Abundance

by Fine, Michael;

  “She could be anywhere,” Sister Martha said.

  Carl opened the rear door. The baby was still breathing. “Come,” he said to the women in the lapas in the back.

  Sister Martha came out of the Land Cruiser first. The woman in the yellow Port Angeles Dragons tee shirt came out next. She and Sister Martha lifted the mother out of the truck. The baby was in her arms, still breathing.

  The baby’s eyes were open but dim.

  “Come. Now,” Carl said. They walked through the door next to the gate. Just then the evening rain began.

  Carl moved the mother and baby and the other two women to a broad porch next to the gate that served as the waiting area for the outpatient clinics, out of the rain.

  There were bodies everywhere—the wounded and the dead. But no Julia.

  The clouds moved on. The rain stopped, and the sun appeared as it was setting.

  In the courtyard, two PAs flitted from one person to the next, shouting orders to nurses who weren’t listening. The PAs knelt next to people on the ground or listened to the chests of the few wounded people who were able to stand or felt bloody arms and legs or cut away clothing where there was a wound so they might know who could be saved and who was already lost. They placed intravenous lines, gave pain shots, started whatever blood they had, and lined up the wounded on the ramp that led to the main building in the order they needed to go into the Operating Room, moving those who had died to the side, near the guard station. They paid no attention to Carl.

  Carl searched the crowd. Still no Julia.

  A doctor in a dirty white coat stood next to a young man on a litter, holding forceps and a curved needle with no more than five inches of thread or suture. The doctor holding the forceps was short and balding, with tan skin, black hair, and a black beard. Rivulets of sweat ran down his face and into his eyes. He squinted as a way to push the sweat out of his field of vision, and then wiped his forehead with the back of the hand that held the needle.

  “Zig, it’s me,” Carl said. “Julia sent this kid in. Malaria I think. Julia here? She broke down on the Bong County Road.”

  “She hasn’t come in yet. Maybe soon. Hot time in the old town tonight,” Zig said.

  “Can you look at this kiddo quick-quick? Do they teach surgeons about kids in Ethiopia?” Carl said.

  “Tonight, I am kid expert. Until Julia comes. Let me look,” Zig said. He turned to the baby, his gloved hands held high so as not to touch anything that wasn’t sterile.

  “Sister Martha, show me the conjunctiva,” Zig said.

  Sister Martha used her thumb to pull the lower left eyelid down.

  “It is malaria. I see the problem. Sister Martha, we need to put you to work,” Zig said. “Please take the child to Pediatrics. Draw a hemoglobin and a malaria smear and see that a line is placed. Then bring me the results as soon as they are ready. Ask the mother and her friend to give us some blood, yes? We have plenty of use for blood tonight. The baby will only need a little bit, perhaps a hundred ccs. Get them to give you a unit each. We can put the rest to good use. Where’s Julia when I need her, anyway?”

  Before anyone could answer, a man with a white lab coat started talking to the mother of the baby in Bassa. A second man spoke, also in Bassa, his voice raised and hard. It was David. The man in the white coat backed away, and then turned to sit at a desk, still talking to the baby’s mother, almost under his breath.

  “Tribal shit,” David said. “He telling her how much cost. He telling her baby will die anyway, so the baby is better off dying in the bush. Damned PA. He know better than that. He want bed for someone he knows, someone who can pay, so he get his fucking cut. I tell her it free, but he got her jambled. It long night. We move, boss.”

  “What happened to Julia?” Zig said.

  “They took out her jeep. Her guard and her driver are dead. She was gone when we got back. What the fuck am I going to do, Zig?” There was a close by machine-gun burst, and then the flash, shake, and shrapnel splash of an explosion. “We gotta go,” Carl said.

  “I’ll let the ministry know,” Zig said.

  “You got your hands full,” Carl said. “I’ll make the call. The ministry, the embassy, and Merlin. And then the State Department and the president. I’m calling in the cavalry, brother, quick-quick. I just hope the goddamn cavalry is home to take my call.”

  “Just keep your head down and your pants dry,” Zig said. “Julia’s no idiot. If anyone can survive out there, she can. Fingers crossed. Everything crossed, okay? And just fucking pray that some of these poor bastards survive the night.”

  David drove slowly toward the Water for Power compound. The gunfire was behind them now. The streets were empty. The little backstreet stalls that sold gasoline for motor bikes, biscuits, little bags of spices, and phone cards were deserted and looked like skeletons on each street corner—four upright poles with shaggy thatched roofs standing in the dark.

  The night supervisor threw the switch that opened the gate and waved them in, but he didn’t call to them the way the day team always did, and he didn’t come to help them unload. The two men who worked days were gone, the two mechanics were gone, and the kitchen staff was gone. The night supervisor and Grace, their Rwandan water engineer, were the only people left in the compound.

  So even the Water for Power crew is in it now, Carl thought. Soon, all the men and all the boys in Buchanan would be gone, pulled back into this new war by someone who knew someone else; pulled back in by their brothers and cousins or what they knew about rank, team, and brotherhood. Most would be part of a ragtag band that would have been called a raiding party once; but now the bands and gangs and raiding parties had automatic weapons, hand grenades, and RPGs—and anything that could happen was going to happen as the known world collapsed into a world of blood, death, and dying.

  The power shut down. The lights flickered and then the generator started up, a mechanical distant thrumming that kept Carl from hearing the other sounds of night. As the generators clicked on in the nearby compounds there was a weird symphony of sounds and smells—the drone of engines, the smell of diesel fuel, the sound of artillery, explosions, and small-arms fire, the smell of gunpowder, the sound of sirens, of people calling out, and the smell of charcoal fires, all mixed together.

  Seven p.m. Three in the afternoon at home. Eight p.m. in London. They usually had enough gas to power the generator for about thirty-six hours, Carl thought. Carl’s cell phone still worked, and he plugged it in quick-quick to recharge it while there was still power. They had one satellite phone stashed away in the main house for emergencies.

  “Turn off the lights,” Carl said. He walked back and forth in the office. There was a single desk lamp lit, a pinpoint of light in a large dark room. All the computers were turned off, their screens blank spaces where there should have been color and movement—mirrors in an empty room.

  “She could be anywhere,” Grace said.

  “She hiding in village or in some health center,” David said.

  “She’s not hiding anywhere. You saw that truck. Whoever shot up that truck has her,” Carl said.

  “Taylor. Probably Taylor,” David said. “His men. Not MODEL. MODEL not north yet.”

  “I suppose that makes it easy,” Carl said. “So all I have to do is to find out who has her and ask them to give her back? Anybody have Charles Taylor’s personal cell? Mosquito’s home phone number? General Butt-Naked’s e-mail address? Look, my first responsibility for the moment is to the two of you.”

  “We good,” David said.

  “You’re not good. You’re in the middle of another goddamn civil war. David, you’ve been through fourteen years of this, so maybe you know how to play it. I don’t. Grace, we have to find a safe place for you. I need to hit the phones.”

  “I’ll call Boston,” Grace said.

  “Good. David, what’s safer for Grace? Being in the community or being here?”

  “Being home in Rwanda. Or Accra. Or Lagos. Or Abuja. Not
here. Not compound. They come to the compound. Not tonight. But soon. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe Thursday. Maybe Friday. But they come,” David said.

  “What’s safe for you?”

  “Na safe,” David said. “I am Monrovia, but I’m not going to Monrovia now. I have woman here. I go to her community.”

  “Let’s get you moving and Grace moving. Then I’ve got to find Julia, and I’ll go out with her,” Carl said.

  “You not find Julia on your own,” David said.

  “I’m not going until I find her,” Carl said. “I’m just not.”

  There was an explosion nearby, perhaps near the hospital, perhaps on Thomas Street, but close enough for the ground to rock and for pencils, pens, and coffee cups to fly off the desks, for the maps to slide off the wall, even for tall cabinets to fall over. Grace, who was on the phone to Boston, lost her call. When she called again the call did not go through. Then Carl tried his cell and that call did not go through.

  “I’m going to the house to get the satellite phone,” Carl said.

  “Walk next to building,” David said. “Don’t take torch. Use torch only when you get to house. Don’t turn on light.”

  When Carl returned with the satellite phone, David was gone.

  There was no one at the ministry, and no one answered the phone at Merlin, but it was nearly 10:00 p.m. in London by the time Carl found a number to try.

  Then Carl tried the good old U.S. of A. Vain hope but nothing to lose. It took an hour, but Carl got a duty officer in the State Department on the phone.

  The USS Iwo Jima Amphibious Ready Group was off Monrovia, he was told, six to eight hours away. The duty officer listened to Carl’s story. Then he took Julia’s full name and occupation and asked lots of questions. Carl didn’t know Julia’s U.S. address or her passport number. The best he could do was to give rough directions to the place Julia’s truck was hit. It sounded like the duty officer had a map up on his computer, because he was asking questions as though he knew Grand Bassa County.

  “Before or after the road that runs east toward the LAC plantation? Before or after the turnoff into the bush that runs west? Before or after the village on the west side of the road … just south of that one-track road that goes west? Who had they seen on the road after passing the burning truck? What were the soldier-boys at the roadblock wearing?” Could Carl tell him anything about how they were armed? There was good intel about troop movements and factions on the ground in the zone around Buchanan, the duty officer said, where the situation was not as complex as the situation in Monrovia. They were evacuating Americans all over Liberia. Buchanan was a pretty easy in and out. But finding one person in the bush was hard, a needle in a haystack, no guarantees. They were landing in the morning. They’d send a squad. Carl needed to come out with the evac team so the guys on the ground could have accurate and up-to-the-minute information. They’d do their best.

  Help was on its way. The duty officer wanted Carl to lay low, stay inside, keep the lights off and the vehicles hidden, and don’t do anything, anything at all, to attract attention to himself or the compound. The best chance of getting Julia back was to work together, one team, no sudden moves and no surprises.

  And hope that these woven bamboo walls topped by razor wire made anyone with a gun careful about coming after what was inside, Carl thought. At least till morning. At least until the cavalry arrives.

  The gunfire quieted as the night wore on. Grace slept in a chair, her head on a desk, resting on her forearm. Carl did not sleep.

  Julia was out there somewhere.

  Carl’s brain kept flipping back between two pictures. That image of Julia through the rear window of his truck, standing there on the hilltop next to her wounded vehicle. Then the smoke from the hilltop and her vehicle on its side and on fire, the bodies of two men on the ground.

  They’d find her. They had to find her.

  The marines came the following morning. A squadron of helicopters circled low over Buchanan and landed at the beach near Mittal and the UNMIL barracks where the Nibatt troops were bivouacked. After the helicopters, amphibious troop carriers landed on the beach, and the marines secured a perimeter. The moment the Americans showed up with an aircraft carrier and a destroyer offshore, Taylor’s boys and MODEL both backed away, knowing they were outgunned. The big helicopters came next, disgorging vehicles onto the sand. A convoy formed and drove through the town. They went compound by compound, evacuating the expats, running them down to the beach, and then helicoptering them out to the ships that waited offshore.

  When Carl saw daylight, he went to the house to pack a few things. Then he sent Grace to pack. They heard a nearby generator sputter and go dead. The sun became strong. They sat next to an open door and listened. No crunch of gravel under feet or tires and no talking as people walked from place to place. There was some small-arms fire in the distance and the sound of heavy trucks but no more explosions or artillery fire. The ocean breeze carried the smell of diesel fumes, burned rubber, and gunpowder. No charcoal now. People in the communities had faded into the countryside.

  They heard a heavy truck outside the gate, and a man’s voice on a bullhorn. “Carl Goldman. Carl Goldman. Water for Power compound. Water for Power compound. We are the United States Marines.”

  Carl opened the gate. There was a hum and a crunch and then a clang. Three Humvees and a half-track drove into the compound and turned around. A U.S. Marine sergeant lowered himself from the lead Humvee, stood, and saluted.

  “Sergeant James McConnell, U.S. Marines 26th Expeditionary Force, sir. You rang?”

  “We might need a lift,” Carl said. “I think we have a flat.”

  “Oh, I think you have more than just a flat tire, sir. But let’s give you a ride into town. You ready to go?”

  “I’m waiting for news about an American doctor who is still up country,” Carl said.

  “I’m not the BBC,” the marine said. “My orders are to find you and bring you in. We can check on other operations when we get you someplace safe and sound.”

  “Are you the only game in town?” Carl said.

  “Four squads on the ground, sir, fanned out, covering the backfield.”

  “Give me ten, then. I need to shut down the generator and secure the premises. I have one more person with me,” Carl said.

  “You have five not ten, sir. This is an in and out. I have orders for one, not two, American citizens only,” the marine said.

  “Who else is here?” Carl said.

  “I have USAID, AFSC, and Merlin in the half-track,” the marine said.

  “Brits, then.”

  “Our allies, sir. Courtesy to our NATO friends. Orders. All according to plan,” the marine said.

  “And the hospital?”

  “Another unit, sir. We have four units on the ground in Buchanan, out rounding up the strays. We don’t have much time. This is an in and out.”

  “Let’s save one another time and hassle, sergeant. My colleague is from Rwanda. Which was once a German Colony. Then it was Belgian. So sometime in her life, maybe even today, my colleague might have had a Belgian Passport. Belgium is where NATO lives. I ain’t going unless she goes. So let’s call her Belgian, thank NATO for bestowing peace and blessings on all of us, put her in the half-track with me, and apologize if we have to but not get hung up on asking permission. I don’t know who in this little village is going to survive the night,” Carl said.

  “I’m on a tight schedule, sir,” the marine said. “Sounds like you got a plan. If you asked me, sir, I’d say your colleague is from the Bronx.”

  The helicopters came and went on the beach. Carl and Grace were dropped off at a roped off staging area, and then were moved from place to place as the wind from the helicopters flattened the flesh on their faces. One moment they were on the beach near the Nibatt compound, where there were guard towers at the perimeter, the ocean wind fresh, and the flags snapping, watching the Humvees and the helicopters come and go. The next minute they w
ere in a helicopter, its throbbing engine and spinning blades surrounding them as it held them in midair, an intense, nauseating sensation, suspended a thousand feet in the air over the sea and moving at a hundred miles an hour. And then they were on the Iwo Jima, in waters just offshore, with two other U.S. Navy ships steaming close by.

  No Julia.

  The expats came out, one helicopter load at a time—people Carl knew from The Club and people he had never seen before. Katy, James, Suzanne, Jack, Tzippy, even Ahmed. One or two at a time, mixed in with people Carl didn’t know. Some white South Africans, a mixed group of Americans and Europeans, a couple of Asian men—maybe Chinese. Not just American citizens. Not even close. Carl checked out each group as they trotted in from the helicopter deck, each person carrying one or two pieces of luggage—a suitcase, a backpack, and maybe a duffle.

  Still no Julia.

  The sailors let the expats mill about the mess where they had set up coffee and donuts, this being just like American soil. The ship swayed in the waves, back and forth, and the expats stumbled as they walked or stood still with their coffees, their feet wide apart for balance. Some went outside to smoke. There was a weather deck just off the mess set up for the convenience of the visitors.

  Carl went back to the helicopter deck. The big cargo helicopter with front and back rotors lifted off from the beach, flew slowly toward them, and landed on the flight deck. No civilians came out. Nothing. No one Carl recognized.

  There were two shorthaired marines in pressed uniforms, a man and a woman, sitting behind a table in the mess, processing the incoming expats, filling out forms and checking passports.

  “How many more to come in?” Carl said.

  “The mission is complete, sir,” the woman said. “We’ve successfully evacuated the American citizens on the ground in Grand Bassa County.”

  “Where’s Dr. Richmond? Not all American citizens. You’re missing somebody really important,” Carl said.

  “Sir?”

  “Julia Richmond. Dr. Julia Richmond,” Carl said. “I was the guy who called the State Department last night and told them that Dr. Richmond had been abducted. Dr. Richmond isn’t here. Is there another part of the operation? Could you have moved her out some other way?”