by Dave Edlund
Peter introduced himself to the young lady behind the counter. “We have a reserved charter flight; I believe it is scheduled to leave about now.”
The lady looked at a list of names, destinations, and times on a sheet of paper held to an old-fashioned clip board. “Ah, yes. The pilot has already fueled and is waiting for you. Just go through those doors,” she pointed over her shoulder. “It’s the red and white airplane; you can’t miss it.”
“Thank you,” Peter said.
With Peter in the lead, Todd turned toward Gary and spoke softly so as not to be overheard. “Security was a breeze. I could get used to flying private planes.”
“I don’t know,” Gary answered. “I kinda like the pat downs by TSA.”
For the final leg of their journey they boarded a 1974 Piper Seneca I, a workhorse for ferrying people and supplies to the remote areas of North Africa. Peter had specifically requested the twin-engine plane. He knew they would need both the payload capacity and the space for their baggage. In addition to a large duffle bag for each man, they brought along a formidable arsenal. Gary and Todd had each packed scoped .30-06 bolt-action hunting rifles. Peter had brought two rifles: his favorite .340 caliber Weatherby and .30-06 Winchester. By bringing three rifles in the same caliber they could share the ammunition they brought—the maximum amount allowed by commercial airlines—which they had distributed throughout the three duffle bags. In a separate locked case they had also packed three large-caliber handguns.
Peter and his friends stuffed their bodies into the confined space of the Piper cabin. They were not small men, each standing six feet tall, give or take an inch or two.
The charter plane took nearly three hours to cover the 520 miles to their terminus—the border town of Foro Burunga. Mercifully, the time passed quickly as the rhythmic sound and vibration from the engines lulled all three men into a light sleep.
It was late in the day, almost dark, when the Piper landed on the dirt airstrip. As Abdul Wahid el-Nur had promised, they were met by a man who introduced himself as Hamaad. Dressed in camouflage fatigues and wearing a black ball cap, he said he was a scout in the Sudanese Liberation Movement, and he was directed to meet Peter and his companions and to take them to his camp along the Little Deriba wadi where they could rest. Tomorrow, he said, there was much work to do to plan the attack on the Janjaweed. Abdul el-Nur had refused to tell Peter where the militia was expected to be camped, only that his information was good.
After brief introductions, Peter asked Hamaad, “Do you know if my son is being held at the camp?” Peter needed hope that he was still alive if he was to have the strength to continue.
Hamaad nodded. “Yes. Three nights ago I went with two of my men. The Janjaweed sometimes camp at this special location because it has shade trees and a well close by. It is on an old trail sometimes used by goat herders. We thought they might go there after the raid on the refugee camp. It was late at night and we were able to get close. Sound travels far on a quiet night, and we could hear some of the militiamen talking about a blond woman. They mentioned another woman also.”
“But what about my son?” Peter persisted. “Did they say anything about the men that they kidnapped?”
Hamaad nodded again. “They also spoke about some American men, but they were much more interested in the women.”
“But is my son there? Did they mention any names? His name is Ethan.”
“No. No names.”
“Are they alright? Are any of them hurt?”
“We were on a ridge overlooking their camp and it was dark. We could not see them. There was one tent that was guarded. The Americans are most likely in that tent.”
“Where is the Janjaweed camp?” Peter pressed.
Hamaad smiled, his yellow-stained teeth looked white next to his dark skin. “I cannot answer your question. Please forgive me.” Hamaad bowed deeply. He had been strictly ordered not to reveal the location of the encampment to reduce the risk that the Americans would move out on their own.
With this meager knowledge, Peter felt more hopeful than he had since the ordeal began over 60 hours ago. Now he knew that there were several hostages, and he had to believe that Ethan was one of them.
“Please, let me help put your bags in the truck,” offered Hamaad. “It is maybe one hour to our camp. We should go.”
They carried their bags and gun cases to a Toyota extended cab pickup truck that had certainly seen better days. The body was dented everywhere, and the left front quarter panel was missing entirely. The bed was rusted through in several areas, and the tailgate was absent.
Hamaad opened the door and retrieved three small, worn cardboard boxes from the front seat. Turning, he gave them to Peter.
“We have been carrying these boxes of ammunition in our stores for many months. It is left over from the American soldiers who fought here in World War II.”
Peter read the label on one of the boxes, “Rifle, Ball Ammunition.” He handed it off to Todd and Gary.
“If I’m not mistaken, our friend just gave us three more boxes of .30-06 ammunition. It’s old, but should still shoot.”
With the bags piled on the truckbed and Todd and Gary wedged into the back seat, Peter rode shotgun, his medium-length brown hair flapping in the breeze. The air conditioner had long since quit working, but it wouldn’t have mattered since the windows were all broken out. With an air temperature of 96 degrees, they were sweating despite the air flowing through the cab.
“How long have you been with the SLM?” Peter asked.
Hamaad spoke English reasonably well. “Almost three years. I was a teacher. The Janjaweed attacked my village and burned my tukuls… my huts.”
“Do you have any children?” asked Todd
“I did,” answered Hamaad. “When the Janjaweed attacked, they shot the men. Those who weren’t killed were tied together with a large rope. Then the Janjaweed clubbed the children and raped the women. When they were done, they shot them all.” Hamaad was speaking softly now. The pain, even after three years, was still evident in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” said Todd. “I didn’t mean to…”
“It is okay,” answered Hamaad, “you didn’t know.”
“How did you get away?” asked Peter.
“The Janjaweed let a few of us go. They said we were to warn other villagers what would happen if they didn’t leave.”
“Leave and go where?”
“Anywhere! It does not matter. Chad, the Central African Republic. The Janjaweed and the government in Khartoum want to clear western and southern Sudan of the tribal people. They want to repopulate the land with political allies.”
“You mean Arabs?”
“Yes, and Arab sympathizers. It was the British Empire that forced the tribal people of the Fur to become part of Sudan. It was a foolish act born of arrogance and ignorance.”
“Yes, it was,” Peter added. “And if I remember correctly, it was the distinguished British military officer, T.E. Lawrence, also known as Lawrence of Arabia, who advised against it.”
“That is true. He understood the tribal politics and knew that such a forced union would never last. The same is true here and elsewhere in Africa where the Colonial Powers invoked make-believe and foolish boundaries.”
“How many people have left their villages?” Gary inquired.
“It is hard to say,” replied Hamaad. “Many fled to Chad; many just moved further south. But the Janjaweed militias continue to raid; burning villages and crops, raping the women, killing—always killing.”
“I read somewhere that U.N. estimates place the number of refugees in the range of a couple million,” Todd commented. “And they also estimate that more than 300,000 civilians have been killed directly by the conflict. But President Hassan al-Bariqi wants everyone to think that the number killed is only around 10,000.”
“Yeah. Like 10,000 murdered civilians is okay,” interjected Gary. “What was it Stalin said? ‘One death is a tragedy, one millio
n deaths is a statistic.’”
“There’s something else I don’t understand,” Peter said.
Hamaad glanced at Peter and waited for him to continue.
“I thought the Janjaweed mostly killed the men and children. When did they start taking hostages?”
“Only recently. Maybe a little more than two years ago they started. It was not very many at first—only men. They do not take old men and never women or children. They never asked for ransom, not that the villagers could afford to pay anything. The men simply vanish.” Hamaad’s eyes scanned the desert around them. “The tribes call them the ‘un-dead’ because the family does not have a body to bury and the men are never seen nor heard from again.”
“So when did the Janjaweed begin kidnapping Western aid workers?”
Hamaad glanced at Peter, and then continued looking at the rough dirt road stretching out toward the horizon.
“They have never taken foreigners hostage.”
Peter, too, stared off in the distance, not knowing what to think. “So, Hamaad, do you think they want ransom?”
“Perhaps for the men. The women will be sold into slavery. That’s what they were saying. They believe the blond woman will bring a very high price.”
“Sick bastards,” Todd declared. “I’m thinking I can arrange a meeting with Allah for all of them Janjaweed.”
Hamaad continued. “I have heard that some groups within the Janjaweed grow tired of waiting for the next raid. They are a nomadic people, warriors, and do not adjust well to staying in one place, just waiting for something to happen. I have heard rumors that some have spoken of rebellion against their commander.”
“Who is their commander?”
“An Arab named Korlos Ismail.”
“How do we get to him?” asked Peter.
“You cannot. He does not stay with other militiamen.”
“And this group of Janjaweed that are holding my son and the other American hostages… are they loyal to Korlos?”
“They talk of rebellion. I think that is why they kidnapped the aid workers. They need money to buy food, weapons, and ammunition.”
“How many are there?” asked Todd.
“Hostages?” answered Hamaad, sounding confused by the question. “We don’t know. As I told you, they were in the tent; we did not see them.”
“How many militiamen are guarding the hostages?” Peter clarified, growing impatient. The fatigue of travel and the stress was taking its toll.
“Forty, maybe 50,” said Hamaad.
“And how many soldiers are in your camp?”
“We have lost ten men to illness. I am not sure of your word for it, but they keep going to the toilet.”
“Dysentery,” Gary mumbled, staring at the passing scrub brush and endless stretches of rock and dry, dusty dirt.
“How many able men do you have, Hamaad?” Peter repeated his question, this time a little louder.
Hamaad seemed to squirm in his seat. He glanced slightly to Peter, before looking straight ahead again, still not answering.
“Hamaad, please answer my question.” Peter’s blue eyes bore into Hamaad, while his right hand was clutched tightly on the ‘Jesus’ bar attached to the upper doorframe for added stability over rough roads.
“Including me?” he answered.
“How many!” Peter shouted.
“We have—I think—18 able soldiers.”
“Twenty-one against 50. Sounds like fair odds,” commented Gary.
Peter let out a deep breath and sank in his seat, his head flopping against the headrest. “Great.”
Chapter 13
Darfur
June 11
Peter Savage was still wearing the same clothes he had been in for the last three days—a khaki shirt and khaki long pants, boots, and a light-tan canvas brimmed hat with ventilated crown. Due to the heat, the long sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up ever since landing in Chad. The underarms as well as front and back of his shirt were stained dark by sweat.
He stood, back to the rising sun, hands cradling a cup of strong camp coffee. He was staring toward the northwest, his mind lost in a tangle of intersecting thoughts mostly centering on his son. “Just how in hell am I going to get you out of here?” He spoke softly to himself.
“We’ll get him,” came an unexpected reply from behind him. It was Todd.
Peter turned, “You startled me. I thought I was alone.”
“You were; I just walked over.”
Todd’s eyes were focused on some unseen object far off, rather than the man he was talking to, and his mouth—framed by a chocolate-brown goatee and mustache—was tight and almost down-turned, eyebrows pinched together. He had his arms folded across his chest and appeared to be deep in thought.
“You need to be confident, Peter. You always find a way to solve tough problems. I’ve been working for you long enough to know that if anyone can figure out a solution to a problem, it’s you. Whether you’re solving a technical design challenge or handling government bureaucrats or tracking a monster bull elk you’re huntin’ across an alpine meadow—you always come up with a plan. No matter how stretched it seems, you always achieve your goal.”
Peter studied Todd for a moment before answering, trying to read his thoughts. Todd was not one to speak volumes, but when he had something to say it was usually important.
“This is different Todd, you know that.”
“It is, and it isn’t.” Todd turned to face Peter. They had known each other for more than ten years, and had worked together closely, each possessing a deep and genuine respect for the other’s skills and accomplishments.
“You know what I mean,” continued Todd. “It’s a problem, right? Work the problem, and never give up. Identify it, break it down into manageable pieces, and make it happen. As long as we’re breathing—the three of us—there’s still a chance, another option. There’s always another option. You taught me that.”
Peter turned, affected by the veracity and wisdom of Todd’s words. Never had Peter heard Todd speak so plainly and powerfully.
Peter was stunned to realize that subconsciously he had begun to give up—doubt of success was creeping into his mind. What was it that Henry Ford had said, Peter asked himself. Whether you think you can, or you think you can’t—you’re right.
Peter turned again, facing Todd. “You’re right. We’ll get Ethan back—and the rest of the hostages too.”
“There we go. So, what’s the plan?” Todd inquired, a rare and faint smile crossing his face.
“I have an idea building. Let’s go back to camp and round up Gary and Hamaad.”
Neither man uttered a word during the short walk back to the campsite. The camp itself was little more than a collection of tents and three beat-up Toyota pickup trucks. One was the familiar vehicle that they had ridden in with Hamaad at the wheel.
“Hamaad, you said that the Janjaweed are camped about twenty kilometers north of here, correct?” asked Peter.
“Yes,” replied Hamaad. “Here, I’ll show you.” He used a stick to draw a crude map in the dirt at their feet. Even though they were standing in the shade under a canvas tarp, the heat was already building and Gary had a trickle of perspiration running down his forehead.
“We are here,” Hamaad pointed with the stick to a spot in the dirt map. “There is a low ridge just north of our camp. If you go over that ridge and then follow the wadi, or old river bed, to the east, it soon turns north. Continue following it and you will come to the Janjaweed camp. It is in a few trees and there is a well with good water; that is why they camp there.”
“Makes sense,” nodded Gary. The camp they were currently in was a dry camp and all the water had to be transported in 55-gallon steel drums. It was warm and tasted foul, but it was better than no water. From the taste, Gary suspected they alternated using the drums for both water and kerosene.
“What is the terrain like surrounding the camp?” Peter inquired.
“It is a
wadi,” Hamaad shrugged and looked around at the Americans.
“Yes, I understand. But are the banks steep or shallow at the sides of the wadi, especially to the east of the camp?”
“Ah.” Hamaad now understood the question. “The banks of the wadi are not too steep, but not shallow. A man can climb them. They rise maybe 30 meters above the camp on the east side.”
Peter nodded and looked at Gary and then Todd. As if they could read each other’s minds, the three men reflected an understanding that Hamaad missed.
Hamaad’s eyes flicked back and forth across the faces before him. “What is it? What are you thinking?”
“Hamaad,” began Peter. “The Janjaweed have us outnumbered almost two to one. They have the hostages to use as shields. We don’t have much of a chance if we attack directly.”
Hamaad nodded understanding. “And they will certainly hear all of us coming up the wadi long before we can get there,” he added.
“So we are going to change the rules of engagement. May I have the stick?”
Peter focused on the map scratched in the earth. Using the stick, he drew an oval representing the ridge to the east of the militia camp. “We are going to use surprise and stealth to our advantage. Hamaad, how close can you get us to the camp in your trucks?”
Hamaad shrugged. “We can approach to within two kilometers—the Janjaweed won’t hear our engines.”
“Good.” Pointing at the map, Peter continued. “Late tonight, after midnight, when most of the militiamen are asleep, we…” he motioned with his left hand to indicate himself, Gary, and Todd, “are going to position ourselves on top of this ridge looking down on the camp. At the same time, I want you and your men to position yourselves on the western ridge.” Peter pointed to a spot on the dirt map to emphasize the point.
