Whiplash

61

Breanna hadn’t forgotten about the refugees, but they were pushed far to the periphery of her consciousness as she concentrated on rescuing her people. As she headed back toward the hill to blow up their gear, she saw them in their makeshift camp, nearly all of them standing and straining to get a view of the black aircraft hurtling through the nearby sky.

The firing had died down. The mercenaries were now on the hill, caught between the Ethiopians and the Sudanese regulars in the pickups, who’d stopped near the road.

The ready light lit on the detonator. Breanna was in range to blow up their gear.

She was about to push the button when she spotted a black speck in the sky to the north. It was the other Osprey, belatedly coming to back her up.

Breanna clicked on the radio. “Osprey Two, this is Osprey One. Can you read me?”

“Hey, roger that, Colonel Stockard,” replied Greasy Hands. His voice shook with adrenaline and nerves. “I’m here.”

“Good. Take the aircraft over the hill and orbit around the refugee camp.”

“I don’t have it in view yet.”

“You will. It’s south of us. You have weapons?”

“Oh, roger that. We are loaded for bear.”

“Copy. Hang tight.”

“Osprey Two.”

Breanna directed the computer to fly the aircraft near the camp and land. Then she got up and went into the rear of the aircraft.

“Boston, Sugar, Abul — we’re going to land by the refugee camp.”

“We’re landing?” said Sugar.

“We’ll evac the refugees to a UN camp. There are a dozen in northern Sudan.” Breanna looked at Abul. “Right, Mr. Abul?”

Abul felt as if he were walking down a long tunnel, coming back from a dream, approaching reality.

“There are refugee camps in the north run by the UN,” Breanna said to him. “We can take these people there.”

“Yes,” said Abul.

“Will you help me? I don’t speak Arabic.”

“Yes,” said Abul, still distant. “Yes, I will,” he added more forcefully. “Yes.”

“Good. Get ready.”

Aboard osprey two, Greasy Hands was having the time of his life.

Not that he wanted to do the pilot thing full-time. But sitting back and giving the computer orders, that he could live with.

As long as he didn’t have to use the weapons. Not that he couldn’t figure them out — he’d tested them many times — but the idea of using them against real people was a whole different kettle of fish, or ball of wax, or waxed kettle of fishballs, as his grandpa used to joke.

But hell, if he had to…

Breanna estimated that there were just over seventy refugees: very close to the payload capacity of the Ospreys with their uprated engines. But even if it took two trips, getting them away from the border to a safe place would be worth it.

She stood at the back of the aircraft, holding the handle at the ramp as it settled onto the desert floor. She punched the ramp button and looked back at Boston. He nodded, though in truth he had started to doubt this was a good idea.

“Come on, Mr. Abul,” Breanna said, tugging at the bus driver’s shirt. “Come on.”

They walked down the ramp together. The sun had just set; it would be dark inside a half hour.

A small knot of refugees stared at the front of the aircraft as they came around. One or two thought they were about to be shot. The others were simply in awe at the strange looking plane that was able to land vertically.

“We’re here to take you to a camp,” Breanna said. “We’re going to help you.”

The Osprey’s engines were still rotating, and it was hard for Abul to hear her, let alone for any of the crowd. Breanna pulled Abul with her away from the aircraft. More refugees were coming forward. Boston had his rifle with him, pointing it at the ground, trying not to spook them.

More intimidating was the other Osprey circling above, its cannon hanging down from its chin.

“We’re here to take you to camp,” said Breanna again. “Tell them, Abul.”

Abul hesitated. These were not his people. None of them were Muslim, and he didn’t recognize their accent when a few asked him what he was doing. But the Americans had galvanized him. He was amazed that they would come back, that they would want to come back, after having so narrowly escaped death. They were risking their lives to save people they didn’t know. And Allah clearly approved, because he had rescued them and stopped the shooting nearby.

He was part of a noble project. Goodwill flooded into him. He felt stronger than he had ever felt. The things he had lost — his bus mostly — were no longer important.

And so when the elders of the group turned their backs when he told them they could go to the camp, he felt crushed.

“What’s the matter?” asked Breanna as they started moving away.

“They don’t want to go.”

“Why? Are they afraid of the aircraft?”

“No. They think the borders are artificial. And the camps, they say, are hell.”

“That fence is real,” said Boston. “Tell them that.”

“I’ve tried explaining,” said Abul. “They don’t want to go to the UN camp.”

“They’ll be safe there,” said Breanna.

“They could have gone there in the first place,” said Abul. “They didn’t. They want to cross over the border, but if they can’t, they would rather stay here. This is tribal land. Here, there, on both sides of the fence. They say it goes back many hundreds of years. They’ll stay right on this spot if necessary.”

“How long?”

“Until the dead walk. That’s how they put it.”

Abul shook his head. He thought they were crazy, but he understood their doubts about the refugee camp. As well-intentioned as the camps might be, none had good reputations.

“Look, it’s getting dark,” said Boston. “We can’t stay here too much longer. And the Ethiopians over there are eventually going to move. Or the mercenaries. Tell these people this is their last chance.”

“Try again, Mr. Abul,” said Breanna. “Make them see logic.”

“It’s not a matter of logic,” said Abul, but he tried again. This time the elders spoke directly to Breanna. Their words were in Arabic, but the gist of what they were saying was clear enough. They didn’t and wouldn’t go.

“If you stay here,” said Breanna, “you may be killed. On purpose or by accident. You can’t get any water or shelter — what will you do in the rainy season?”

They were unmoved. She grabbed Abul’s arm.

“Make them understand,” she pleaded. “They can’t stay.”

“Tell them they were going to be killed by the Ethiopian army,” said Boston.

“I did.”

Abul tried once more, but by now no one was listening to his hoarse voice.

“But we want to help them,” said Breanna. “We want to help.”

“We can’t do any more, Ms. Stockard,” said Boston. “We better get out of here.”

An alert tone sounded on Breanna’s radio, a sharp whistle followed by Greasy Hands’s gravelly voice.

“Bree, there’s something serious going on with the radar. What’s your status?”

“How serious, Chief?”

“It’s picking up a lot of aircraft at low level. Several warnings. Something big is happening. They’re coming almost right at us.”

Breanna stared at the refugees, trying to think of something to say to them. But there was nothing that she hadn’t already said. Reluctantly, she went back to the Osprey.