Kingdom of Bones, page 9
He and Faraji boosted themselves up and hung on either side of Ndaye. They all began swinging and kicking at the wall. Another huge explosion shook the hut and the surrounding waters. More smoke rolled across the swollen river.
They all swung and kicked harder, but the wall refused to budge.
The helicopter’s roar drew closer.
“We need to hit it together,” Benjie gasped out. “All at the same time.”
Ndaye slowed his swing and counted them off. On three, they hammered their heels into the plank walls. It gave a bit, pulling partially free of the nails holding it in place. The current began to tear at it, too.
“One more time oughta do it,” Benjie said.
They swung together, only to have the pole snap overhead. They all crashed back into the water. Benjie splashed and sputtered, but he snatched a broken piece of the pole. He kicked over to the assaulted wall, shoved the section into the narrow gap, and fought to pry it wider. He braced his legs on the neighboring wall.
Faraji swam over to help him.
Ndaye retrieved another length of pole and attacked the other side of the wall. Wood groaned, but the stubborn nails refused to let go.
Then the world exploded behind them. Flames shot past the doorway. Choking smoke flooded inside. The concussion slammed into the small hut, carrying with it a huge wave of water. The river swelled into the small space.
Benjie hung onto his pole—as the surge hit the wall. The entire side of the hut fell away from him.
“Get on it!” Ndaye hollered.
As the section of wall splashed into the water, Benjie scrambled atop it with Faraji. The current immediately grabbed their makeshift raft.
Ndaye struggled to reach them. Benjie sprawled on his belly and extended his length of pole. Ndaye lunged a hand, missed it, tried again, then finally gripped it. The guard climbed along the pole as the river ripped at him and spun the raft.
With a final heave, he beached himself atop the broken section of wall. They all lay flat, limbs spread wide to hold their raft steady. The river swept them into the deeper current. Smoke covered the surface, too thick for even the rain and wind to dispel.
Benjie glanced behind him, noting the glow of the helicopter through the pall. Then the current spun them around a bend, and the sight vanished.
Thank god . . .
“We must reach shore!” Ndaye yelled over the river’s churning.
“Why? How?” Benjie asked. “We have no paddles.”
“We must try.”
Faraji stared ahead, his eyes huge.
Then Benjie heard it. The river’s roaring grew in volume, the growl of a great beast.
Oh, no . . .
He remembered that the only way into or out of the village was by air or by rutted jungle track. The river was impassible. A half mile downstream, a series of waterfalls and cataracts turned the course into a meat grinder. And the floods had only made that monster fiercer.
Benjie stared over at the dark fringe of jungle sweeping past them, speeding ever faster. The raft bucked under them, harder and harder.
Lightning shattered the sky.
In the distance, the monster roared its fury, waiting for them.
7
April 23, 11:48 P.M. CAT
Tshopo Province, Democratic Republic of the Congo
“Thunder’s getting worse!” Frank called out.
He leaned his cheek against the cabin window of the helicopter. The deep booms vibrated the acrylic. Far ahead, bright flashes lit the darkness. He squinted at a ruddy glow far upriver.
What’s happening over there? Had a lightning strike ignited a forest fire?
The small Aérospatiale Gazelle jostled in the air as the winds picked up. The helo followed the dark river below. They crossed over a maelstrom of whitewater gnashing over black rock and crashing down steep cliffs. The helicopter’s lights illuminated the heavy mists churned up by the ferocity of the cataracts.
“Storm’s definitely getting worse,” Tucker agreed from the other side of the aircraft, eyeing the tempest outside.
Between them, Kane lay curled on the seat, seemingly unbothered by the bumping and sudden drops in the aircraft. Then again, the Malinois was a veteran, battle-hardened by countless sorties, firefights, and IED blasts. Still, Frank judged the canine with a clinician’s eye, that of a veterinarian who had treated hundreds of military war dogs over the years. He had sutured lacerations, grafted over burns, amputated shattered limbs, and, too often, covered small bodies with a drape of flag. Few appreciated the loyalty of such four-legged soldiers. Their sacrifices and hardships were not for any political cause or national pride, but for a simpler reason, one of the heart, of a bond that could not be broken.
Frank stared over at Tucker.
Even now, the man rested a palm on his partner’s flank.
That bond went both ways.
Frank reached to Kane and roughed the dog’s scruff. His fingers felt a lacing of old scars under the fur, a calloused map of this soldier’s past. He noted the gleam of matching scars across Tucker’s cheek. They were both survivors, wounded and scarred together into one, bound to each other’s heart, through loss and grief, but also joy and companionship.
Frank was glad he was considered part of that family, even if only tangentially. Back in Iraq, Tucker had readily accepted him as part of their pack—which he appreciated, especially as a Black officer. Biases and prejudices still persisted in the military. Back in World War I, there had been only five army veterinarians with his skin color. Today those numbers were better, but they were still far from what they should be. Then again, that was true for the veterinary profession in general. Even now, only a little over two percent of veterinarians were Black. And maybe that was part of the reason for the closeness of Frank’s relationship with Tucker: they had both stood slightly apart from the rest of the forces.
The Gazelle bounced hard through the air, throwing Frank back to the present. He grabbed his shoulder strap. The belt was all that kept him in his seat. He glanced back to the window. They had cleared the last of the cataracts and sped over the Tshopo River’s flat waters, easily a quarter mile across, fringed by black jungle on both sides.
Lightning flashed ahead of them, igniting the river’s length for a breath. Thunder followed, booming hard enough to shake the helicopter.
Tucker leaned forward to the pilot, who hunched over his controls, leaning his nose closer to the rainswept windshield. Small blades battered back and forth across the canopy, fighting the sleeting downpour.
“Any word from the advanced team?” Tucker hollered to the beleaguered man.
The pilot simply shook his head.
The Gazelle was running twenty minutes behind the other two FARDC aircraft. So far, there had been no news—good or bad—about the status of the relief camp.
With his eyebrows knit tight, Tucker turned to Frank. The question on his face was easy to read. Do we continue or turn back?
The answer rose from outside.
A blinding flash of lightning burst above and around them. Chains of crackling fire split the sky, racing across the belly of the clouds. A blazing bolt snapped down and struck the river ahead of them. The dazzle burned its image across his retinas.
Thunder followed in the next heartbeat, blasting all around, pummeling the aircraft, as if trying to slap it out of the air. The pilot struggled with his controls as the Gazelle dipped and bucked. Finally, the man swore loudly and swung the helicopter away from the storm wall growing in front of them.
Frank gripped his seat and his shoulder strap.
He did not fault the pilot’s decision. They could go no farther. It would be up to the FARDC team’s two helicopters to assess the situation at the camp. Having ducked under the worst of the storm, the others were likely grounded there for the night. He and Tucker would join them in the morning.
Frank readjusted the timetable in his head. Instead of collecting samples, he would use the rest of the night to set up and calibrate his mobile lab at the University of Kisangani. That way, when he collected samples from the camp in the morning, he would be ready to analyze them immediately.
Maybe I won’t lose all that much time . . .
He settled back in his seat as the Gazelle made a hard turn over the fringe of jungle, preparing to return to the airfield.
Tucker lunged forward and grabbed the pilot’s shoulder. “Wait!”
The man scowled over his shoulder
Tucker thrust an arm at the river. “Look! There’s a light. On the water.”
Whether cooperating or merely returning to their original path, the pilot rolled the aircraft back toward the dark river. Frank pressed his cheek against his window, searching ahead, to where Tucker had pointed. Without the illumination of the helicopter’s lights, the water flowed black across their path.
He squinted.
I don’t see any—
Then a tiny flash of light blinked, waving near the river’s surface, reflected in the rainswept water.
“I see it!” Frank blurted out.
Tucker still gripped the pilot’s shoulder, peering ahead. “Someone’s down there.”
11:52 P.M.
Benjie sagged with relief, finally letting his arm drop to the raft next to him. His tiny penlight shone in his fingertips. He shook, letting a single sob escape him.
Ndaye risked letting go of his perch atop the broken section of wall to pat Benjie’s leg. Faraji lay sprawled near the front of the raft, his lips moving in a silent prayer, either of thanks or continuing supplication.
A minute ago, they had spotted the helicopter sweeping upriver, coming toward them, brightly lit in the storm gloom. Benjie had snatched his penlight from a pocket and waved it wildly, trying to signal the aircraft. He didn’t know if those aboard were friend or foe, but he didn’t care. The helicopter was their only hope to escape the river before the raft reached the deadly cataracts.
Still, Benjie’s efforts had seemed for naught. The helicopter had sped unerringly along the river, never shifting its course or dropping lower, oblivious of his signal. He feared the aircraft’s own lights were blinding those aboard to his little twinkle in the river.
Then the world had burst with a blinding cascade of lightning, accompanied by a brilliant spear that exploded into the river behind them. As thunder boomed, he had watched with despair as the helicopter turned away, sweeping wide over the jungle as it headed off.
Only now it returned, driving straight toward them, dropping swiftly.
As it reached the river, a hatch opened in the side. A ladder unfurled, its length tumbling toward the river. The storm winds whipped and tore at it. It danced and snapped like a downed power line.
How can we possibly grab that?
Benjie glanced to Ndaye for an answer.
The guard only winced. The raft bucked and rolled and spun in the current, threatening to topple at any moment. Worse, their makeshift craft raced faster and faster along the powerful current.
Faraji ignored the thrashing ladder, his gaze fixed forward.
The roaring ahead drowned out the approach of the helicopter’s engines.
We’re running out of time—and river.
11:53 P.M.
Tucker clutched a handgrip beside the open hatch. He stared down as the helicopter reached those trapped below. The pilot ignited the Gazelle’s spotlight, pinning it to the foundering raft. Three people clung to that precarious purchase. The ladder swung wildly over them. Its end was weighted, but not heavy enough to withstand the strength of these winds.
The three below would have a difficult, if not impossible time, grabbing it.
And that’s not the only problem.
Tucker glanced to the south. A billowing mist marked the maelstrom downriver.
He shook his head.
Screw it . . .
He shifted around and mounted the ladder’s top rungs.
“What’re you doing?” Frank hollered at him.
“We need an anchor!”
And that’ll have to be me.
As he started to climb down, Kane edged across the cabin’s seat. Tucker met his partner’s eyes. “STAY,” he ordered with firm command, knowing the dog would follow him anywhere if asked.
But not this time.
Kane sat at the hatch’s edge, not looking happy.
“Sorry, bud,” he muttered as he descended.
Once he cleared the leeward side of the helicopter, the winds slammed into him. The length of ladder swung outward. He tightened his hold on the rough plastic rungs, waiting a breath to adjust to the motion, then set off again.
Frank yelled above, but not at him. “Steady this damn bird!”
Tucker knew the pilot was doing his best. Still, Tucker spun and swung on the ladder, but this was not his first rodeo. While he and Kane had served in various capacities during the war—search and rescue operations, covert infiltration—their main duty was exfiltration, the surgical extraction of high-value targets.
He peered down between his boots. Faces stared up at him, shining with terror. He didn’t know who they were, but Tucker was their best hope, making them high value enough for him.
He scaled the rest of the way down the ladder. His extra weight helped stabilize the thrashing length, but it was barely enough. His lean physique was more befitting a quarterback than a linebacker. At this moment, he would’ve welcomed an entire defensive line to help anchor this ladder.
Still, he reached the end.
He kept a double-fisted grip on his rung and dropped his boots toward the raft. The rotorwash had pushed the worst of the rain away and pounded the waters flat around him. His toes spun and scraped across the raft, which was just plyboard planks nailed to a couple of crossbeams. His legs danced across the backs of the three sprawled figures. He came close to kicking a boy in the face.
He heard Frank yell above, but the words were lost in the roaring.
Still, the ladder lowered enough for his boots to finally reach the raft and gain a bit of traction. A Congolese soldier in green camo grabbed Tucker’s ankle with one hand, then turned to his neighbor.
“Go!” he hollered.
The closest figure, a young man in sodden white coveralls, shifted to his hands and knees. Even this maneuver looked precarious on the teetering raft. Still, the man reached a shaking arm toward the ladder’s lowest rung. He grabbed it on his second attempt and hung for a moment to the lifeline.
“Keep climbing!” Tucker yelled with hard command. He knew the guy must be exhausted and terrified, but now was not the time for hesitation.
The man must’ve understood and lunged higher, nearly upending the raft. He scrambled up the far side of the ladder from Tucker, stepping on Tucker’s fingers as he passed.
The soldier, who still gripped Tucker’s ankle, turned his head to a boy of twelve or thirteen. “Faraji! Go!”
The kid scuttled over the soldier’s body to reach the ladder. He stood up—only to have the raft bobble under him. Thin arms swung wildly for balance. Tucker let go of one hand and grabbed the boy’s flailing wrist before he toppled backward off the raft.
As Tucker jerked him to a stop, a small shoulder pack flew down the boy’s other arm. It hit the planks and plopped into the water.
The boy cried out with anguish and yanked his wrist from Tucker’s grip. The kid dove after the pack as it floated away. His body splashed heavily into the swift current.
Christalmighty . . .
The Congolese soldier shoved to his hands and knees, looking ready to go after the boy, but he was clearly exhausted. Tucker grabbed the man by the collar and hauled him to the ladder.
“Up! Now!”
The soldier’s hands latched onto a rung, more in survival instinct than obeying his command. Once the man had a hold, Tucker let go.
“Climb!” he said, nose to nose with the fellow.
With that last order, Tucker turned and dove headlong off the raft, aiming for the bobbing figure of the boy who had retrieved his pack and was trying to swim against the current, an impossible effort.
Tucker hit the water and immediately pushed his head clear.
He fixed on the small form flogging the black water with his limbs. Beyond the boy, the helicopter’s lights illuminated a churning wall of mists. Despite the boy’s struggle, he was being dragged swiftly toward the cataracts.
Tucker kicked after him. With the water’s force propelling him, he reached the boy in only a few strokes. He nearly overshot him, such was the speed of the current. He snatched the boy’s shirt, balled a fist in it, and dragged the wiry lad to his side.
“Grab hold!”
Tucker didn’t know if the kid understood English, but small arms wrapped around Tucker’s neck, nearly strangling him.
He turned and fought the current, but it was far stronger than he had imagined. The abandoned raft sped past him on the right, vanishing into the roaring mists.
The helicopter swept toward them, dragging the ladder. One figure had nearly reached the top. The other remained near the bottom—only he hung upside down, dangling from the rungs by his legs. His arms stretched toward the river, clearly intent on trying to grab them.
Why didn’t I think of that?
Tucker swam hard, but he was unable to even hold his position. The helicopter pursued them, buffeted by winds. Lightning crackled behind it. If there was thunder, Tucker didn’t hear it. The roaring behind him filled the world.
Then the current dragged him into the mists. He lost sight of the helicopter and the ladder. He fought even harder, only it was futile. Then the spray brightened around him. A dark shadow swept low toward him.
Tucker reached an arm toward it.
The ladder appeared. And the dangling soldier. The man’s outthrust arms dragged through the water. Tucker gave up fighting the current and angled to put himself in the man’s path. They briefly locked gazes—then the two hit each other.
