Whiplash

45

“At least forty men there, chief.” Sugar handed back the long distance night vision binoculars. “Two platoons, spread out in the positions. Then whatever they have behind them at the barracks.”

Boston refocused the glasses. Not only were there plenty of soldiers, but the Ethiopian army had brought up two armored cars to cover the road and surrounding area. A troop truck blocked the road near the gate. Nearby, a group of forty or fifty Sudanese were squatting on the ground near the border fence, denied permission to go over the line.

“The border is often closed at night,” said Abul. “Maybe in the morning.”

“There’ll be more troops there in the morning,” said Boston, raising the glasses to view the barracks area beyond the checkpoint.

There were two dozen troop trucks parked near the dormitory-style buildings used as quarters for the border guards. The trucks had arrived late that afternoon, sent as soon as word reached army headquarters that there had been a massive raid on rebel units nearby. Such raids always increased the number of refugees trying to cross the border. As it had periodically in the past, the government decided not just to shut the border, but to be serious about it. The soldiers had been authorized to shoot to kill rather than allow the refugees to cross.

Boston wasn’t worried about getting shot, but he had yet to hear from Washington about the arrangements for diplomatic passage. He couldn’t see anyone near the checkpoint who looked as if they might be from the embassy, sent to help them across. Being interred in an Ethiopian prison camp — or kept among the refugees — was hardly how he wanted to spend the next few days. Or years.

“There is another passage one hundred kilometers south,” said Abul. “We can be there shortly after daybreak.”

“That one will have troops, too,” said Boston.

“Why don’t we just go south until we find a spot, and cut through the fence,” said Sugar. “Pick a spot, then drive across.”

“It’s not just the fence,” said Boston. “Satellite photo shows the ditch extends the entire way.”

The ditch was an antitank obstacle, designed to prevent exactly what Sugar was suggesting. It would probably only slow a determined tank attack an hour or two at most, but the steep sides made it impossible for the bus to scale.

Boston considered splitting up — he could go across with the body of their dead comrade, then wait for the others to pick him up after crossing legitimately. But that would be inviting even more complications, completely unnecessary if Washington could just make the arrangements.

“Let me talk to Mrs. Stockard,” he said, handing the glasses back to Sugar. “Maybe they’ve made the arrangements. Otherwise our best bet right now is just to sit and wait.”

“You hear that?” asked Sugar, turning quickly.

“What?”

“I’m hearing a motorcycle over the hill.”

She’d heard it several times earlier as well. They’d checked once, Boston dropping off as the bus went ahead, but hadn’t seen anything.

He didn’t hear anything now. He shook his head.

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” she said.

“Hopefully,” said Boston.