by Robert Gandt
Barkley is on his feet. The terrified expression is gone from his face. “Why did it take so long to get someone out here? We’ve been stuck out here for over two hours in the middle of a war.”
Brand’s eyes fix on the ambassador. “No one has heard from you since the cell phone towers went down. You haven’t been transmitting or receiving on your satellite radio as you were expected to do.” Brand spotted the Mark 12 transceiver lying on the dirt floor. He picked up the radio and examined it. “The transmit-receive key is still locked. Lucky for you, it sent your GPS position automatically. That’s the only way we knew where you were.”
Barkley glowers at the radio. “No one told me about a damned switch lock. We could have been killed because of that thing.”
“You’re not out of the woods,” says Brand. “The rebels have the Bissau airport sealed off, and they’re putting up roadblocks.” He checks his watch. “Everyone needs to board the truck now.”
While they climb into the truck, Libby takes another long glance at Brand. There is something about him. The curt manner with the officious ambassador. The way he directs them to board the truck. Definitely not one of the courteous, protocol-observing officers the Air Force usually assigns to Congressional missions.
Brand takes the wheel. The burly crew chief, Sergeant Rosak, climbs into the right seat. Libby and Barkley take the rear seats while the others clamber into the tarp-covered truck bed.
“Where’d this vehicle come from?” says Barkley. “This isn’t one of the vans we hired for this trip.”
“The vans you hired are gone,” Brand says over his shoulder. “Along with the drivers. This truck belongs to the rebel commander who just took over the airport.”
“He let you have it?” says Libby.
“Not exactly.”
“You wanna know where the truck came from?” says Sergeant Rosak from the front seat. “Col. Brand swiped it right from under their nose. Don’t be surprised if the rebel commander isn’t real happy when we get to the airport.”
Libby feels her fear returning. Through the windshield she can see long shadows playing over the red clay road as dusk settles over the country. The thick forest on either side of them conceals invisible danger.
As they come out of a turn beneath a canopy of overhanging trees, the danger becomes visible.
“Oh, shit,” mutters Rosak.
There are four of them. One holds a Kalashnikov, the others machetes. They look like the troops assigned to guard them this morning, but these are even more ragtag. They wear tennis shoes and baseball caps. They have the road blocked with tree limbs and a piece of corrugated tin.
“Now what?” says Rosak.
“Keep your heads down,” Brand orders over his shoulder. He keeps the truck rolling toward the blockade.
The soldier with the Kalashnikov stands in the middle of the road. He motions for the truck to stop. Brand waves as he slows the truck nearly to a stop. The soldier gets a look at the two flight-suited men in the front. A scowl spreads over his face. “Americans!” he yells to the others. Brandishing the machetes, the soldiers converge on the stopped truck.
The soldier in charge is reaching for the truck door handle on the driver’s side when Brand pops the clutch and stomps on the accelerator. The truck lurches, stalls, then lunges ahead. They crash into the roadblock. Tree limbs wrap around the front of the truck. Rosak ducks just in time to miss a spiked branch that punches through the windshield. The corrugated tin smacks the hood, then scrapes over the top of the cabin.
The truck is howling like a banshee, still in low gear. Branches are flapping like appendages from the front bumper and the hood. They roar down the red clay road. “Stay down!” yells Brand.
They hear the first burst from the Kalashnikov at the same instant the rounds zip through the truck cab. They pass over Brand and Rosak’s ducked heads, blowing out what’s left of the windshield. A second later the next burst smacks into the back of the truck.
Libby hears someone yell. It’s one of the Foreign Service officers. “Oh my god, I’ve been shot!”
More rounds ping into the steel tailgate. She feels the truck swerve. She guesses that one of the tires had been hit. Brand keeps the truck on the road, shifting through the gears, opening up their distance from the shooter. They hear one last three-round burst, which misses them.
Libby leans over the back of the cabin. The State Department officer, the one named Fitzpatrick, is moaning and clutching his leg. Jill Maitlin had his trouser leg pulled up and is probing the wound. “He’s okay, I think,” she says. “The bullet was mostly spent after it came through the tailgate.” A few seconds later she holds up the warped lead bullet, still blood-stained. She hands it to Fitzpatrick. “There’s a trophy for you. Hell, in this administration that’ll get you a promotion.”
Libby feels an ominous whap-whap coming from beneath the rear of the truck.
“Uh, Colonel, I think we’ve got a flat tire.”
“I’m a lieutenant colonel.”
“I think it’s the left rear.”
“Call me Pete.”
“Pete. What about the tire?”
“Not a good place to change tires. We’ll just press on with the three good ones.”
Which they do. The shredded rubber continues slapping against the fender for another couple miles before it departs the wheel. Sparks are flying from the tireless rim as they pull up to the Bissau airport. It is just after sundown.
The entrance is guarded by a dozen rebel soldiers. This time Brand stops. The soldiers are just as ragtag as the ones they encountered at the roadblock. Same tennis shoes, baseball caps, ragged fatigues. They seem to recognize Brand. They make a show of checking the IDs of each occupant. They search under the seats and beneath the chassis. While they are still checking the truck, a camo-painted Land Rover wheels up. A heavy-set, gray-headed African man in fatigues dismounts and storms over to Brand.
“That’s the guy,” says Rosak. “The rebel commander who took over the airport. This is his truck we swiped. He’s gonna be pissed.”
Rosak is right. The commander is pissed. He is yelling at Brand, pointing at the damaged vehicle, slapping his holstered pistol menacingly. Brand keeps shaking his head no.
The commander is still ranting when Libby comes around the front of the truck. “Excuse me, sir. I would like to thank you.”
The commander turns to glower at her. His hand remains over the pistol. “Who are you?”
“I’m Congresswoman Libby Paulsen.” She extends her hand. “And you, sir?”
His cheeks puff out. Tentatively, he takes her hand. “Colonel Raimundo Tchonga of the Guinea-Bissau Peoples Resistance.” He nods toward Brand. “This man has committed a crime against—”
“On behalf of the President of the United States, I am here to thank you for offering the use of this truck.”
“I did not offer—”
“By your actions you have saved the lives of a United States ambassador and a United States Congresswoman.”
“The United States is not our friend.”
“Oh, but it is.” Libby isn’t releasing the colonel’s hand. She is giving him what she hopes is her most sincere expression. “When your people are in control of Guinea-Bissau, you can count on us for our support.”
“What can you do?”
“I will speak to the President. He’ll be pleased to hear what you’ve done for us here.”
The colonel seems to ponder this. He looks at Brand, then the bullet-holed truck, then back at Libby. The almond eyes soften. He nods and makes a sweeping gesture in the direction of the airport ramp.
Minutes later, flanked by a squad of armed rebels, Libby and her fellow passengers are clambering up the boarding ladder of the blue-and-white Boeing jet with “United States of America” emblazoned on the fuselage. The cabin door clunks shut behind them. From her padded seat in the front of the cabin, Libby hears the comforting whine of the engines spinning to life. Not until she feels the
nose tilting upward, lifting from the concrete runway, does Libby allow herself to relax.
The flight to Dakar takes twenty-five minutes. Enough time to reflect on what happened. A hell of a day. She was nearly killed. She shared the company of an inept ambassador, two State Department twits, and her tough-as-nails legislative aide.
And a maverick officer named Pete Brand.
Libby knows that she should be exhausted. Jet lag, the adrenaline surges of the afternoon, the tiresome chatter of Barkley and the State Department twits have left her feeling drained. By the time they land in Dakar and return to the hotel, she wants only to sleep.
But she doesn’t. In the quiet of her hotel room, something is nagging at her. She has been saved from a terrible calamity in the village of Bissora. She should thank the person responsible to saving her.
Yes, that’s the least she can do. With that thought, she picks up the phone to call Brand’s room.
Chapter 7
Libby opened her eyes. She was alone in the Presidential office. Being alone was a rare condition in her life. Jill was gone, probably back to the cabin to brief the passengers on the Greenland landing. Libby thought that maybe she should go back too. Show them that she was in good spirits. Show them she was still in charge.
She didn’t. Libby remained in the leather office chair. She closed her eyes again and let her mind return to Africa. With perfect clarity she could recall the events of that evening in Dakar. She could see the sun setting over the South Atlantic, the soft pink afterglow clinging to the horizon. She could still see Brand seated at the end of the hotel’s beachside bar as she walked in.
He rises, flashing the same smile she’d seen back at the Quonset hut. For the first time she notices that Brand is a good-looking man. Out of uniform he seems taller, more slender. He’s wearing a loose polo shirt, cargo shorts, sandals. The military sternness has slipped from his face.
They order drinks. Vodka tonic for her, a local beer called La Gazelle for him. Libby feels the tension of the day slipping away from her. She touches her glass to Brand’s. She says what she came here to say. “Thank you.”
“Nothing to thank me for.”
“You got us through the blockade.”
“You got us past the rebel commander at the airport. That was impressive.”
“I was terrified.”
“Not that anyone could tell.”
“In a previous life I was an actress,” she says. “It’s my single qualification to serve in Congress.”
They order more drinks. They talk about politics, the Middle East, Congress, the Air Force. About themselves.
Brand is divorced, she learns. His wife hated Air Force life, the constant change of duty stations, subordinating her academic career to her husband’s. Instead of accompanying Brand on a transfer to Germany, she accepted a professorship in the school of communication at Tufts. The divorce came a few months later. An amicable split. No kids, no recriminations.
Libby delivers the fairy tale version of her marriage. It’s the version her office passes out to the media. Ken Paulsen, her husband, is a lawyer and lobbyist. Married twelve years, no children. They enjoy skiing and biking, take vacations in the Rockies. The magazine writers love them. They’re a power couple in the Washington social scene.
She leaves out the rest. A House representative, at least one who wants to be reelected, never mentions that hers is a marriage in name only. Nor does she discuss her husband’s multiple infidelities.
Clustered around a table at the other end of the thatched-roof bar are half a dozen members of the Congressional mission. Ambassador Barkley is holding forth about his role in their escape from Guinea-Bissau. The civil war has already sputtered to a stalemate. Each side is claiming to be in control of the country. Libby wonders whether the rebel colonel will invoke her name if the resistance movement takes over the country.
Standing at the bar are the two State Department envoys, clad in nearly identical shorts and tropical shirts. They’re chatting up a pair of sunburned British girls. The one named Fitzpatrick is showing the girls his bullet wound from the afternoon’s adventure.
Libby senses Jill Maitlin watching her from the group at Barkley’s table. Libby recognizes that bird-like gaze. It conveys either intense interest or utter disapproval. With Jill it’s hard to tell. Since joining Libby’s staff as legislative aide, Jill Maitlin has assumed the roles of advisor, mother confessor, and chaperone.
Libby is surprised that she and Brand have so little—and yet so much—in common. Her political orientation is to the left of Brand’s, but not by as much as she expected. He is cut from a different mold than the conservative military officer corps she knows in Washington. He seems to have little interest in politics. Or else he’s being diplomatic. Brand doesn’t seem the diplomatic type.
She tells herself that she should leave. She’s fulfilled her obligation. She’s joined her rescuer for a drink, thanked him for his meritorious service, done her duty as a member of the House of Representatives. It’s late and she’s tired. The Congressional mission departs early in the morning on a commercial flight to the U. S. Time to leave.
She doesn’t move. Instead, she hears herself say, “Another drink?”
“Sure,” says Brand.
Libby sees the group at Barkley’s table rising and heading for the dining room. As they file past the bar the ambassador gives her a wave. Libby waves back. She pretends not to notice the baleful glance from Jill Maitlin as the gangly woman follows the group out of the bar.
A four-man Senegalese band is playing at the far end of the bar. The State Department envoys are on the dance floor with the two giggling tourists.
Brand says, “That woman, the tall one—”
“Jill Maitlin. She’s our legislative office chief of staff.”
“She looks displeased.”
“Jill thinks it’s her job to protect me.”
“Do you need protecting?”
“I don’t know. Do I?”
He smiles. “No.”
Libby almost came down in the slacks-and-shirt combo that Jill counseled her to wear on trips like this. “Don’t show too much flesh,” was Jill’s advice. “I know these third world politicos. They think you’ve come here to entertain them.”
As she was about to leave the room, Libby decided to hell with the advice. She changed into the sleeveless red-and-blue print dress, flats, no hose. The kind of outfit she’d wear on a summer evening in Georgetown. The thin fabric reveals just enough figure—and bare legs—without crossing the line of flashiness.
She likes the way Brand looks at her. Not ogling her legs or figure, but definitely noticing. He has a way of fixing those blue eyes on her when she speaks. She is accustomed to men trying to impress her with titles or money or connections. It’s an unwritten rule that Washington bureaucrats and military officers have to chat up attractive Congresswomen. It’s a requirement. Just enough suggestive patter to establish their alpha maleness.
Brand isn’t doing any of that. He’s polite, but not deferential. They are sitting on adjoining lounge chairs, his knee a few inches from hers. But he isn’t making a play. Still, there’s something about him. The way he nods when she talks about the tedium of Congressional committees. The way he smiles, saying nothing, when she tells him how shit-scared she’d been when they plowed through the roadblock.
A thought strikes Libby. For the first time since leaving Washington she feels relaxed. Too relaxed. Careful, girl. She knows it’s the vodka and the jet lag and, most of all, the buzz from their close call in Bissora. Isn’t it a cliché that rescued women feel an attraction to their rescuers?
She’s done most of the talking, which is different. Congresswoman Libby Paulsen has the reputation of being a good listener. Her job, as she sees it, is to listen respectfully to her constituents, cantankerous and long-winded as some of them are. She’s good at it. Too good sometimes. Jill Maitlin has to wade into crowds to extract Libby from her fans.
So why is she running her mouth like an adrenalized parrot? Because she trusts him? Because he makes her feel comfortable? Or something else? Never mind, she tells herself. Jill Maitlin isn’t there to shoot warning glances at her.
She asks questions. How long did Brand’s marriage last?
“Five years, three months and a week. Give or take a day.”
“Longer than mine.”
“I thought you were married.”
“I’m in a marriage. It looks better at election time.”
He nods, not prying, swirling the beer in his glass. “Why did you run for congress?”
She doesn’t answer right away. It’s the same question she gets at talk shows and mag interviews. She usually answers, “I wanted to make a difference.” Or “I thought I could do a better job than the incumbent.” When she was really laying it on she would say something like, “I wanted to give something back to this great country.”
“The truth?” she says.
“Any version you want.”
“Power. The same reason all politicians run. Congress is a pure power trip. Isn’t it the same in the military? You get to command a squadron or an air wing?”
“If you’re a good politician.”
“Are you a good politician?”
He laughs, and she notices again how the eyes crinkle and the dimple appears in his right cheek. “Zero political skills. Unelectable, unpromotable.”
“I find that hard to believe after what I saw today.”
“Stealing trucks doesn’t get you promoted to general.”
“Even if it saves the life of a congresswoman?”
“Only in the movies. Not in the real Air Force.”
“What would you do if you weren’t in the real Air Force?”
He pretends to think about it. “Something to match my skill sets. A truck driver maybe?” He sips at his beer. “And you? What would you do if you weren’t in congress?”
“You mean when I’m not in congress. Voters get a chance to fire me every two years. Then I go on to my next life.”
He clinks his glass against hers. “To our next lives.”
