Out of the Shadows

by Melanie Mitchell

  Ben tried to smile, but it became a grimace. He gripped the preacher’s hand. “I’m glad to see you!”

  Paul’s eyes sought out Leslie. He asked, “How does it look?”

  “I think the wound in his chest will be all right, but he needs surgery on his abdomen—soon! The leg wound will give us problems if it keeps bleeding. We’ve got to get him to Nairobi now!”

  As Paul was nodding in response, Ben interrupted. His words were choppy and weak, and he was panting heavily. “Paul...there’s a phone...” He motioned toward the kitchen and cringed again; the waves of pain seemed to be increasing in both frequency and intensity. “Under the fridge...”

  Paul gestured to Titus and Simon, who were standing near the door, and instructed them in rapid Swahili to move the refrigerator. Leslie remained beside the cot and watched as the three men examined the floor. The aged linoleum had been cut in a semicircle. Titus pulled it back, and they discovered a two-foot-square piece of plywood. Paul moved the plywood, revealing a fairly deep hole out of which he removed a cell phone with some type of sophisticated antenna, a laptop, Ben’s passport and a medium-size canvas bag, all wrapped in heavy, clear plastic.

  Ben had managed to partially turn on his side and watch from the cot. “The phone.” His words seemed a little more strained. “I need...”

  Paul covered the distance from the kitchen in three steps and handed the phone to the injured man. With shaking fingers, Ben flipped two switches, then tried to press a button but didn’t have the coordination. Paul pushed it for him, and they were rewarded by faint static. Ben struggled to depress several buttons and finally hit Send.

  Taking a deep breath, Ben said, “Charlie, Foxtrot, Quebec...” but was gripped by another stab of pain. Paul looked at Leslie in alarm, but she simply shook her head. Over his shoulder, she glanced at the IV fluid and noted that it was more than three-quarters empty. She would need to hang another bag soon and hoped that Ben would let her give him some pain medication then.

  He tried the sequence again, this time with more success. “Yes, Center, this is Falcon Station. Fifty twenty-seven, thirty-thirty. Do you copy?”

  Ben closed his eyes and gave a small sigh of relief. Only Ben could hear the reply, but each of the others in the room was reassured when they realized his call had been answered.

  Ben tried to lick his lips before continuing but was unable. Leslie poured a little water into the cup and held it to his mouth. He wet his lips before he said, “Center, I have been shot. Repeat, I have been shot. I was ambushed this morning. It’s critical.” He paused for a few seconds, evidently listening, then replied, “There were five—three were Bantu and two South Asians...probably Pashto...Rasheesh’s men.”

  Leslie felt her stomach clench when she heard Ben mention the name of the man from Mombasa. There was another pause, and Ben frowned before he replied, “Dead. Charles Endebbi was killed, too.”

  Paul and Leslie looked at each other upon hearing about the death of the man who took care of the airfield. Paul shook his head, and they returned their attention to Ben. They saw him nod, apparently responding to something. He closed his eyes and listened for a few more seconds. With his eyes still closed, he said, “Yes, Center. Rendezvous, Site Two. Sixty minutes. Stand by, and I’ll check the timing.” He opened his eyes and zeroed in on Paul. “Can you get me to Ngulia Lake within the hour?”

  Paul answered, “That’s only forty or fifty miles...but the condition of the road is abominable, where it exists at all.” Paul’s fear for his friend was evident. “Yeah, Ben. I think the truck can make it. But I’m worried...”

  Paul turned to Leslie, and she gave him a dubious look while shrugging slightly. Turning her attention to Ben, she said, “Ben, we need to take you to Nairobi.” Looking toward Paul again, she pleaded, “Nairobi is by far the best place to take him. He needs surgery!” She looked confused. “Isn’t Ngulia Lake the other direction?”

  Ben ignored the exchange. Into the phone he said, “We’ll be in a white Land Rover.” His breath caught, and he clutched his abdomen. Precious seconds passed before he was able to continue. “Roger, we’ll make Site Two at eight forty-five.” He listened again for a span and said with considerably less strength, “Roger that, Center, Falcon Station out.” He switched off the phone and lay back on the cot in exhaustion.

  The small group looked at one another. Finally, resigned to the decision that had evidently been made, Leslie said, “Ben, who is going to meet us at Ngulia Lake?”

  Without opening his eyes, he answered tiredly, “The people I work for.”

  She was stunned. She had known Ben for six months, and he’d never given any indication that he worked for anyone other than himself. Not comprehending, Leslie asked, “Will they take you to Nairobi?”

  Ben looked up at her and said, “I don’t know.”

  He seemed to regain a measure of strength, and before she could protest, he motioned to Simon, “Get the Land Rover ready for the trip, then come back for me.” He turned to Leslie and Paul and said, “Look in the large coffee cans...also bring the laptop and drives.” He closed his eyes, and Leslie jumped to look in the coffee cans, finding rolls of American bills as well as substantial amounts of Kenyan and Tanzanian currency; these she stuffed into her medical bag. In the meantime Paul picked up Ben’s backpack and shoved the laptop, money, passport and satellite phone into a compartment, while Simon and Titus returned for the injured pilot and carried him, cot and all, to the Land Rover.

  Simon opened the rear of the vehicle, and, with Leslie directing, the trio carefully used the bloody sheet to lift Ben. As he rushed into the driver’s seat, Paul instructed Titus to take Naomi back to the clinic, and then he started the vehicle.

  Simon rode in the front with Paul, while Leslie crawled into the back to be with Ben. He was awake but glassy-eyed and obviously in pain as they departed. She held his hand and gave a faint smile. “We’ll be there before you know it.” She tried to sound encouraging. “They’ll get you to the hospital and take care of your injuries. In a few days, you’ll get a shower in clean water, and before you know it you’ll be good as new.”

  He responded with a weak smile and then closed his eyes. Shortly thereafter, they hit the first pothole. Ben grimaced, gritting his teeth. Less than a minute later, there was another jolt. Ben groaned and gripped Leslie’s hand.

  Leslie let go of his hand and hastily dug through her bag. Finding the vial and a syringe, she drew up the pain medication. She leaned over him and saw that he was even more ashen than before. “Ben...Ben, I’m going to give you morphine now. We’re on our way, and there’s nothing more you can do. You need to rest.”

  His nod was almost imperceptible, and she slowly injected the medication into the IV line. As she put the syringe back into her bag, she saw the money. Quickly, she slipped the rolls of bills into the canvas bag that held Ben’s phone. As she did so, she noticed that it also contained three smallish devices—made of black plastic. Each device was a little larger than a deck of cards and had a short cable that obviously connected it to a computer. She closed the bag with a puzzled frown before returning her attention to Ben.

  She was relieved to see the bleeding from his leg appeared to have stopped. His pulse was still too fast and his blood pressure too low, but they were stable, and there was nothing more she could do except pray. So for the next fifty minutes, she did just that. “Please, God. Please God. Please,” she whispered over and over. “Don’t take him from me...please.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  THE LAND ROVER STOPPED. Leslie glanced out the window and saw that they were parked on one of the dry lake beds that dotted the arid regions of southern Kenya. The ground was thick, dried, broken mud, and, other than widespread clumps of knee-high golden grass, very little vegetation was visible in any direction. Nervously, she looked around for wildlife; lions were known to inhabit these gr
assy areas. The two men got out of the vehicle and moved to the front to watch for the promised transport. She was relieved to see Paul was holding a shotgun.

  She looked at her watch—eight-forty. Amazing. They had made the trip in only fifty-five minutes, a tribute to Paul’s aggressive driving and the durability of the Land Rover.

  Ben appeared to be sleeping. “Ben,” she whispered, “please, please stay with me. I need you. I love you.” She kissed him on the forehead, and he opened his eyes.

  “Are we there?” His voice was gravelly.

  She nodded. “Yes. Paul and Simon are watching for a plane.” She tried to smile. “I hope this guy is as good a pilot as you, because this looks like a really impossible place to land.”

  His lips curved slightly. “Maybe he’ll let me help....” His voice trailed off, and he was asleep again.

  Only a few minutes passed before Leslie became aware of a low hum. She scrambled out of the SUV and searched the sky for the source of the sound. In the distance she saw a silver speck, and as she watched, the speck grew larger and louder. Paul and Simon waved frantically, and as the plane neared the Land Rover, the pilot dipped its wings to each side.

  As she observed the plane, Leslie concluded that it was strange, somehow different from any she had seen before. She was surprised by the route the pilot was taking. He approached them at an alarmingly fast speed until he was almost directly overhead. The plane slowed but flew a little past them. While still at an altitude of several hundred feet, the pilot made a quick, banking turn and headed back.

  Just before the plane reached them, it appeared to stall. The trio on the ground stared as the twin propellers moved from being positioned in front of the plane to being above it, like rotors on a helicopter. Then, like a helicopter, the aircraft continued its descent as it moved slowly toward them. Within a minute, it landed less than sixty feet away. The aircraft was marked with a U.S. flag, an identification number, and, in bold black letters, “USMC.”

  The small group was still staring at the odd plane when three men wearing olive coveralls climbed out and jogged toward them. There were no markings or insignias on their clothing, and they were all hatless. Two pilots remained on the aircraft and could be seen waiting in the cockpit.

  One of the men carried a large canvas bag; another held what appeared to be a collapsible stretcher. As the three reached them, the one in the lead spoke to Paul. “We’re here for Ben Murphy.” He had to raise his voice to be heard over the roar of the rotors.

  Paul nodded and pointed to the Land Rover. “In there.”

  The men moved to the vehicle, and the one carrying the bag crawled into the back. Leslie started to follow but was detained by the nearest man. He said, “Stay here, ma’am. He’s going to check the patient.”

  Leslie pushed his hand aside. “Excuse me, but Mr. Murphy is my patient.” The guard scanned her bloody shirt and skirt, registered the determined look in her eyes and wisely stepped aside.

  Inside the Land Rover, she briefly studied the man who was bent over Ben. He looked to be in his early twenties and had black hair, dark brown eyes, and an olive complexion. She watched him pull a stethoscope out of his bag and take Ben’s blood pressure. After he got the reading, she informed him, “It’s been running about eighty over fifty. His pulse has ranged between one hundred and one-ten.”

  The man nodded. He pointed to the bag of fluid hanging from a coat hanger above Ben. “Is this the first liter?”

  She shook her head. “No, it’s the second. I ran in 1000 cc with one gram of cephalosporin. He’s also had ten milligrams of morphine.”

  He nodded as he listened to Ben’s chest. “Any problems breathing?”

  She shook her head a second time. “No. I’m less concerned about the chest wound than the abdominal wound. He lost a lot of blood from the leg, but that’s stopped for now.”

  The man pulled an insulated container from his backpack and removed a large syringe filled with yellow fluid. He handed it to Leslie and said, “Plasma. Push it.”

  Although not as good as a blood transfusion, the plasma was considerably superior to the IV fluid Ben had been receiving, and she quickly complied. While she was injecting the plasma into the IV tubing, the young man hurriedly assessed the bandaged wounds. Apparently determining there was little else that could be done in the rear of the SUV, he balled his stethoscope and shoved his equipment into his backpack. Leaning toward the door, he shouted, “Sid! Marty! Open out the stretcher. Let’s get this guy out of here!”

  The pair hurried to comply. The man in the truck turned back to Ben and said, “Sir, I’m Corpsman Enrique Garcia. Our team is going to lift you out of here. You should be fine.”

  Leslie saw Ben open his eyes and nod. He made a brief, waving gesture with one hand and said in a tired voice, “The bag... Get the bag...hard drives. Need to destroy the phone...” He closed his eyes again.

  Garcia replied with a sharp “Yes, sir,” then squatted at the back of the truck to help the other two with the little stretcher. In a few movements they slid the stretcher into the vehicle beside Ben, and Garcia rolled him carefully on his side to place the apparatus under him and then let him roll back on top of it. When Ben was in position, they pulled the stretcher from the truck.

  Without a word to Paul, Leslie or Simon, Garcia and the man called Sid carried Ben to the waiting plane. As they passed the third man—evidently Marty—Garcia said something and jerked his head toward the SUV. Marty then jumped into the truck to retrieve the canvas bag. He checked the contents and, apparently satisfied, exited the vehicle. He paused momentarily to address the little group. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  With that, he turned and jogged to the plane, climbed aboard and shut the door. In only seconds the rotors were turning faster, and moments later the aircraft was aloft. When it had risen a few hundred feet, the three on the ground watched in amazement as the aircraft started moving forward. Steadily the rotors shifted downward to become propellers once more. All the while, the plane was moving away with increasing speed. Within a minute it was only a speck in the eastern sky. Then it disappeared.

  Leslie looked at her watch and was astonished to find that the entire process had taken less than ten minutes. They’d been so focused on the bone-jarring drive through the savanna that she hadn’t really stopped to contemplate what would happen when they arrived. She had been terrified for Ben, and the relief she felt that he was evidently being flown somewhere for emergency care was beset with concurrent uneasiness about the events that had just transpired. She turned to Paul. His eyes were closed, and she suspected he was praying. Good, she thought with gratitude. Ben needs all the help he can get.

  As she watched Paul, she finally paused to analyze the events of the past hour. She’d been so caught up in her concern for Ben and doing what she could to save his life that she hadn’t thought to consider what was going on. Why had Ben been shot? What was the deal with the hidden laptop? The black computer devices? The phone? Obviously there had been a known threat, and certainly the possibility of injury had been anticipated—there’d been a contingency plan for just this sort of occurrence! And he’d asked for Paul because the preacher would know what to do. Paul hadn’t even questioned driving to the middle of nowhere rather than trying to take Ben to Nairobi. Suddenly, it became clear that Paul knew more than he was letting on.

  The cautious drive home took longer than the rush to the rendezvous site, and Leslie spent most of the time musing on the events of the morning and trying to avoid dwelling on Ben’s condition.

  Paul dropped Leslie by the clinic first, planning on taking Simon back to his own house to retrieve Ben’s Jeep. She asked Paul to accompany her to the door, where she paused to ask, “What happened?”

  He hesitated a breath before answering, “Leslie, it might have been bandits trying to rob him, or maybe steal the plane...”r />
  She frowned. “Paul, you know that’s not what I mean. What was the deal with the phone and the funny-looking airplane and the three men and all? Obviously, they were military. And Ben said something about Rasheesh...and he asked for you. I know you know... What is Ben involved in?”

  Paul sighed and looked her in the eye. “Leslie, I promised I wouldn’t tell. He only told me in case something like this happened. He needed someone to know where the hard drives were—”

  “Hard drives?” she interrupted.

  Paul rolled his eyes in exasperation, “Oh, good grief. I can’t believe I said that. I am really rattled... I’m usually better at keeping confidences than this.”

  “Paul, I’m not asking you to break a confidence. I just want to understand. I have no intention of doing anything that would harm Ben. You know that.”

  He took her hand. “I know, Leslie. And I know that he’s in love with you. He’s been afraid to say anything. He wasn’t sure what you felt—well, because of his lifestyle and all...”

  He closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingers before looking back at her. “Leslie, I can’t tell you everything, mostly because I don’t know everything. But I will say this. Since he’s been here, Ben has been doing some work for the CIA and the Defense Department.”

  Leslie stared at him. “The CIA? The Defense Department?” She recalled the title of his dissertation—Aerial Reconnaissance and Surveillance. She experienced a moment of disjointed confusion that suddenly cleared, as if puzzle pieces had jumbled and some fell into place. She absorbed the new revelation. Her voice was slightly tremulous when she asked, “Is...he a spy?”

  “I don’t think so—not exactly, at any rate,” Paul answered. “While he’s gone, for the most part he looks for evidence of terrorist activities and plans by groups like the pirates who are working off the east coast of Africa. He talks to people, observes movements and plots his findings on maps and in databases, which he gets to analysts somewhere via satellite.” Paul’s attempt to look blank failed miserably, and he was noticeably uncomfortable as he paused.