by DiAnn Mills
The still air thundered.
Larson knew the circumstances surrounding southern Sudan were true. It was the SPLA’s methods that she criticized, the often-selfish motives behind Ben’s and too many other southern rebels’ self-proclaimed martyrdom. The reminder made her weary, for there were no easy solutions or pat answers, just problems upon problems.
“I know a source that could provide supplies,” Paul said.
Ben’s attention whipped to the pilot. “What are you still doing here?”
Paul held out a box. “I left this in the plane. It’s for Dr. Kerr.” He set the wound staple gun down next to the hut’s entrance. “You two will not settle Sudan’s problems this afternoon.”
“Shut up,” Larson said. “No one asked for your opinion.” Instantly she regretted her crass remark, aimed toward the man who had flown over hostile territory to bring food and supplies. She had hardened in this African sun, just as she’d vowed would never happen. “Look, I’m sorry. I do appreciate everything you’ve done, the food and medical supplies to help keep Sudanese alive.”
“No problem.” Paul held up his palms. “I shouldn’t have interfered. Looks like both of you are capable of taking care of yourselves.” He glanced about him. “I’ll be going.”
Larson watched Paul walk away, his shoulders erect as though he were part of a military brigade. She’d heard stories of how he’d risked his life to ensure people were fed. A glance at Nyok revealed the boy’s longing.
“Go ahead and take another look at his plane,” she said to the boy.
“I need to stay here with you.”
“Nonsense. Ben and I are finished with our discussion. Run along, and take Rachel with you. It may be a long time before either of you sees another aircraft this close.”
Nyok hesitated. “Only if you are sure.”
“I am.” Larson forced herself to laugh. Such a serious protector she had. Rachel grabbed Nyok’s arm, and off they ran.
Paul turned to greet Nyok and Rachel. Strange, an Arab-born American flying dangerous missions over Sudan for a Christian organization. Ben must know a good bit about him. Larson decided she would ask him about Paul later, after the two of them had cooled down.
“Don’t you have things to do?” she said. Ben’s penetrating gaze unnerved her. “I have patients to see, and they won’t come near the clinic as long as you’re here.”
He scowled. “You need to respect me and my position.” In the heat of the late morning, his black skin fairly glistened.
She glanced at the weapon in her hand and carefully formed her words. He would take out his anger on someone else if she didn’t make a move toward making amends. “I do respect you, and I do value your protection.” His sable gaze bored into hers. “But I love these people, and they will always come first. I’d do anything for them . . . anything.”
The lines in his face softened. “I understand, Larson. We are much alike, which is why we put up with each other.”
Larson took the rifle back inside the hut and paused while her vision adjusted to the shadows. Seven years ago, she wouldn’t have considered pulling the trigger for a statement like Ben just made, but now she knew his words were true. Too many sickened people, too many starving children, and too many mutilated and tortured bodies had calloused her toward polite, canned responses. What would people like herself and Ben do without a cause?
Ben Alier had honestly earned his reputation as one of the most valuable leaders of the SPLA. He and his men were often involved in actions that critics slapped across the newspapers, but most guerrilla armies fell under worldwide scrutiny. Ben fought with one purpose in mind: to free the southern Sudanese from a Muslim government that murdered those who refused the mandates of the sharia, the code of law based on Islamic tradition.
Unfortunately, Ben had put together his own law of ethics, and he had set himself up as prosecutor, judge, and executioner. Earlier, Paul Farid had almost tasted the colonel’s wrath. If not for his mission of mercy, the pilot would be lying in a pool of blood.
Tossing aside her deliberations, Larson quickly sorted through the medicinal supplies. Relief lifted her spirits. Scores of the ill would now have hope. She selected a few of the bottles and stored them inside a small, generator-powered refrigerator, her only vestige of civilization. Pulling a key chain from her pocket, she locked up the remainder before her patients lined up for care.
On the outside, her tukul looked like all the other huts, except she had asked for an exhaust hole at the top. Without ventilation, all the cooking odors, medicinal smells, and the spicy aroma of accumulated bodies created an unpleasant environment. In other huts, the only source of light and air came from a small door. Animals roamed in and out freely, and combined with their manure and other odors, the air inside soon grew rank.
Minutes later Larson saw the doorway darken and knew Ben had followed her inside. Exasperated, she wanted to pick up something and throw it at him. At the moment, utter silence seemed to be her best defense, but she doubted she could hold her tongue for very long.
“Why are you so angry?” His tone clearly depicted his frustration.
Larson hesitated. She had patients to see. “I think that’s obvious.”
“It’s more than the grain. What’s bothering you?”
She expelled a heavy sigh and whirled around to face him. In the dim hut, he appeared larger, more ominous than in the open. “I heard a rumor.”
“About what this time?”
“That you shot two men from a village west of here for no apparent reason.”
“They were suspected spies, and I don’t have to explain my military procedures to you.”
She saw his clenched fists and realized she had probably pushed him to his limit, again. At the moment, she didn’t care—reason didn’t overrule her anger. “Suspected! For heaven’s sake, they had families.”
“Do I tell you how to practice medicine?”
“No, but you try to tell me who should get treatment, and I’m telling you I’m not patching up your ragtag men if you’re going to kill innocent citizens. Makes me wonder who the real enemies are.” She rammed her finger into his chest.
“Woman, when you walk in my shoes, then you can tell me how best to win this war.”
“Is that what your professors taught you in the States?”
Before Ben had an opportunity to speak, the distinct hum of engines alerted them to enemy aircraft. Larson turned and flung open the refrigerator door. She grabbed as many valuable medicines as she could and dumped them into an empty box. Her mind sped with what to snatch up next before she raced to the shelter. The clinic wasn’t marked, which meant her hut had a chance to survive the bombing. The engines grew closer. She heard Ben leave without a word. He had his agenda, and she had hers.
Normally Rachel and Nyok would be right beside her. Surely Ben had pulled them away from the plane and shoved them toward a shelter.
Larson filled a huge basket with dressings and whatever else she could put her hands on in a frantic attempt to save every priceless item from the shipment. Engines roared above her. No casualties. Please, no casualties.
She cringed at a bomb’s whistle and explosion. A moment later screams pierced the air. Visions of other bombings played across her weary mind. The innocent were always killed and maimed.
Another bomb fell, then another. She would never make it to a shelter now. Plopping down in the middle of her hut, she protected her treasures with her body.
Another sound whipped around her ears. The whirring of helicopter gunships. She had seen them too many times. Snipers leaning from their choppers and picking off civilians with their machine guns. Soldiers laughing as they shot men, women, and children scurrying to safety. The practice became a vicious game.
Helicopters like these also brought another fear. The soldiers often landed and chased down women and children for slaves. But not if Ben had a say in it. She wondered if the GOS knew the SPLA was there. No matter, the southern re
bels would give Khartoum’s finest a beating. For the first time today, she was grateful for the camouflaged men firing shot after shot in retaliation.
Her mind drifted back to the reason she stayed in southern Sudan. At the moment it made no sense. In the beginning she’d thought her presence in this country would make a difference, especially after the mistake she’d made. Now she no longer deliberated the matter. Each time she thought the situation could grow no worse, it did.
Her attention shifted to the hut opening. She saw a gray swirl of smoke and felt the earth beneath her quiver. One of Ben’s men raced across an open stretch, firing as he ran. Could the enemy be that close? She would never get used to this, never. If not for sheltering the medicine and bandages, she would have covered her ears. Her focus caught on the rifle leaning against the hut wall. A dead doctor couldn’t take care of anyone. She loosened her hold on the treasured supplies and wrapped her fingers around the weapon, drawing it into her arms. Despite her earlier bluff, she’d never really wanted to kill anyone before—a hyena once—but for the sake of her beloved villagers, she would blow a GOS soldier into the next world.
No sooner had she secured the rifle and rested her finger on the trigger than a soldier who looked to be only a bit older than Nyok stepped inside. He lifted his weapon. His victorious smirk provided ample time for her to send a bullet through his chest before the soldier could send a bullet through hers. He fell backward, the river of life flowing from his body.
Ben’s words echoed. “When you walk in my shoes, then you can tell me how best to win this war.”
Sickened by the sight, not that she hadn’t seen her share of blood-soaked flesh, she shuddered at the realization of taking a life.
“Larson.”
She glanced up to see Ben in the doorway.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded. Their gazes met, and in those dark pools she saw understanding and compassion.
“We have them on the run.” He pointed to the body. “I’ll be back to remove this. Stay inside until I give the shout.”
Larson silently refused to obey him, and she knew Ben didn’t really expect her to. The moment the shots ceased, she would be looking for those who hadn’t escaped the bombs and bullets. She averted her attention from the dead man and realized her grip on the rifle had turned her knuckles white. She laid the weapon aside and grabbed another basket to gather up the supplies she would need for treating the wounded.
She anticipated Rachel joining her first, and they’d work together. Larson adored the young woman. She quickly caught on to Larson’s instructions and didn’t have a squeamish stomach. Ben had brought her to Warkou five years ago when their parents had been killed in a village raid. He had neither the time nor the patience to care for his sister. Since then, Larson had taken Rachel into her heart and mind, teaching the young woman all she could about medicine and loving her as fiercely as if she had been Larson’s own flesh.
Rachel held one flaw: religion. She believed in God and refused to consider any other answer to the ways and purposes of man. Larson had no use for such weakness. She believed in science and the use of modern technology. Anything else was speculation. If a God truly existed, then why did He allow this continual genocide among a people content to live their lives as their ancestors?
Larson hadn’t heard a rifle crack for the past few seconds. Securing her basket, she stepped into the sunlight to view the damage. If given the sentiments of most women, she would have cried at the carnage. A man lying facedown to the left of her hut wasn’t moving. She knew his family well. She had delivered all four of his children . . . two boys, two girls. How would his woman get along without her husband? Worse yet, how would his children fare? It was a plight so many other Sudanese children faced.
Larson often wished she hadn’t formed bonds with the villagers, but they had become her friends, her family. She hoped most had escaped the bombings and shootings. Once Rachel surfaced from the shelter, she’d report on the casualties. The two had a system whenever they entered the aftermath of a war zone. Rachel checked the vitals, and Larson worked on the wounded. Nyok assisted by handing Larson dressings and instruments. The boy had been with her four years—another war orphan. It hadn’t taken long for her motherly instincts to kick in. She had taught the boy to read English and instructed him in every aspect of learning.
The villagers began emerging from the bomb shelters. Neither Rachel nor Nyok was among them. Fear raced through Larson’s body. She remembered Rachel and Nyok had followed Paul Farid back to his plane before the bombing. The plane was in the open. Larson stood and straightened. Her mind screamed for signs of the slender beauty and her boy-warrior. She left her medical basket beside the dead man and ran to the landing strip.
“Rachel. Nyok.” The sound of her voice struck terror to her heart. “Rachel. Nyok.”
Up ahead she saw the plane riddled with bullets. No bodies lay nearby. They had to be safe. They simply had to be. Larson stopped and whirled completely around, trying to find the two young people she loved the most.
From somewhere in the village, Ben raced to her side. “I heard you call for Rachel and Nyok. Where are they?”
“I’m . . . I’m not sure. They were with the pilot.” She stared into his face, hoping to find reassurance.
Ben called to two of his men. “Have you seen my sister and the boy? The pilot?”
One man pointed to the right, beyond a clump of huts. There, Nyok clung to Paul’s arm, draped over the boy’s shoulder. Blood oozed down the pilot’s left thigh, stark red against his khaki pants. Larson couldn’t get to them fast enough. Panic registered across Nyok’s young features.
“What is it?” Larson said. Every nerve tensed at the sight. “Are there more wounded at the hut? Are you hurt? Wasn’t Rachel with you?” The words fell from Larson’s lips, while her eyes raked the boy for signs of injury.
Ben reached for Farid, relieving the boy of the burden. “Where is Rachel?”
The boy shook his head, barely able to speak.
The pilot lifted his face. He had been hit by a blunt object, for already his eye and cheek were swollen and darkening. “Rachel,” he said through a ragged breath. “I tried to stop them, but they took her.”
CHAPTER 3
Alarm shot through Ben’s mind. Not Rachel. Not his little sister. The atrocities done to women slaves slammed into his mind. Savage beatings, brutal rapes, denial of food and water, forced labor, unwanted children fathered by Arab owners.
“No.” He dropped Farid’s body to the ground. The idea of aiding an Arab—even a member of FTW—made him want to kill, especially a man who’d once been a part of the Khartoum government, the ones who advocated the inhumane treatment of his people.
He knelt and grabbed Farid’s throat. “You did this. Where did they take her? I’ll kill you.” Ben tightened his hold. Farid’s face turned blue, his lips purple.
Nyok attempted to pry his hands from Farid. “He tried to stop them, Colonel. That’s why he’s shot.”
He shoved the boy backward. “Get out of my way before you get hurt.”
“Stop it.” Larson pulled on Ben’s arms. “This isn’t his fault. Look at him, Ben. He was shot trying to help Rachel. Killing him won’t bring her back.”
Ben didn’t care what Larson said. His sister had been abducted by the GOS, and he had a representative of them in his hand. He elbowed Larson and heard her cry out. She lunged at him, tugging on his shoulders and shouting like a wild animal.
“Listen to me. Stop this now. Talk to your men. Make contact with the slave traders, but don’t kill this man. It won’t solve a thing.” She hammered her fists into his back, screaming for him to come to his senses. This time, he whirled around and with his fingers still wrapped around Farid’s throat, he slammed his shoulder into her body and sent her sprawling onto the hard ground. When he lifted a hand to strike her, the fear in her eyes stopped him cold.
What have I done? With his breath in short
spurts, Ben lowered his hand and loosened his fingers from around Farid’s throat. A moment more, and the pilot would have been dead. He eased back on his heels and stood. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed a man in anger. Although he detested his volatile temper, sometimes in the heat of battle the extra adrenaline spurred him on. This wasn’t a battle or a reason to kill a man in front of Larson, but he wanted to. His fingers itched to end the Arab’s life.
“Step away, Ben. Let me tend to him,” Larson said, and he obeyed.
Staring up at the sky, he followed the direction of the aircrafts’ departure—northeast. The farther they went, the less likely he would see his sister returned.
Rachel, don’t tell anyone who you are.
He tore off his cap and threw it to the ground, grief weaving a path through his body. Rachel’s last words to him now pierced his soul. “Ben, I’m praying for you. I know God is looking to do a mighty work in you, my brother. He’s going to bring peace to Sudan and peace to your heart.”
Curses against God fell from his lips and echoed around him. How could God have done this to an innocent girl? She loved Him, served Him, and this was her reward? Rachel’s huge eyes and innocent face pierced his heart. So naive. So unaware of what evil men could really do. His Rachel . . .
Forcing himself to gain control and to think rationally, he took two long breaths. He glanced behind him at his men, the bombed village, and the fallen civilians and soldiers. All required his attention. He had to force himself to handle his present responsibilities before seeking out help for Rachel. He focused on Larson, who had immobilized the pilot. She and Nyok dragged and carried him back to the clinic.
The wails of those who’d lost loved ones and the cries of the injured scraped against his senses. He’d been too absorbed in his own distress to notice anyone else. Three of his men were hunkered over a fallen soldier. Blood soaked the ground.
