Where Tomorrow Leads

by DiAnn Mills

  Every breath found him on a downward spiral, anxious about everything and overwhelmed with what needed to be accomplished. Maybe he’d get lucky, and an enemy bullet would end it all. The glory in that death was a better legacy to leave David—but first his son needed to find out about his father.

  The truth ate at him. Ben craved a relationship with his son, and his son needed a father. But would the boy even want to be a part of Ben’s remaining days? David had been raised by a fine woman, and Ben wanted to thank her. He could provide only a meager living for them after he was gone. Most of his money went to his younger sister Rachel in California for her education. Perhaps once she finished nursing school and secured a good job, she could help David and his mother.

  David’s mother does have a name. Daruka. You took her when she was barely fifteen years old, lured her into your arms, and then abandoned her when she got pregnant. How could he tolerate himself? He’d been a part of so much ugliness.

  Once he briefed Commander Okuk on the responsibilities of an SPLA leader and began molding him for service to southern Sudan, he’d make his way to Daruka and David. Okuk didn’t need to know how critical his leadership capabilities would be until the end.

  Too much to do. Too little time.

  One thing Ben had come to terms with while waiting for the doctor to remove his stitches was that he had to choose what he could feasibly do in the months remaining.

  The thought of turning back to God and promising Him everything if He’d simply give him more time had tempted Ben more than once—just as he’d been tempted to ask Paul for help. But the blood on his hands and the nightmares that kept him awake were enough evidence that God, if He did exist, had no reason to show mercy—or compassion. Death had won, as every man must one day be forced to admit. He’d face whoever or whatever held the afterlife of man with the optimism that hell might not really be a forever pit of torment. After all, it couldn’t be much worse than life in Sudan.

  I had so many dreams that I kept putting off. He stiffened. Too late now. How gallant, dauntless, magnificent to die a hero’s death, rather than to shrivel up in pain until his body fought for his last breath. Ben had always thought he’d been on the side of good, but would his sacrifices benefit the people he left behind?

  A few ideals hammered into what conscience he had left. Larson and Paul deserved more than he could give them. At least Larson had a healthy husband to keep her safe—as long as Paul watched his backside. Feeding the hungry and making sure they had medicine was one thing, but the starving masses didn’t care about God, only the ache in their bellies. And the government wanted Paul dead—not just killed, but tortured and mutilated as an example to those who thought Christianity was better than Islam. Ben hoped Paul steered clear of his family. Courageous efforts could get him killed.

  Ben owed his military comrades another argument against a unified Sudan instead of the value of this worthless piece of paper called a peace treaty. The North would never honor the peace agreement, and it was time that the leaders of the South accepted that fact. He shook his head. Maybe he was being too stubborn. If any man could bring about reconciliation, it would be John Garang. John was more than a respected leader for the South; he was its lifeblood. He’d single-handedly drawn up battle plans during the war, and he’d have a method of uniting all the tribes. John had carried the banner for southern Sudan for twenty-five years. Ben had served under him all that time, never doubting John’s decisions until now, with this foolish idea that the North would actually cease its persecution of the South.

  “What is the new government going to do about Darfur?” the pilot said. “The number of dead is already larger than the number killed by the tsunami in the Indian Ocean. Sometimes I wonder if the peace treaty with the South was just a ploy to distract the international community from the destruction in Darfur.”

  Ben huffed. He could have easily spouted the relevant facts, but he saw no point in wasting words on a man with a missionary agenda. “Khartoum simply agreed to the terms so they could get back to the business of outfitting the Janjaweed.”

  The pilot nodded. “I think I understand the situation there, but it seems so complicated.”

  It is, and I’m not in the mood to explain it. “Depends on the day of the week or which way the wind is blowing or what tribe is ready to kill for pasture.”

  “My sister lives in the States. Louisiana. When I tell her what’s going on over here, she says the GOS are like cockroaches. You run them out of one spot, and they take up residence in another.”

  “And each time they get stronger and bolder.”

  “Some days I pray for Jesus to come now and put us all out of our misery, and other days I want the opportunity to spread the gospel to a few more desperate people.”

  The pilot sounded like Paul and Larson. How would they all feel if they were the ones looking down the throat of cancer?

  I’m bitter, and I don’t care. Maybe he did wish things were different.

  The plane touched down hard on the slippery mud. The impact jarred Ben’s spine, and he gritted his teeth and gripped his knees. His dose of painkiller was long overdue.

  “Bad landing,” the pilot said. “Sorry about that.”

  “I’m used to rough rides.”

  Once the pilot had finished the landing procedure, the two men stepped out into the sultry air.

  Ben shook his hand. “I appreciate this.” He couldn’t even remember the pilot’s name. “Good luck to you.”

  “The same to you. I hope this new government changes things for Sudan. I’m sure John Garang as first vice president will do his best.”

  Ben chose not to comment. John’s announcement and swearing-in had happened while he was in the hospital. UN Secretary-General Kofi Annan could make all the pretty speeches that he wanted about unity for the entire country and about allowing nongovernmental and humanitarian organizations into Darfur—and the United States could keep on making claims about its resolve to see the killing stopped. But when the dust settled, it didn’t change a thing. Khartoum had its own agenda.

  The pilot climbed back into the cockpit. “Say, you forgot your backpack.”

  Great. Now he was losing his mind. Ben stepped forward and grabbed the straps of his bag. A streak of lightning pain raced up his spine. Must he be constantly reminded?

  The plane took off down the strip, its rumblings drowning out the villagers’ jubilant shouts. Ben recognized the faces and waved. When Rachel had lived with Larson, he’d spent a lot of time here. Rachel. Should he tell his sister about the cancer or let her find out for herself? He was getting meaner all the time. And he couldn’t make decisions either.

  Sarah walked toward him. To think that obnoxious old woman would outlive him. She smiled and nodded. “How are you doing, Colonel?”

  “Close to normal.”

  “I guess that’s good.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your normal can be hard to take at times.”

  “Sarah, can’t you treat me with some respect? Look what I’ve done for you.”

  “I appreciate your work, Colonel Alier, but I can still pray for your soul and a change in your attitude.”

  That again. “Don’t waste your breath. Is Commander Okuk here?”

  “He was yesterday, but now he’s gone.” She walked toward the clinic, and he joined her.

  “Where did he go? Never mind. Is Larson busy at the clinic?”

  “She’s not here either.”

  He should have called and made sure people understood what they were supposed to do. “Where is she?”

  “On her way to northern Darfur.”

  “Paul took her to Darfur? Why, when the work here needs their attention?”

  Sarah stopped and eyed him. Not a crease of emotion crossed her face.

  “What is it?”

  “Paul flew there this morning for FTW and landed. I have no idea how long he’ll be gone. Larson followed him in her Hummer. I don’t know if he�
��s found out she’s behind him yet.”

  Ben’s head now pounded, along with his arm and back. Glancing toward the medical clinic, he wished Larson would step outside and wave to him. “Neither of them has any sense. I suppose Paul refused to take her, and she decided to make the trip anyway. Whereabouts?”

  “Refugee camp. Kibum.”

  “They’ve gone there together before. What was different about this trip?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m worried about Larson.”

  “So am I. What a fool notion to drive there. She’d be a fine prize for the Janjaweed.” He didn’t want to think about that. “Well, she knows how to take care of herself. Who went with her?”

  “Your Commander Okuk.”

  “So my men are without a commanding officer?”

  “I’m sure it’s just until she meets up with Paul. I heard him phone your men.”

  “All right, Sarah. I’ll phone Okuk and make sure they’re okay. Maybe he can keep Paul and Larson from getting killed. But he’s in trouble for leaving me stranded here. What was he thinking, leaving my men without a commander?”

  “What would you have had him do, when Larson asked for his assistance? You’d have done the same thing.”

  “I have more experience than Okuk. Since when do I have to answer to you?”

  Irritation competed with the anguish in his body. He hadn’t expected news like this. His priorities didn’t involve playing bodyguard. His mission to watch over Larson had stopped when she’d married Paul and Ben had lost his chance. Paul had had “Kill Me” written all over him ever since he’d converted to Christianity. He should have stayed in California and enjoyed his money instead of flying dangerous missions for Feed the World and attempting to evangelize every non-Christian in Sudan. The man had more contracts out on his life than anyone else in the country. And now Larson was hot on his heels in a hellhole called Darfur.

  Ben stepped into the clinic. All the bottles, supplies, and instruments were neat and clean. Only Larson was missing—Larson, with her wide smile and crazy stories about her life in the States. Larson, with her large blue eyes and light hair swept back into a ponytail. Larson, who had chosen an Arab over him. Ben whirled around and reached for his backpack to find his pain medication.

  Sarah stood in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

  “I thought you’d left,” he said.

  “Did you call to make sure Larson and Okuk haven’t run into trouble?”

  “Why? They have weapons.” The pain increased. He jerked out the bottle and flipped the lid, sending it flying across the concrete floor.

  She picked up the lid and handed it to him. “There are things you don’t know.”

  Had Larson and Paul quarreled? Had Paul’s family caught up with him? “What happened?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  Now he really wanted to shoot her. “How do you expect me to help when you don’t tell me the whole story?”

  Sarah glanced out the open doorway. “I gave my word.”

  “To Paul or Larson?”

  “Larson.”

  Ben popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them. Slumping into a chair, he closed his eyes. “I’ll phone Okuk now and then head back to my men.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Paul had flown many missions over Darfur. He’d dropped food and supplies to areas where he could not land, and he’d been on the ground assisting humanitarian organizations and medical teams who labored to bring aid to those caught in the web of genocide. Many of those times, Larson had come with him, bringing immunizations for cholera, malaria, measles, and yellow fever, as well as health treatments for the children. The women and children suffered the most. Paul recalled the alarming figures. According to some, ten thousand displaced persons died every thirty minutes. At the sight of the Kibum refugee camp, he wished he’d brought Larson to help. But not today. It was impossible.

  Some of the people held cards issued by the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. The UNHCR workers punched the refugees’ cards as a record of what was distributed, in an effort to ensure the supplies were evenly dispersed. Two lines of people stood in the infernal heat. One line was to register for food, and the other one was for water. Unfortunately, the people could not stand in both lines. So how did they choose? Some of them had donkeys on which to load what they received, but most struggled with water and food containers, glad for what they now had.

  The fetid odors of unwashed and diseased bodies, exacerbated by the lack of sanitation facilities, clung in Paul’s nostrils. Larson could have given health and hygiene classes to the women as she’d done before, showing them how to utilize what they had to keep their families healthy.

  The condition of the children in Kibum knotted his stomach, just as it did each time he brought provisions to the camps. They died from disease and starvation that could have been prevented with proper diet and medical treatment. Ignorance played a major role, and more than once he considered heading up a way to educate the women, the grass roots of this forgotten people. His insides churned with the reminder that his family supported the Janjaweed’s persecution of the Darfur tribes, just as he once had. One of his brothers was a GOS officer—he’d claim these sordid conditions were the will of Allah.

  More like the will of Satan.

  Paul swallowed his emotion. He didn’t think he’d ever come to terms with the knowledge that God had forgiven him and given him new life. Until the day he died, Paul would do all within his means for these people. Larson had accused him of legalism, until he’d explained that he was driven by love for the God who now called Paul His child. Even if he didn’t understand the full concept of mercy and grace, he understood freedom in Christ.

  A young girl, not much more than twelve years old, walked by him carrying a crying, naked small boy. The child’s ribs protruded from the sides of his frail body, and his swollen stomach indicated infected internal organs, probably from parasites.

  “The doctor’s tent is there.” Paul pointed toward the clinic.

  Tears welled in her eyes.

  Paul lifted the child from her arms and walked her to the medical line. The child felt much too light. A small team from Doctors Without Borders, one of whom Paul recognized, were tending to several patients at a time, but the line still stretched around the hut and down the dirt pathway. Larson should be here too. Shaking away the guilt, he continued on through the camp, which housed mostly women wrapped in colorful rags and children wrapped only in hope. So many women had buried children; how could they go on?

  He and Larson had made the right decision to not have children of their own. They needed to be free from ties that would hinder them from helping these people.

  An aid worker, a young man with an American East Coast accent, divided up bags of grain. Paul stepped in to help. He still had plenty of time to make it to his destination.

  “Do you have a Qur’an?” a man asked when Paul handed him a small bag of grain.

  “No. I’m a Christian.”

  The man looked at the grain, then stared into Paul’s face. “Whatever you have, I want it.”

  Paul pulled his backpack around to his chest and handed him an Arabic New Testament. The man thanked him and walked away, and Paul headed for the edge of camp. As soon as he finished his business, he’d return to help.

  Walking alone over the barren land, Paul scrutinized the flat terrain. He sickened at the sight. FTW wanted a full report for its monthly publication, so he snapped pictures and made mental notes. The land where people had once lived and thrived now held countless graves. The land where people had once grown food, the Janjaweed had set on fire. His path took him to a pile of charred bones, where likely the few surviving animals in the area had perished and the villagers had burned their remains to avoid disease. He breathed in the despair of squalor.

  He despised the government’s miserable excuses for eliminating these people: from the open resentment of some Darfurans toward governmen
t policies, to their black African ethnicity, to the problem of ongoing conflicts among some of the tribes. The victims of the genocide were mostly Muslim farmers who raised cattle and goats in the way of their ancestors. Sometimes Paul wondered if the government had a hidden agenda. Did the ground beneath his feet hold vast pools of oil? More likely, the whole mess was a political necessity to secure those in power.

  * * *

  Perhaps Paul shouldn’t have left the refugee camp to meet Nizam. An eerie sensation settled on him. He could be killed for the clothes on his back or for the food some poor soul might think he carried. He’d give everything he had if it would keep a suffering person alive another day. But he had another reason for this jaunt.

  He studied the horizon. Not a soul in sight. No breeze. No birds. Nothing. Only dirt and flying insects in forty-eight degrees Celsius. Not enough life here to sustain a vulture—unless you counted the human ones. On his left, a solitary acacia tree reached up to the cloudless sky as though praying for relief. To his right lay the ashes of a burned-out village. Forcing himself to take pictures helped occupy his mind.

  He reached into his backpack and pulled out a folded piece of paper with Nizam’s instructions. His brother had said he’d meet him at noon, five kilometers northwest of Kibum in an abandoned village. Nizam claimed he simply wanted to see Paul and to hear more about the Christian religion, but only on the condition of strict secrecy. Both of their lives would be in danger if the family or government authorities discovered them together.

  I hope I’m not playing the fool.

  The closer he got to the meeting place, the more he feared walking into a trap. His death would bring a celebration in Khartoum and honor to whoever had pulled the trigger. He headed toward the ash-ridden village. A donkey carcass rotted beside a destroyed irrigation system. Homes had been burned to the ground, along with whatever meager possessions the villagers might have had. And the people . . . This had been a farming community, the home of villagers who meant no harm to anyone, despite the government’s claims. The hollow eyes of the hungry children in Kibum haunted him. They’d smelled the stench of death and heard the screams and anguish of friends and loved ones. It wasn’t fair—not to the innocent children or to the mothers who’d borne them.