by Naomi Niles
“What you think, Zack?” he asked me, swallowing a mouthful of turkey.
I carefully skirted the question. “All I can say,” I said quietly, “is that I’ve got a job to do here, and as long as I can, I’m going to do it to the best of my abilities and knowledge. Being a SEAL means sometimes you’ve got to make tough calls. I just hope if that ever happens, I have the wisdom to think in the moment and do what’s best for my country.”
A couple of the guys applauded, but Carson shook his head in disgust. “You sound like a damn boy scout,” he said. “This isn’t some Miss America pageant; you can say what you really think.”
“That’s what I really think, Cursin,” I replied, intentionally mispronouncing his name. Carson glowered in annoyance. I could sense he wasn’t going to let me put him off that easily, and as I was putting up my tray, he slunk over and put his hand on my shoulder.
“Hey, buddy,” he said. His breath smelled of cheap cigarettes; I wondered when he had found the time to smoke. “You know I appreciate as much as anyone how PC you can be when you need to be, but you don’t have to talk that way around me. We’re friends here.”
“Thanks, Carson.” I shrugged his arm off. “I’m just not sure what sort of answer you’re looking for.”
Carson sputtered as if offended by the question. “I’m not looking for you to give me the correct answer. I just want to know what’s on your heart. What do you, Zack Savery, really think about what’s being said about us in the media?”
I drew a deep breath and shook my head. “You know, I haven’t been paying really close attention. I’d have to know more about it—”
“Oh, quit giving me that evasive B.S.,” Carson said impatiently. “I know you have an opinion. I can tell by the way you’re trying to hide it. You know what I said to Chuck just before we went on leave?”
“What did you say to Chuck?” I asked, knowing he was going to tell me anyway.
“You were on your way to bed. I pointed at you and said, ‘There goes a man who needs to have his own opinions.’ And it’s not that I don’t think you have them. Deep down, I know you’re a very opinionated person. But for whatever reason you always feel like you’ve got to be the peacemaker, so you never speak what’s on your mind.”
This was an oddly insightful analysis to come out of Carson’s mouth. I eyed him warily, as if suspecting he had been killed and replaced by an imposter. “You know what?” I told him. “That is the first time in our friendship I’ve felt truly understood by you.”
“Yeah?” he said loudly, flush with excitement. “It’s all true then, what I said?”
I shook my head slowly as I reached for a bottled water. “I’ll just say that sometimes I think it’s better to hold your peace than to throw logs on a fire. No matter what I say, it’s going to offend somebody at that table. And then they’ll be mad, and they’ll say something, and somebody else will say something, and then a fight will break out, and before we know it, we’ll all out there doing jingle jangles on the Grinder. I figured I would just save us all some trouble and keep my opinions to myself.”
To my surprise, Carson nodded, looking impressed. “Smart man,” he said, turning to address the rest of the mess hall. “Really smart guy here.”
I smiled with a sense of relief. That was a conversation that could’ve easily turned nasty. Sergeant Armstrong liked to say one of my gifts was as a peacemaker, and I was beginning to think maybe he was right. It helped that Carson was one of the less combative guys in our platoon. He wasn’t the sort of man who would deck you for having a different opinion. Matter of fact, he was about the only guy in the platoon with whom I felt comfortable sharing my true feelings.
We spent the afternoon out on the gun range, which I found somewhat relaxing after the ordeal of the morning. It went well, barring a few hiccups when my pistol jammed and I couldn’t get it to fire. I swore in frustration and had to take it apart to figure out what was wrong with it. Meanwhile, the other guys were looking at me and snickering behind their hands like we were in second grade. Ugh.
After we finished practice but before dinner, the sergeant called us into a meeting. I’d figured this was coming, given that it was our first day back, but I wasn’t at all prepared for what he had to say.
“K, listen up,” he said as he paced in front of the chalkboard. “Starting Monday, we’re going to have a visitor staying with us for the next couple weeks. They’re a reporter for a New York City website. Now before you freak out”—for the room had erupted into shocked, nervous, unhappy grumbles—“I just want to let you know that the editor of this website is a dear friend of mine from back home. We used to play basketball together back in the Windy City. And, while he is fairly liberal, he has promised me that his reporter will be objective and unbiased.”
Behind me, Bernie Kasdan groaned loudly. A lumbering, acne-faced man with a nose that was just slightly too large and slightly off-center, he had the most volatile temper of anyone in our platoon. Although he was an incredibly skilled sniper and climber, I sometimes got the uncomfortable feeling that he had only joined the SEALs because he liked to kill things.
“You know,” he said in his loud, nasally voice, “that when they say ‘objective and unbiased’ it’s always going to have a liberal bias. God, I hate those assholes.”
“Bernie, calm down,” said Chuck levelly. “The sergeant says they’re gonna do right by us, and I think we ought to give ‘em a chance.”
Sergeant Armstrong nodded in appreciation. “It’s a done deal,” he said. “They are already making plans to fly out here. This reporter will eat when we eat, will sleep when we sleep. He or she may want to interview some of you one on one. Do not be surprised or alarmed by this. You can trust this person. They will not misrepresent you.”
Bernie scoffed so hard I thought he was going to spit. Carson grinned and leaned back with his arms folded, evidently enjoying himself. “Just one question,” he said, with a nod to the sergeant. “This reporter, are they going to be a boy or a girl?”
Sergeant Armstrong grimaced. After a slight pause, he said, “That I do not know. But it shouldn’t matter either way. If it’s a woman, you will treat her with the same respect and dignity that you treat your male peers. You will be representing your country,” he added, looking hard at Carson, “the entire time she’s here, so if you embarrass yourself, you’re embarrassing this whole platoon and the country you claim to be protecting. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” said the platoon, though some of the voices sounded bored and unconvincing.
As we were filing out on our way to dinner, Carson nudged me in the ribs. “You hear that, Zeke? There’s going to be a lady living with us. Looks like your little shindig at the airport might not have been the end after all.”
“Lordy, you’re getting my hopes up,” I replied, running one hand across the back of my neck. I could feel how much I wanted it to be a woman—lady reporters could be obnoxious, but they were usually cute and intelligent. “If that plane lands in Kinshasha and a man steps out, there’s no telling what I might do to you.”
Carson grinned and said softly, “What if it’s a she?”
“Well, in that case,” I replied, “there’s no telling what I might do to her.”
Chapter Four
Kelli
In the end, I accepted the assignment reluctantly and knowing I was probably making a mistake and would come to regret it. In the end, I needed the money, and Evan was offering me twice my normal pay to spend two weeks in a foreign country. As my sister pointed out, I would have been a fool not to take him up on that offer.
“Besides,” she said as we sat on the couch drinking mochas the night before my flight, “I think it may end up being good for you.”
“Mmmm, what makes you say that?”
“It just seems like you’ve never quite forgiven Africa for what it did to you. This may be a chance for healing that the universe is setting in front of you.”
“Or a
chance to get hurt again,” I said under my breath. I wasn’t looking forward to stepping off the plane in a strange place, in being surrounded by the sort of men I had sworn I would never go near again. But I was being lured ahead by the money and by something else I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A restless feeling, I guess you could call it. Life in New York was challenging, but I felt like maybe I had grown too comfortable here.
I thought about the impulses that must have driven Captain Scott and his team of explorers on their doomed journey to the South Pole. They could have so easily stayed home in their warm, well-furnished studies and not died. I wondered if they regretted it as they lay freezing to death in the howling Antarctic waste, or whether they were grateful to given their lives in pursuit of a great adventure. I told myself I would never have gone on such a foolhardy mission. And yet here I was in a plane flying over the Atlantic in the dead of night, eating my dinner out of a small box, my eyes rimmed red from lack of sleep.
***
When I stepped off the plane in Kinshasha a day later, my guide was already waiting for me. He was wearing a long, loose-fitting garment that came down to his ankles, a ceremonial hat that reminded me of the bicorne, and a colorful assortment of necklaces and beads that jangled as he walked.
“Now that you’re here,” he said, “we have just one more trip to make.”
He motioned to the hangar where a small, two-seater plane was waiting for us. I clambered aboard with a nervous feeling, thinking I was going to be sick before we even left the ground. I had flown in planes like this more than once during my year in Kathmandu, but always in fear for my life.
Sensing my hesitation, my guide (whose name was Azzedine) smiled reassuringly. “Are you not used to flying in planes like this?” he asked.
“You never quite get used to it,” I replied.
“I wish there was some other way we could transport you. But there is only one road leading to the naval base, and it is a dirt road, and you would have thrown up your lunch several times over by the time we reached your destination. Besides which, there are bandits and militants roaming the jungles who would love nothing more than to ambush and kidnap a beautiful American woman like yourself. Most of them have never seen a white woman, and you would fetch a high price in the slave markets of Nigeria. Your SEALs may travel the road without fear of danger, but for the rest of us, it is too great a risk.”
So I would be risking my life either way we traveled. Fantastic. “Have you met Sergeant Armstrong?” I asked, trying to keep my mind off the dangers of the flight ahead of us.
Azzedine laughed lightly. “The sergeant and I have shared many drinks together. One often lacks for good company here in the heart of the jungle, and men like the sergeant are an oasis of water in a dry land.”
Everything I had heard or read about the sergeant suggested I would like him. “Do you think—” I began, but the words were ripped out of my throat by the roar of the plane’s engines. The plane wheeled slowly out of the hangar and onto the runway.
The ride was about as turbulent as I had expected, and I nearly threw up more than once. Crouched low in my seat with a terrible, twisted knot in my stomach that was half sickness, half worry, I took hardly any notice of the dense green canopy of forest over which we were flying, nor of the ramshackle industrial cities in the distance whose factories belched thick columns of black smoke into the air. Below us, the snaky folds of the Congo River curved their way through the jungle, emitting hot, steamy gusts of water into the air in clouds of mist.
It was with a deep sense of relief that I felt the plane beginning to slow as we prepared to descend. Venturing a glance over the side of the plane, I saw a large rectangular building with a tin roof standing beside a large chunk of black asphalt. A couple of small figures in brown camo stood near the landing strip, gesturing to the plane with their hands raised over their faces.
“Hold onto your seat!” shouted Azzedine over the roar of the plane. I braced myself for the impact. A minute later, we landed with a jolt that sent me shooting up out of my seat.
As I waited for Azzedine to come around and help me climb out of the cockpit, I shut my eyes and allowed myself to really breathe for the first time since before the plane had taken off. In the moment, it felt like we were going to die before we ever reached the naval base, but somehow, we had made it.
Now the real troubles began.
I guess I had always pictured the Congo as being a scenic place full of lush beauties. I remembered having to read The Poisonwood Bible in college, a novel with more than a few similarities to my own life, and marveling at the richness of the descriptions. What I hadn’t expected was acres of dry, brown grass and bare, leafless trees that were slowly dying under the relentless glare of the summer sun. It looked more like the images of rural Texas I had seen on the news than I had envisioned Africa looking like.
“Is this where I’ll be staying?” I asked. I’d thought we would be closer to the city, but this was a remote base, and there was no sign of the hotel Evan had indicated I would be staying at.
“Only during the day,” said Azzedine. “At night, some of the men will drive you back to the city, and they’ll bring you back early each morning before dawn.”
I could already tell my schedule for the next two weeks was going to be exhausting. There was nothing I dreaded more than the prospect of having to wake up early twelve days in a row.
What was worse, I remembered Azzedine’s words about the dangerous nature of the road leading back to Kinshasha. Only now did it occur to me how often I would be traveling that same road during the next couple of weeks. I hoped we weren’t ambushed, and that if we were, the SEALs would be able to protect us.
A man wearing a cap, a dark brown shirt, and a pair of matching khakis was standing at the end of the runway, his hands folded behind his back. He had a dark complexion, and I could sense even before he introduced himself that it was Sergeant Mohamed Armstrong.
“Kelli Pope?” he said with a curt nod as he came forward. Behind him eight men, all in their mid- to late twenties, stood at attention. “It’s a real pleasure to have you.”
It might have been racist of me, but judging from his appearance, I had expected him to have more of a Middle Eastern accent. But of course that was ridiculous; he had grown up in the Midwest with Evan, and his voice had the warm, reassuring tones of a television news broadcaster. Chiding myself for my prejudice, I strode forward and extended my hand. He had a firm grip, and his eyes radiated a severe kindness.
Taking me by the shoulders, he led me out of earshot of Azzedine and the other SEALs. Quietly he said to me, “I know you’re probably tired after the flight you’ve had, and I know this isn’t exactly a vacation. I just want you to know you have nothing to worry about while you’re here. My men are going to make sure you’re well taken care of. There are militants who live in these woods, but they’re not likely to attack while you’re here, and if they do, you’ll immediately be moved to a safe location.”
I found myself wanting to thank him for his consideration, but at the same time, a shrewd suspicion seized me. In the event of an attack, was he going to have me moved out of the way so I wouldn’t witness the platoon’s response? Were there measures they were willing to take that he would rather I didn’t know about?
“Is this your permanent residence?” I asked, motioning to the rectangular building with the tin roof. I remembered seeing a movie once where a military colonel was forced to sit in a metal box day after day in the intense heat. I couldn’t imagine staying in that building was any more comfortable.
Sergeant Armstrong shook his head. “This is where we stay for now, but the boys are prepared to leave at a moment’s notice. It’s a distinct possibility given the number of lawless hordes, many of them armed, that roam the jungle. Last year, over a dozen women were kidnapped from a convent just a few miles upriver.”
“Yes, I remember seeing that on the news,” I said. “It was tragic.”
&
nbsp; “Well, anyway,” said Sergeant Armstrong, nudging his head in the direction of the eight men who remained standing motionless on the asphalt. “Shall I introduce you?”
“Please.”
He went down the line and introduced me to each of the SEALs one at a time.
“This is Carson Wallace, one of our best swimmers and climbers. Thinks of himself as a comedian, but his real gifts lie elsewhere.” Carson nodded at me, not seeming to have noticed Sergeant Armstrong’s stealth insult. He had a thin, weaselly face with a long nose, bushy brows, and small, beady eyes.
“Chuck Howell.” He motioned to a man, slightly older than most of the others, with a broad, bulky frame and a red beard. “Chuck is the only member of our platoon who’s married. He’s got a wife and daughter back in the States, and he treats the rest of the platoon like his own sons. He’s about the most serious guy I’ve ever met. If you can get him to laugh, you will break the spell that has been on him these seven years.”
True to form, Chuck did not even break a smile. Sergeant Armstrong moved on to the last man.
“And this here is Zack Savery. Every platoon needs a peacemaker, and Zack is ours. He has a natural flair for resolving disputes, which is fascinating to me because he’s never been trained in conflict resolution. I think it must come from all those books he reads.”
Zack winced, evincing just the slightest hint of impatience with the sergeant’s musings. He was oddly handsome; this I could tell despite the fact that he was covered from head to foot in camo. He had one of those perfectly symmetrical faces that are the exception in nature rather than the rule. When I looked at him, I thought I saw his eyes twinkling with mischief for a split second. But then the moment passed, and I wondered if I had imagined it.
“They’ll be starting their physical training tomorrow at 5:00am,” said Sergeant Armstrong as he led me toward the back of the warehouse where a truck was waiting. “I’ll send one of the boys to come get you about an hour before.”
