by R G Ainslee
Bobby grabbed my arm. "Come on." I hesitated. "There's nothing we can do." We ran through the lobby towards the sounds of commotion coming from the bar. A tall potted palm lay overturned, blocking the way. I vaulted over and slid to a halt. The room was in shreds: the glass mirror behind the bar shattered, tables and chairs strewn around the walls, and bodies on the floor. Jack and Amadeo kneeled beside two bodies in the center of the room.
I turned numb: Colonel Wilson, Chambers, Joe Hardy, and the brunette, were among the people lying mute. John Smith sat hunched up beside the bar gripping his left shoulder. A half-dozen other bar patrons wandered bleeding towards the exit.
Bobby said with a firm voice, "I'll call the embassy. We're going to need some help ASAP. See what you can do."
I ran over to John. "How bad you hurt?"
He gasped for breath and shook his head, "Can't hear you. — Arm may be broken." He grimaced in pain. "Blast threw me against the bar … can barely see. How about—"
"Don't know. What can I do?"
He waived me away. "Go check on them."
About a dozen or so victims lay on the floor. Some struggled to sit up, others prone or twisted in gruesome positions.
I made my way through the rubble to Jack. "How are they?"
"Joe and the girl are dead — don't know about Chambers, the colonel's in a pretty bad way. Not sure if—"
"Ross, give me a hand," called Amadeo.
I stood numb, frozen, overwhelmed by the carnage. My head swam with indecision, I tried to speak, but words failed me.
"Get over here, give me a hand."
A sense of panic came over me. I looked back.
Amadeo's eyes flared with anger. "Snap out of it. I need help to stop the bleeding."
In the flash of a moment, everything changed, clarity of purpose returned, I knew what I had to do. I ripped off my shirt, wadded it up, and pressed on a fountain of blood spurting from Chambers chest.
The bleeding stopped — Chambers was dead.
33 ~ Revenge
Saturday Morning, 25 October 1980, Bangui, CAR
The hotel bar was still a wreck: broken furniture, blown-out windows, shattered glass doors, dried blood, and a black splotch from the explosion. Jack, Bobby, and I stood grim-faced surveying the scene.
"That's where the bomb went off," said Jack. "John told me it went off right behind Joe and his date. They took most of the force of the blast. Chambers sat across the table from Wilson and got hit by a piece from one of the metal chairs … just unlucky, I guess."
Bobby looked back to the bar. "Smith was the lucky one, over there getting another drink."
Jack sighed. "Yeah, and if Wilson survives it'll be a miracle, he sure is torn up bad."
"What's his chances?" I asked.
"Dunno, if we were back in the states, or had access to one of our military facilities, I'd me more optimistic." He shook his head. "The hospitals here are pretty basic, I just don't know."
I asked Bobby, "The air-evac, how long you think it'll take to get here?"
"Not sure, most likely, tomorrow sometime."
The ambassador telexed Washington after the incident and the Air Force responded with the promise of a flight ASAP. A feeling of dread told me they would arrive too late.
We stood deep in our thoughts. Escaping death can be a sobering experience, a rude wake-up call. You think about the real meaning of life, what you missed, what you want for the future, a defining moment-of-truth. Some people go through their entire life without facing up to the essential fact of life: our presence on earth is temporary, subject to recall at any time.
"Who you think they were targeting?" I asked. The blast was still a mystery. "Were they after Chambers and the CIA connection or were they after us?"
Bobby paused for a moment. "We went over this at the hospital. They had people in place for several days. We're not sure how long they've been here, but it's clear they were scouting out the territory. Chambers has been here for a couple of months and his inquiries could've been noted. Your group is new on the scene, but you say they've been following you all the way. My money is on you people."
"Wilson just got here, not even sure they knew who he was. The rest of us weren't there in the bar."
"I realize that, but they know who you are, and you should have been the obvious targets. They've been after you all along."
"Makes sense, but why didn't they wait for us to show up?" I asked Jack, "What do you think?"
"Most likely, they found a target of opportunity and acted. The thing that bothers me is that they placed the explosive right behind Joe. Was he specifically targeted, or was his location just the easiest place to drop the bag?"
"Well, he was in N'Djamena and had a higher on the ground profile than the rest of us. Could be just bad luck."
The image of Joe and the girl sprawled on the floor was burned in my mind. She had nothing to do with the operation. It didn't seem fair. A pang of guilt tugged at my conscience. Joe was a good guy. We were friends, more than just co-workers. I didn't look forward to facing Sergeant George, they were good buddies, and wondered if someone had contacted Joe's family. The prospect of returning to Albuquerque turned sour.
"The German hippies were following us, they knew who we were," said Jack. "And don't forget, the redhead flew in and didn't take long to find their objective. She wasn't here just to scope us out, had to have something specific in mind. Looks like the hit was designed as a quick in and out operation, they had an escape plan, and a plane waiting to take off. LeGrande says they took off, flying south towards Zaire, destination unknown. He speculated they were headed to Kisangani, the reported site of one of their advance camps."
We stood hushed, alone in our thoughts. One part of me wanted to quit and go home, the shock numbed me, but now, revisiting the scene I boiled with rage, determined to do something
Jack spoke first, "Okay, your call. What's the plan?"
I hadn't even thought about it, but he was right. Wilson and John out of action left me in charge, or holding the bag, however you want to characterize it. "I'm not sure." I pondered the new situation for a few seconds of strained silence. "There's nothing more to do here, I guess … ah, I don't know."
Amadeo said, "I'll go along with whatever you decide. What about Joe, you gonna just forget what happened and let 'em get away with it?
"What do you think?"
"I know you. — Count me in."
"What you boy's talking about?" asked Bobby with a grimace.
Jack winked at Bobby. "We're going after the bastards."
"Yeah," I said, "But we don't have authorization and no way to track 'em."
"When did that ever stop you?" Jack spoke with a sharp edge to his voice. "I'll bet if Marsden was with them, you'd be across the river hot on their trail."
"Count me in too," responded an irritated Bobby Le Beau. "Those bastards killed Chambers and I ain't going to let them get away."
"You think they'll give you the okay?" I asked, skeptical his boss would turn him loose with us.
"I'm in the same boat as you. Chambers is dead, so that leaves me in charge. I'll just have to exercise some individual initiative."
Jack placed his hand on my shoulder. "Come on, we gotta go eat. I relieve Amadeo at one." Amadeo stayed at the hospital across from Camp Béal guarding Wilson. Taking no chances, we weren't sure they might try again.
We exited out the riverside veranda and went around the building to avoid the lingering crowd of onlookers. Sergeant LeClerc awaited us in the jeep. He spoke to Jack in French.
Bobby translated, "He said they found a man they think was the taxi driver."
"What did the guy say?"
"Nothing, they fished his body out of the river this morning."
* * *
The hospital in Bangui wasn't bad by third world standards, but still third world. Four people to a room, in the good rooms, a crowd in the others. The embassy arranged for John to be the only occupant in his and Wi
lson in what passed for intensive care. I assumed a generous amount of baksheesh was involved.
John sat up in the bed, arm in a cast and a swath of bandages covering his head. The blast affected his vision, his right eye covered by a patch. He was still having difficulty hearing.
When I walked in, after checking on Wilson, John was telling Jack what happened, "…first noticed 'em when they came in and sat down at the table next to Wilson. They didn't arouse suspicion, and no one made the connection. They got their drinks, talked in German, and after a few minutes got up and headed out to the veranda. I ordered and picked up my drink from the bar and saw they left … ah, a small bag on the floor under the table." He took a deep breath, "Next thing I remember, Ross kneeling beside me."
The doctor, a young local dressed in a white lab coat, came in, inspected the chart, and asked us to leave. We said our good-byes and moved out to the hall.
"Hope that doc knows what he's doing," I said.
"Don't underestimate these guys," said Bobby. "I spoke with him last night. He trained in France and seems to have good clinical skills. He knows what he's doing."
"You an expert or something?" I popped off, still unconvinced.
"My old man's a family doctor back home."
"Okay, let's hope you're right."
Amadeo asked, "What's the plan?"
"What makes you think we have a plan?"
"I know you Ross, you ain't gonna let this thing go."
"Well, you guys are the experts. I'll delegate the planning to you."
Jack shot a quick glance at Bobby Le Beau. "You're the local expert. Got any ideas?"
"I agree with the French commandant, they most likely headed to Kisangani. Commercial flights, like Ross found out, will take a few days to make connections. I'll catch the next flight out and—"
"You? What about—"
"Sorry, too many white boys running around may arouse suspicion."
"Hey," I said, "You ain't exactly Mr. Ebony. Your tan face won't blend in either."
Bobby bowed up. I hit a sensitive nerve. He was a black man back home, but in Central Africa, he was easily recognizable as a foreigner. His brow tensed, eyes bored in on me. I wondered if I had gone too far.
"Yeah, he's right," said Amadeo. "You would fit in alright in Ethiopia, but here you're just one of us."
Bobby held his silence as we endured a tense moment in a racially charged standoff. The whole enterprise was about to collapse before we even got started. My mouth got me in trouble again.
"You boys tend to say what you think, don't you?"
"Yeah," said Jack. "That's what keeps us honest with each other. If you know what the other guy really thinks, you can trust him better. — Got a problem with that?"
Bobby lifted his chin and tilted his head to the left as he gave each of us an individual stare. "I like the way you boy's think. Now let's see if we can come up with a plan."
The first thing we decided was not to involve the American embassy. Any proposed action outside the norm was sure to cause constipation in the decision-making tract. All we needed was a flurry of cables back and forth telling us to stand down, come home, or worse.
We agreed our best option was to roll the dice and inform LeGrande of our plans from the get-go. He was bound to find out — he was an intelligence officer after all — and with his local contacts, he might be of some help.
* * *
Amadeo, Bobby, and I sat in an office at Camp Béal, having just briefed LeGrande on the situation. The commandant's face betrayed no emotion as he sat contemplating a response. I expected an objection: half-hoping he would quash the operation. In any case, we needed his help if we were to obtain weapons and an independent means of transportation.
He shook his head. "Les cow-boys américains." That didn't sound good coming from a Frenchman. To them a cowboy is a wild gunman, not some guy freezing his butt off riding a fence line in the winter. I knew better.
Le Grande pounded his fist. "La cavalerie monte à la rescousse." The cavalry rides to the rescue. His dour expression dissolved into a smile, apparently, LeGrande was a western movie fan. "Que voulez-vous de moi?"
I couldn't believe what I was hearing, it sounded like he agreed. "You want to help us?" I asked, incredulous.
"Oui, we are alliés, is that not so?"
"Do you have contacts in Kisangani?" asked Bobby.
LeGrande smiled. "No, but I know a man to help you." He left, went to an adjacent room to make a phone call.
He returned and handed me a piece of paper. "Go to this addresse. The man expects you. For the security … ah, one person only."
I looked at the others, Jack responded with raised eyebrows, perhaps thinking the same thing I was: This is too easy. Can we trust this guy? — What am I missing?
We didn't have a choice. "Okay, I'll go."
LeGrande smiled — the smile of a Cheshire cat. "Bonne chance."
* * *
The addresse was a nondescript warehouse down by the river, only a few blocks from the city center and the embassy. A small discrete sign beside the main door read Commerciales générales des Ubangui. I walked on in and approached the office. A radio blasted a torrent of local music somewhere in back.
"Que voulez-vous?" inquired a voice from behind.
I turned and faced a medium sized man of undefined Mediterranean origin, built like a boxer, dressed in khaki shorts and a black tee shirt. A short cigarette butt dangled from his lips. "I was sent over here by … uh, a French—"
"Yes, yes, you are the American." He nodded his head towards the loud music. Someone turned up the volume even more to maximize the Congolese brass rhythms. "Come, we talk outside."
He crushed the cigarette and led me back through the front door. We walked across the street to the riverbank. A line of dilapidated barges sat tied up to the shore, fishermen chanted local tunes as they tossed nets from dugout canoes, steam rose from waterlogged soil as the equatorial sun blazed away without mercy.
The man lit up another cigarette, a Marlboro, took a heavy draw, savored the moment, and released the smoke. "Our mutual acquaintance said you might need help traveling to Zaire." The guy spoke with an educated almost refined European accent that belied his coarse appearance.
"I need to travel to Kisangani."
"You will go alone?"
"No, at least two others."
He blew out a grey stream of smoke. "Tell me the nature of your business in Kisangani?"
I paused as a young man on a loud motorbike passed by a few feet away. "Well, I … uh, need to … you might say it's personal."
He emitted a deep sigh. "Please do not play games with me. We both know who our mutual acquaintance is, and I assume your business is in a similar vein." He took another drag on the cigarette.
I didn't know what to say, not sure what or how much to tell him.
Another puff blasted out of the side of his mouth. "It will expedite matters if you detail your intentions. Otherwise, you are wasting my time — and yours."
"First, I need to know who you work for."
"You saw the sign."
"Who you really work for."
He flicked the cigarette into the river. "I could and will ask the same of you."
"But you probably already know."
"I assume this has something to do with the bomb in the hotel." I nodded. "And you are interested in tracking down the perpetrators. Am I right?" His voice had a hard edge.
"Yeah, I might be. Can you help me?"
He hesitated as a rattletrap truck passed by. "Tell me, why do you seek the aid of our mutual acquaintance, do not the Americans have superior assets?"
"Like I said, it's personal. They killed and wounded some good friends and I'm not going to let them get away with it. I'm working on my own on this one."
"A matter of revenge." He guffawed. "Do you read your Bible?"
"Yeah, the Lord said: Vengeance is mine." He nodded his head. "All I intend to do is deliver the SOB's
to their maker on a silver platter."
"A word of wisdom from Confucius: before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves." His eyes bored in on me, brow furrowed. "Do you think you are prepared for this endeavor?"
"You get me there and I'll take care of the rest. — You still haven't told me who you work for."
"Return tomorrow, late in the afternoon. I will have an answer for you. It has been nice to meet you Mr. Brannan." He pivoted and strode back to the warehouse. It was only later I realized, I hadn't told him my name.
34 ~Fate
Saturday Afternoon, 25 October 1980, Bangui, CAR
Back at the hospital, I checked on John Smith, he was asleep. The nurse, a local, didn't speak English and I was unable to get an update on his condition. Jack was nowhere in sight. I wandered down to Wilson's room on the far end of the corridor and stuck my head inside. Wilson lay there alone, unmoving, hooked up to a bottle of solution.
"He's still out, ain't woke up yet," said Jack from behind. "What'd you find out?"
"Nothing, I gotta check back tomorrow, sounds kind of dicey to me. — Where's the rest of the guys?"
"The embassy called, wanted us up there pronto. I thought somebody needed to stay with The Man."
"Yeah, good idea, you want me to spell you. You can go on to the embassy."
"No, you go ahead, I'd rather be here."
"Okay, maybe there'll be some good news for a change."
* * *
As could be expected, the news wasn't good. A clerk ushered me into the office of the Assistant Charge of Mission. Bobby Le Beau and Amadeo were there.
"As I have told these gentlemen," said the assistant chief, a pudgy man in his thirties, "A flight has been dispatched for immediate evacuation to the military hospital at Landstuhl, Germany. You will accompany the wounded and the bodies of the deceased. I expect the aircraft to arrive in approximately two hours and you will leave before nightfall. Your gear has been collected and the departure formalities pre-cleared and expedited."
"What about the Škorpion Brigade, are they going to be allowed to get away?"
"That is no longer your concern."
