Never, page 26
“Ours or theirs?”
“No way to be sure—but they’re east of the camps, toward the border, so they’re probably Sudanese.”
“You found them!”
“You tipped us off.”
“Where’s the Chad army?”
“There’s a quick way to find that out.” Susan picked up the phone. “Get me General Touré, please.”
“I have to tell the CIA,” Tamara said. “Let me write down those coordinates.” She grabbed a pencil and tore a sheet from Susan’s notepad.
Susan began to speak French, presumably talking to General Touré, using the familiar tu rather than the formal vous. She rattled off the coordinates of the Sudanese army’s location and paused for him to write them down. Then she said, “Now, César,” using his first name, “where is your army?”
Susan repeated the numbers aloud as she wrote them down, and Tamara noted them too.
Susan said: “And where did you take the press party?”
When Tamara had the three sets of coordinates she grabbed a Post-it pad from Susan’s desk tray and went to the map wall. She put stickers at the positions of the two armies and the press party. Then she stared at the map. “The press party is between the two armies,” she said. “Fuck.”
Tab was in mortal danger. This was no longer her morbid imagination: it was plain fact.
Susan thanked the Chadian general and hung up. She said to Tamara: “You did incredibly well to get this warning to us.”
“We have to rescue the civilians,” Tamara said, thinking mainly of Tab.
“We sure do,” said Susan. “I’ll need authorization from the Pentagon, but that won’t be a problem.”
“I’m coming with you.”
This was logical, as she had supplied the key information, and Susan nodded. “Okay.”
“Let me know when you’re leaving and where to meet you.”
“Of course.”
Tamara went to the door.
Susan said: “Hey, Tamara.”
“Yes?”
“Bring a weapon.”
Chapter 15
Tamara put on body armor and requisitioned the Glock nine-millimeter pistol that had saved her life at the N’Gueli Bridge. The CIA station was being managed by Michael Olson, in Dexter’s absence, and Michael did not raise any petty objections of the kind Dexter would surely have dreamed up. Tamara drove with Susan to the military base at the N’Djamena airport, where they met up with a platoon of fifty soldiers and boarded a giant Sikorsky helicopter that held them all and their gear. Tamara was given a radio with a microphone and a headset so that she could talk to Susan over the noise of the rotors.
The aircraft was full. “How are we going to take forty civilians on board for the return journey?” Tamara asked Susan.
“Standing room only,” she replied.
“Will the chopper take the weight?”
Susan smiled. “Don’t worry. This is a heavy-lifting machine, originally designed for recovering downed aircraft in Vietnam. It can hover with another helicopter the same weight strapped underneath it.”
The journey across the Sahara took four hours. Somehow Tamara was not scared for herself, but she was tortured by the thought that she could lose Tab now, today. Just imagining it, she felt nauseous, and for an instant she feared she might throw up in front of fifty tough soldiers. The helicopter flew at a hundred miles an hour, but it seemed so slow as to be almost stationary over the unchanging landscape of sand and rock, and before the end of the journey she came to realize that she wanted to spend her life with Tab. She wanted never again to be separated from him like this, ever.
This was a life-changing thought, and she played out its consequences in her mind. She was sure that Tab’s feelings were similar to her own. Despite her record of marrying men who were wrong for her, she thought she could not be mistaken about him. But there were a hundred questions for which she had no answers. Where would they go? How would they live? Did Tab want children? They had never talked about that. Did Tamara want children? She had never thought much about it. But I do, she realized; I do now. With other men I was lukewarm, but with him, yes.
She had so much to think about that the journey seemed too short, and she was surprised when they descended over Abéché. The distance they had covered had been close to the limit of the helicopter’s range, and they needed to refuel before they began to search for the media party.
Abéché had once been a great city, a stopping place on the trans-Saharan route used for centuries by Arab slave traders. Tamara imagined the camel trains plodding tirelessly across the vast desert, the great mosques with hundreds of kneeling worshippers, the opulent palaces with their harems of bored beauties, and the human misery of the teeming slave markets. After the French had colonized Chad, the population of Abéché had been nearly wiped out by disease. Now it was a small town with a cattle market and some factories making blankets out of camel hair. Empires rise, she thought, and then they fall.
There was a small US Army base at the airport, staffed on a revolving six-week rotation, and the current shift had the refueling truck ready on the runway. Within minutes the helicopter was lifting again.
It turned east, heading for the last known location of the media group. Finally Tamara was getting near to Tab. Soon she would know if he was in trouble, and whether she could help him.
After a quarter of an hour they saw a grim encampment: rows of improvised dwellings; dusty, lethargic inhabitants; and dirty children playing with stones in the littered pathways. The pilot flew the length and breadth of the place three times; there was no sign of a media party.
Susan studied her map, identified the next nearest camp, and gave the co-pilot directions. The machine lifted fast and headed northeast.
A few minutes later they flew over a large military force moving east. “Troops of the Chad National Army,” said Susan over the headset. “Five or six thousand men. Your information was correct, Tamara. They’ve got the Sudanese outnumbered two to one.”
Hearing this, the soldiers looked at Tamara with new respect. Good intelligence could save their lives, and they valued anyone who provided it.
The next camp looked similar to the first except that it was located in a shallow dip, with slight rises to the east and west. Tamara looked for signs of people from the city: Western-style clothes, bare heads and dark glasses, camera lenses flashing in the sunlight. Then she spotted two buses, their paintwork layered with dust, parked in a row in the center of the encampment. Nearby she noticed a purple blouse, then a blue shirt, then a baseball cap. “I think this is it,” she said.
Susan said: “So do I.”
A small helicopter, which Tamara had previously not spotted, suddenly rose from the camp. It tilted and veered away from the Sikorsky, then headed west, going fast.
Tamara said: “My God, what’s that?”
“I recognize the aircraft,” Susan said. “It’s the General’s personal transport.”
That was ominous, Tamara thought. “I wonder why he’s leaving.”
Speaking to the pilot, Susan said: “Gain enough height for us to survey the surroundings.”
The aircraft rose up.
It was a clear day. To the east they could see an army approaching, trailing a cloud of dust: the Sudanese.
Susan said: “Fuck.”
Tamara said: “How far away are they—a mile?”
“Less.”
“And how far in the other direction is the Chadian force?”
“Three miles. On these unpaved desert tracks they’re moving at about ten miles an hour. They’ll be here in twenty minutes.”
“That’s how long we’ve got to rescue our people—and get the refugees out of the way of the battle.”
“Yes.”
“I was hoping we’d get in and out before the Sudanese arrived.”
“That was the plan. Now for the new plan.”
Susan ordered the pilot to land near the buses, then spoke to the troops as the chopper was descending. “Squads One and Two, deploy to the east ridge immediately. Fire as soon as the enemy is within range. Try to look like ten times the number you are. Squad Three, go through the camp telling the media to gather by the buses and the refugees to run into the desert. Hold on.” She asked Tamara what the Arabic was for The Sudanese are coming, run away! and Tamara said it over the radio so they all could hear. Susan finished: “We’ll hover so that I can see everything. I’ll tell you when to fall back and where to regroup.”
The helicopter touched down, and a ramp was lowered at the rear.
Susan said: “Go, go!”
The soldiers ran down the ramp. As ordered, most of them turned east, up the slope, and hit the ground near the ridge. The rest fanned out around the camp. Tamara went looking for Tab.
As the soldiers gave their message, a few refugees began leaving the camp at a desultory pace, apparently skeptical of the urgency.
Most of the visitors were wandering around and conducting interviews and they too responded sluggishly to the orders. Others had gathered around a hospitality table, where people from the government press office were handing out drinks from an icebox and snacks in plastic containers.
“There’s going to be trouble,” Tamara yelled at the government people. “We’re here to pull you out. Tell everyone to get ready to board that chopper.”
She recognized one of the reporters, Bashir Fakhoury, with a bottle of beer in his hand. He said: “What’s going on, Tamara?”
She did not have time to brief the press. Ignoring the question, she said: “Have you seen Tabdar Sadoul?”
“Just a minute,” said Bashir. “You can’t just order us around. Tell us what’s happening!”
Tamara said: “Fuck you, Bashir.” She hurried away.
She had seen from the air that there were two long, fairly straight paths through the camp, one going roughly north-south and the other east-west, and she now decided the best way to search for Tab was to run the length of both. She would not be able to stop and look inside buildings; that would take too long, and she would still be searching when the Sudanese got here.
Running east, toward the soldiers on the ridge, she heard a single rifle shot.
There was a silence like a stunned pause. Then she heard a crackle as the rest of the American soldiers began shooting. Finally, more distant gunfire told Tamara that the surprised Sudanese had begun shooting back. Her heart thudded with fear, but she ran on.
The noise galvanized the people in the camp. Everyone came out of the tents to see what was going on. The sound of shooting was more effective than spoken instructions: refugees began running away from the camp, many carrying children or other precious possessions—a goat, an iron cooking pot, a rifle, a sack of flour. The journalists abandoned their interviews and ran for the buses, clutching cameras and trailing microphone leads.
Tamara scanned the faces without seeing Tab.
Then the shelling began.
A mortar exploded to Tamara’s left, destroying a house, and it was quickly followed by several more. The Sudanese artillery were firing over the heads of the American soldiers into the camp. She heard cries of fright and screams of pain as refugees were wounded. Medical orderlies among the American troops broke out collapsible stretchers and began to attend to casualties. The rush to leave the camp turned into a stampede.
Stay cool, Tamara said to herself. Stay calm. Find Tab.
She found Dexter.
She almost missed him. Lying on the ground across the open entrance to a dwelling she saw what looked like a pile of rags, but something made her take a second glance, and she realized it was Dexter’s blue-and-white seersucker suit, and Dexter was wearing it.
She knelt beside him. He was breathing, but shallowly. He showed little sign of outward harm—just scratches—but he was unconscious, so he must have been hurt.
She stood up and yelled: “Stretcher here!”
None of the medical orderlies was in sight and there was no response. She ran twenty yards toward the center but still did not see anyone. She returned to Dexter. It was risky to move an injured person, she knew, but clearly it would be more dangerous to leave him at the mercy of the Sudanese. She made a quick decision. She rolled him onto his front, lifted his torso, got her back under his belly, and heaved herself upright with his limp body over her right shoulder. Once she was standing she could bear the weight more easily, and she walked toward the helicopter and the buses.
She had gone a hundred yards when she saw two medics. “Hey!” she yelled. “Check this guy—he’s from our embassy.” They took the unconscious Dexter and laid him on a stretcher, and Tamara went onward.
She noticed that some of the journalists were filming, and she had to respect their courage.
Almost every refugee had now left. An elderly woman was helping a limping man, and a teenage girl was struggling to carry two bawling toddlers, but all the others were already outside the camp, heading across the desert as fast as they could go, putting distance between themselves and the weaponry.
How long could thirty or so American soldiers hold off an army of two thousand? Tamara guessed there was very little time left.
The helicopter was descending. Susan was about to pick everyone up. Where was Tab?
Then she spotted him. He was running along the north-south path, chasing the fleeing refugees, with a large child held unceremoniously under his left arm. It was a girl of about nine years, Tamara saw, and she was screaming her head off, probably more scared of the stranger who had grabbed her than of the mortars exploding behind her.
The chopper touched down. Over her headphones, Tamara heard Susan say: “Squad Three, board the civilians.”
Tab reached the outskirts of the camp, caught up with the last of the fleeing refugees, and set the child on her feet. She immediately ran on. Tab turned around and headed back.
Tamara ran to meet him. He embraced her, grinning. “Why did I feel sure you’d be involved in this rescue?” he said.
She had to admire his cool nerve, joking on the battlefield. She was not so calm. “Let’s get going!” she yelled. “We have to board that chopper!” She broke into a run, and Tab followed.
Susan’s voice in her ear said: “Squad Two, fall back and board.”
Tamara glanced up at the ridge and saw half the soldiers there crawling backward on their bellies, then getting up and running into the camp. One man was carrying a comrade, wounded or dead.
As the soldiers reached the chopper, Susan ordered: “Squad One, retreat and board. Run like hell, guys.”
They followed her advice.
Tamara and Tab reached the chopper and boarded just ahead of Squad One. Everyone else was aboard. A hundred people were crammed into the passenger space, some of them on stretchers.
Tamara looked out of the helicopter window and saw the Sudanese army coming over the ridge. They thought they smelled victory, and their discipline was failing. They were firing, but hardly bothering to aim, and their bullets were wasted on the ramshackle shelters standing between them and the retreating Americans.
The doors were slammed shut and the floor beneath Tamara’s feet rose suddenly. She glanced out of the window and saw that all the Sudanese were now aiming their weapons at the helicopter.
She was almost overcome by terror. Although bullets might not penetrate the armored underside of the aircraft, it could be brought down by a well-aimed mortar or a rocket from a shoulder-mounted launcher. The engines could be disabled, or a lucky shot might hit the rotors, and then . . . She remembered a grimly humorous saying dear to pilots: A helicopter glides like a grand piano. She felt herself shaking as the machine lifted and the rifle muzzles followed its trajectory up. Despite the noise of the engines and the rotors she thought she heard a rattle of bullets hitting the armor. She imagined this massive aircraft with a hundred people aboard falling to Earth, smashing to smithereens, and bursting into flames.
Then she saw the Sudanese switch their attention. They stopped watching the helicopter and looked away. She followed their gaze up the western slope. There she saw the Chad army coming over the ridge. It was a battle charge rather than an orderly advance, the soldiers running and firing at the same time. Some of the Sudanese fired back, but it quickly became clear that they were outnumbered, and they began to flee.
The passengers on the helicopter broke into cheers and applause.
The pilot flew directly north, away from both armies, and in seconds the helicopter was out of range.
“I think we’re safe,” said Tab.
“Yeah,” said Tamara, and she took his hand in hers and squeezed it very hard.
* * *
On the following morning the CIA station in N’Djamena was busy. Overnight the CIA director in Washington had fired a series of questions: What had sparked the battle? How many casualties? Were any Americans killed? Who won? What had happened to Dexter? Where in hell was Abéché? And, most important, what would the consequences be? He needed answers before briefing the president.
Tamara went in early and sat at her desk writing her report. She began with her meeting yesterday with Karim, whom she described as “a source close to the General.” She would give his name if asked, but she would not put it in a written report if she could help it.
As the others arrived, each of them asked her what had happened to Dexter. “I don’t know,” she said each time. “I found him unconscious with nothing to indicate what had knocked him out. Perhaps he fainted with fright.”
Along with other stretcher cases, Dexter had been taken to the hospital in Abéché when the chopper stopped to refuel. Tamara suggested to Mike Olson that he send a junior officer, maybe someone like Dean Jones, on the next plane to Abéché to visit the hospital and get a firsthand diagnosis from the doctor, and Olson said: “Good idea.”
