Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 25
The ferry floated in the middle of a narrow valley. On the near side of the river, which was only a quarter-mile long, a small village of a few dozen people existed for the sole purpose of selling goods to vehicles awaiting their turn to make the transit. Each ferry trip took an hour there and back, and given the frequency which Congolese ferries were known to capsize and send hundreds of passengers to their death in the murky abyss of their rivers, the UN ferry at Kiambi strictly regulated the number of passengers it would carry.
The Uruguayan officer was standing, his blue UN helmet crooked under his arm, next to his friend Major Frey, and the pair were kicking a soccer ball back and forth with Frey and Ambassador Brown’s ten-year-old sons James and Darius, and a local boy who worked in his father’s hut, selling fish to truck drivers. James and Darius, both young and perhaps therefore unable to sense the tension between their parents, had become friends and were inseparable whenever the convoy stopped for the night. Frey’s daughter Ella was sitting on one of the UN food pallets, reading a book with her mom. Artigas smiled at them, thinking how lucky his friend was to know they were at least safe by his side. His own wife and daughters were, as far as he knew, safe in Montevideo, which had been untouched by the war.
He kicked the ball to James’s chest, and the boy instinctively reached out and caught it.
“Dios mio, just like your father! Typical America,” Artigas laughed. “You lean your chest back—like this, watch.”
He kicked the ball to the Congolese boy, who, without the years of watching and playing American football in his muscle memory, instinctively leaned back with the ball. He smiled as it rolled down his chest and bounced it off his knee back to the Uruguayan. He laughed, knowing he had done something better than an American. The ball was brand-new. A gift from the UN, and the boy hoped it would be his when the Americans departed. The boy was young, around James’s age, and wore a T-shirt that read “Atlanta Falcons: Super Bowl LI Champions.”
“It isn’t his fault,” Alex said with a smile. “He is growing to become a man, not a European.” Frey’s rifle was still slung behind his back, but he had taken his pistol belt off and laid it on the crate next to his wife.
The diminutive Uruguayan elbowed his giant American friend. “It is good to see you again, Alex.”
“You too, Juan-Pablo.” Frey kicked the ball to Darius, and watched the ambassador’s son field it cleanly off his shoe, pop it up to a knee, and pass it on.
They had nothing to do but pass the time. It had taken time to get the ferry from the other side of the river. The crossing was painfully slow. The vehicles had to be driven onto the ferry and then taken across the river, one at a time. They had to be chained down, lest a current or wave cause them to capsize the boat, and once on the Kiambi side of the river, they had to be unloaded and driven up the far bank. Originally, Frey had intended to spend the night on the near side, away from the city and the people, but after the incident in Lenge, he thought it best to put a river between him and whatever reprisal might be coming. Despite the tediousness of the crossing, they had already managed to get half of the vehicles across. All that was left on the near side was his family’s LMTV, the LMTV that carried the ambassador and his family, and Lieutenant Betz’s gun truck. Everyone else, including Frey’s own gun truck, was already on the far side setting up for the night.
Ambassador Brown’s son Thomas had stayed behind as well. Normally seated in the back of Sergeant Major Sweeney’s gun truck, he had stayed behind to spend the hours with his family, at his mother’s urging. More a demand than a request, it had horrified the boy and wounded his manliness in front of his new comrades. Fortunately, Lieutenant Betz had ordered Thomas to help them clean their machine gun and ride with his crew, and thus restored the boy’s pride.
“You see, your father and I have known each other from many years back.”
“Yeah, when you were my son’s size,” Alex laughed, allowing himself a moment of levity. He could feel the pressure mounting. The longer this crossing took, the more in danger they were, but so far the lookout they had posted on the hill had reported no signs of anyone coming.
Juan-Pablo kicked the ball to James again, continuing his story. “Yes, when I arrived in America, I had no friends, I knew no one. And your father took me to dinner, introduced me to some people, and even took me to American…” his voice trailed off into a laugh, looking over at Alex who shot him a scornful look.
“Just say ‘rodeo’ instead of Adult Entertainment Establishment please,” Amanda chimed in, shaking her head as she interrupted her reading a story to her daughter about a bunny that was also a vampire.
Both men laughed, recalling the language barrier that had made Artigas’s English pronunciation of “curly” sound too much like “colored” for the likes of the establishment’s management. It wasn’t a problem that couldn’t have been solved, had Artigas not been yelling across the bar for his favorite “curly girl” to come over. Any advice Alex might have shared on what to say or not say in the American South was soon lost fighting bouncers as he dragged a drunken Artigas from the bar.
“Yes, ma’am,” Artigas said, heading the ball to the African boy, who promptly passed it sideways without looking to the young James.
Across the river, the ferry reached the far shore, and Gunnery Sergeant Harmon’s LMTV with the fuel trailer attached disembarked. A flock of swallows circled the brown river, looking for insects to pluck from the flowing sludge. One of the braver birds swooped low, missing its target on the first pass, then banked its wings low over the water to try again. It was barely coming out of its turn when a silver tigerfish leapt from the water and dragged it under to a watery grave.
Alex blinked, staring at the sight, feeling it sink into his memories, and his blood ran cold. He tried to push it out of his mind. Looking back towards his son, his moment of reverie was interrupted by Artigas.
“Ojo, one of the lookouts—!”
He was pointing up the dirt road that led away from the ferry, as one of his blue helmeted Uruguayans hurried down the hill towards them. They had put the last gun truck and a lookout on top of the hill, and had rotated a guard every hour. Lieutenant Betz’s truck would be the last to cross, and was parked up on the hill with one of Frey’s men and one of Artigas’s.
Puffing, the Uruguayan came to a halt in front of them. A torrent of Spanish poured from the man, and the look on his colonel’s face changed quickly from jovial to stone-faced seriousness. Artigas nodded, patting the young private on the shoulder. Frey reached down, grabbing the rifle by the sling, and spun it around. He walked a few feet over to his wife where his pistol belt lay. He ruffled Ella’s hair as he snapped the belt and its pouches around his waist.
“Be right back, vampire bunny.”
The little girl frowned. “It’s Bunnicula, Daddy!”
Amanda looked at him, her eyes betraying the deep worry only a mother knows. Alex didn’t know what to tell her, so he said what he always said. “It’ll be alright.” He forced a smile out with his words, before leaning over and kissing her on the top of her head. He turned and jogged off after Juan-Pablo, who had already started up the hill.
“And you stay away from the water, James,” he called back over his shoulder.
The two officers reached the crest of the hill after a brief jog. The HHMWV had been parked under a tree, a feeble attempt at hiding it from observation. In the turret, one of the National Guardsmen was on lookout, a pair of binoculars glued to his face, but from this elevation, Frey didn’t need them. He could see what the man saw in the distance: a pillar of thick black smoke coming from the direction of Lenge.
“How long has it been like that?” Frey asked, climbing up onto the roof of the vehicle, Lieutenant Colonel Artigas scampering up behind him.
“As soon as I saw it, I sent the Uruguayan down. I don’t think he speaks any fucking English.”
Frey took the binoculars from the man and scanned out over the horizon. They were too far to see the little town, but there was an unmistakable plume of dark black smoke rising from that direction.
“Think they’re following us? Maybe took a stop in Lenge first… you know, teach them a lesson who the sheriff is?” Frey handed the binoculars to Artigas and looked over at the staff sergeant. He was the driver of the truck Amanda and the kids rode in. Frey had chosen him as the driver because the staff sergeant had a 2nd Ranger Battalion combat patch, meaning at some point in his career the man had deployed either in or attached to a Ranger Battalion. He had hoped something from the Rangers had rubbed off on the National Guard NCO, but he knew very little about Staff Sergeant De Rossi.
“Most likely,” Frey answered, doing the math in his head. At best it would take an hour and a half to get everyone across the river. Mutombo and his men could arrive in considerably less time, assuming they knew where the convoy was going, and where else would they go?
His thoughts were interrupted by Artigas. “What was the name of the man you met in Lenge?”
“Mutombo.”
“Did he talk like a gay Englishman?”
“You’ve met him?”
“Of course. He is one of the UN’s key partners in this region. He coordinates all of the last mile food and aid deliveries. He is also extremely violent and famously corrupt. And you killed his men?”
“This is going to be a big problem, isn’t it?”
“Mutombo’s father had been a close ally of the former president. He fought in the Civil Wars of the nineties, and was known as the most brutal man in the province. There are rumors that he ate prisoners instead of interrogating them, that he believed he would learn all they knew by consuming them. He sent his son to boarding school in England and then Oxford. To be a public face for the business. You know, like you educated white people do.”
“So, at least a medium-sized problem,” Frey said, looking at his watch before scanning the river again. The ferry was on its way back, at least that was breaking in their favor.
“I’m sure you are going back to organize the ferry, sir,” De Rossi said. “Do you want me to set them up here? I can head down the road and slow them down, do a retrograde defense with the Humvee. Or we can set some overlapping fields here. Good ground for it.”
Frey studied De Rossi with a puzzled look. Of all the people in the group, this national guard sergeant whose body was showing the deleterious effects years of fast food had on a middle-aged man, was not the one he imagined would be asking tactically sound questions. But his questions were apt, and what was more important to Frey was the calm and businesslike tone he was asking them in. Almost as if he didn’t hear a known cannibal was leading a small army against them.
“No. Wait here, Sergeant. I’m taking the Humvee back to the landing. Get the fifty cal and as much of the ammo as we can carry off. I’ll send some bodies up here, get them organized in a defensive line. Our guys on the left, the Uruguayans on the right.”
“Roger, sir.” De Rossi who, like Major Frey, recognized a voice of experience when he heard it, got to work dismounting the fifty-caliber machine gun from the truck.
Frey hopped in the driver’s seat and Artigas took the one next to him as they drove the few hundred yards down the hill.
“Thank you,” Artigas told his friend.
“For what?”
“You didn’t ask if we would help you. It means you assumed we would.”
Frey knew his friend was right. “Actually, if you protested, I was just going to shoot you and offer you to Mutombo as a snack.”
“He’d pass on me for you. Your big ass would be enough to go around for his entire army, amigo,” Artigas chirped back.
The gun truck came to a halt at the bottom of the hill. The commotion had alerted everyone that something was wrong, and the entire group that remained on this side had gathered together to wait for the news. His eyes met Amanda’s, and he gave her a quick shake of his head. He watched as she scurried the kids off behind one of the LMTVs; he didn’t want them to hear this. Lieutenant Betz stood at the front of the group, awaiting Major Frey’s orders. There had been a change in the man that Frey had noticed since the first gunfight with the Russians. He was hardening. And Frey knew the young lieutenant would accept what he was about to order him to do begrudgingly, but without protest.
“Mike, how many soldiers and Marines do we have on this side of the river?”
“You and I make nine, sir.”
Frey took a moment to appreciate that the young officer had the number on top of his head. “I need you to gather them all up. Rifles and all the ammo they can carry, and send them up to the top of the hill to Staff Sergeant De Rossi. You stay down here. Let’s move.”
He saw the heartbreak cross the man’s face, and that it was quickly replaced by acceptance. This was the order, it was what Major Frey, who had shown so much trust in him already, needed—and the lieutenant wasn’t going to let him down.
“Sir, you might not want Darius around to—” Frey started, but was cut off by the ambassador’s wife.
“He can hear what is happening to his people.”
“Okay,” Frey conceded, not wanting to waste another second on the debate. “We think the town of Lenge, the one we just passed through, where we had the incident, is on fire. It could be an accident, or not Lenge at all, but it probably is. It means whatever group we tangled with there is chasing us here.”
Most of the faces of the group fell, the despair setting in before Frey could even finish his thought.
“What we are going to do is send every civilian over with the next truck on the next ferry. We will make it a Humvee so we don’t overload it with an LMTV. We are going to set up on the ridge and hold them back as long as we can. We have about an hour and a half until darkness, so if we can hold them that long, we have a good chance of getting everyone off the hill and to the other side.”
Nala stepped forward, glaring at Major Frey. “Why would they burn that town?”
“That doesn’t matter. It is burning, and they are coming this way.”
“It is burning because you let your ego get you in a gunfight there, and now they are chasing us, isn’t that right?” Her voice dripped with hatred and contempt. Frey could see where she was going. To her, he was just another white man destroying Africa. But right now, he couldn’t care less about her feelings. They had work to do.
“And they are coming here, and they are going to kill us all if we don’t get out of here.”
“And what then?” she snapped. “What of the civilians on this side of the river, and what about the city across it? When we run off and escape, who is going to protect them?”
Ambassador Brown put his hand on his wife’s shoulder, but she had days of rage built up in her. “You are just going to leave them to die, like the people at the embassy, like we let Juaqim die, like you let Enoch just disappear, aren’t you, Major?”
Frey’s rage boiled inside of him. He felt it rising from his soul and rushing through every muscle. He stepped forward towards the group, his iron grip on his emotions losing the battle inside.
“We are sending the civilians across next. If one of you wants to stay behind and try and convince a rebel army to be nice, you are welcome to. If anyone tries to interfere with us, they are going to stay on this side of the river permanently.” His eyes scanned from left to right, taking in every member of the group. Most were more frightened by his icy response than if he had screamed. Only Nala maintained enough defiance in her gaze, but Ambassador Brown’s eyes betrayed the knowledge that he knew Frey could, and would, carry out his threat. He put his hand back on his wife’s shoulder and whispered in her ear. The embers of rage continued to burn in her eyes, but she didn’t speak again.
“What do you need from us?” a voice from the back called out. It was the ambassador’s middle-aged female assistant Ms. Jones, whose earnestness had always impressed Frey. She had spent most of the day, and most of the trip, sketching in her notepad, but the switch in the woman between art and business flipped quickly and professionally. Frey hadn’t worked with her long, but he knew her type. She was tougher and sharper than most of the Marines here.
“Get everything packed up. Nothing gets left behind. Help Lieutenant Colonel Artigas get his team’s stuff loaded into their vehicles too. They might have to make a break for it as well. Anyone else?”
No further questions came, and none were needed. They had their orders, and even though fear had crawled into their civilian brains, Frey had at least given them hope they would survive. Frey left the group and went to find his wife. She was sitting behind the LMTV, a child on each side. They were both playing with sticks, James hitting the ground with his like a hammer, Ella twirling hers like a baton.
Alex knelt in front of them, looking his wife in the eye. “You guys are crossing next with everyone else.”
“I heard,” she replied. Nothing ever got by her.
“It’ll be alright. They might not even come this way, and if they do, they lack the commitment to make a serious push of it.”
“Can I stay with you, Dad?” James asked, his young eyes wide, as if he could sense the electricity of the moment and his father’s adrenaline building.
“I wish you could, buddy, but I need you to watch out for Mom and Ella. I’ll take this, you take them, alright?”
The boy nodded, and Ella lifted her head towards her father. “What if you stayed with us and James stayed behind?” she asked, giggling.
Alex rubbed both of their heads, then wrapped his arms around the trio.
“It’ll be, okay, I’ll be right behind you. It might get loud, but don’t worry. I’m coming back, alright?”
“Okay, Dad,” the kids answered.
“Remember, as long as you two are together, you’re going to win.”
