Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 14
The gunnery sergeant’s point was a valid one, but irrelevant. If they couldn’t get the convoy to where it needed to be, there would be a lot more than three men missing.
“Why don’t we just turn around and head north now?”
“It is too late now. No matter what happened with the diversion, if we go back north, we might run into the Russians coming back from the border. Our only chance now is to add some time. And we can’t stay here.”
The gunny shook his head, making no effort to hide his dislike for Major Frey’s decision.
“I am responsible for that Marine.” His last attempt to appeal to Frey’s understanding of the burden of command, but Frey had seen it coming.
“And I’m responsible for you, Gunny, and for every single person in this convoy. Lance Corporal Jackson is a Marine and in case you have forgotten, we are at war. He is a Marine who took a dangerous mission, and who we are not leaving behind, but if we have to so we make sure everyone else survives, we will. And if you have taught him anything about being a Marine at all, which I’m sure you did, he would say the same thing.”
Harmon nodded towards the major, knowing he was beaten. “Yes, sir,” he said, returning the relationship back to the professional with his inclusion of “sir.”
“Let’s get this done, Gunny. The faster we are moving, the better off we are.”
The gunny nodded and moved back towards the convoy. Frey knew the man’s heart was in the right place, but rifts in the command were not what they needed, now or ever. It would have to be watched. He had only worked with this man for a handful of weeks. He seemed like a professional who could be counted on, but pressure and time had ways of changing men. Especially here, in the heart of Africa, a lifetime away from every structure that tied western civilization together for centuries. Frey knew Africa could change men in ways you could never predict. It could bewitch the faithful or turn a saint into a monster as it always had since the first European landed on her shores.
From the darkness, Amanda walked up to her husband.
“Done being a soldier for a minute?”
Alex snapped out of his thoughts and looked back at his wife. “Yeah, I’m sorry I didn’t come see you before we left.”
“At least you came back,” she replied. Alex hadn’t seen his wife for longer than fifteen minutes since before they had run into the Russians. There had been no stopping her once they had reached the makeshift hospital and she had learned of the casualties. She had done what she had always done, jumped right into healing someone else’s wounds.
Alex too had done what he could. Oversaw the security and taken a few of the Marines on some more aggressive patrols to make sure no one was lingering around. James and Ella had spent the time with the ambassador’s boys, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Black and some of the embassy staff.
“Why didn’t you tell me, back when we ran into the Russians, that we had injured?” Amanda asked, looking at her husband’s face which was still visible in the glow of the fires behind her.
“It didn’t matter, we needed to get moving,” Alex told her. It was true, but it was only part of the truth.
“I could have helped stabilize him,” Amanda told him, pressing the issue. “I am here, let me help.”
“You are here, with the kids, and nothing is more important,” Alex answered. It was closer to the truth. The truth was he wanted to protect them, to shield them from this world.
But he knew it was folly. He knew the arrogance of his thoughts. She was a doctor; she had worked in the emergency department at a level one trauma center for years before shifting to something more stable.
He knew his wife had seen more blood and death in a year than he had in his lifetime, but still. It was his duty to protect her.
“Next time, I’m helping,” she said. It was not a question.
“Yes, ma’am,” Alex replied, putting his arm around his wife. “We are going to get through this.”
“I know,” she replied, “but I think James may be driving Sergeant Black crazy with his questions.”
Alex laughed. His son had a more inquisitive mind than any human he had ever met, and his persistence could put even the best SERE interrogator to shame.
“We’ll see you when we stop? Ella could use your voices for her school bus book.”
“Sure,” Alex said, squeezing her again. Ella was fascinated by the giant yellow school buses, and apparently only her dad was qualified to do the myriad of voices the book demanded.
“What did Harmon want?” she asked.
“He thinks I’m abandoning Truck One and his Marine with it.”
“His Marine, or does he miss having you-know-who around?” Amanda asked.
“A little bit of both, like everyone else,” Frey answered. Despite his attempt to stifle it, his voice betrayed a hint of a long hidden pain. He reached into his pocket. The chain and its attached medal was still there and its cold metal gave him a modicum of comfort.
“Everyone thinks you two hate each other, you know. I heard one of the Marines joking you sent him off so he would get eaten by some cannibals.”
“He is the one that didn’t want to tell anyone, and he is the one making us call him John,” Alex replied. “Speaking of, how are the kids doing with it?”
“Ella called him Uncle James once. Sergeant Black heard, but he didn’t say anything. It isn’t like they’ve seen him that much in their lives, you know.”
Frey sighed. As if there wasn’t enough on his mind with World War III breaking out, he also had to manage this.
“You are going to have to forgive him, you know,” Amanda told her husband.
“Sir, we are ready to roll,” Corporal Harris’s voice called through the night, interrupting Frey’s response.
“Alright, soldier, enough of your emo time,” Amanda said, locking her eyes on her husband’s. She leaned up on her toes and kissed him, and then headed back to the trucks.
John leaned his head against the glass, trying to find a single moment of rest as the armored vehicle rattled down the road. Patrick was back behind the wheel, having been relieved for a few hours during the night by Lance Corporal Jackson. John’s heavy eyes closed for a moment, and his consciousness drifted away. He could no longer tell which images were dreams and which were memories; all night they had been one and the same. While the face of the young Russian did not visit him, the man’s words did. The noise of the truck’s engine faded and he was back in the tiny room again.
“Why are you alive, Dmitri?” he asked in Russian, his tone calm and comforting. He wasn’t angry at Dmitri, and as far as the young man knew, John could save him. He had found him among the dead at the intersection. Something had not sat well with him since they had encountered the Russian patrol, something he could not put his finger on. Whatever answers this young man held inside of him, John was determined to learn.
“I… I won’t die… here,” Dmitri whispered, his head drooping forward as if the energy required to keep it upright was needed elsewhere.
John smiled and reached out, tilting the man’s head upright.
“Yes, Dmitri, you will, unless I help you. Do you understand me? Nod if you do.”
A single nod had come, out of desperation as much as compliance. John could see the eyes in front of him wince in pain with the strain of the effort.
“Listen to me, Dmitri, I am the one person here who cares if you live or die. Even your own company left you behind to die. Blink if you understand.”
The man blinked, relieved he didn’t have to move his entire head again. John fed him some water. Dmitri, despite not having had any in hours, gagged it up. Dying was thirsty work, and John could see that Dmitri’s system would not help the young man die in any comfort.
“That’s okay, Dmitri, we can fix that,” John said, patting the man on the shoulder.
“I don’t—want to die, not here. ” Dmitri’s eyes welling with tears as he spat out each phrase. “Not here, not now. I have a fiancé.”
“We won’t let you die, I promise you. We are going to take care of you. You are one of us now, and you know what they always say in movies, Americans never leave a man behind, right?”
Dmitri blinked, a tear running down his cheek.
John cracked a red chem light, so they could see each other’s faces in the looming darkness.
“How old are you, Dmitri?”
“Twenty-five,” the wounded man gasped.
“What is your rank?”
“I am sergeant major.”
John laughed, thinking of the differences between this young man and the older sergeant major with the convoy. But this was the Russian way. Their lack of a professional NCO corps had always kept them from being a truly professional army.
“What were you arrested for before you came here?”
“Robbery,” he confessed.
John nodded. So many of these Russian private military types had been convicts, sent to Africa in lieu of prison. “Even if you make it back to Russia, they are just going to send you back here. Blink if you understand that, Dmitri.”
The man blinked again.
John hated the meaningless questions, they were a waste of time, but even he recognized they were important. He needed Dmitri to be used to answering his questions, and also to remind him that John was the only thing that would decide if Dmitri lived or died. Even answering the most harmless questions would prepare Dmitri for what was coming next.
“Why are you in Zambia?”
Dmitri did not respond.
“Why are you in Zambia?” John repeated, his tone unchanged.
“We are at war,” the man claimed.
“Why are you in Zambia?”
“We are at…” he started, but never finished the sentence. John had had enough, and jammed the chem light in his hand into the man’s wound. He pushed past the first layer of muscle until he found the man’s saphenous nerve, and pressed harder, digging the sharp end of the plastic light into the nerve cluster.
Puss and blood oozed out around the chem light, and John was careful not to let any get on him. He pulled the chem light out of Dmitri’s leg and wrapped his arms around the boy.
“Shhh, shhhh, Dmitri, it’s okay, it’s okay, come here—” John wrapped his arm around the man, embracing him. “It’s all over now, relax, it doesn’t have to hurt again.”
The man sobbed.
“Dmitri, why are you lying to me?” John sat back an inch, putting his hand behind the man’s head. “Why are you making me do this? I am the only one who wants to save you. Your own men, these Americans behind me, they would just let you die. But I want to save you, Dmitri. You remind me of my little brother.”
But the man didn’t answer. Tears streamed down his dirt-streaked face.
“Who do you love, Dmitri?” John asked quietly.
“My mother,” he whispered, sobbing.
“What is her name, Dmitri?”
“Lidiya.”
“Where does she live, Dmitri?”
“Kursk.”
“Do you want to see her, to eat her cooking again? Is her borscht good?”
Dmitri blinked quickly, then nodded. This was it. Whether Dmitri’s logic knew he was about to die here was irrelevant. The brain could convince a man in shock that anything was possible. John was counting on Dmitri wanting to see home, his mother, his fiancé again badly enough to betray his own comrades. John had done all he could. He had isolated him from them, promised to help, dug up all of the young sergeant major’s good memories, and even inflicted some pain to keep him focused. Now was the time for it to pay off.
“Why are you in Zambia, Dmitri?”
“He… the colonel… is… the Americans…”
John reached forward and straightened the man’s drooping head. Dmitri’s eyes glossed; he was losing focus. John waved the chem light in front of his face, getting the last bit of life and attention the man had in him. Time was getting short.
“Why does the colonel care about the Americans, Dmitri?” he asked, brushing the tear from the man’s face.
The man nodded quickly, and whispered, “His… his brother… in Iraq.”
“That makes no sense, Dmitri, we are in Zambia.”
Dmitri shook his head. “The colonel, from Grozny… His brother, Iraq, killed by Americans.”
“So he wants revenge?”
John sat back. No, that can’t be it. It is too far, and too dangerous, and they are abandoning too much to try to intercept some random Americans in the middle of Africa. Besides, there are Americans in the Congo. The colonel could just hunt them.
John put his hand on the man’s wounded leg again, inches from the wound.
“No, no, I… swear, please,” Dmitri pleaded, tears running unchecked down his face now.
“That doesn’t make sense for him to abandon the mine to chase some random Americans. How did he even know where we would be?”
Dmitri shook his head again. Not so that John wouldn’t touch him, but because John was wrong. “Not random. One American. Their leader,” he whispered, his eyes closing.
“What American?”
“He… he gave us name, in case…” Dmitri whispered, his eyes closed now.
“He is here trying to kill the man who killed his brother, and he told you who it was?”
“Whisper his name into my ear,” John commanded. His comforting hand still on the wounded man’s shoulder as he leaned in close.
“Alex Frey,” the voice whispered. It was the last thing Dmitri would ever say.
A bump in the dark road woke John from his dream, and his troubled mind picked up where it had left off.
Alex Frey, Dmitri had said. Alex. Frey.
The realization that the encounter with the Russians was not coincidence had not bothered him nearly as much as what would happen if that information got back to Alex.
He knew without question what Alex would do. He would separate himself from the convoy, and try and solve the problem on his own. He would view it as his responsibility, to save as many lives as possible, and in the end, he would probably end up getting everyone in the convoy killed, because without him, the convoy would be without the type of leader they needed to get to any sort of safety. The convoy would fall victim to the Russians, and if not them, then the local African warlords or even Africa itself would have their chance at the leaderless convoy. They didn’t stand a chance without Alex.
John ran through the possible future in his head. The Russians could have given up: unlikely given what he had learned. Few cultures on earth held grudges as well as the Russians. He knew the Russian colonel was a deliberate and brutal man. The ruse would work until the border crossing, and then it would be up. The faster Russians would make their way west and try to cut the American convoy off.
The first place they would try was Pweto, a crossroads on the Congo-Zambia border. If he could get there ahead of both the convoy and the Russians, he had a chance to ambush the ambusher.
The sun was starting to rise as the lone American vehicle reached the end of the road. The vehicle came groaning and squeaking to a sudden stop as the last semblance of civilized road ended, and the Luvua River began. It flowed from its source here at the western edge of Lake Mweru north until it merged with the larger and more infamous Congo River which snaked through the darkest part of the continent like a watery highway. It was down the Luvua the English explorer Lord Henry Stanley had famously traversed in the 19th century.
He had been the first European to prove that the central African rivers connected not to the Nile, but to the Congo and the Atlantic. The Englishman had floated his boats up the Luvua before following the long bends of the Congo River all the way to the Atlantic Ocean, beset by the perils of nature on one side and men on the other.
The river here was in its infancy. Cutting north from the massive Lake Mweru, it formed the northern arm of a protective shield that had helped guard Zambia from the dangers of the Congo for decades. South of the great lake, the wide and marshy Luapula River did the same.
Here the slowly flowing river cut across the national road, and a small village of thatched huts supported the only way to connect the two halves of the road. A small ferry, made up of nothing but wood planks and a hasty ramp, all kept dry by three tiny boats on which the planks rested. The boats were a cross between a Jon Boat and a large canoe, propelled by a single Yamaha outboard motor, and a prima facie look would lead one to believe that it would take a minor miracle to support any type of car. But the boats had ferried traffic across the mouth of the Luvua River for decades here south of the city of Pweto, and perhaps it was the optimistic inclusion of a pair of guard rails along the ferry’s side, or the appropriate sacrifices made to the river gods, but it had been years since the ferry here at Pweto had seen someone fall into the murky pit of danger over which the ferry glided.
Not far from the tiny city of Pweto, the inhabitants of the thatched huts operated the ferry, and made their living fishing in both the river that headed north and the massive lake. A long and narrow peninsula shielded them from the winds and currents of Mweru, but a tall ridgeline which made all but a narrow strip of the peninsula impassable to cars also blocked their view of its majesty.
It may have blocked the views from the huts by the river, but the views from the villa of Katumba Mwanke perched on the hill above were breathtaking. Several hundred feet above the village, halfway towards the town of Pweto, sat a veritable palace of Versailles. Home to former presidential advisor Katumba Mwanke, the five-thousand-square-foot house boasted an infinity pool and floor-to-ceiling windows along a curved rear which allowed a perfect view of the river from every room.
Mwanke had been killed in a plane crash in 2012 when, as the official report went, his pilot misjudged a landing and the plane slid off the runway. Since Mwanke had taken his seatbelt off too soon, he had been thrown across the plane’s tiny cabin. The house the corrupt presidential advisor had built on the hillside was unlike anything the people of Pweto could have imagined in their wildest dreams. After his death, it became the target of a Chinese investor looking to turn the house that blood money and corruption had built into a high-end bed-and-breakfast, but in the years it had been open, it rarely attracted customers.
