by DiAnn Mills
* * *
“I wish you’d reconsider.” Tom raked his fingers through his thinning red hair, then rubbed his jutting jaw.
Paul couldn’t focus on anything with the pain in his thigh, but he did know where he stood on returning to Warkou. “I’m not changing my mind, and my leg hurts too much to argue.” He closed his eyes. Larson had given him a heavy dose of Tylenol with codeine, but it hadn’t taken the edge off the pain yet.
“Okay. We’ll talk when you’re feeling better. Right now rest. We’ll be in Nairobi soon.”
“Yeah, if I could sleep, I’d get my mind off my—” The sound of a firing aircraft jolted Paul alert. He shot a glance at Tom, who reinforced his fears. “GOS,” he said.
“They’re right on Hank’s tail.” Tom pounded his palm on the side of his leg. “He can’t climb or outrun them.”
“Dear God, no,” Paul said. “Bind the enemy. Put Your angels around Hank. Get him out of there.”
The sound of machine-gun fire continued. “I’m going to get between them,” Tom said. “We can take a few hits.”
But Hank can’t.
Tom picked up his radio. “Hank, I know you’re in trouble. I’m going to do what I can.” He waited for a response. “Hank, come in.” He turned to Paul. “I’m not getting anything. Didn’t we check your plane’s radio before leaving?”
“The signals were fine.” Paul watched the damaged plane fly on course despite the attack.
A stream of fire knocked off the pressurized tip fuel tank. “He’s hit.” Paul’s cries echoed throughout the fuselage. “Try to radio him again!”
“I have. No response.”
The MU-2 took a snap turn toward the damaged area, leaving a trail of gray and black smoke. The plane circled once, then began a fatal spin downward.
Paul craned his neck to follow the plane, begging God to lift it back into the air. An explosion tore apart its cabin, sending the plane crashing into the treetops in a burst of flames.
“Do you see him?” Paul whispered as though he uttered a prayer.
Tom turned the plane and circled back, risking GOS bullets again. “If we can find him, we’ll get him out of there.”
Another explosion shattered what was left of the plane.
Tom cut lower to the ground, but all they saw were plane fragments and flames licking at the trees and whatever else they could grab.
Machine-gun fire split the air.
Tom pulled the plane up. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
Paul buried his face in his hands. Tears flowed for his brother-friend. Hank . . . the one man who’d befriended him when others looked at him in contempt.
CHAPTER 10
Ben gazed up and down the river for a spot to cross that didn’t have rocks or ledges. He needed a slow-moving current where his men could pass through the waters easily without thrashing. A couple of new recruits traveled with him, and most likely they weren’t used to fording or swimming crocodile-infested waters. The first few times a soldier treaded into croc territory usually determined how he would react in a firefight. It was a great training ground as far as Ben was concerned. He signaled for one of the men to head his way.
“Yes, sir,” the soldier said.
Ben pointed down the river. “The best place to cross is just beyond that ridge. Take someone with you. Check it out. Make sure it’s clear.”
They needed to move fast. The GOS wasn’t that far behind. His comrades were tired. They needed food, medical care, and munitions. Morale hit a new low when one day after another found them in the middle of battle and with hungry bellies.
As soon as the soldier reported the area safe, Ben moved his troops forward. He motioned for them to head across the shallow river and then cocked his rifle. If they were lucky, they wouldn’t waste any shots on crocodiles. His trained eyes fixed on what looked like a log—one with huge bulging eyes. More of the treacherous reptiles remained motionless. Ben stifled a chuckle. The GOS had probably programmed the crocs to wait until he was fording the river, knowing his habit was to wait until last. His men did a good job. They slipped into the river single file with the new recruits placed between the veterans.
Carrying his rifle above his head, Ben stepped into the water with one eye focused on the crocs. When he was midway across, two of them slipped toward him, then a third. He was accustomed to moving fast, but not faster than a hungry reptile. Cursing beneath his breath, he fired into the head of the closest one. The movement incited the others. There he was, midstream in the river, and he had stirred up attention.
Another shot from the shore ended the pursuit of a croc situated mere feet from him. Two more shots and, with the aid of his men, Ben reached the other side. The rifle fire would draw the attention of the enemy soldiers, but they would think twice before attempting to traverse those waters. Stirred-up crocs were as good as grenades. At Ben’s urging, his men disappeared into the forest.
Once away from the river, he pushed aside the heavy brush and tramped deeper into the thick jungle. The calling of birds echoed above him, no doubt complaining of the intrusion. Wild animals, snakes, and an army of insects lived and preyed within the green-canopied fortress, but these were minor irritations compared to the enemy that relentlessly pursued the rebels.
Ben had traveled this well-worn path many times over the past fifteen years. Within the jungle depths hid an arsenal of weaponry for the SPLA. This was not the only facility. Others lay in strategic locations for the other forty-two battalions.
Ben contemplated the years he’d spent dedicated to the guerrilla army and the people of southern Sudan. In the beginning, even before he joined the southern forces, many of the soldiers were trained outside Sudan’s borders at special command posts. Since then, the army had seized control of many southern cities and kept its forces where it needed them most. Small arms, heavy artillery, ammunition, and trucks came from confiscated GOS arsenals and SPLA’s allies. Still, the guerrilla forces never had enough munitions, and their soldiers were always outnumbered.
“We have democracy on our side,” he repeatedly told his men. “The free world supports our cause. They will help.” Sometimes he had to remind himself too.
Ben spied a fork in the stream and calculated it would be another two kilometers before they reached the weapons cache. He signaled, and his men spread out, weapons ready.
Two days ago, he’d learned Farid’s MU-2 had been shot down. The pilot’s life meant nothing to him, but losing the plane left a string of regrets. FTW was the largest distributor of food and medicine to southern Sudan. Farid had done more than his share in flying those missions, but his reputation of escaping enemy fire had aroused enough suspicion that no decent SPLA member would trust him. Given his link to the royal family, his sudden conversion to Christianity sounded like deception.
In the past, FTW had made drops in the North at designated displacement centers where Khartoum had forced thousands of villagers who didn’t support the Muslim regime. These centers were nothing more than desolate, waterless wastelands. The government would give permission for the starving refugees to receive the supplies, then snatch up the goods for its own soldiers. Ben remembered Larson’s anger when he relayed yet another story about the inhumane treatment of those who opposed the GOS.
“One of my men escaped from a displacement camp,” he’d said. “He told of a group of children who appeared healthier than the others. They received food, clean water, blankets, and medical care. When asked why, the soldier said the GOS used the children’s blood to aid Khartoum’s wounded soldiers.”
“Barbarians,” she’d said with a curse. “They are worse than animals. Can’t anyone get food into those displacement camps?”
“A little here and there, but nothing substantial.”
“Do something, Ben. Make the free world understand what’s going on in Sudan.”
“We’re trying. None of us are giving up.” Few regrets formed in his mind. All efforts were for the war. No sacrifice wa
s too dear. Ben seized his own thoughts. Rachel. Without her, his resolve would make him more of a barbarian than the enemy.
The soldier he’d sent ahead signaled for Ben’s attention. Not a good sign. They didn’t need problems, but adequate rest, food, and supplies before moving on. His men were exhausted. Four of his men needed medical attention. One was wounded in the right foot the previous day, and his boot kept filling with blood.
“Colonel Alier,” the soldier said, “we found trouble.”
“What kind?” Ben said without a hint of emotion.
“GOS has wiped out the supply camp—killed everyone and cleaned out the storage units. It’s a bloodbath, sir.”
“Anything left?”
“No, sir. I saw enemy soldiers ready to hit us.”
Ben felt the familiar rush of heat singe his heart, a mixture of anger, hatred, and a thirst for Khartoum’s blood. The GOS trailed both before and behind them.
* * *
Paul despised the hospital stay. The treatments were more of a nuisance, especially when he was torn between taking care of responsibilities in California and returning to Warkou. He’d received a letter from Larson today. Each time he read her words, he wanted to be there. With her. Rachel hadn’t been found, and that too nipped at his conscience.
The smell of antiseptic, the tapping of professional heels up and down the hallway, muted voices with an occasional burst of laughter, and the bland taste of hospital food drove him to irritability. He didn’t like his attitude, but he knew if the doctor didn’t sign a release soon, he’d bust out like a criminal.
Today, like so many other days, just when he had thoroughly immersed himself in self-pity, he remembered Hank. His longtime friend had a wife and two high-school-age sons. Hank and Jackie directed Paul’s Sunday school class. They were more than friends—they were family. He wanted to be there with Jackie, Tim, and Matt. Sending flowers and a letter explaining how the man had died for the cause of Christ seemed empty, insufficient. Paul had added special memories, especially the barbecues and family outings, the times of prayer and celebration.
The funeral service occurred while Paul lay with his leg wrapped in sterile bandages and an IV of antibiotics flowing through his veins. Occasionally an efficient nurse offered pain medication, which he always refused. Suffering wouldn’t bring Hank back, but to Paul, it eased his guilt. He wanted to put his arms around Jackie and the boys and grieve with them, not be stuck in a hospital, isolated from those he cherished.
No matter how hard he tried, he never managed to do enough. Always so many people died. Not that he believed for an instant his salvation came from works, but he wanted to experience the fullness of Philippians 3:10: “I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the fellowship of sharing in his suffering, becoming like him in his death.” These were the words of the great apostle Paul, the man whose name this broken contemporary had taken. They had so much in common—so much that Paul wondered if the biblical man had felt the same deep guilt over his prior persecution of Christians. They’d both given up family, heritage, religion, political position, and power to follow Jesus Christ, but as the modern Paul stared at the ceiling in his hospital room, he questioned whether he had sacrificed enough. Having a relationship with his Lord was worth any price. He’d gladly have taken Hank’s place.
Paul swiped at a solitary tear. Hank had been his brother in Christ, the first man who truly accepted him at FTW, who welcomed him into church and Sunday school, who introduced him to Jackie with these immortal words: “This is Paul, my little brother, the one I never had.”
Hank lost his life in the MU-2—a death aimed at Paul. The GOS soldiers had orders from Khartoum to kill him, the infidel. Muslim terrorists around the world had his name on their hit list. Any of them would have attempted a suicide mission to see Paul dead. His father would gladly slit his throat. His mother would hold the knife.
Paul struggled with the fury welling inside him. He clenched his fists and fought the urge to shout at God about the unfairness of it. It should have been me, Lord! It should have been me!
The desire to return to southern Sudan and the village of Warkou stayed on his mind. He pictured Nyok, the boy-warrior who displayed the courage of a seasoned military man. Paul had seen something else in the boy’s eyes, a smoldering hatred that often slipped over the cloud of mental torment. Given the opportunity to be relieved of his obligation to Larson, Nyok would join the SPLA in an instant, Paul believed. War was for trained men, not angry boys. Nyok’s course ought to be focused on an education. How better to serve his homeland than to one day take a prominent position of leadership and service?
Paul sighed and rested the back of his head on his palms. He recalled a discussion some months ago with several Sudanese refugees in California. They were young men in their early and midtwenties who were a part of a group called the Lost Boys of Sudan. As children they’d witnessed their families murdered and homes destroyed, then trekked across their country to eventually establish a refugee camp in Kakuma, Kenya. Despite the hardships posed by wild animals, disease, and starvation, these young men had the most profound faith in Christ.
“God has saved us for something in His perfect plan,” one young man said. “For me, it is to one day return to my country as a doctor.”
“Education is before me,” said another. “God will guide me.”
“I am studying to be an engineer,” said yet another. “I dream of my country rising above poverty. I am among the Lord’s remnant.”
Paul closed his eyes and prayed God would protect Nyok from the swirling, evil world threatening to overtake him: And, Lord, use me however You desire. Keep Your angels surrounding Rachel, and bring her back to Ben and Larson.
Ben . . . Paul understood him better than the guerrilla leader would ever believe. He also realized the extent of Ben’s ruthlessness. Now that he battled with slave traders, he was more than a driven man, a crusader, and a leader. Ben had the reputation of being a killing machine bent on destroying the forces who opposed the southern Sudanese. Larson seemed to have power over his actions, a control Paul wondered whether either of them realized.
He had to get out of the hospital. The waiting with nothing to do but think was driving him crazy. Every day he read the news of GOS and SPLA clashes. Empty promises and prolonged peace talks mounted. The scenario never changed, only the time and the location.
First he must see Jackie and the boys. He wanted to cry with them and laugh about Hank’s many antics. They needed to pray together for the future of the family.
“Mr. Farid.”
Paul’s gaze swung to the doorway. “Hey, Doc. Any good news?”
The coffee-colored man grinned deeply. “I signed your release, unless you want to camp here a while longer.”
CHAPTER 11
Nairobi flocked with people scurrying about, all dressed in Western clothing and always on the go. Energy swept about Paul. The taxi that brought him from the Hotel InterContinental to the airport in horn-blaring, bumper-to-bumper traffic made him wonder if dodging the GOS might be easier. Cell phones and fast food, mixed with the scent of outdoor markets and the heat of the tropical sun, livened his spirit, and for the present, he forgot about Hank and the despair of Sudan.
Nairobi was a beautiful city—well-landscaped parks, highly developed business areas, great shopping, and fantastic hotels and restaurants. The poor and the rich made up the city from the slums to the high-rises. To think, not far from here existed the wilds of Africa, untamed magnificence that words alone could not describe. The day before, Paul had taken a Jeep outside the city to a game reserve and gazed at the skyscrapers of Nairobi while elephants roamed around him.
His beloved Sudan rose in his mind, a dream of peace and real beauty soaring beyond blue skies, fertile soil, and the calls of birds and animals. True harmony came in the curve of a child’s smile, a mother who no longer feared starvation and disease for her children, a father knowing his family would not be pe
rsecuted for their faith. Paul shook his head and shoved the despairing thoughts to a remote corner of his mind. Later he would revisit them and continue to pray for God to intervene.
Thinking a cup of strong coffee rather than the Kenyan choice of chai tea would keep him awake for the long flights ahead, first to London, then on to Los Angeles, Paul hobbled into a small restaurant and seated himself in a rear booth. He leaned his crutches against a wall and calculated when he could toss the nuisances and have full mobility.
A young waitress approached. Although the national language was English, he knew people respected hearing an attempt at Swahili.
“Jambo,” he said to the young woman. She smiled and greeted him in return.
He waved away a menu and ordered kahawa. When she presented him with the cup of coffee, he smiled and thanked her: “Asante sana.”
Picking up a newspaper, Paul scanned the pages until he found the article he wanted: “Sudan Peace Talks.” The moment he began to read, he could tell nothing had changed. All the articles were the same. Khartoum, the SPLA, and the Sudan People’s Liberation Movement would agree to certain measures, while the bombings continued in the South, especially in the oil-rich regions. No wonder Ben was frustrated and distrustful of anyone resembling the enemy.
Paul sipped his coffee and read through the paper. He had plenty of time before his flight, and spending more than three hours at the airport held more appeal than a similar wait at the hotel or in the hospital. He had journaled through much of his recovery time and now longed to put his thoughts into practice.
“Excuse me,” a young African woman said in Arabic. “Are you Abdullah Farid?”
Suspicion put his every nerve on alert. He noted the pretty face and the crisp navy-blue pantsuit. Her carefully outlined smile looked forced.
“No. You have the wrong man.”
