Born of War by Anderson Harp Page B

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.
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    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.
    â€œDamn!” 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.
    â€œWhere is Hernandez?”
    â€œThe one with security?”
    â€œI need to see his friend.”

C HAPTER N INETEEN
    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.
    What have I done?
    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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œSo 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.
    Soon, some will be meant for me.
    Omar was excited about joining the fight. This was the war that his uncle fought. And now Omar was becoming a soldier for Allah.
    Some day, the Banu Najjar will be speaking of me.
    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