❗Hold up… this is Chapter 2.
Unless you’re the kind of thrill-seeker who reads the last page of a mystery first (you monster), you might want to backtrack.
👉 [Click here to start at Chapter 1] — where the real madness begins.
Otherwise, carry on… but don’t say I didn’t warn you when things stop making sense and someone you’ve never met suddenly dies.
Written by Thomas Mai
© Copyright held by Thomas Mai
Chapter 2 – Welcome To Somalia, Mr President
As James began to regain consciousness, the first thing he felt was pain, followed closely by an overpowering smell. His head was hurting, but it was the stench of jet fuel, burning debris, human flesh, and thick smoke that made him want to vomit.
James’s world was sideways, gravity pulling at him in a cruel joke—he hung, suspended in his seatbelt. Panic flared within his chest, but he quashed it, releasing the buckle, and landed tilted inside what was left of the cabin. He started to cough.
“Mr. President?” A voice cut through the smoke, strained but steady. Captain Rachel Kim, her medic’s bag clutched tightly, crawled from the wreckage, her uniform stained with soot and blood.
Captain Rachel Kim descended from South Korean parents who emigrated to the US after the Korean War. Kim was in her mid-40s and had a graceful and elegant demeanor. She was of petite stature with a slender frame. Her hair was styled conservatively, in a neat bun. Her complexion was fair, with clear and smooth skin. She was married and had a nine-year-old daughter.
Despite facing financial limitations, Kim was determined to fulfill her dream of becoming a doctor. However, after graduating high school, she joined the US Army instead. Through this route, she was able to attend the Uniformed Services University and complete her training as a doctor for the military.
Kim, the President’s Private Physician, quickly assessed James for any wounds. “Fortunately, Mr. President, you have only minor injuries from the seat belt and some smoke exposure. My priority is getting you out of this plane immediately.”
James’s mind was clouded as he muttered Rachel’s name. He quickly took in the situation: there were still fires burning and the plane was filled with thick smoke. Sadly, James saw that a lot of the passengers on the plane were unmoving, their bodies burned beyond recognition in a tragedy that would be remembered for generations to come. The few survivors were injured and struggling to breathe, their moans ringing through the wreckage like a haunting melody.
Regardless of the physician’s pleas, James adamantly refused to leave the plane and insisted on helping the other passengers. The physician urged the president to step outside for a quicker recovery, but James stood by his decision to assist others first. Kim handed James a face mask.
Together they began the somber task of freeing the remaining survivors from the twisted remnants of the cabin. Three members of the security detail, dazed but alive, started to help the rest of the injured passengers. The combination of passengers’ moans and the flickering flames only added to the urgency of the situation.
“John!” The name tore from James’s throat as he spotted his Chief of Staff, John Parker. A tree branch had pierced through the plane and impaled John leaving agony across his face. James dropped to his knees, hands trembling as they hovered over Parker, unsure where to start. “Hold on, John. We’re going to get you out of this.
Parker attempted to greet the President with his usual sarcastic humor. Parker grabbed James’s wrist tightly. “Welcome to Somalia, Mr. President, I hope you had a pleasant flight,” he managed to say with a strained smile.
“Save your strength,” James interrupted, eyes scanning for something, anything to help extricate his friend. “Rachel, can you—”
“Already on it,” she interrupted, her hands moving with practiced precision as she administered first aid to John Parker.
“Stay with me, John,” James said, gripping Parker’s hand firmly, “We’re going to get through this.”
Then gunfire erupted, the sound eerie, foreign, and out of place amid the chaos. James was bewildered—why would there be gunfire?
“Sir, we have to move!” Baxter’s voice sliced through the din, his eyes scanning the horizon beyond the wreckage. “They’re coming for us.”
James looked down at Parker, the man who had steered him through the turbulent waters of politics, who now lay broken amidst the debris. A mentor, a friend—more than that, family. The Chief of Staff’s gaze met his, imparting a silent plea.
“Go, James…” Parker whispered, his voice thinned by pain.
“Baxter, we can’t just—” James began, but Parker cut him off.
“Remember your oath, Mr. President: to serve and protect the people of America,” Parker reminded him, pain etched across his face. “You must survive Somalia—not just for yourself, but for all of us. You have to live to fight another day”. His expression turned grave as he spoke. “Air Force One does not simply explode and catch fire, forcing it to crash without reason. Someone, somewhere is responsible…”
With a deep sadness in his voice, James said. “Can’t leave you here, I feel like I am betraying you” he protested,
“Dammit, James, listen!” Parker’s eyes, usually calm and commanding, now flickered with the urgency of a dying flame. “Survive, lead. and fulfill your promises…..and get those responsible for this”
Baxter’s hand pushed James away. “Mr. President, we need to move. Now!”
With a final glance at John Parker, James rose. His pajamas were stained with blood and dirt. He turned to Baxter, nodding with grim acceptance.
James carefully navigated through the smoky, flaming ruins, his eyes scanning for anything useful. He spotted a satellite phone and a GPS device, then quickly grabbed a small first aid kit, a flashlight, and a compact survival knife. After stuffing everything into a backpack, he added a few water bottles and some sandwiches.
“Let’s move!” Baxter barked, cover fire echoing in the air. They needed to disappear into the Somali landscape before they were overrun.
It was hot and humid and the African sun was burning from a cloudless blue sky. James Harrington’s breaths came in sharp bursts as he and Baxter sprinted from the smoldering skeleton of Air Force One.
“Contact left!” Baxter shouted, his voice slicing through the morning air.
Two armed Somali militia members stepped out from behind the flames of the engulfed Air Force One. Their expressions of shock quickly turned to surprise as they saw the President of the United States approaching them in pajamas. They each carried an AK-47.
At 14 years old, Mohamed Ibrahim was one of the militiamen. He had never received a formal education and instead spent his childhood herding goats alongside his father. Tragically, their entire herd recently perished due to a respiratory illness, leaving the family without any source of income.
Yusuf Ibrahim, the father of Mohamed, had no choice but to join forces with the local warlord to provide for his family and protect them. He had to bring his son along as well, as it was their only option for financial stability. If they could capture the President of the United States, they would be able to secure their family’s future and allow them to build a new home and be set for generations.
Baxter’s movements were swift and deadly as he took out the 14-year-old with a shot from his sidearm. The boy’s father, witnessing his son’s death, screamed in anguish and aimed his Ak-47 at James. Reacting quickly, James leaped on top of the man to disarm him. But the father was a force to be reckoned with, fueled by rage and driven by a primal desire to cause harm and destruction.
During the fight, the satellite phone crashed to the ground and was stepped upon. A sickening crunch, and it was reduced to nothing more than plastic shards and broken dreams. James’s heart sank as he saw the broken phone. James took his eyes off the father, who aimed the rifle at him.
“Sir, watch out!” Baxter’s warning came just in time. Baxter lunged forward, interposing himself between the president and the flash of gunpowder. The report of a gun punctuated the air, and Baxter stumbled backward, a bloom of red spreading across his chest.
“Baxter!” James yelled, his voice hoarse with panic. He couldn’t lose another comrade, not now. With a surge of adrenaline-fueled strength, he overpowered the father, his survival knife finding its mark in the neck of the father. The father was dead before the body hit the ground.
James rushed to Baxter’s side. “Stay alive, Mr. President,” Baxter rasped, the fight draining from his eyes even as he clutched his weapon, determined to guard James until his last breath. “Move, sir. You have to move, they are on their way, I will keep them as long as I can.”
Exchanging his blood-stained pajamas for the garb of the fallen enemy and securing the AK-47, James cast a final glance at Baxter, who nodded weakly. The makeshift disguise felt foreign against James’s skin, but it was a necessary deception in this land.
James reached the relative cover of the trees, his chest heaving with exertion and fear. James crouched among the shadows. He knew he must keep moving, stay one step ahead of the chaos nipping at his heels, but for a moment—a fleeting, precious moment—he allowed himself the luxury of catching his breath.
“Jocelyn,” he whispered, her name a talisman against the darkness. He was alone, he was on his own.
In the distance, James could hear Baxter screaming to draw their attention. Gunfire erupted again with a distinct crackle, punctuating the screams that filled the air. The wounded and dying cried out in terror, creating a symphony of despair that pierced James’ soul. He gritted his teeth and dug his fingers into the damp soil beneath him. “Parker, Baxter, Rachel, and everyone else… I swear to discover who is responsible for this, and I will ensure that you all receive your revenge. I swear this before God almighty. I swear it.”
The roar of approaching car engines snapped James back to the immediate threat. His hand instinctively reached for the AK-47 at his side, its handle cold and reassuring. Sweat beaded at his temple from the hot African temperature.
James continued his journey toward the mountains, the sound of car engines and unfamiliar voices shouting in Somali growing louder as he ran..
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Edit Updates
9 May 2024 Edit: Version 2.0 –
Major update to grammar, tense, and spelling mistakes contributed by Monica Liebenow.
14 May 2024 Edit: Version 2.1 –
Minor update to grammar, indent, and spaces contributed by Monica & Erin Liebenow.
Thank you, Monica & Erin!
19 June 2024
another proofread version, hopefully in the past tense and with dialogue in italics. If you spot any mistakes, please use the comment section below
4 July 2024 Version 3.0
This is the new chapter 2 titled Welcome to Somalia Mr. President. The chapter Barbarians At The Plane will now be chapter 3. I cut out a lot of the background stories of each character and focused on making the chapter more edge-of-your-seat kind of read, starting and ending with a cliffhanger.
29 August 2024 Version 3.1
Small edits to grammar, style and flow of the story.