Present Day, Thursday, 10:13
The road snakes through caramel desert, from the rustic harbor to Aden’s only functioning hospital. The sun is yellow and white, shades of my headache.
Seatbelt-free, the driver pushes the three-ton 4x4 beast over 120 kph, challenging the second Land Cruiser with the rest of our medical team to keep up. Next to him is our welcoming committee: Yehia, a young Yemeni nurse with a fixer’s attitude. Michael, our team leader, clutches the grab handle above him and nervously peers at the speedometer. The driver glances at him in the rearview mirror and grins.
I’m gazing at the scattered sand outside my window when the car slows as it approaches a stone arch at the entrance to the city. A young, suntanned soldier is waving for us to stop.
He checks our papers as I take in the checkpoint’s walls studded with bullet holes like galaxies of black stars. Other soldiers are checking outgoing cars; one is smoking atop a pickup truck with a mounted heavy machine gun, while another is motionless behind a bulletproof barrier, waiting for the one moment in a million when his presence might be useful.
I inhale. The air is bitter, laced with diesel fumes and gunpowder. I wonder what the soldier behind the bulletproof barrier might be thinking of: home, money, love ...
“… Metallica!”
The first soldier is speaking to me.
“Excuse me?”
“You like Metallica? Music ... heavy metal?” He’s pointing at me as though I were covered in tats, singing “Nothing Else Matters” with a black electric guitar and a mane of hair that would do the eighties proud. Somehow, I feel closer to a lobotomized sloth.
I follow the trajectory of the soldier’s pointing finger. Duh. My Metallica T-shirt—the only clean one left after I packed two days ago in London. So much for my situational awareness. I’m tired after our long connections and the boat trip from Djibouti. My two morning oxycodone haven’t kicked in yet against the throbbing pain in my head and my fuzzy peripheral vision.
“Ah, yeah. Metallica. They’re cool,” I say, struggling to remember the last time I listened to them.
“Yes, the best! “Unforgiven” and “Devil’s Dance” ... Black Album rocks, man.”
“Indeed, indeed.” I nod sagely, with the wisdom of a Buddhist monk.
“So, you’re doctors, huh? Doctors who love Metallica.” He chuckles, pleased with his own wittiness.
Michael laughs more than the situation deserves. I purse my lips and shrug as if to say, “guilty as charged.” A small trail of cars is forming behind us. Good luck guessing the reason for the delay.
“You look Arab,” the soldier says.
“Yes, I’m originally from Egypt.”
He scrutinizes the name on my British passport: Luke Archer. “But your name is Western!”
I smile. “It’s a long story.”
He returns our passports and steps away from the window, a bit disappointed, probably assuming they’d lost another one to the other side. “OK, OK. You go now.”
Yehia tells the soldier that the next car is part of our convoy. He nods. Our white Land Cruiser stops about a hundred meters ahead, indicators flashing, waiting for its twin sister.
When the second car makes it through the checkpoint, we merge back onto the road. We haven’t yet picked up speed when the explosion hits.
The shockwave slams the seat against my back hard enough to empty my lungs. A deafening roar and a gust of hot wind, peppered with dust, envelops the car and rattles the windows.
I look back. The checkpoint is engulfed in a giant jellyfish cloud of gray smoke, drifting into the sky.
Michael whispers, almost inaudibly, “Sweet Jesus.”
The driver stops. He frowns at the flames devouring the checkpoint and the skeletons of the less-fortunate cars and shakes his head. Then puts the car back in gear and moves forward.
“Shouldn’t we … shouldn’t we go back?” I ask.
“We can’t go back,” Yehia says. “Those human bombs usually double tap. We’ll beat the injured to the hospital anyway.” He notices Michael’s paper-white face. “Don’t worry, suicide attacks are common these days. We call them appetizers.”
“I’m sure those soldiers no longer do,” I mutter.
Yehia catches my eye in the rear-view mirror. “Welcome to Yemen!”
