Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 13
As the dirty American war machine drove into the tiny town, people came out of their houses to watch them pass by.
“Go slow,” Frey cautioned. “Let’s not hit anyone.”
Soon they reached the turn, passing a handful of vendors and shops along the way, all with big bags of rice leaning out front and meat hanging from the windows.
“Hey!” Barsamian screamed down into the vehicle’s main compartment. “There isn’t a fucking bridge here, sir.”
“Stop here,” Frey yelled at Harris, who brought the HMMWV to a complete stop.
He grabbed his rifle and climbed out of the vehicle, throwing on his pistol belt for the first time this entire trip. The pair of extra magazines would hopefully not be needed, but they did no good in the truck. It felt strange to him to be equipped so lightly. When he had moved around cities in Iraq and Afghanistan, he had worn body armor, a helmet, and pounds more of gear as an American infantryman. Here, in arguably a more dangerous situation, he had a handful of magazines, a first aid kit, and a belt.
“Harris, Lopez, Ambassador Brown, you are with me,” Frey told them. “Barsamian, you climb down and guard the truck. Keep it running.”
Corporal Harris and Private Lopez sprung out of the truck. A crowd of locals gathering at a respectful distance watched as the men split up, eyeing the young American who was standing on the hood of the vehicle.
The small party walked around the corner, and their collective hearts sank: the bridge was gone. It had been there, once. Both ends of the river still boasted their abutments, and a pair of lonely piers stood in the middle of the river, but the rest of the bridge was missing.
“Where is the bridge, sir?” Frey asked Brown, not bothering to look back at him. The question was pointless. Wherever the bridge had gone, it was no longer here.
From behind the group, a loud cheerful voice rang out. “Hello! Yes, hello, my friends.”
The Americans turned to see a short, corpulent Zambian shuffling towards them. His knees barely lifted as he moved, which, considering the man’s girth, was more of a safety precaution than anything. Adorned in a maroon suit and a yellow shirt, he topped off his ensemble with a blue checkered tie.
“Yes!” the man yelled, walking up to the group. “You have come to help us with the bridge?”
Major Frey rubbed his eyes with his fingers as the man extended his hand, first to the ambassador, then to Frey. This was what Frey hated about Africa more than anything. More than the endless poverty, more than the malaise or the disease, even more than every animal seeming to want to kill you, it was this: men who pretended to want to make things better. It was a sickness that had always infested Africa. Frey could smell it on this man.
“My name is Levi Sata. I manage the school and some businesses in the area. I am… like a mayor.” The man puffed up his chest at the last word. His English was as good as any Zambian’s, but what did it matter? Frey needed a bridge to be here, and it wasn’t. It was time to move on to Plan B.
Ambassador Brown had other plans. “What happened here, Mr. Sata?” he said, crossing his chest as if pondering the many ways a poorly built bridge could collapse in the middle of nowhere.
“The floods came and washed away some of the pieces in the middle. We continued to use it, but it became worse and worse.” Sata shook his head. “We tried to have engineers come from the capital, but no one ever did.”
“Well, the United States has been paying money for years to maintain this bridge,” Ambassador Brown replied, seemingly incredulous that this could happen here of all places.
Behind Sata, the crowd gathered around the parked HMMWV was beginning to get closer and closer. Whether it was innocent curiosity that pulled them in or something more nefarious, Frey could not tell. Looking over at Corporal Harris, he got the Marine’s attention, then nodded towards Lopez and the HMMWV Barsamian was guarding alone.
Harris nodded, grabbing Lopez by the arm. The two Marines headed over to keep their friend company.
“I am certainly not to blame!” Sata cried out, eager to defend himself from the accusation. And from behind the brightly dressed Zambian, in the doorways of the buildings across the street, armed men appeared—every one looking their way.
Frey’s hand flexed around the pistol grip of the rifle hanging across his chest. He counted the men he could see, and in what order he would engage them if he had to. It was an old habit, one borne of time being surrounded by people you might have to kill. The only question was when.
“The problem is the central government,” Sata said, his voice rising, a hint of betrayal in his tone. “They never give us the resources we need.”
“Mr. Sata, I want you to know that I am the—” Ambassador Brown started, but was cut off by Major Frey.
“We are here surveying the river to see where we can rebuild the bridge.”
The two Americans paused, waiting for the Zambian’s reaction. His yellow eyes pondered that.
“Is this possible? I have been told that there was a communication problem with Europe and America.”
“Of course, but it was all fixed. Just a bad satellite. Who knows how this technology goes?” Frey’s palm sweated on his rifle and his heartbeat accelerated. He tried his best to force it to slow, but could not.
“We hear the most wild rumors here, of course, but are you alone?” he asked. “It is very dangerous to drive around this part of the country alone, you know.”
Ambassador Brown started to speak, but was again cut off by Frey.
“We are one of a handful of teams,” he said, looking at Sata, but glancing behind the man to both the men in the doorways and the crowd around the HMMWV. “Each has a military and a low-level embassy worker.” Frey gestured towards Ambassador Brown at this last part. “If we hadn’t reestablished contact with the United States, I doubt we would be out here surveying a bridge.”
Frey exhaled slowly, trying to remain calm.
“We are a joint operation between the US embassy and the Zambian Army. It is a training opportunity for our soldiers and the 10th Artillery Regiment to work together.”
The man’s wide and friendly eyes suddenly turned cold and focused, betraying the recognition Frey was hoping for. While the Zambian Army as a whole was a semiprofessional force with Cold War–era hand-me-downs, the same could not be said for the artillery branch. They were the first unit to side with the current president during his rise to power, and their loyalty had been rewarded with brand-new Israeli-made cannons. The 10th was an extension of the president. If they were supporting this mission, it meant the president wanted it done, and woe to the man who stood in his way.
Sata’s eyes narrowed. “But where are they?”
“We are an advanced group. We wanted to make sure everything was set up. There are even rumors the president might bring some media.”
“If the president comes, certainly he will bring the American ambassador,” Sata said, looking directly at Ambassador Brown.
His look was purposeful, but filled with guile, and Frey couldn’t take any chances.
“We certainly will. It will do the ambassador good to get out of Lusaka and see the real Africa, but we will need many more soldiers than us.”
Sata straightened at this last part, his back rigid. “Well, why don’t you stay with us? You can be our guests.”
“I’m afraid we are not prepared for that. We shall return tomorrow, and we will bring the people who really make the decisions on the money.”
Sata’s eyes glistened again, he rubbed his hands together without even the slightest pretense to hide his greed.
Ambassador Brown, at last understanding the Kabuki occurring in front of his eyes, finally chimed in. “We unfortunately do not have a radio, and if we do not report back, they will come looking for us.”
Sata nodded. “Well, I look forward to your return.”
“And I too, Mr. Sata,” the ambassador replied, extending his long arm and taking Sata’s outstretched hand.
The pair departed, Frey trying not to make a big deal of the armed men behind Sata, but never letting them move any closer. The crowd around the HMMWV parted enough for them to slip through, but not enough to give any of the men a feeling of comfort.
“Combat-lock your doors and let’s get the fuck out of here,” Frey under-toned and they all climbed into the gun truck. As they pulled away, he looked out the window and saw Sata talking into a phone. He knew they had to hurry.
The drive didn’t take long, but the sun had vanished behind the horizon by the time they pulled back into the convoy. A brilliant tapestry of the stars was strewn across the sky above them. The vehicles were pulled off to the side of the road, and Frey could see they had started to make a camp for the night. Little fires had sprung up, and Gunnery Sergeant Harmon had sentries posted.
Corporal Harris slowed, and then parked at the head of the long line, as the command team, consisting now of just Lieutenant Betz, Sergeant Major Sweeney, and Gunnery Sergeant Harmon, walked up. Frey had barely stepped out of the vehicle when Lieutenant Betz gave him a hurried greeting.
“Welcome back, sir. Good news?”
“No, bad news. Sergeant Major, can you get the other vehicle commanders up here? And grab that USAID kid, Preston. I want everyone to hear this from me.”
The group passed a worried look. This was not a good omen, coming from the major who liked to keep his circle small.
Frey waited for the two National Guard sergeants and the Marine corporal responsible for three of their four LMTVs to come up. He could see Amanda leaning against one of the LMTVs, watching and listening as the team assembled. Her bright green eyes flickered in what little light remained. From the inside of the HMMWV, Corporal Harris pulled out a small work light and hung it from the truck to illuminate the map the major was laying out over the hood.
“Everyone’s here, sir,” Sergeant Major Sweeney reported.
Frey wasted no time. The news he was about to impart would make no one in the convoy happy, and it wasn’t going to get better with age.
“Listen up. The bridge is gone. The river is too rocky here to ford, and it is too deep downstream. We have to go around.”
“Around?” Lieutenant Betz said. He alone possessed the rank that gave him the confidence to ask the question and the inexperience to overlook timing.
Frey continued, not acknowledging the question.
“Our only hope now is to go back to Chembe.” He pointed at the map, as every head huddled closer to the piece of paper. “We will go back across the Pedicle, come north on the N3, and then get on the N5 from there.”
Silence reigned as the group tried to digest what the major was telling them.
“How long will that take?” Sergeant Major Sweeney was the first to break the silence. That he had left off his customary “sir” was a sign of how rattled he was.
“It will take us about ten hours to get south and then back north, until we are across the river. About half of that will be in Katanga.”
The group looked nervously at one another. Katanga was a region of the Congo that had been fighting a low-level insurgency against the central government since the 1960s.
“Once we get back to the N5, we will be able to move quickly, and we will be back on track. It is a day’s detour,” Frey told the group. “But we are leaving within the hour.”
The news broke the group’s fragile discipline, and questions started to pour in. The loudest was Sergeant Major Sweeney, with the very logical question of why they were moving tonight and not when the sun came up. Frey put his hand up to silence the group, and turned towards the ambassador. He studied the politician’s lean, dark face, wondering what kind of man he was.
Looking sheepish, the ambassador told the group, “I may have let it slip who I was in the town.” Frey was silent at the ambassador’s confession. Ambassador Brown may have been a political appointee who bought a post with campaign contributions, but for the first time, Frey considered the possibility that the man had character and integrity too.
Frey continued for him, connecting the dots for those who couldn’t. “If they know, or even suspect we are out here alone they will come looking, just to check. If they find us here, it is over. We need to be gone within the hour. We can pick a spot down the road, everyone can get some sleep in their vehicles, and we can continue at sunup when it is safer to drive.”
Gunnery Sergeant Harmon was flexing his hand, and rocking slowly back and forth. Frey could see the man’s discipline fighting his anger, and Frey knew what that anger was. He felt it too.
“As an added benefit, going through Lubumbashi, we will be able to refuel and reload on water,” he said, raising his tone, hoping the optimism rubbed off. By their original plan, they should be nearing arrival in Rwanda by now. Instead, they still hadn’t made it out of Zambia. They had the food and ammunition they needed, but their water, and more importantly their fuel, was getting desperately low.
“Sir, there is one more thing,” Bagley, the lead corpsman, spoke up from just behind the tight-knit row of worried leaders.
“What is it, Corpsman?” Sergeant Major Sweeney interjected. Rarely did a man of Bagley’s rank talk directly to a major, even in these circumstances, and by the book, casualties were a sergeant major’s responsibility.
“Oh, sorry, Sergeant Major,” Bagley muttered. He was fine under pressure with casualties, but talking to this assembled group of people whose ranks were light-years beyond his turned him into a ball of nerves.
“It’s fine, Corpsman, out with it.”
“Well, Major Frey’s wife, I mean, Missus—well, Doctor…” the young man stumbled over the words, trying to find the best way to refer to Dr. Amanda Frey.
“I make that mistake all the time too, sailor. What does my wife have to say?” Major Frey asked. He was itchy, and knew they needed to get moving.
“She said that the chest tube and jar attached to Davis is okay for now, but she needs a more permanent solution soon.”
“What did she suggest?” Frey asked.
“She needs a chest seal and some better tubing. And some antibiotics. If we are going to Lubumbashi, maybe it’s possible we can get some of that there?”
“If he doesn’t get it, what happens?” Sergeant Major Sweeney asked. It was a good question. Stopping anywhere was a risk; they needed to know the payoff of that risk.
“She said he probably won’t make it,” came the young corpsman’s reply.
“Major Frey,” Ambassador Brown replied, finding his voice again. “I know the hospital in Lubumbashi. We did an exchange at the embassy with some doctors from here. It is possible we can get the supplies we need from them.”
Frey pondered this. It would slow them down, and stopping at a large location like a hospital was a guaranteed way to be spotted at least, and delayed at worst. It was a gamble, but he wasn’t about to let a wounded man die a painful death needlessly.
“Alright, when we get closer, we will coordinate on the map where we’ll need to stop. It has to be fast, or we run the risk of getting stuck there.”
The ambassador’s face flooded with relief. Frey knew Davis was one of his people. The ambassador had interviewed the young man when he had applied for the position, and had grown somewhat fond of the bright young man.
“Sergeant Major, are we all fueled?” Frey asked, moving the group along.
“Yes, sir, everyone is topped off but you.”
“Harris, what are we at?” Frey called out to the Marine who was still hanging out near the truck.
“Just above a quarter, sir,” came the voice from the dark. Corporal Harris didn’t need to look. He knew the status of his vehicle at all times.
“Alright, we will roll with that and fuel up when we stop for the night. Sergeant Major, I want everyone packed up and ready to go within the next ten minutes. Get everything back in the trucks; it doesn’t have to be all tied down and squared away, just get it in. Leave the fires burning, and when we pull out, headlights off. We will do a simultaneous engine start up to hide our numbers, and we are out of here. Alright, let’s get to work.”
The group broke up. Frey watched Harmon pause, the internal conflict coming to one last battle inside the man.
“Take a walk with me, Gunny.” Frey motioned away from the truck. He saw Amanda still standing there, and raised one finger in her direction. He would be with her in a minute.
The gunnery sergeant and the major walked a few feet from the vehicles, and into the blackness.
“Out with it, Gunny, we don’t have time, so just get it out.”
The Marine paused, assessing the officer. This type of invitation was not common in the Marine Corps. Harmon studied Frey’s chest and shoulders. The Army allowed its men to sew their badges into their field uniforms, and from the three on Frey’s chest, plus the additional ones on his shoulders, he knew this major at least wasn’t one to wilt when the road got hard. The patch on Frey’s right shoulder, where soldiers wore the patch of the units they went to war with, was a green shield emblazoned with a large, red number one. The gunnery sergeant didn’t know much about Army units, but he recognized the 1st Infantry Division. It was enough for him to determine this major was a man who was asking for input earnestly.
“Tomorrow will be a full day since we detached Truck One. Another day on a route we didn’t pre-plan. What is your plan for them to find us?” Harmon queried. It had been bubbling inside him since they had taken this route and not driven directly into the Congo.
“John will find us. We are going to end up where we had discussed. He will find us,” Frey told him.
“How can you know that?” He stepped closer, not to threaten the major who, at nearly six and a half feet tall and built like an NFL tight end, would not be threatened by the Marine half his size, but rather to ensure that no one else heard the discussion.
“I know,” was the only answer Frey gave.
“Look, I know you and John don’t get along, I get it. But he has one of my Marines with him. We are leaving those men out there on their own.”
