by Peter Riva
Soon they were beyond the elephant, and Pero was suddenly worried. The cable was getting deeper, already at their naked feet, and soon it would be beyond reach. What were they going to follow? Bob, on the other hand, was treading water as he looked back at the elephant and whispered to Mbuno, “How did you do that? What was that noise?”
“I was saying hello; it is all right.”
Pero interjected, having already heard about Mbuno’s ability to communicate with elephant, “Later, Bob. We’re going to get lost quickly out here; the cable’s getting too deep!”
“Ah, Pero,” responded Mbuno, “see the rock where the cable is attached?” He pointed. “Now see the line it makes to here?” He spun in the water facing away from the rock and the shore. “We follow this line to the other side.” He could see Pero was doubtful. “And I will cheat a little.” He pointed up at the Southern Cross hanging in the sky. “It is a good marker, do you not think?” He paused to smile.
And so they began to swim. Bob was a strong swimmer, crawling, dragging the medical bag, and, occasionally, pulling alongside Mbuno. Waliangulu men know how to swim, but many would call it more like staying afloat rather than actual swimming. Mbuno was doing a cross between a dog paddle and breaststroke. Pero, trailing the two, swam sidestroke, keeping an eye on the elephant behind them and watching for water ripples that could spell an attacking croc or, worse, a hippo. Pero, intent on not being surprised, began falling behind. Mbuno whispered, “Wait a moment.” And the three men tread water together. To Pero, he said, “It is night; the hippo will not come—they are feeding on land.” Pero nodded. To Bob, Mbuno said, “Please not to swim that way; swim like Pero or I do, no splash.” Bob also nodded, and Mbuno resumed swimming.
Pero realized that, Southern Cross or not, he would have been hopelessly lost by now. They were halfway across the lake, and a faint shimmer off the water prevented him from making out any landmark or mill lights on shore. For all he knew, they could be headed into a crocodile den. Already swimming for over an hour, Pero’s mind wandered. Some people he knew would say what they were doing was brave. But Pero thought, Bravery doesn’t stay; it comes and goes quickly. It’s like a wave, coming and then receding. I hope I can hold on. Pero had to admit to himself that he was now frightened in the black water, so far away from land. He was equally sure Mbuno wasn’t. Mbuno is used to danger, living so close to raw nature. I’m not, really.
So why am I doing this? In his fear, Pero had asked the unanswerable question, perhaps as a means of finding an escape in an answer. He recognized cowardice in his thought process. So he spoke to himself, to strengthen his resolve. Pero, you’re a good person. A good person through and through. Good never leaves you; long ago it permeated your soul and can never leave. Good people do good. It is who you are. Hang tight, hang tough . . . you don’t have to be brave, just resolute.
Meanwhile, Bob did what trained military men do—he followed a leader and cleared his mind of question and doubt. Since teaming up to help find Ube, everything Mbuno had done or said had impressed Bob. Not since his time in a war zone had he felt such confidence in a natural-born leader. That the man was nearly half his size, lithe, and gray-haired did not shake Bob’s respect and trust in Mbuno. Mbuno led; Bob was content to follow.
Mbuno was aware that his mind was filled with doubt. Doubt in his ability to find Ube. Doubt in his ability to explain to Niamba, his wife, if Ube could not be rescued alive. Doubt in his age and diminishing physical abilities. And, finally, doubt that they would be able to get ashore safely, for Mbuno knew there were no ndovu on the far shore to give them cover from crocodiles.
CHAPTER 15
Kambi ya Magogo—The Logging Camp
When they were a hundred yards from shore, Mbuno motioned them to stop and tread water. He swam back and forth, feeling with his feet until he reached the cable. He motioned the two over and whispered, “Feel the cable. Now we be quiet.” He started to inch forward, gently paddling and keeping the cable in touch. The moonlight was sufficient to see large objects ahead, even with the increasingly overcast night. There was no dock anyone could see, but the barge appeared, seen from the water surface—gigantic, over ten feet high on the side. The barge bow facing them had a twenty-foot steel ramp sticking straight up.
Mbuno held up a hand. He looked at Bob and Pero and made a snaking movement with his hand, making sure they understood. He then gave them the wait signal again. He began paddling forward, following the cable up to the right side of the barge. Standing on the cable, he inched upward, palms against the hull. He motioned to Pero and Bob to follow. There was no alarm, no noise from anywhere, just the oily lapping of the water against the barge’s hull.
Pero had seen the crocs wake on the left side of the barge, and then, going past the vertical ramp, he lost sight as he reached the barge’s right side. He wondered if the crocs would come around and pick them off. He inched up the cable as fast as he could, as Mbuno had done. Bob followed Pero, more athletic and sure-footed.
The winch for the thick cable consisted of two truck rims, four feet off the water’s surface. The bottom rim consisted of a truck rim with a rubber tire that slotted into a wider truck rim above, pinching the cable. Run the motor one way and it would pull the barge across the lake; run it backward and it would pull the barge back. Farther along the side of the barge, Pero could make out a duplicate winch setup, giving the barge directional stability. Once Mbuno stepped over the first winch, he tightrope-walked the cable, clear of the water, to the second winch and waited there for Bob and Pero to catch up. He whispered, “I will go ahead to see if there is askari. Wait here.” Both men nodded.
A few minutes later there was a sound akin to a huff, and then Mbuno’s head appeared above them. “There was one, not local, very strange tribe. He is sleeping. Follow the cable. There is a door. Go through.”
As Pero went through the hatch in the side of the barge, Mbuno was there, finger on lips. Bob saw Mbuno’s gesture, too. Mbuno started a hunting run, semi-crouching, soundless, across the steel deck. Pero and Bob saw him stop at the bulkhead next to the steel ramp that was deployed onto the beach. From their vantage point, they could see there was a hundred and fifty yards of open beach before the entrance to a chain-link gate. The gate was slightly ajar, topped with barbed wire. On either side of the gate, a permanent ten-foot fence disappeared in the gloom. Pero thought there was something wrong with the fence and whispered to Mbuno, “The fence, it is wrong . . .”
“Ndiyo, it faces in, not out.”
Bob made a gesture to say he did not understand. Pero explained as quietly as he could, his lips inches from Bob’s ear, “If you want to keep people out, the fence faces out with barbed wire. This fence,” he pointed, “has the top facing in. It is to keep people in, not out.” Pero asked Mbuno, “How are we going to get across and through that gate?”
Bob had a suggestion, whispering, “The truck ruts are maybe two feet deep; we can crawl.” Mbuno nodded and, looking carefully for any signs of movement, quickly ran down the ramp, his wet bare feet not making any noise, and dove into the truck rut.
From his vantage point, Pero thought Mbuno looked like an eel squirming forward. Bob followed, and so did Pero immediately after. Ten minutes later, exhausted after the long swim and crawl, the three found themselves inside the compound, lying prone under a giant logging truck, hidden from view, just inside the fence. They were all breathing hard. The harder mill ground was no longer pitted with tire tracks. Anything they did from now on would be visible.
Not that Pero could see anyone keeping watch. Machinery sounds were coming from somewhere far ahead, but where the men were, in a garage and service area, all was silent. Pero asked as quietly as he could, “Anyone have a plan?” He was looking at Mbuno.
Mbuno’s voice held resolve. “We must search and find Ube.”
Bob responded, “Do we separate or stick together?”
Mbuno answered, “We go together, one house at a time. We go now.”
The first building was empty of people or living quarters but full of machine parts. The second through tenth were the same, often revealing their contents with each of them taking turns looking through windows. Some of the houses were stacked with what looked like hay bales, hundreds of them. As they advanced, in crouching runs across the yard, they saw no one, and no alarm was raised. This is going well, Pero thought. Too well . . . And he remembered the old Wild West trooper movies and the standard lines from a protagonist awaiting an Indian attack, “It’s quiet tonight, Sarge . . .” “Yeah, too quiet.”
All across the expansive compound, the sounds of rhythmic machinery got louder but never enough to disguise a sudden noise, should they make one. Pero and Bob crawled when needed. When speed was necessary, they placed their running feet carefully, eager to maintain stealth. Mbuno, the professional hunter, took smaller steps, seemingly gliding across open ground, always silent. Arriving at each building, they flattened themselves against the walls and listened before inching along the sides and peering through dusty and rain-streaked panes.
They approached the last two buildings before the giant milling plant—there was one long hut without windows and one with windows beyond it. Suddenly the end doors of the nearest building opened, spilling blinding light across the open space to their left. Two men emerged, engaged in an intense argument that Pero could not understand. Pero looked at Mbuno, who shook his head. What language is that? Pero wondered.
The arguing men walked off, still almost yelling at each other.
Mbuno tapped Bob and whispered, “Pero, stay. Bob with me.” And he ran, crouching to the side of the hut as the doors automatically shut via hydraulic closers. When they reached the full closure, there was an audible click from the latch. The men were out of sight, and again, everything was silent. Mbuno inched around to the doors and tried the handles. No luck. Locked. He peeked down the other side of the hut and motioned to Bob to follow. Bob quickly went to his side. Mbuno gestured to Pero to go around the hut from the other side.
Pero watched Bob and Mbuno disappear from view and quickly ran to the near side of the hut and turned right, following the flat windowless wall to the far corner. On his knees, sneaking a look around the side, he saw a pair of doors and, this time, two windows spilling faint light. Off to his right there was only one larger building with many windows down the side, some illuminated faintly, others dark but, Pero could see, not blacked out. Beyond that stood the towering mill in total darkness, gantries and scaffolding glinting in the moonlight. Pero looked over at the windowed hut, which had a lived-in feeling to him. It looked like a dormitory.
He refocused on the building he was next to. Inching around to the windows next to the twin doors, Pero peered in. What he saw was a long room with tables and chairs, obviously a dining area. At the far end, light was coming in from twin open doors, perhaps to a kitchen. Pero could see pots and pans hanging.
Pero nearly jumped out of his skin as Mbuno and Bob came around the hut quickly and furtively. Bob said, “Men coming . . .”
Pero heard the door at the other end of the building open and close. He looked in the window and saw the shadows of someone moving in the area he had assumed was a kitchen. There was noise and shouted commands. Again, Pero did not recognize the language. The empty hall reverberated with their yelling, now quite clear. Mbuno motioned them to crouch down. Mbuno’s face showed deep concern. “It is Hausa, I think. That is very bad.”
Bob wanted to know, “What do we do now?”
Mbuno whispered, “We must scout quickly; this is most serious.”
Pero asked, “What is a Hausa? From where?” Almost in answer, the three rescuers froze deep in the shadows of the dining hut and watched two more men emerge from the lighted hut with windows. They were carrying automatic rifles with tan butts. Pero instantly recognized them as Russian AK-47s. The men wore threadbare camo outfits, appeared unkempt with very long dreadlock hair, and their posture said they were cocky, ready, strong, violent.
When they passed behind the hut and from view, Mbuno whispered, “Hausa, Nigeria, maybe Boko Haram.”
Pero felt a steel-cold shiver run up his spine. His head began to fill in frightening details, women and girls kidnapped and enslaved, victims tortured, terrorist killings of whole villages—his mind reran newsreels he had watched of their atrocities, and for once he wished he didn’t have such a mind for details. He asked, “Are you sure?”
Mbuno nodded. “Vultures.” To Mbuno, the immediate danger made perfect sense. Hausa-speaking people from northern Nigeria had no reason to be in Tanzania. Their very presence here meant they were vermin—dangerous and evil. Mbuno looked at Bob and saw he was wide-eyed, almost in shock.
Bob said, “Look, man, we need to leave here right away. I need to call this in. If these guys are Boko Haram, we need the real army, not just us. We have to call this in.”
Mbuno put his hand on Bob’s sleeve, instilling confidence. “Yes, we will go. First, we must help Ube escape.”
Pero thought that was a strange way of putting it. But if Mbuno said to follow, Pero would follow him to hell and back, so he said, “You lead, we will both follow, right Bob?”
“Man oh man, you guys are nuts. Okay, okay, I’m with you, but man alive, this shit is getting crazy.”
The only building left was the lighted one, perhaps a dormitory. They ran as fast as possible to the side and peered into the side windows, one at a time. The first four windows were all part of the same room. Pero glanced in and shock took his breath away. He turned, put his back against the wall and slid to the ground. Mbuno gave him a questioning look and peered, carefully, into the next window along part of the same room. Mbuno’s face showed steely anger.
Bob was about to try the next window, still part of the same room, but Mbuno waved him past and pointed to the next room’s window.
Taking a very quick peek, Bob copied Pero’s action, putting his back to the wall and sliding to the earth. He pointed up at the window. Mbuno scooted over and put one eye over the sill. Inside was a table and chairs, and tied to one chair was Ube, head hung down. At the table, playing dice, was the guard, idly shaking and throwing the cubes. The guard was facing Ube and the door, not the window. A pistol was on the table next to a cup.
Mbuno looked up at the roof and whispered, “I go up, Bob.” Bob laced his fingers and gave Mbuno a leg up strongly and quickly enough so that Mbuno was able to swing onto the roof silently. The pitch was very shallow, so he crouched and frog-walked up the roof to a three-foot galvanized ventilator. Gripping it in a hug, he twisted and lifted it off silently and put it to one side. Then he slipped in and disappeared from Pero’s view. A moment later, glimpsing through the window, Pero saw the ceiling tile behind the man’s chair being lifted without noise and Mbuno dropping down onto the guard. He placed his arm around the man’s neck and tightened. He did not let go until he was sure the man was silenced. He picked up the man’s pistol, a Beretta M9, and stuck it in his trouser belt. Quickly, he untied Ube’s wrists and legs. He slapped Ube’s face and shook him to wake him up.
Pero and Bob, watching intently, could see that Ube was not coming awake; he looked drugged. “Bob, get up there and lend him a hand.” Pero laced his fingers and hoisted Bob up. He clambered as silently as possible onto the roof, went to the open ventilator, and carefully leaned over and extended his hands as far as he could.
Inside the room, standing on the table, holding Ube upright, Mbuno gave Ube’s hands one at a time to Bob, and then, taking hold of Ube’s thighs, the two of them lifted Ube up through the ceiling. Mbuno followed, holding onto the drop ceiling rafter to pull and swing himself up. Then he pushed and Bob pulled, and Ube popped up through the open ventilator hole onto the roof. Ube did not make a sound.
Mbuno aligned Ube’s body across the roof and simply rolled him down and off the roof into Pero’s arms below. When the three men were reunited, Mbuno said, “You two carry him—Bob first, over your shoulder. Go back t
he way we came. I must leave tracks”—he looked down at his bare feet and then at Ube’s, which were also shoeless—“make people think he escaped, on land. I will come, but go now.” He pulled out the pistol and then ran off toward the giant mill before either man could protest.
Bob looked at Pero, shrugged, took the silent Ube over his shoulder, and started back exactly the way they had come, carefully scouting and listening for anyone that may be outside in the compound. No one appeared. When they got near the gate, they dropped into the truck ruts again and between them jointly dragged Ube, face up, toward the water. Pero really didn’t want to risk the crocodiles again, but he nevertheless mounted the ramp, headed for the side hatch, and then slipped through, stepping onto the winch cable mechanism as they had when they entered. Crocs or not, he knew he really had no choice.
Bob motioned him to stop and said, “We wait here.”
Pero said, “No, Mbuno said to keep going.”
“Look, I agree, but give me a moment, will you? I can’t figure out how to get Ube across that water without drowning him.”
Pero understood but suspected that even Bob was feeling frightened, simply because Mbuno was not there. Suddenly, Mbuno appeared in the hatchway.
“One moment, we need decoy for crocodiles.” He savored the new word, decoy. Then his head disappeared from view. Seconds later they heard a distant splash, and when Mbuno came back through the hatch, he said with confidence, “We go now.”
As they made their way down the cable into the water, Bob carrying Ube and Pero helping to steady them, Pero’s fear of the inky black water and the crocs that may be waiting rose up, and he tasted bile in his throat. Slipping into the water, Pero said to Bob, “I need something to do. I’ll tow Ube like a lifeguard, face up. Leave him to me. Mbuno, you lead the way. Okay?”