not want others to understand their true capabilities.

The manager greeted Hayes at the entrance. "

Ahlan wa sahlan,"

he said, formally bowing to the American. His eyes flicked down to Peter's holster and his eyebrows briefly went up. It was reasonable, if technically illegal, to go out in town with a pistol over 9mm in size. Hayes preferred the weight and size of a .40 caliber. The manager was discreet with his observation.

"

Shukran,

" Hayes replied.

"Please allow me to take you to the other gentlemen," the manager said, still speaking Arabic.

Hayes nodded and let himself be led to a table under the colorful green and white awning. It was backed against on the outer wall of the café. They had a clear view of the street.

Gorov, the Russian, stood to greet Hayes, hand extended. Tawfiiq, still in his chair, nodded, tucking his chin to his chest for a full two seconds. Hayes nodded back to Tawfiiq before shaking hands with Gorov. Satisfied with the less-than-formal greetings, all three men sat awaiting the waiter.

Within moments,

shah hawaash

arrived with three cups. The café owners knew who the three men were and provided preferential service. Hayes was entirely certain his table was their waiter's sole responsibility. Ahmed stood, statue-still only feet away, ready to meet their every request. Hayes nodded politely to the waiter while Gorov and Tawfiiq flatly ignored the man.

"It is warm today," Tawfiiq said in English, sweat glistening on his forehead, "So please allow me to offer you refreshment." He snapped and Ahmed stepped forward, pouring the tea into beautiful porcelain cups for the men. He finished and stepped away. Hayes noticed Ahmed had poured for Gorov first.

The three sipped quietly. Several minutes of silence settled around the table. Hayes admired the intricate design on his cup.

"Let us begin," Gorov finally said in Arabic, "The Russian Black Sea Fleet is detaching the Moskva and the Smetlivyy from the 30

th

Surface Ship Division. They sail this Tuesday for ... "

Tawfiiq was laughing quietly in his cup.

"Yes, Tawfiiq? Perhaps my Arabic is so poor I have instead told a joke?" Gorov asked.

"No, no," Tawfiiq said with a wave of a hand, "Please continue. I find amusement in having a Russian and an American speak my language. I offer no offense."

Gorov's stare bored into Tawfiiq, his gaze locked for several seconds longer than necessary. Tawfiiq met his eyes without fear. Gorov continued at last. "The detachment will move to patrol waters by Somaliland and Puntland. We believe new, well-armed and well-organized groups are operating out of Bosaso," Gorov finished.

Tawfiiq smiled again and clapped his hands once, a distant pistol shot in the roar of the city life around them. "Of course, they are," he said, "And they will operate out of Assab. And Mombasa. And Daar es Salaam. And even Hadiboh. This is a scourge that will never be severed from the Earth."

Hayes leaned in. "I think," he began, "We won't do enough to stop everything but maybe saving some innocent people will make it worth it."

Gorov laughed loudly, drawing looks from nearby tables.

Tawfiiq merely smiled. "The money you are paid is what it is worth. You are American. Violence and revenue go hand-in-hand with your culture, much like Gorov's. Please do not pretend you are a humanitarian service here. Piracy is a Somali curse, not American, and I do not see a blue helmet on your head," he said.

Hayes had his response in hand and was ready to fire back when a jolt of electricity pulsed through the air. It felt as though a bolt of lightning were about to crash into the street. Gorov and Tawfiiq reacted too. Gorov's head cocked to the side, a frown forming on his face. Tawfiiq's jaw clenched as if he were about to receive a blow.

Time slowed. The heavy scent of spice filled the air.

Hayes glanced over Gorov's shoulder and saw the woman. She wore an elegant blue and green dirac dress and her long, jet black hair was uncovered. The mass of people normally crowding the sidewalks of Wadada Liido, a main street of the city, made way for her, gently deflected from her path. She passed the men's table as if floating on air. Her eyes, deep chocolate brown, rounded by green eye make-up, lashes long and full, appraised Hayes. Her skin, a black more rich than any tone Hayes had ever seen, did not glisten with sweat in the burning heat. She smiled at him, her straight white teeth flashing in the sun. Hayes felt the very air sucked out of his lungs. He could do nothing but stare, spellbound, for she was impossibly beautiful. There were no other sounds, no traffic, no shouting of merchants, no clatter of silverware on dishes, no chatter of patrons. Everything simply stopped until the woman passed.

Time accelerated to normal speed.

Gorov muttered something in guttural Russian and Hayes doubted it was suitable for polite company. The Russian's eyes flicked left and right and he looked uncomfortable, something Hayes had never seen before.

Tawfiiq said something under his breath as well. Hayes heard it but could not understand the phrase. Others around him spoke to each other rapidly and the conversations sounded urgent, the patrons upset. The waiter stepped to Tawfiiq's elbow. They spoke quietly to each other. The waiter stepped away and Tawfiiq considered the brief exchange. He finally smiled broadly at the other two men.

"What is this laughter?" Gorov demanded in Arabic, clearly shaken by the passing of the woman and confused that he was shaken.

Tawfii quivered with humor and received frowns from those around them. He took several minutes to calm down and breathe normally. His dark complexion was tinted red from his outburst and he struggled to find his composure.

"That which just passed us," he said, "was a djinn. Ahmed, our waiter, agrees."

Gorov barked a laugh and, waving his hand, dismissed the claim. Hayes' eyebrows furrowed.

"That is a new word to me," he said, "What is it?"

"It is nonsense," Gorov said, "It is myth, folklore from herdsmen who want to scare their children at night. It is nothing. Our host will not swear she was a djinn. He knows this is false."

"The djinn," Tawfiiq said, voice lowered, "are a truth of my land. They are strange creatures who exist both in the spiritual world and in ours. They have powers beyond the natural. I have never seen one before but I will swear until I die she who passed by is a djinn. They may grant your greatest desires with little limitation. They have powers we cannot understand. Your American culture calls them genies. And they ... are ... real."

Tawfiiq sat back, sobered. "You felt it as I did," he continued. He locked his attention on Gorov, eyes narrowing, "And I will not be called a liar."

"Okay," Hayes agreed, "This woman is a genie. I will accept this. But why do you laugh?"

Tawfiiq's face again broke into a generous smile. "Maybe it is your golden hair and handsomeness," he said, "She likes you."

--------

Hayes returned to the operations compound following the business lunch. Andrew Keyes, the radio intercept 'officer' positioned inside the communications room, leapt from his chair and hurried into the hall.

"Where were you today? Did you see anything strange? What did you see?" Keyes asked, firing off questions in short bursts.

Hayes shrugged and shook his head. "I saw and heard nothing unusual. Should I have?"

"Oh, man, you shoulda heard the radio traffic and cell phone chatter. A huge number of calls went out to both local police and the federal government. And you know folks around here don't want to call the government for anything. Whatever happened an hour ago, people were yelling for help."

"What'd they say?" Hayes asked.

"I heard reports of ghosts, supernatural animals, all kinds of shit. At least a dozen people called in sightings of an ifrit," here Keyes made a quote motion in the air with his fingers, "and I had to look that one up. It's a pissed-off genie, apparently. They burn things down with their rage. It's like they snap their fingers and, bang, fire. Sounds kinda like my ex-wife. Anyway, is there a full moon tonight? It was like some crazy Arabic Halloween is in the air out there. I've never seen it like this the way scanners were buzzing. And I've been in-country for almost half a year now."

Keyes scratched his head, shrugged. "Anyway, things got quieter the past few minutes," he continued, "Do you think we should set double-security overnight? The Sir is putting a boat in the water tomorrow and maybe someone's sniffing out the operation. I mean, do you feel like we need extra bodies on deck?"

Hayes shook his head, "I'm not in charge but I'll tell the Sir what you said. He may have an opinion. Probably he'll just shrug it off and leave it to superstition. He's grounded so it won't shake him at all."

They had been out on the water half the day. The afternoon was beautiful, with puffy cotton clouds floating by. The Indian Ocean had almost no chop today and the ship barely swayed in the water. They had good conditions for shooting if and when it would come to that. Hayes watched the petrels glide overhead, diving and climbing on the ocean breeze.

The call came from the Gunny, high above on the flying bridge. His command voice, becoming a former Gunnery Sergeant of the United States Marine Corps, sir, aye-aye, sir, boomed from topside.

"Watercraft! Port quarter! Two clicks and closing!"

"Impressive, Gunny," Lt. Martin said, squinting, "I see nothing. Ouza, get those binos up here!"

"Yes, sir!" Ouza said, hustling the binoculars to Martin. Martin swept the port side of the boat with the binoculars, amidships to stern. He locked on something out in the water and grinned.

"Target," he said, lowering the binoculars, "Jesus, the Gunny's got good eyeballs." He raised the binoculars for another look, raising his voice at the same time, "She's a dhow, no sails. She'll have a big-ass motor on her. And they're pointed right at us."

Dhows were Arabic trading vessels, trim and fitted with sails. They were built to hold plenty of weight and when stripped of sailing equipment and fitted with motorized propulsion they were light, fast, and often used in piracy along the east coast of Africa.

"Us," on the other hand, was a 55-foot luxury ship, somewhere between a cabin cruiser and pleasure yacht. The interior was purely operational, serving as armory, chow hall, and logistics and communication command center. The ship had been upgraded to provide protection from small arms and rifles. Even though the hull was rated to take large gunfire, Hayes figured the second or third to hit the same spot would punch a hole through her. Either way, the vessel was built to withstand serious punishment.

The outside was purely bait. The hull and decks were decorated in colorful designs, pennants streaming in the breeze, a Diver Below/SCUBA flag was up to show they were stationary. Pirates in Somali waters went out looking for an easy target, a pleasure craft worth plenty of cash with hostages. This made the first part of the team's job easy: Look harmless and draw raiders close. The tough part was when the shooting started. The team had to let the enemy ship, often armed to the teeth, get close enough for them to identify and sink. If they fired early, the pirates might run. If they waited too long, the pirates would shoot back. That was never good.

Now their first catch of the day was headed for the trap.

Martin bellowed out commands. "Ouza, you're on the rifle! Gunny, turn her around and run! Make your speed 25 knots! Hayes, get the 240 up and loaded!

Hayes descended the stairs to the small armory. He pulled the heavy machine gun from the locker and checked the safety. He looked in the ammo locker.

"Huh," he said.

He immediately headed back to the main deck.

"Sir, there is no ammunition in the gear locker."

Martin turned, surprised. "What?" he asked, eyes narrowing, "Are you fucking playing with me?"

Hayes shook his head. "We have AK-47s plus ammo but nothing heavier."

Martin cursed and headed down the stairwell to look. He came up moments later, red in the face and holding out an AK-47 for Hayes. Hayes snatched it from his hand and inserted a magazine.

"Sir!" the Gunny called from the top deck, "I count twelve men, rifles, and a B-40 rocket."

The three men on the lower deck instantly stopped. Ouza looked over his shoulder at Martin and Hayes, eyes wide. Martin chewed his lip. Hayes laughed, fighting the panic creeping up on him. "I wonder where they got a B-40," he said. Ouza looked at his rifle, now seemingly tiny and completely outmatched by the pirates' firepower. "We're fucked," he called out to no one in particular, "We can't take rocket hits from a rocket. Those things destroy entire buildings."

Martin lowered his voice, "Okay, we run ... Fuck ... We're fucked. Goddamn Keyes not getting that ammo onboard. I swear to God if we live I'm going to ... shit ... okay," He took a deep breath, raised his voice. "Gunny! Open her up! Full speed ahead! Ouza! Dump anything that might weigh us down!" He looked at Hayes. "Thoughts?" he asked.

Hayes shook his head, eyes closed.

"One click out and closing!" The Gunny called. "They'll be in range with those rockets in 90 seconds!"

"We can't outrun them. They have too much engine," Hayes said, "I got nothing. Ouza and I can start shooting when they're inside 800 meters but it'll be inaccurate. We're bouncing too much on the water."

"They're not looking to sink us outright," Martin said, "They want hostages and the boat. There's no money if they put us on the bottom of the ocean. If they get close enough we can blast away and surprise them in ambush."

"We don't have fishing poles and there aren't any women on board," Hayes said, shaking his head, "They'll have us figured out for a fake well before they get that close ... Ouza wouldn't look good in a bikini anyway."

The pirates proved Hayes right, opening up with rifle fire. They weren't within range yet but now they were out for blood, not hostages. Pops and tiny puffs of smoke came from the dhow, closing in on them.

"What's the saying?" Hayes asked, "The jig is up?"

Martin decided. "Ouza and Hayes, fire at will! Maybe we'll scare them enough to get away." He called up to the bridge, "Guns, want a rifle?"

The Gunny shook his head. "I'm steering the boat, sir," he said, one hand resting calmly on the helm.

Hayes popped in earplugs, wondering if it made any difference now. They were outmatched by an angry boat that was faster and could do much more damage. He suddenly wondered if this morning was his last sunrise. He sighted on the dhow, watching it grow bigger in his sights, before squeezing the trigger. He fired a few shots to settle in then shot more rapidly.

The firefight began in earnest now. The Gunny was right. There were at least a dozen pirates aboard the other vessel. They were all well-armed and muzzle flashes lit the boat like flashbulbs. Hayes heard the sharp cracking of the rifles meaning they had closed the distance. The pirates were now within range. Hayes took up a covered firing position behind the gunwale. Bullets pinged off the hull. The boat was turning away to give as little a profile as possible.

*BOOOOM*

The pirates fired a rocket and it hissed through the air straight at the ship. Whoever fired it knew how to aim. The Gunny screamed.

"INCOMING!"

Hayes closed his eyes, tensed for the explosion, readied himself for the pain.

Nothing.

He popped one eye open. Then the other. High above the petrel, its belly colored black, wheeled in the sky in slow motion. Hayes looked at Ouza, manning the rail, standing straight up and firing at the enemy despite the hail of bullets flying at him. Ouza was squeezing the trigger more slowly than he thought possible. Hayes watched as puff after puff of fire spat out of the muzzle and the bullets strolled out towards the dhow. He looked up and saw the Gunny moving as though pantomiming slow-motion, cranking on the helm, juking the ship away from the rocket.

Jasmine and spices floated on the air. Hayes breathed in the scent. His skin tingled and the hair on the back of his neck stood up.

She was here.

She floated 10 yards off portside, sitting five feet above the water, facing the ship. A wave was curling up, whitecapping beneath her body. Hayes could see every eddy and swirl of the water form, build, and fall away. The djinn's eyes, now honey-gold, were fixed on him. A grin, like oil on a hot pan, slid along her face. Her gaze held him captive. He could feel her taking him in like someone admiring a work of art at a museum.

The djinn glanced over her shoulder. The rocket, tipped with a large explosive, flew at them at a stately pace. The djinn snapped her slender, graceful fingers and the rocket fell into the ocean, disappearing with a splash. She extended a sinuous arm out toward the pirates' dhow and opened her hand palm-up. The dhow blossomed into a fireball, tongues of red, orange, and yellow consuming weapons and men. Black smoke mushroomed upward into the sky and muted screams filled the air.

The djinn turned back towards Hayes, her head lowered, her eyes peeking at him through long thick eyelashes. She straightened and raised her eyebrows high, asking a question.

Hayes nodded. "That is good. And thank you," he said. She smiled again, closed her eyes, and was no more.

Time came back up to speed.

"CEASE-FIRE, GODDAMMIT!" Martin was shouting. Ouza was screaming, holding the trigger down, ripping one long steady stream of bullets at the now-burning dhow.

"I'm bringing her about, sir!" the Gunny called from the bridge. He turned the helm. The wind came up and the reek of burning diesel, fire, and the unmistakable stench of human death drifted toward the men. Martin recorded the pirates' burning dhow on his camera as they drew close aboard.

"Pay day," the Gunny called down.

"What the fuck happened?" Ouza asked. No one answered.

Hayes was lost in his own thoughts as Martin documented the kills. They regularly celebrated with beer after a successful operation, each reliving his part of the experience. They traded notes and thoughts and planned improvements for next time. It was always a party and Hayes had never seen the other men reticent after an action. Until today.

Martin finished documenting their bounty and looked up at the Gunny. "Get us back," he ordered.

"Aye, aye, sir," Gunny replied and pointed the ship's bow south.

The men were silent the entire voyage home.

---------

She came to him that night.

Hayes snapped awake from a dreamless sleep. He felt instantly alert. The room was heavy, different. All was silent. There was no city noise, no chatter from communications office down the hall, no one moving within the compound. He rolled on his side to look at the clock on the nightstand. Its face glowed a red 23:32.

The bed shifted. She was with him. Hayes, still on his side, went to roll on his back. She placed her hand on his shoulder blade, stopping him. Her nails, painted the bright red of fire, traced the crossed-rifles tattoo on his shoulder. Her uncovered breasts pressed into his back, her skin impossibly soft. He looked down as a black hand, graceful and thin, lightly scratched his chest. Hayes tried moving again, rolling over, and was stopped. The djinn ran her fingertips up his body to his neck. She leaned her head close to his, nipped his earlobe with her teeth. Her skin was warm, like a glowing ember. Her body pressed harder against him. She felt firm and lean.