by R G Ainslee
"Yeah, but I’ve killed three people over the last few days. She doesn’t know. If I tell her, she’ll be revolted. It’s against her religious beliefs. And to top it all off, I placed her in a position where she was forced to kill. I don’t know what to think." The image of Marsden begging for his life, stuck in my mind. "Maybe I’m evil at heart, not fit for someone like her."
"Evil is a choice, a lost soul chooses evil. Man was created with two choices, one good, and one evil. Moral choices are a conflict between these choices. The battle between good and evil takes place in the heart. Ross, you are not evil, you were forced to choose to survive. Evil was thrust upon you."
"Just did what I had to do."
A radiance of conviction smoldered in her eyes. "Yes, but you did not hesitate. That is why you survived. You are not evil. You were fighting evil. That makes you a good person and that is why Lisette needs you. Remember the fact that you are anguished means you have capacity for good. You are a good man who beholds the world of good and evil and judges it with your inner faith."
"Dunno, you may be right… just dunno."
"I am right."
"You think she’ll ever go back to the convent?"
"No, she told me she had decided not to take her vows. To be a nun one must surrender her independence, memories, and all personal desires and ambitions. At the moment of final decision, Lisette found she could not maintain her devotion to that ideal. She faced a painful inner conflict over her choice. She intended to tell her parents when they arrived. She blames herself. ‘Their deaths crushed her will and faith."
I started to speak, didn’t know what to say.
"Don’t you see? You have helped her. She needs you."
Jim called from the living room. "We gotta go."
I kissed Lisette on the lips. My heart was broken. I didn't even feel a need for revenge. Grief had dampened my rage and desire for retribution. I plodded weak-kneed to the door.
Sarah grabbed my arm on the way out. "Listen to me — you are headed for danger." Her voice hardened, "Do not let your doubts get you or anyone else killed."
She struck home. I knew what I had to do. "We’ll look after each other … we’ll return safely. Don’t worry. Thanks Sarah … for everything."
* * *
On the way back to the embassy, I told Barker, "You’re a lucky guy."
"How so?"
"Sarah really has it together. She knows how to say the right thing at the right time."
"She’s my rock. Not sure what I would do without her."
"Yeah, life can get complicated. Guess it’s a good thing to have someone to keep you focused."
"Speaking of complications, I had to get rid of Lisette's pistol. The embassy's FBI liaison officer was called in by the Kenyan Justice Ministry to help analyze the slug pulled out of the guy Lisette shot."
"There's no way they can trace it back to her. Were you afraid they'd get the gun?" I didn't understand.
"They made a match on the bullet with one used to kill a prominent Kenyan politician last month. The same weapon was used in both shootings."
"What'd you do?"
"I cleaned the pistol including boiling it in hot water. Removed all fingerprints, I'm sure."
"Then what?"
"I wrapped it up in a page from the Nairobi Standard that contained the story about the body at the Canadian embassy and mailed it to the Police Commissioner. No return address."
"Don’t understand?"
"Now they can match the bullets from the bodies with the pistol they were fired from. A Soviet weapon with a silencer is not your everyday safari gun. And the best part," he paused for effect, "it's the same model they took off two hyrax poachers on Mount Kenya. You see where this is headed?"
"The Russian's and their Cuban friends will have to lay low for a while. Jim, you're either a genius or diabolically evil. Which is it?"
"You're a good one to ask that question."
* * *
When we reassembled in the secure conference room, only Wilson was missing. Santini, Barker, Smith, and I poured over the plans and speculated about the fate of the plane and its crew. We plotted out its most likely course and attempted to evaluate the terrain. Barker said it was like a blind cat trying to catch a mouse.
Wilson rushed in carrying a cardboard carton. "Gentlemen, we cleaned out the ambassador’s safe." He dropped the box on the table and revealed a large stack of Dollars and a wad of Kenyan Shillings.
Smith asked, "He give you any flack?"
Wilson answered with a disarming grin. "The ambassador didn't want to cooperate, so I was forced to threaten to call Washington. Fortunately, my bluff worked. This box contains 38,000 dollars and the equivalent of 2,000 dollars in Kenyan currency." He addressed me, "You think this will be enough?"
"Remember we need 5,000 for the aircraft and a couple hundred for fuel and extra fuel cans," said Barker.
"Should be plenty." I hoped. "We'll make it work."
The phone rang: a call for John Smith. He spoke a few words and hung up. "My asset obtained some approximate coordinates. The aircraft is on the ground somewhere northeast of Pibor Post." He paused, sat down, and fixed a stare on Wilson. "We need to act fast, a Sudanese Army column is ready to move out at daybreak. He expects they’ll arrive on-site around mid-day."
Santini spread a map out on the table. The coordinates placed the downed plane about eighty-five kilometers from Pibor Post in a road-less area, deep in the bush with no villages nearby. We hoped the Sudanese troops would take their time.
Barker opened a folder of aerial photos and leafed through until he found one covering the location. The print was over thirty years old, but it was all we had. He scanned the surprisingly good resolution image for possible landing sites with a magnifying glass.
"Any place to put down?" asked Santini.
"Can't tell," said Barker. "We'll play it by ear. I've always been able to find a spot to land in the bush. Just need to get lucky."
"If there's no villages nearby, how did they get captured?" asked Wilson.
I answered, "The population in the area is nomadic, only a few permanent settlements, and that changes from year to year. Jim's right, we gotta get lucky."
Wilson shifted and sat upright. "This whole enterprise, Raven-One, is in peril. The risks are piling up and we are running out of viable options. I'm uncomfortable with the Sudanese Army actions. Their involvement has dramatically increased the chance of something going wrong. We must weigh the operational hazards against our chances of success. Gentlemen, I can't order you to go. This is too much of a shot in the dark. It's up to you. The rest of this mission is purely voluntary."
John Smith’s head twisted towards the colonel. "You know I'm a former — No — I am and always will be, an Army Ranger. We have a credo: no man left behind, we take care of and rely on each other, in good times or bad, despite the consequences. The fact that our brothers will never give up allows us to put our life on the line. That's why we never leave a fallen comrade or one in harm’s way." He looked each of us in the eye. "These are good men … my men … my responsibility … so, if you choose not to go — I will — at whatever the cost and regardless of what you say, Colonel."
Santini turned to Barker. "When will the Porter be ready?"
Barker grinned. "We can leave at daybreak."
"What kind of weapons we need?" I asked.
Santini replied, "Ask Sergeant King, he's the expert."
Barker and Santini left to drive out to the small local airfield to prepare the Pilatus Porter for a dawn take off. I found King down in the Marine arms room cleaning an AR-15. From the expression on his face, he realized I wanted something.
I tried to sound nonchalant, "We need to borrow a few weapons for a hunting trip up north." That got his attention, "Outfit three people for whatever."
King leaned back on the counter and gave me a skeptical stare. "Is this official business or a private excursion?"
"Little bit of b
oth." Tried to be vague, but he was buying none of it. "Okay, we’re flying up to the Sudan on a rescue mission, some of our guys are missing and maybe being held prisoner by a shifta gang. That's all I can tell you, strictly off the record."
"Hmm… can't give you any of our issue weapons. They might be traced back to the embassy if—"
"We lose ‘em, we'll be dead, and it won't matter."
He flashed a mischievous grin. "The CIA spook upstairs got a couple old AK-47's in his cabinet, I'm sure he won't miss 'em for a few days." He popped open a locker. "Let me see, how 'bout a Weatherby .460." He pulled out a big bore bolt-action hunting rifle. "They tell me former ambassadors kept this beast on hand for visiting big shots. Not used anymore since big game hunting’s outlawed in Kenya now."
"Fine. Got any pistolas?"
"Okay, the spook's got two old Chinese made Tokarev TT's." He nodded to me. "You can borrow my PPK."
"Ammo?"
"Gotcha covered, but only three rounds for the Weatherby. From what I hear, you won't want to fire the weapon more than once anyway. Big-time heavy recoil. If you do shoot it, make sure you take a firm stance, or it'll knock you on your butt." King hesitated, gave me that roguish grin, and said, "You boys don’t need an extra hand do ya?"
"Sorry, we only got limited space on the aircraft."
The sergeant sighed. "Oh well. Good luck and be careful."
* * *
Barker and Santini returned and we worked until just past ten p.m. Wilson insisted we all stay at the embassy to maintain operational security. Consequently, I didn't get to call Lisette.
As we prepared to bed down in the Marine bunkroom, Barker said, "Hey Ross, forgot one little item Sarah mentioned about the trip to the doc's."
"What, about Lisette?"
"She met one of Lisette's friends at the doctor's office?"
"Lara?"
"No, Kara."
"What was her problem … mountain sickness?"
"No, apparently, she was in for a pregnancy test." Barker fixed me with a stare, waiting for a response.
I paused to reflect on the newest revelation. What did Lisette believe? "I just met her last week, we just rode the bus together, and that's all."
"Sarah said Lisette knows and told her all about Kara, including your little rendezvous at the Hilton."
"Like I said—"
"Think about it, instead of going off risking your life, you could be holed up somewhere in a little love nest with Kara having the time of your life."
Not too many days ago, that would have been my first choice, but now my life was a confused mess. Wasn't sure about anything, wasn’t even sure I would survive.
Chapter 24 ~ Sudan
Tuesday, 21 February: Northern Kenya
The green jade waters of Lake Rudolf stretched off to our left. A small bush camp: two Land Rovers and about a half dozen safari tents lay to the right, the only sign of life for miles in the austere landscape.
Barker lined the Porter up on the approach to an isolated desert airstrip, little more than a dirt track cleared of rocks. He dipped the nose, pushed the throttle forward, gained speed, and came straight in. At the last second, he pulled up and buzzed the dusty airstrip at low altitude.
"What was that about?" asked Santini.
"Make some noise to scare the animals away. Don't need a warthog or some other critter lumbering out on the runway when we come in. I almost learned the hard way up here last year."
Barker looped around and banked left in a steep turn towards the runway. The sunburned earth rushed up to meet us. The large flaps deployed, and Barker eased the yoke back. The Porter leveled off. At the end of the dirt strip, he eased back once more and brought the nose up. The aircraft decelerated, shuddered, and gently touched down. Barker applied full brakes and reverse thrust. We rolled only a few hundred yards before he spun the craft around and taxied back to the tents.
A large man with a weathered tan face and a thick black beard strolled up after Barker killed the engine. He wore a wide brimmed safari hat, khaki shorts, shirt, and rough well-worn safari boots. A hunting rifle slung over his broad shoulders. He casually inspected the Porter and asked Barker with a vague accent, "Hey Bark, you steal this from Dieter?"
"If you only knew how much he was charging me."
The man laughed heartily. Obviously, they had met before. "Who these guys? … You go in competition with me?"
"Nah, we’re on our way further north."
The man's smile evaporated. "Over the frontier … Sudan."
"Yeah, need to top up on fuel. Any problem?"
"Sure, anything you want, I no ask why." He turned and yelled in a local language and an old Land Rover with a small fuel trailer began to move towards the Porter. Barker stepped down out of the cockpit and the man confided, "Better be careful, things been hot up in the triangle lately."
Barker nodded in acknowledgement and said to us, "Guys, this is Domingo de los Santos. He owns this place. These guys are Al and Ross." I had forgotten Santini's first name was Albert.
Dom spied our AK-47's and the Weatherby in the back of the Porter. "You guys going after hyena? Lots them up that way." He didn't wait for an answer and ambled over to the fuel truck to help with refueling.
I wandered around and checked the place out while they refueled. A basic safari camp for those who wished an authentic experience: tan canvas tents, no obvious tourist amenities, no bars, no shops, and only crude sanitary facilities. Three almost naked men stood motionless on the far side of the dirt runway.
"Turkana," spoke a voice from behind, it was Dom. "This is those guys homeland. They've lived this way forever. Some professor called this place the cradle of mankind."
"Looks more like the graveyard to me."
He laughed. "No, you would be amazed what's out there. When you got a week, come back sometime. Just ask Bark."
The Porter took less than 300 yards to lift-off. Barker banked to the left and cruised out over Lake Rudolf’s jade waters.
After we leveled off, I asked, "What's this triangle business?"
Santini answered, "He was talking about the Ilemi Triangle, a disputed area between Kenya and Sudan. Won't cause us any problem unless we have to land."
We passed beyond Lake Rudolf and flew on in silence. The morning had started early. Barker insisted we take off before dawn. We first caught the sun rising in the east after we gained our cruising altitude at 8,000 feet. He worried about maintaining our airspeed and wanted to make a re-fueling stop.
Our route north traversed the Great Rift Valley past Mount Kenya and over the northern desert. Now, the Porter flew northwest under large fluffy clouds lifted up on thermals rising from the hot dry plains. The vast African savanna spread below, random yellow and green patterns superimposed on a brown landscape unbroken by roads or settlements. Three hundred fifty miles had passed under our wings, Pibor Post less than two hours away. We were half way.
* * *
We flew on and spotted the Pibor River snaking its way through the bush. Barker guided the Porter north along the river until the Pibor Post settlement came into view. The map showed a small airfield in addition to the military post. We turned early to avoid visual detection by Sudanese authorities.
Barker flew by dead reckoning with no navigational aids, the maps old and sometimes unreliable. The bush offered few identifiable landmarks, just trees, dry washes, and the occasional rock outcrop. Navigation was by necessity a matter of time and distance on a constant heading. Santini calculated and plotted a vector towards the northeast. Barker banked the Porter to the right and followed the new course over endless bush.
Forty-five minutes later, a red dust column rose from the plain. Barker said, "Must be the Sudanese Army detachment." From 2,000 feet above, three open trucks and two smaller jeep-like vehicles became visible off to our left.
Santini peered through the binoculars. "They number less than fifty men. We're on the right track, should be getting close."
A
few kilometers later, Santini said, "Captain, why don't you zigzag a bit to cover more territory, we'll keep a look out, Ross you take the left."
The monotonous landscape passed under us: brown dirt, brown rocks, more brown dirt, almost brown trees, and even more brown dirt. A few miles later, a contrasting flash of color caught my eye. Lost sight of it for a second and then a glimmer appeared.
"Something at ten o'clock … see that open space?"
"Got it," acknowledged Barker and he dipped the nose down for a better view. Soon a small low-wing aircraft with a white paint job came into focus.
"Looks like a Piper Cherokee," said Santini.
"More likely a Marchetti 205," I said. "Remember seeing one in Asmara."
Barker agreed, "Yeah, you may be right. … Ethiopian registration. ET-A… can't make out the last two letters … has to be the one."
I asked, "Wonder what happened? Think they ran out of fuel?
Santini responded, "They should have had plenty fuel, perhaps something else. Take us around again."
Barker circled back and flew low over the landing spot. The small plane sat alone, front wheel strut broken and twisted at an angle under the fuselage. The right wing crumpled from a hard swipe along the ground. Everything else seemed intact and no signs of a fire.
"Don't see them. Do you?" I asked.
"No, I'll make another pass and try to keep the speed down."
"Up ahead at two o’clock," shouted Santini.
Barker climbed, banked, circled around, deployed the flaps, and made a slow speed run towards the downed aircraft. "There, under a tree." Four hundred yards past the crash site at the edge of a clump of trees lay what appeared to be the carcasses of two animals.
We passed the remains and it was clear they had at one time been human. Hyenas, vultures, and everything else had taken their toll. Only the presence of scattered clothing scraps testified to their human origin. We didn't speak, too shocked to comment or speculate. My stomach rolled, I was about to throw up.
Barker pulled up and began to search for a place to land. I stuck my face out the window, desperate for fresh air. A thought occurred to me: Is that the way we're going to end up? I refocused my attention to survival mode and offered a silent prayer: Please let us survive this day.
