by Bob Purssell
My CO had not correctly described the situation; “fucked up” was an understatement.
The Eisenhower’s command had sacked the officer previously responsible for the ship’s communication center. His replacement, Commander Santiago, had arrived only a week before I did. The communication center’s other officers did not impress me with either their zeal or their understanding.
Poor training, mediocre leadership, incorrectly maintained equipment, all added up to a ton of work. Twenty-four hours into my assignment, I realized that we, unlike God, were not going to create a new world in seven days.
In desperation, I threw myself into the work at hand. Sixteen hours a day I slaved, correcting problems, training personnel, all the while meeting the day-to-day needs of the ship. Slowly Commander Santiago and I made progress.
At the end of a week, we were limping along. At the end of two weeks, the Eisenhower’s communication center was meeting some of its performance metrics, while the others were significantly closer to the expected results.
On the personal front, I had switched bra sizes; I was now officially a C cup.
* * *
The Eisenhower’s XO called a meeting in his office to review the progress made to date. From my perspective, we had met and overcome the emergency; the communication center was now functional. This, I figured, was my opportunity to bow out gracefully, depart from the Eisenhower, return to the ANCS and receive my BetterYou hormone-stopping injection. Intent on making that point, I knocked on the door to the XO’s office.
Commander Santiago opened the door. After we exchanged salutes, the XO began, “Lieutenant O’Leary, Commander Santiago and I much appreciate your coming out here to give us a hand. With your assistance, we’ve made great strides. The captain, the ship, and I are grateful.”
As I responded, “Thank you, sir,” I had the disquieting feeling that the XO had just given me the sugar coating. Now I waited for the bitter pill.
“Lieutenant, in two weeks the Eisenhower is slated to take part in a fleet exercise. Lieutenant Commander Santiago has impressed upon me the need for your presence if the ship is to do well. I have spoken with the captain, and he agrees with the commander’s assessment.”
For a moment I thought about making the point that, for the exercise to be valid, only the personnel permanently assigned to the Eisenhower’s communication center, not temporary folks like me, should participate. However, I held back because I had an uneasy feeling that I had been set up. In fact, I was between the rock and the hard place. If I demanded that the ship let me leave, I feared only the XO would sign my mildly complimentary letter of commendation, the proverbial kiss from your sister. Conversely, if I stayed for the exercise, the captain would almost certainly sign a much more strongly worded letter.
Damn, I almost muttered aloud. But I kept that thought to myself and, instead, said to the XO, “If it’s okay with my CO, it’s okay with me, sir.”
Beaming, the XO explained. “I thought you would want me to go through channels. So I’ve already taken care of that detail. I hope you don’t mind?”
My father, the ultimate straight shooter, would have said that the XO had pulled a squeeze play.
In two weeks, I would be a D cup. If I stayed for the entire exercise, I would be a DD. As I walked back to the communication center, I ruefully wondered if Dawn was arranging my Eisenhower experience.
I worked my butt off for three reasons: First, I was pissed-off that the Eisenhower had taken advantage. Second, I wanted the best possible letter of commendation. Third, by hiding away in the communication center, fewer would notice my increasingly more prominent breasts.
After a week, my C cup bra was becoming too tight.
THE HAMZA INCIDENT
If only Estelle hadn’t taken my cell phone, I could have contacted Roger. Unfortunately, she had. So I was stuck in the boonies of Chad.
Inside the radiotelephone relay station, either Henri or Hamza had turned off the lights. Sitting/lying in the passenger seat of the SUV, I tried to sleep but could not. Instead, I worried. How had I gotten myself into this mess? After blaming external factors, I turned my thoughts inward. What had started out as an attempt to improve my appearance (BetterYou’s hormone treatment) had combined, first, with my drive for career success (the initial Eisenhower assignment), and later, my exasperation with navy careerists who were ready to use me (the Eisenhower’s XO’s squeeze play). But even those three decisions were not enough. It took a burst of impetuosity on my part (ignoring Roger and getting in Estelle’s car) to land me in my current predicament.
After a fitful few hours of sleep, Henri’s tapping on the SUV’s window awakened me. Dawn was just breaking. Inside the radiotelephone relay station, he greeted me with a cup of coffee. After some pleasantries, Henri turned serious and pointed to the map lying on the desk. “This is your route. You, of course, will keep the map, but memorize as much as you can.” After a pause, Henri asked, “You were thinking of making a run for it, no?”
“An obvious thought.”
“You are in the heart of rebel territory. Your possible escape routes are known; so is your vehicle. If you don’t appear in a reasonable time at the checkpoints marked on the map, the Central Committee will inform our people that an enemy agent is loose in the area. I doubt your presence will go undetected for very long.”
“You think of everything.”
“Not me, them.” Before a startled me could respond, Henri added, “You should leave now, before Hamza returns.” With that, Henri handed me a briefcase. “In here are the schematics and the tools you will need. There is also a telephone number. Call it when you get the equipment repaired. I will then give you the route you are to follow to return to your people.”
Realizing that Henri’s helping me to elude Hamza put the man in danger, I suggested, “Come with me. We can escape together.”
Ignoring my offer, Henri said, “You should be on your way. You’ll want to complete your odyssey before dark. I’ll walk you to your car.”
At the SUV, Henri said, “I wish you luck. Perhaps, someday we will meet under better circumstances.”
After replying, “That would be nice,” I gave Henri a good-bye hug and wished him good luck.
* * *
Following the route marked on the map, I traveled along an unpaved and rutted road. Despite the rough going, I made reasonable time through my first three checkpoints. People I passed on the road did not seem very threatening. Some even waved; most, however, seemed surprised, even scared, at the sudden appearance of my vehicle.
The fourth checkpoint, which was more than halfway to my goal, was a river crossing. Oddly, the line on the map indicated my route would pass along the south side of the bridge, not over it. Attributing this to human error, I was not much concerned.
That changed when I got to the bridge. The center portion of the span lay collapsed in the middle of a wide river. Approaching the structure, I saw ruts veer off to the right and enter the water. On the opposite bank, the ruts emerged.
I looked at the river. It looked shallow, but there was no way to be sure. Maybe, I thought, I should try to walk across first.
Then another thought intruded: what about the crocodiles and piranha?
Thinking of the piranha, I muttered, “Wrong continent.”
After maybe thirty seconds of indecision, I decided to follow the map’s intent and ford the river. The map, I reasoned, did not give me any explicit warning, so I concluded everything would be okay.
However logical my reasoning might be, it certainly did not quiet my already frazzled nerves.
Into the water my vehicle plunged. Proceeding slowly, I warily looked out the driver side window. The fact that the water had not risen to the height of the axle gave me confidence, and I began to relax somewhat. That changed in the center of the river. The water was rising, first to the level of
the axles, and then well over them. I looked down; there was an inch of water covering the floor. My confidence ebbed as the vehicle flooded.
I had passed the midpoint of the river. Hands shaking, praying I would not stall, I kept mumbling, “Keep going; keep going.”
Finally, to my great relief, the axles began emerging from the water. Still muttering encouragement, I let out a sigh as I climbed the bank and got back on the road.
Picking up speed, I resumed my journey, buoyed by the fact that I had come this far without incident. Maybe, I thought, Henri was just blowing smoke.
The last checkpoint before I reached my destination was in ruins; the straw roofs burned and the contents of the huts scattered about. Pulling off the track, keeping well away from any structure, I drove across the dry dirt adjacent to the village. Glancing back and forth between where I was going and what was left of the huts, I got the impression that whoever had ransacked the place had done so within the last few days.
I saw no one, either dead or alive.
This was my first real encounter with the anarchy Henri had warned me about. Leaving the destruction behind, I realized that he had not been blowing smoke.
Alert, fearful, I debated whether I should change course, stop, or go on. Reminding myself that I was an officer, that courage was a requirement of my chosen profession, I decided to complete my mission relying on the element of surprise. To myself, I said, “Go through this area so fast that you’ll be gone before anybody can react.”
* * *
At speed, I round a turn in the road. Two hundred yards ahead are some logs. It’s a barricade, I think, meant to slow me down so I’ll become an easy target. I press down on the accelerator, determined to weave my way around the obstacle.
Something is wrong; the logs are poorly positioned. I will have no trouble bypassing them. “These guys,” I mumble, “whoever they are, don’t know what they’re doing.”
I am only some fifty yards away from the first log when my mind comprehends that they are the bodies of a man, a woman and a child. Shocked by this horror, unwisely, I slow and look. Each has been mutilated, the reality much like the images one sees in the news. However, unlike the news, these events are not occurring in some distant place. Instead, I am passing within a few feet of the carnage.
Horrified, I weave around the corpses and continue my journey, badly shaken. Trying to understand, I wonder, what happened? Why did it happen? Who were they? Who were their attackers?
Then, focusing on my own situation, I tell myself, “Ignore them. You’re in danger; keep your wits; ignore everything else.”
* * *
The five miles between the “logs” and my destination, the radiotelephone relay station, pass eerily. I see no humans, but I do see clothing, personal effects, and a burned-out car.
Driving slower, consulting my map more frequently, I leave the track, and following a pair of ruts, drive up a hillock. At the top is my goal: a small concrete building and next to it a radio tower.
Terrified that danger and my demise are lurking everywhere, my first thought is personal safety. Stopping some distance before I reach the building, I perform a visual reconnaissance, studying the region around the exchange. Everything is quiet. Nothing suggests that anyone is in the area. In the distance, I can see the villages. The closest one appears burned out, but it is too far away and I cannot be sure.
I study the radio tower. It looks undamaged. The building too seems unharmed, but the front door is ajar.
This is a bad sign.
Trying to quiet my nerves, not too logically, I reason that if someone were inside they would have heard me driving up the hill and come out to investigate.
Fearful, I decide to circle the exchange on foot before entering. Leaving the SUV, I slowly, quietly move around the side of the building.
Nothing.
Heart pounding, I continue to the back of the structure. The buzz of flies attracts my attention. The mutilated remains of an adult male are sickening.
Shaking with fear, I look around. Is the killer—make that, are the killers—still around, preparing to pounce on me?
Nothing.
The door to the generator shed is open. Quietly, I approach. Shaking, I enter the shed.
Nobody is there.
It takes time for my eyes to adjust to the darkness. Next to the diesel generator, originally installed to supply power to the exchange, is a gasoline-powered portable generator. Seeing a set of cables lying across the diesel generator, I understand the setup. Unable to fix the original unit, someone had solved the power problem in typical African style, by patching around the difficulty.
My technical curiosity prompts me to investigate. One of the spark plug wires on the portable generator’s engine dangles disconnected, and a spark plug is missing from the cylinder head. Now I know one reason why the exchange no longer functions. Without power from the portable generator, the exchange’s batteries discharged and the exchange stopped functioning.
I step on a socket wrench and consider, was the dead man I found outside repairing the generator when he was attacked?
Shaking with fear, I have trouble picking up the tool. Eventually I succeed. Inspecting the socket wrench, I discover there is no spark plug in the socket. Realizing that I cannot make the exchange function without it, I wonder, where is the spark plug or its replacement?
I scan the shelves in the shed but find no replacement spark plugs.
Stepping outside, I check again for danger.
Nothing.
Terrified, I jump when a bird lets out a screech.
Trying to calm myself, I talk aloud in an effort to think through the problem. “The dead man was probably installing a new plug when he was attacked. He must have dropped it when he was fighting for his life. It must be somewhere between the generator and the body.”
Carefully I search the ground, my heart pounding. I find nothing.
“It’s got to be somewhere,” I mumble.
A thought grows. I reject it. Aloud, I rebuke myself saying, “Stop screwing around.”
Repulsed by the stench, the buzz of the flies, everything associated with the mutilated corpse, I take a few steps. The fear, the horror, the disgust overwhelm me. I stop.
I repeat my new mantra, “Stop screwing around.”
Now I realize the body in front of me is not dead. No, it throbs with life. A hoard of creatures, seen and unseen, are each busily devouring the corpse.
“Stop screwing around.”
I stand over the buzzing. I reach down, and then hesitate.
“Stop screwing around.”
My fingers touch the dead man’s right pants pocket. The flies land on my hand, buzzing like mad, annoyed that I have interrupted their feast. There is something inside the pocket. Trying not to vomit, I start to remove the object.
My courage deserts me. Running wildly, without purpose, desperate to escape, I flee down the hill. I go maybe fifty yards then trip and fall. Lying on the ground, I start crying uncontrollably.
* * *
How long I lay sobbing, I do not know, probably only a few minutes. Eventually, I stop. Slowly I stand and wipe my tear-stained face. Feeling faint, disconnected, I slowly trudge back up the hill toward the buzzing corpse.
Thinking of my cowardice, ashamed, I steel myself for what I must do.
The smell is still overwhelming; the flies are still buzzing madly. Gritting my teeth, closing my eyes, I reach inside the dead man’s pants pocket and pull out a small box. I open my eyes and see the letters “NGK.”
This time I do not run. As if to make a point, I carefully, slowly walk to the shed, elated that I am triumphing over my fear. Then, completing my atonement for my disgraceful running away, I install the spark plug.
The moment of truth. If the motor generator does not start, I fear I will not be
able to cope.
I pull the starter cord. The motor spins but does not start. I slump to the ground and let out a sigh. My frustration rises; I am angry. I scream, “Calm down, bitch.”
This time I carefully adjust the choke, prime the engine and then pull the starter cord hard.
The engine catches.
Filled with joy, I stand over the machine and listen to the throaty sound of the small generator as it infuses me with hope. Maybe I can get out of this jam.
Inaction turns into the frantic. I run to the SUV and retrieve the briefcase Henri has given me. Without a thought as to what danger may lie within, I yank open the door to the radiotelephone relay station and race inside. To my surprise, the overhead light is on. Instantly, I realize the dead man had been working at night, probably in the hope of not attracting attention.
Instinctively, I push the rifle lying on the desk aside to make room for my briefcase. I consider trying to call Henri but decide not to. Instead, following the procedures he taught me, I set about performing the routine maintenance on the radiotelephone system and its radio tower link. When I am done, I say a prayer and begin the system restart procedure. Everything goes well. After saying another prayer, I pick up the telephone and listen.
There is dial tone; I shout out, “Thank you, God.”
* * *
I dial the number Henri has given me. The phone rings. It rings again. Joy begins to turn to terror.
A voice answers. Relief floods in. It is Henri.
“Barbara, is that you?”
“Yes! Yes!” I cry out.
“Barbara, are you all right?”
“No. Get me out of here. They’re going to kill me.”
“Who?” asks Henri, his voice calm and reassuring.
“The guys who killed your maintenance man.” There is silence and I add, “It’s awful. They’re killing everyone.”
Ignoring my whimpering, he asks again, “Barbara, have you seen anyone; are you alone?”
“No. I mean Yes-yes, I’m alone.”
“Go to the car. Underneath the back seat, you will find a package. It has a map and your communicator.”
