Congo Dawn Read online

  Locating crates whose manifest matched her requisition list, she directed the militia uniforms unloading cargo to off-load them directly into the camp jeep. The militia had already uncovered their own private shipment because the entire group was chewing khat, pausing occasionally as they shifted pallets to spit out streams of green saliva.

  It would be an easy matter to instigate a search for contraband if Robin’s employer and Pieter Krueger both hadn’t clearly opted for a hands-off approach to Wamba’s underlings. And there was a point to be made that a stoned-to-the-gills militia might be less dangerous than a guard force with trigger fingers made twitchy by narcotics withdrawal.

  So Robin simply directed several burlap sacks of cornmeal and rice to be added to the jeep load. We won’t miss them, and the Taraja staff have been feeding our patients along with caring for them.

  “That should be it. I’ll have the Taraja people do the unloading, so you can return to your other duties.” Robin slammed the jeep’s rear hatch, then headed around the vehicle to the driver’s side.

  She might never have spotted the refugees were it not for the scream of terror and despair.

  There were five of them, all children.

  No, six. Robin modified her count, noting movement in a bundle tied around the back of the biggest child, a girl ten or twelve years old. They’d emerged from the shadows of towering hardwoods edging­ the end of the airstrip, and Robin might have assumed they were Taraja villagers were it not for their filthy, bedraggled appearance, lips cracked from dehydration, and the hollowed, bruised look in sunken eyes. Robin had seen that look of desolation too many times in the eyes of young war victims to mistake it.

  Nor could she mistake the root of that terrified scream. The children had been running forward when they’d spotted the encampment, armed militia swarming around the C-130, the Mi-17 squatting just beyond. Already as Robin started toward them, the entire group was scrambling backward into the underbrush.

  “Wait! Stop!” Robin called in Swahili. “Please don’t go. We won’t hurt you.”

  The smaller children had already disappeared under the foliage, but the girl with the bundle on her back stopped dead in her tracks. As she turned slowly around, Robin hurried forward. “Please, let me help you.”

  The girl remained poised like a deer about to take flight, but at Robin’s soothing words, her shoulders eased slightly. “Is this Taraja, then? But the soldiers—”

  “The soldiers won’t hurt you. But no, this is not Taraja. See, up there is Taraja.” Robin indicated the metal and thatched roofs protruding from vegetation across the airstrip. “But where did you all come from? How did you get here?”

  “The soldiers burned our village.” The girl’s eyes were still wide with fear as she nodded past Robin. “Soldiers like those. My mother—when they came, she attacked the soldiers with a stick so I could run and hide with my brother. I saw the soldiers hit her! I saw blood. She had told me if there was danger, to flee to Taraja. That we would be safe there. We came once to the clinic by canoe, so I knew the way. Down the river toward the rising sun. Then to the right hand at the falls along another stream.

  “When I heard shooting and saw the smoke of burning, I knew I must do as she said to save my brother. I found these others who had escaped too from the village. So I brought them with me. We ran from the soldiers all day. Then we hid in the forest all night. We heard noises of animals or hunting men that made the little ones cry. I told them they must be quiet or we would be killed. So they were quiet, and none came near us. This morning we came the rest of the path. I thought I had lost the way, but we are here.”

  Robin listened with horror and fury to the girl’s simple narrative. It was one thing to see heat signatures scattering on a computer screen. Another to see and hear the living, breathing consequences of yesterday’s raid. These children and their parents were the resisting villagers of whom Pieter Krueger had spoken so cavalierly?

  Stooping down, the girl called softly. “You can come out. We are safe. The mzungu woman has sworn the soldiers will not touch us here.”

  There was a rustling in the brush. One by one, small bodies emerged. The smallest—another girl, by her twisted hair spikes, and no older than the massacre survivor, Rachel—whimpered, “Water? Please, water.”

  A responding whimper came from the biggest girl’s bundle. Swinging it around from her back, the girl unloosed a knot to bring out a toddler perhaps two years old. Though limp and unresponsive, the child looked sturdy and well-fed, no light burden for a young girl’s back.

  “Please, my brother has not eaten or drunk anything since yesterday. These other little ones either. I have been so afraid some of them would die. If it is true those of Taraja will share food and water, I must take them there quickly.”

  The girl made no mention of her own needs, speaking matter-of-factly of what must have been a horrific ordeal, shepherding this band of children through a rainforest night and long jungle trail to safety. But Robin’s heart twisted inside her to see tears coursing noiselessly down dirt-streaked cheeks. Anger and guilt battled inside Robin as well. All other horrors of this mission might be blamed on the insurgent leader Jini and his misdeeds. But these children’s predicament could be laid at the feet of no one but the Ares Solutions team and their actions, however unavoidable and well-intentioned.

  Robin was already hurrying over to the jeep to grab the knapsack she’d left sitting on the driver’s seat. Her emergency food stash provided a protein bar for each child. Two bottles of water were emptied within moments. Once every crumb of food had followed, Robin nodded toward the jeep. “I am going up to Taraja right now. I will take you to those who will help you.”

  The children’s furtive glances made Robin wonder how many motorized vehicles they’d ever seen. But they squeezed obediently into the front seat and on top of crates, the smallest on Robin’s lap, their eyes wide with fear and wonder as the jeep jolted slowly across the airstrip and up the path.

  By the time the jeep emerged from the tangle of brush and fruit trees to draw up at the clinic veranda, Robin had realized that her passengers were far from the first refugees to pour into Taraja. The veranda was packed with squatting bodies, some carrying bundles but most empty-handed. The large, open-sided thatched shelter that served Taraja as church and school also overflowed with humanity. More ­huddled in the open area between clinic and cinder-block mission house.

  In all there had to be well upward of a hundred, the vast majority women and children, many small enough to be tied to backs. All had that exhausted, hollow-eyed look of fugitives from terror. A filthiness that came from mud and sweat and tears and in some cases blood.

  To make matters worse, it had begun to rain. At first a soft patter. But as Robin stepped down from the jeep, it became a steady downpour that sent refugees squeezing even more frantically under cover of veranda and thatched shelter.

  “Bibi Miriam. Jambo, Bibi Miriam. Jambo.”

  Robin had already spotted Michael’s sister among the huddled throng on the veranda. As Robin’s passengers scrambled out, Miriam hurried over to the jeep. In a mass surge, the children threw themselves against the other woman’s bright pagne. “Bibi Miriam, you are here!”

  “Yes, I am here. You are safe.” Wrapping her arms around as many small bodies as she could, Miriam looked up at Robin. “I know these children. We were out as a family at their village just last month. I did a youth camp with the kids while Michael and Ephraim held a medical clinic.”

  She spoke softly, coaxingly with the children in Swahili, then looked up again. “I’ll take them to the mission house. I don’t know where we’ll squeeze them in. It’s already full. But at least they’ll be under a roof, and my two older boys can get them settled. They’ll remember them from the village.”

  A village that no longer existed. Robin had been doing her best to keep the image of that village an ephemeral column of smoke rising anonymously from the jungle. Collateral damage, unfortunate but
unavoidable. But Miriam’s words, these children, made that village only too real a place. It had been a community, homes, families. Now it was gone.

  But Miriam was looking past Robin into the jeep. “Oh, Robin, are those the supplies? Bless you! Ephraim, look what’s here! And food, too. I don’t suppose there’s any hope there might be powdered milk in all that. As you can see, we’re going to need it.”

  Ephraim had materialized from inside the clinic. As he called over volunteers to unload the jeep, Miriam shook her head with resignation. “When I was growing up, we learned to expect this kind of invasion any time there was insurgent unrest or attacks. With the hospital and airstrip, Taraja wasn’t just the biggest community in the area, but the designated sanctuary. That stopped, of course, when Taraja was destroyed. Word’s definitely out that we’re back and open for business. We had an onslaught a few months ago, but nothing like this. But then those villages didn’t have many survivors. At least we can now feed these ones, thanks to you.”

  “Yes, Taraja cannot thank you enough.” The jeep now emptied, Ephraim walked over as crates and sacks disappeared inside the clinic. “Please convey our gratitude to your associates. Our brother, Michael, would wish to thank you as well, but he is in surgery. The removal of a bullet. Because of your generosity, there will be anesthetics for the operation.”

  The rain continued pouring, and as water trickled down her face, Robin fought to keep tears from intermingling. You can thank us all right, but not for anesthetics! Would either of you be speaking to me so civilly if you knew just why these refugees have come here? Could it be Michael hasn’t told you this isn’t Jini’s doing but ours? Maybe we needed to go into those villages. But did we need to burn them? To shoot people? Maybe one of these kids’ parents is Michael’s patient in there!

  Aloud she said stiffly, “It’s a minimal compensation for all you’ve done. I’ll see if I can round up more supplies for your new guests. I might even be able to do something about shelter.”

  By the time Robin reached her own base camp, the downpour had become a flood that threatened to turn the airstrip into a river. At least the C-130 had managed to take off. But the militia cargo detail were now out in the rain, sullenly stabbing shovels at the mud to create a runoff trench around the camp perimeter. Parking the jeep, Robin made a dash through water and mud up the steps to the communications trailer. There she found a dozen Ares Solutions operatives squeezed inside, but this time the video conference screen was blank. Pieter Krueger was speaking.

  “That’s it, then. The field teams will begin moving forward as soon as the rain stops. If all goes well, we’ll start the final push at dawn. Any movement on ground level will be given opportunity to surrender. Now that we know our bad guys like to hide in trees, once a ground sweep is complete, we will assume any remaining human sign is a target. Marius, Willem, I want those Mi-17s ready if we need air strikes.”

  The South African broke off to direct a cool look at Robin as she joined the group. “You missed Mulroney’s debrief. Not that you had much to add unless you know something about a short count in our cargo.”

  Robin recognized the paperwork on a clipboard he held up. “I just delivered the Taraja requisition. If you’re talking about the missing grain bags, I’m going to need at least another twenty. Plus tents, blankets, and anything we can scare up for a couple hundred refugees. I’m thinking maybe three or four of the militia dormitory tents.”

  The field accommodations Ares Solutions had supplied their local allies were vintage campaign pavilions, each canvas structure capable of sleeping forty to fifty soldiers. With most of the Wamba contingent in the field preparing to spring that bush hunt trap, the tents stood largely empty at the moment. But even as Robin explained, Pieter Krueger was shaking his head. “Fugitives who’ve chosen to resist local law enforcement, then evade arrest, can hardly claim assistance or shelter from us.”

  “The majority are women and children,” Robin argued. “And we’re responsible for them being there. Responsible for any number of them losing their homes and villages. Unnecessarily too, as it turns out. Isn’t this just the kind of PR nightmare Trevor Mulroney’s been trying to avoid if we don’t do something to help them?”

  “And how exactly would that news get out?” Pieter Krueger sneered. “You think Trevor Mulroney’s going to let the press anywhere near this op? But come to think of it, if you’re talking refugees who’ve evaded our roundup, maybe it’s not such a bad idea to gather them in one place. Give us a chance to interrogate them, make sure our escaped barge fugitives haven’t slipped into the crowd.”

  Alarmed, Robin was already shaking her head. “You can’t be serious! You saw how much you got out of the Taraja villagers when Wamba’s men rampaged through there. These people aren’t even local. You spook them, they’re only going to disappear again into the jungle. There’s infants among them, and some of the women are clearly pregnant. Do you want them on your conscience wandering around again without food and water in the jungle?”

  “She’s got a point,” Ernie Miller spoke up. “You send Makuga and his boys up there, we just tip off anyone with intel to make a run. But Duncan here’s another woman, no obvious threat. She speaks the language. She could move around that camp without raising red flags.”

  Pieter Krueger eyed Robin speculatively before giving an abrupt nod. “I can buy that. You get your tents and supplies. In return, I’m assigning you personally to check out every person in that camp. Run that photo past them. Make sure there’s no male refugee with a scar meeting Jini’s description. You got a problem with that, just say so, and I’ll send Makuga instead.”

  “It’s basically what I did as liaison in Afghanistan,” Robin responded. “And I’ll be happy to do the job if it’ll keep Wamba’s drugged-up thugs away.”

  “Then get a move on. Miller, if we’re done here, you can borrow some of Wamba’s boys to move those tents. I assume you have no objection to that,” Krueger addressed Robin sarcastically.

  “Actually, I do,” Robin said. “If we can get the tents down and loaded into the jeep, I’ll see if the Taraja staff can scramble volunteers to set them back up. That way the refugees won’t have to come face-to-face with the same uniforms that burned their villages.”

  “Whatever!” Thrusting his clipboard under his arm, Pieter Krueger headed for the door. “Just don’t forget Mulroney will be here tomorrow. You want that fat contract bonus, we need some serious progress by then. Preferably Jini in hand, dead or alive.”

  Want that bonus? Robin needed that bonus. Desperately. Robin suddenly realized she hadn’t so much as thought of her sister and niece in a full day. How had she let herself get so caught up in the concerns of these Ituri residents that she’d lost sight of the most vital concern in her life?

  The downpour outside had tapered off to a drizzle by the time she’d finished wrestling a fresh load of supplies into the jeep. With Pieter Krueger’s lackluster go-ahead, she’d permitted herself generosity in pillaging the supply depot, adding jugs of vegetable oil, salt, sugar, and oatmeal to sacks of rice, corn, beans. She found no powdered milk but commandeered an entire flat of canned evaporated milk.

  Her own task complete, she grabbed the chance to change her damp clothing while Ernie Miller tied the collapsed tents onto the roof of the jeep. Hanging the rain poncho she’d been wearing from a tent pole to dry, she unearthed her cell phone to hit Kelli’s speed dial number. There was no answer, but Robin’s voice mail proved to hold a new message.

  “Robin, I’m heading to the hospital with Kristi, so no phone until we’re home. She . . . she isn’t doing as well as we’d hoped. But Brian’s doing everything he can. And if you can hurry with—you know. I’m just a little worried time is running out!”

  If there’d been the tears and melodrama she’d known so often from her sister rather than quiet, even resigned control, the message would have left Robin less worried. With deliberate effort, she shoved it from her mind. I can’t do anything about K
elli and Kristi right now from here. I can do my job. Do my part in putting an end to this. For Kristi and for these people.

  But as Robin hurried out to where Ernie was tugging tight the ropes that bound folded canvas material to the top of the jeep, she burst out, “Ernie, there’s something I’ve wanted to ask you. What we’ve been doing these last few days. Attacking and burning those villages. The men killed last night. Those threats to firebomb the jungle. Is this the kind of thing you expected when you signed up for this contract? It just seems—well, I’ll admit it’s more than I counted on. We came here to help these people. But it seems so far all we’ve done is hurt them. And for what? Especially since it turns out none of the villages were harboring Jini and his men. I can’t get out of my head those kids walking all night through the jungle. It’s only our luck none of them died out there. At least that we know of. I guess what I’m asking is, would you have taken this job if you’d known what we’d be asked to do? And that threat to firebomb the rainforest—would you actually obey such an order if Pieter Krueger gave it?”

  The Vietnam vet gave one last hard tug on the ropes as his grizzled eyebrows shot high. “What I expected? You bet it is! This is hardly my first op in Africa or the messiest. And you bet I’d carry out that firebombing if that’s what’s needed to take out our target. I’m surprised at you, Duncan. Why so squeamish? You’re a Marine, right? Spent time in Afghanistan? How many night raids did your unit carry out? How many sweeps for Taliban in civilian villages?”

  “But that was different.” How was it Robin now found herself offering up the same arguments Michael had once made to her? “Our governments were at war. We were following the rules of engagement. Those villages were harboring Taliban. At least our intel gave us reason to believe so.”

  “You think the local Afghan villagers made that distinction?” A twisted smile distorted the Vietnam vet’s hard mouth. “I’m ­guessing you’ve never had to kill someone in combat. Of course not. You’re a woman. For you combat training is an exercise in skill, not survival! Well, let me tell you something you didn’t learn in boot camp. Or in Afghanistan, apparently. This is no love fest out here. It’s war. We’re not here to worry about the villagers’ feelings. Or even their well-being. We’re here to complete the mission. You’re a good kid, Duncan. I like you. But don’t get to thinking that just because Frank and I are fellow Americans we’re some kind of knights in shining armor!