by Dave Edlund
Ethan’s mind was racing.
“Wait… maybe we can do something.”
“Like what,” Joe scoffed weakly. “Call in the marines?”
“Not quite, but close,” and Ethan retrieved his cell phone from his pants pocket. He dialed a long string of numbers. “Please be in range,” he said silently to himself.
The number connected and he heard a ring tone. Finally, the other party picked up. “Hello…”
“Dad, it’s me! You have to…”
“You’ve reached Peter Savage. I can’t take your call, so please leave a short message and I’ll get back to you. Cheers.” Then there was the requisite beep signaling to leave a message.
“Look, Dad, I can’t talk long. The refugee camp is under attack by Janjaweed raiders. They’re shooting everyone! You have to get help!”
As Ethan spoke softly into his phone he saw a pair of dusty sandaled feet appear not more than ten feet in front of the bush. He reached back and firmly squeezed Joe’s arm sending a nonverbal message to be silent and still. Ethan held his breath, daring not to even breathe for fear of being heard.
Only seconds passed, but it seemed like an eternity to Ethan. Then the body attached to the sandaled feet bent down and pointed a large rifle into the bush. The face appeared next. It was deeply tanned with the typical features associated with Arabian nomads of North Africa and the Middle East—black hair and short beard, sharp nose, prominent cheek bones. The face grinned, exposing two gold teeth. His head and body were wrapped in dirty white linens. He motioned to come out, saying the same thing in Arabic.
“Okay, okay!” said Ethan. His phone was still open and he hoped the connection to his father’s voicemail had not terminated. “Don’t shoot! We’re coming out!”
Ethan and Joe slowly and painfully crawled out from their hiding spot, earning more scratches from the sharp thorns. They were terrified and expected to be killed right there. The man kept saying something that they couldn’t understand. From the way he was dressed, the two concluded he was a Janjaweed militiaman.
The militiaman motioned with his rifle. Then two other Janjaweed soldiers arrived. They, too, held their rifles pointed at Ethan and Joe, just in case one rifle was simply an insufficient threat against the two unarmed volunteers. One of the men stepped forward and spoke in broken English.
“You are aid workers, yes?”
Ethan nodded. “We’re volunteers with the Peace Corps Reserve.”
“What is that in your hand?” he asked, looking at Ethan.
“My phone.”
“Give it to me!”
Ethan extended the phone and the man grabbed it. Looking at the phone, he could see that a call had been made and maybe the line was still open. He dropped the phone onto the sandy ground and stomped it with his foot, breaking the phone into pieces.
“Hey!” shouted Ethan and he lunged forward. But Joe wisely caught his arm and pulled him back.
“Who were you calling?” he demanded.
Ethan just stared at him, refusing to answer
“Who were you calling?” he shouted, inching toward Ethan.
Joe answered to deflect the obviously growing irritation of the Janjaweed soldier. “He was on the phone with the U.S. Marines, that’s who. And when they get here, they’re going to kick your ass! You can count on it.”
Ethan wished Joe hadn’t said that. Antagonizing the Janjaweed was only likely to get them killed sooner.
The man studied Joe and then said, “No one will ever know what has happened here. Even if they do, do you really think they would care? America doesn’t want to become involved in African affairs.”
Joe’s arrogant attitude did not reflect his true feelings. He and Ethan both knew that help would be slow to arrive, if it ever did. Clearly, the Janjaweed militias had been allowed virtual free reign for so long that they were confident there would not be any military intervention from the rest of the world.
One of the militiamen stepped forward and jabbed the barrel of his gun into Joe’s belly. “Raise your hands and move.”
Joe and Ethan did as they were told. The Janjaweed led them out of the grove of trees, but not back to the camp.
“Where are you taking us?” asked Ethan.
The only reply was a sharp poke in his back with a rifle barrel.
The small party exited the trees on the far side from the refugee camp. There were another dozen Janjaweed soldiers as well as Brad, Wendy, and Sam. They were all assembled at the rear of a military truck with a canvas tarp over the back, but it was clear that most of the militiamen were traveling by horse.
“Get in,” the man motioned to the truck.
Without any other choice, the five aid workers climbed into the back of the truck sliding onto bench seats on either side of the truck bed. Underneath the dark-green canvas tarp the heat was stifling. Two guards climbed in after them; one sitting on each side at the rear of the truck. The two men had their rifles lazily aimed at the students, not that any of them entertained ideas of trying to overcome the guards and escape.
“Where are you taking us?” asked Sam. The only reply was the falling canvas flap covering the opening. It was dark inside and even hotter now that the only source of air had been closed off.
Sam looked at Joe and Ethan. “Did any of the others get away?” she asked.
Joe shook his head. Ethan looked at Sam and then at the floor of the truck. “We saw three people running for the trees right behind Brad and Wendy,” Ethan paused. He seemed to have trouble finding the words. His faced wrinkled as if it was painful to speak. Then he swallowed and regained his composure.
“They didn’t make it to the grove. A Janjaweed raider shot them in the back.”
Sam stared at the floor of the truck bed as tears slowly ran down her cheeks. Wendy and Brad remained silent as they reflected on what had happened to their friends.
“What’s going to happen to us?” Wendy finally asked, breaking the silence among the volunteers.
“I don’t know,” Sam replied tearfully. “I don’t know.”
Chapter 9
Bend, Oregon
June 7
Peter Savage had been on the phone for most of the morning trying to get answers from anyone in the Federal Government who might even remotely be in a position to help. Finally, he called his high-school buddy, James Nicolaou. The number he dialed rang to Jim’s phone at The Office—the headquarters for SGIT, the Strategic Global Intervention Team. Peter had played the voice recording over the audio connection so that Jim could hear Ethan’s entire message.
“Is that all there is to it?” asked Jim.
“I’m afraid so. I was at a restaurant when he called and I had the phone off. I didn’t get the message until early this morning.”
“All right… try to stay calm. I know that’s hard to do, but try. Let me make a few calls. Other aid workers may have also had a chance to get word out. Chances are good that someone in intelligence is aware of the attack and can shed some light on the matter.”
“Thank you, Jim. You’ll check on this ASAP, right? In the meantime, I’ll be getting ready.”
“Ready for what?” Jim was almost afraid to ask, knowing Peter’s penchant for action that more than once had him running off half-cocked. He had hoped Peter would give him some time to come up with answers before reacting.
“Surely you don’t expect me to sit here and wait for Ethan to be freed, do you?”
“Now slow down. We don’t know anything about the situation. We don’t even know where Ethan is being held.” Jim couldn’t bring himself to add the obvious—or if he is even alive.
“I know enough. I know he was at an aid camp in western Sudan. Someone with the Peace Corps can give me the location—I have a call in to them and expect an answer soon. I figure it will take close to two days to get there. While I’m traveling, you’ll be getting answers. You can keep me posted while I’m en route.”
Jim took in a deep breath. “Look, Peter.
You know that I love Ethan as if he were my own family. But I can’t interrupt everything I’m doing to work this problem right now; I have superiors to answer to, and I can’t feed everything to you that I learn. Nearly all of my intelligence work is highly classified.”
Jim paused and tried a different approach. “And what do you think you’re going to do even if we can find him?”
“Everything I can to get him back from the bastards that kidnapped him.”
“Listen to me… this isn’t the Wild West! You’re talking about going into a foreign country; you have to follow their laws!”
Silence hung across the airwaves. Finally Peter answered, his voice steady and calm, like a machine. “I will do whatever is necessary to get my son—whatever is necessary.” Peter emphasized the words so there could be no misunderstanding. “I would think you’d understand that,” he added softly.
Jim knew the conversation was over. “I do understand.” He sighed heavily before continuing. “As much as I hate to admit it, I’d do the same. Just give me one hour, can you do that? Just one hour. Let me see what I can learn, and I promise to call you within the hour. Can you give me that?”
“One hour,” and Peter hung up the phone.
Rather than waiting to hear back from Jim, Peter immediately dialed another number.
“Gary, it’s Peter.”
“Hi Peter,” replied Gary Porter. “Haven’t heard from you in a while. How’s everything going?”
Gary was a year older than Peter. They grew up in the same neighborhood in Sacramento and became fast friends at an early age. As teenagers they went camping and hunting together, and both men shared a love for nature and the outdoors. Gary remained in central California and ran a very successful computer-security consulting firm with Nancy, his wife of 25 years. It wasn’t uncommon for Gary and Peter to go twelve to eighteen months without uttering a word to one another, but they were as close as any two brothers would be.
“It’s bad, Gary, that’s why I’m calling. Ethan was in Sudan doing volunteer work at an aid camp. Last night—early morning in Sudan—the camp was attacked and Ethan was kidnapped. He was barely able to leave a voice message on my cell phone before he was cut off.”
“Oh man, I’m so sorry. Okay, let’s stay calm.”
“You’re the second person to tell me that and I’m tired of hearing it.”
Gary understood his friend’s frustration and fear. “Do you know where he’s being held?”
“No, but I have connections working on that as we speak.”
“There’s nothing going on here that can’t wait for a while, and Nancy can keep an eye on the business. What do you need me to do?”
Peter smiled. “I knew you’d say that; you’ve always been there when things get rough.”
“That’s what friends do.”
“I have a bad feeling about this, Gary. It could get very ugly in a hurry.”
“And your point is?”
“My point is this. I’m going to Sudan to get Ethan back. I don’t know how I’m going to do it, but I will bring him back with me. I don’t know where he is, but by the time I get there I trust I will know. I expect this to get bloody… very bloody.”
“Nancy and I did a consulting gig in Egypt last year. The best way to get to Sudan is through Chad, via Paris. I’ll start packing. If I remember correctly we can book a night flight from San Francisco.”
“Thank you. I expected as much from you, but I wanted you to know the score before you committed.”
“Sounds like I should bring some firepower?”
“Bring your hunting rifle and your Colt revolver. I think the airlines limit each passenger to eleven pounds of ammo. You should double check the regs and max out. As far as the airlines and customs agents are concerned, we’re on safari.”
“Got it. I always wanted to hunt in Africa.”
“I hope that isn’t a wish you later regret. We’ll meet you at the airport in San Francisco this evening. If we can’t get a commercial flight from Bend to San Francisco, I’ll book a charter plane.”
“Who is ‘we’?” Gary asked.
“Another buddy—a guy I work with—Todd Steed.” Then Peter added, almost as an afterthought, “Todd has also been itching to go on safari in Africa.”
Chapter 10
Sacramento, California
June 7
Jim Nicolaou slammed the phone down after Peter abruptly ended the conversation. “Damn it, why does this always happen to me?” No one was in the room to answer him. His dark brown eyes blazed with frustration and anger. Jim’s Greek heritage brought along a sharp temper, and right now he needed to rein in his emotions.
He pushed a button on his desk phone. “Lieutenant, we have a problem and need to talk… now!”
Fifteen seconds later, there was a soft knock on his office door. Lieutenant Ellen Lacey entered, closing the door behind her. She knew there was no expectation to follow official military protocol in this office, so she sat down in a leather chair opposite Jim’s desk.
In contrast to her boss’ muscular stature, black hair, and dark complexion, Ellen was tall and thin. Her pale skin went well with her soft, shoulder-length red hair. She was a bright woman with advanced degrees in both political science and general science, and Nicolaou relied on her analytical capabilities.
“What do we know about a raid on a remote aid camp yesterday in western Sudan?” Jim asked, foregoing any greetings or courtesy.
Lacey had long ago learned not to take it personally. “Not much. There have been two or three brief references that came across my desk—reports from the DIA to all of the principle U.S. intelligence agencies. I didn’t pay it much attention.”
“Well, better go back and see what you can dig up. This has suddenly become very relevant.”
“Sir, may I ask what this is about?” she asked cautiously.
“Ten minutes ago Peter Savage called. Do you remember him?”
“Yes. We met following the attempted terrorist mission in the Gulf of Alaska. As I recall, Peter played a key role in foiling the terrorist’s plot and saving the lives of several hostages.”
“And one of those hostages was his father.”
“Didn’t that all end with the death of Ricky Ramirez?”
“Yes, and with the death of his brother Vasquez Ramirez,” replied Jim, seemingly lost in thought. “But that’s not what Peter called about. That raid on the aid camp?”
“Yes,” replied Ellen, waiting for the punch.
“Well, his son, Ethan, was there. He was taken hostage, presumably by the Janjaweed militia. Peter called asking for help locating his son.”
“But we couldn’t give him that information even if we knew—and honestly, we don’t know. We don’t even know he’s alive.”
“Hell, Ellen, you don’t have to tell me that!”
“Sorry sir,” said Ellen, suitably rebuked.
“But I can’t just sit back and do nothing. There has to be something we can do within the prerogative of my command. I know Peter well enough… he’ll be on a plane to North Africa within 24 hours and he’ll go gunning for anyone he thinks is even remotely responsible for kidnapping his son.” Jim paused, reflecting on his choice of words before continuing.
“Are you that certain?” asked Ellen.
Jim swiveled in his chair and opened a file drawer in a cabinet behind his desk. It only took a minute to find what he was looking for. He laid the file on his desk. “Look for yourself.”
Ellen picked up the file. It only held two pages. “This is a psychological profile of Peter Savage,” she said without lifting her eyes from the documents.
“That’s right. The department psychologist constructed it from the video and audio recordings of Peter’s debriefing after the incident on Chernabura Island.”
Ellen read the first page quickly, then flipped the paper and continued to the second page.
“The psychological profile is consistent with my observations as well
,” said Jim.
“So the conclusion is that Peter is suffering long-term emotional trauma triggered by the death of his wife. That’s not so unusual,” said Ellen. She continued by reading the concluding remarks. “In times of severe emotional stress, the patient is predisposed to view his environment in terms of absolutes; good and evil, black and white. This clinical perspective is likely to be accompanied by unwillingness to compromise as well as an intense drive to take any action perceived necessary to rectify injustice, real or imagined.”
Ellen let out a soft whistle. “Well, if I was in trouble he’s the friend I’d want helping me. But I get your point.”
Jim looked directly at her, his face seemingly aged twenty years. “He lost his wife. He’s not going to lose his son.”
The level of personal involvement suddenly became clear to Lieutenant Lacey. She nodded, not knowing what this would ultimately mean to her, but she was committed to supporting her boss… and friend.
Jim continued to think out loud. “I have no doubt that Peter will be killed in the process if I can’t help him. He’ll be going in unprepared, out gunned, and without backup.”
“Yes, sir. Let me see what I can learn. I’ll be ready to brief you in 30 minutes. We can pull in Beth and Mark and work up a plan.”
Jim shook his head. “Just you, okay? Keep this under wraps for now.”
“Sure thing, Boss Man,” replied Ellen. She never used his call sign, Boss Man, informally, so Jim knew she was in the game and playing for keeps.
The loyalty and dedication of his team were two reasons why Nicolaou had consistently refused promotions. He enjoyed his work, knowing he was truly making a difference even if the rest of the world would never know. But he was also smart enough to know that it was his team—his people—that really achieved the necessary outcomes, consistently resulting in successful missions. No other group of people could accomplish what his team could, and each member would do whatever was required to help the team succeed.
Twenty-seven minutes later Ellen knocked on Jim’s office door. “It was definitely a refugee camp that was hit. Reports indicate that a large group of young adults—college students—enlisted with the Peace Corps Reserve had just arrived at that camp the previous day. The camp is located in western Sudan, close to the border with Chad, eleven kilometers west of a small town named Bendesi. There have been numerous raids in that area from rebel factions originating in both Sudan and Chad, and more recently from central Sudan.”
