by Peter Riva
Madar responded, “They are trees with the bark. Most are eucalyptus or Mutunguru, we have discovered. Bottom diameter about two meters, top about one and a half meters, twenty meters long each. The wood is very dense, heavy.”
Lewis was relaying this to someone. “Okay, that’s about sixty to seventy-five tons each. That means the ship can hold maybe six hundred and fifty to eight hundred trees. And if you are right about them being hollowed out, the weight of the cocaine resin would be less than the weight of the raw wood, so the load factor for the freighter is no problem.”
Pero had one more question. “Lewis, find out who is paying for the freighter. That’s your lion pride. Baltazar out.” Pero thought, As usual, Mbuno was right.
The train seemed to be laboring up an incline, approaching the junction for the mill. Pero peered through the front slats. “When we stop, everyone must keep really quiet. The train driver will have to switch the points, passing this boxcar on foot twice. And once we’re into the siding, he needs to reset the points, but he’ll be ahead of us. And then he’ll climb back into the cab and back the train down into the mill siding. Remember, we back into the mill. And that means the loco will be pushing and the driver will be watching this boxcar as he guides the flatcars on our other side into the mill. No movement—everyone on the floor behind boxes in case someone at the mill decides to check this car out. And remember, every time he’s going to move the train as they load logs, he will have to be looking this way if we are going backward—we must remember that.” The team seemed to understand and agree. “Okay then, I estimate a least four hours loading.” He held up four fingers. “It’ll be dark by the time they finish—that’s good cover. Well, as good as we’ll get.”
Madar agreed but was still worried. “But the moon will not be up until midnight. Will we be able to see?” He meant inside the mill compound.
“Each occupied building has only a single bulb illumination, front and back. It was enough last time.” Pero felt they needed a morale boost. “We’ll be fine. There were no guards, no one really walking around. If it’s late, they should all be asleep, except maybe the cooks that we saw arguing. We’ll manage.”
Ube added, his voice strong and determined, “Ndiyo, and if not, we will help them sleep.” Ube was nearest the door, off to the left, and crouched down behind three fish crates. He waved at Pero.
Pero motioned Madar to sit next to him, both pistols drawn, facing the door from the opposite side of the boxcar. Pero waved back at Ube and then waved over to Bob and Nancy who were all the way forward and barricaded behind crates stacked tall enough to hide a standing man. Bob gestured with his shotgun to make sure Pero knew he was ready. With that, Nancy and the men settled down behind boxes and crates, most reeking of fish, to wait.
They didn’t have to wait long.
CHAPTER 27
Wanaotaka Kuna Ndovu—Wishing There Were Elephants
The screeching of brakes was followed by the train coming to a complete halt on level ground. The diesel engine throbbed on idle as the cars rocked forward and back, the kinetic energy of the springs dissipating in the buffers. Soon after, they heard the crunch of gravel as the train driver walked back the length of the train to switch the points, allowing the train access to the mill siding train tracks. Five minutes later, they heard the crunch of gravel on the other side of the boxcar as the driver returned to the locomotive. About five minutes later, the diesel was powered up and the clanging of the cars being pushed reverberated through the floor of the boxcar, making all of the team acutely aware that their moment of truth was approaching.
The siding was a sharp, ninety-degree curve toward the south, followed a few miles later by another sharp bend to the west. The train slowed, sounding its horn three times. Clearly the gates to the compound were open because the train never stopped. It just kept slowing. Eventually there was a shout from somewhere, and the brakes were applied, bringing the train to a complete stop, the locomotive diesel left at idle. Another motor was heard, a straining diesel whose exhaust noise seemed to change direction. Pero thought it must be a crane, picking up and swinging a log. When he heard the crash of a log hitting the floor of a flatcar some distance behind them, it confirmed his assessment. Sounds like they dropped it, he thought, and it is not the next flatcar, so they are loading from the back. Good, maybe . . .
Abruptly, dispelling his thoughts, footsteps were heard outside, men talking. Pero put his lips to Madar’s ear and whispered, “Translate?”
Madar listened. The muffled sound made it difficult. “He wants the driver to come out.” Moments later they heard the driver being called, then men walking next to the boxcar, arguing. “They want to know why the boxcar. Wait . . . he is showing them something . . . ah, it is the manifest. They do not agree, they say it does not match their orders. Another man is coming . . .” They heard someone climb and put a foot on the lower step of the boxcar, just under the door. So quietly that Pero had to strain, he heard Madar continue translating, “He is told to wait. The new man asked for the papers . . . He says it is approved, that the fish is for a Kigoma friend . . . The man at the door wants to check. No, the man says, you want to steal. Lock the door.” They heard the latch pin being slipped into place. They were locked in!
Pero whispered to Madar, “I guess we’ll have to shoot our way out.”
Madar shook his head. “Wait . . . they are still arguing. Someone else now.” Pero heard the new, deeper voice. “Bad Swahili . . . telling one man to go back to the mill.” Both Pero and Madar heard the cocking of a gun. Madar translated, “The new man said ku tafi. That is not Swahili.” They both listened. Pero thought he heard footsteps going away.
Thankfully, night had fallen. Through the cracks in the sides of the boxcar, the glaring yellow intensity of the sodium lights that illuminated the mill allowed shadows to play across the boxcar crates as people and machinery moved outside. Pero wanted to sneak a peek but did not dare in case someone outside was looking in. He and Madar stayed still and silent. Between the bottom of the uppermost crate in front of him and the top of the next crate below it, there was a slit that allowed him to watch the doorway. He waited, intently.
Ten minutes later, he saw movement, a yellow glow obscured by a human form. A man was standing there. Another voice approached, said something, and the man outside the door laughed, saying, “Kifi.” Pero looked at Madar, who shrugged in the near darkness. The new voice said something neither man could understand, but they heard the word kifi a few times. Then the door latch was pulled and a man gave a command, “Kai kadai.” Madar nodded, and whispered, “Nigerian language, means ‘only one,’ I think.” The door opened quickly. The man stepped in, lifted the nearest crate, and jumped out of the boxcar. The other person slid the door shut. The two were laughing, their voices quickly receding with their stolen treasure. Outside was silent except for the idling engine of the locomotive and the straining of what Pero felt was the crane diesel working as it loaded logs.
The noise made a pattern. Low roar, shouts from men, loud roar as the crane took the strain, change of direction of the roar, then low roar, a crash as the log hit the flatcar, more shouting, then a change of direction as the crane swung back to get the next log. Each log took less than two minutes. Pero did the mental calculation and thought each flatcar could only hold twenty logs. Eight flatcars made one hundred and sixty logs. Each weighing, say, sixty-five tons—that’s a total weight of ten thousand tons.
Suddenly, after another crash of a log, there was shouting, and the locomotive went backward. Not far, just far enough, Pero assumed, for the next flatcar to be loaded. Madar had perhaps been making the same calculations. Madar was shaking his head as he whispered, “Only ten logs, half a load?” Pero had no explanation and simply shrugged.
With the door closed, the four men and one woman could do nothing but wait. As each flatcar was loaded, this time, Pero kept count. Madar was right—only ten logs were loaded onto each flatcar. Pero assumed the reason was
overall weight and the pulling capacity of the locomotive, yet he knew that the route from the mill to Kigoma was mostly downhill.
There was nothing to do but wait. Until we have to blast our way out.
When the seventh flatcar was about to be loaded, everything suddenly went silent. Orders were being given. Madar heard the Swahili more clearly as the crane diesel had been shut down. “The man is not a habitual Swahili speaker; he’s a mzungu.” (White man, a European.) “His Swahili is bad, but he is saying that this is the last load until the special logs. The mill men are being told to finish their shift, just this flatcar, and then clock out; their dinner will be ready. Tomorrow the mill starts operation at six when the claxon sounds. The special logs will be loaded by his people, watu wangu. That is the term he has used, his people.” Madar sat back a little. “This man commands two workforces.” The diesel crane engine started up, and the shouting began again in earnest, followed by the crash of a log, and the procedure repeated five times until the diesel crane was shut down. Voices became distant until all was silent.
Inside the humid boxcar, no one dared move. The team waited, unsure what was happening next.
Soon Ube recognized the sound of the truck, as did Pero and Bob. Pero explained to Madar and, carefully in a louder whisper, to Nancy, “It’s the logging truck—Volvo, a giant.” They heard it approach the train and then the crane diesel started up once more. There were no commands, no shouted orders—but the sequence was the same. However, instead of a crash of a log, the log was nestled into place, causing only the coupling with the boxcar to clank as the weight of the log was transferred to the flatcar. The crane swung away and was turned off. The truck drove away. No noise was heard for ten minutes. Then the truck came back, and the procedure was repeated exactly as before. This happened a total of five times. When the truck drove away and the diesel crane was shut down after the fifth log, the only sound the team heard was a man talking. Then they heard two sets of footsteps on one side of the boxcar and another set of footsteps on the other side. The single set of footsteps continued past the boxcar to the locomotive. They heard the driver being called.
The two footsteps stopped again by the door, and even Pero heard the word kifi clearly. The men were laughing. One started to slide the door open. Ube grabbed him as he put half his body in the car and spun him away behind the crates, Ube’s hand over the man’s mouth. Pero just had time to think, The guy’s not fighting back.
The second man was facing away from the car, probably keeping watch as his colleague stole another crate of fish. But he had heard the faint commotion and put his head over the edge of the boxcar floor to peer inside. There was nothing to see. Where had the man gone? He called out, “Ina ku ke?” No response. Then Ube said, “Secours . . .” French for “help,” in a weak voice.
The second man climbed in through the partially opened door, lifting his AK-47 to a ready position. Ube moved so swiftly that Pero saw him as a blur. Again he put his hand over the man’s mouth, and the man went limp. Ube dropped him to the floor and quickly shut the door. He put his finger to his lips and lay down on the floor. Pero and Madar resumed their hideout.
The train diesel began to rev up. The man who had gone to talk with the driver walked back, crossed over the coupling of the loco to the boxcar, and called out for the men. He called again. Not hearing a reply, Pero heard, quite distinctly, his German as he muttered to no one in particular, “Beschissene Schwarze.” (Shitty blacks.) The team heard him walking off. Pero moved quickly to check on Ube, to see if he needed help with the two men. Ube rose and patted Pero on the upper arm to tell him there was nothing to do. Pero turned, knowing it was only a matter of time before the men were found missing. The man who had sworn in German would want to know where they were—and soon.
“Madar, we need to keep the train here, parked, not moving. It is hijacking time.” Madar nodded. They slid open the door a crack, peeked out, and then Madar slid it open enough, jumped down, and ran toward the locomotive driver’s cab.
Pero asked Ube, “Dead?” He pointed to the man on the floor.
Ube showed Pero his hands, which were dusted with a white powder. “Maybe, or will not wake for many hours.” Ube then slid open the door, checked, and dropped down. He moved back under the boxcar into the shadows. Pero imagined that the powder was from Mbuno and Niamba’s small leather pouch, no doubt something deadly from their Liangulu hunting days. Whatever it was, he was glad Ube had silenced the two men, one of whom Pero recognized from the other night, the man with the AK-47—Boko Haram.
Pero motioned to Bob and Nancy to follow as Pero alighted from the boxcar, pistol ready. Bob landed next to him with the AK-47 ready, followed by Nancy, who had the shotgun in one hand and her hunting knife in the other. Pero felt something tugging at his ankle. He looked down and saw Ube, who was smiling. Behind him were Mbuno and Teddy. Teddy was holding a large satchel.
Pero pointed at the huts. The mill sodium lights had been extinguished, so they needed to rely on moonlight, just rising in the east, to identify the different structures. They could see no one in the compound, but he knew, just knew, the German would come back soon. “Let’s move, and fast. Madar will hold the train. That German will want to find those two men,” he said, pointing back into the boxcar.
As Pero took in his view of the compound, he realized he was turned around from the last time he had been there. He looked at Mbuno, who pointed to two huts in succession. “Kitchen, other building.” Pero nodded and started to run, the others quickly following. Pero thought, I wish there were elephants to trample them all to death.
They reached the kitchen and dining hut first. It was full, men talking, some yelling, laughing, plates rattling. Mbuno looked at Pero and whispered, “Get girls.”
Pero ran on to the next hut and peered into the windows, one by one, carefully. He felt Bob next to him but saw Ube with Nancy by the front corner, awaiting Pero’s instruction. He peered inside and there they were. Same room, same huddled mass. He nodded to Ube and Bob, and he ran to assist.
Entry into the building was simple. The guard in the hall, not so easy. Nancy threw her hunting knife, which struck the guard’s collarbone and fell to the floor. Startled, the man fired a shot that also hit the floor and muttered, “Farin arya.” (White bitch.) The noise of the shot was deafening in the narrow space. Ube walked up and grabbed the man’s throat, silencing him, while Nancy picked up her knife and gave it to Ube, who stabbed the man through the heart. Pero opened the girls’ door. Terrified, they were already moving away, even more frightened by the gunshot.
Ube stepped in and said, “Tueal maei, walssalamat, wanahn ‘iinqadh.” Pero thought, That’s not Hausa. What Ube had said in Arabic was, “Come with me, safety, we rescue.” But Pero had learned one word in Hausa from Nancy, and he used it, “Aboki!” (Friend!) He said it again and again, pointing, one at a time, to Bob, Ube, Nancy, and himself. Nancy kept saying, softly, “Muna abokai.” (We are friends.) One of the girls started crying. Bob picked her up and said, “Let’s go!” Nancy urged them on, explaining in Hausa that they were safe and that they had to hurry, to get out of this horrible place.
The group obediently followed Bob and Nancy, who, like Bob, also carried a girl in her arms. Nancy’s and Bob’s instinct to carry and protect was the opposite of the girls’ treatment at the hands of Boko Haram, so they instantly followed. Ube retook the lead, leaving Pero to guard the corridor in case anyone stuck their head out. Pero was dreading leaving the hut. He was sure they would meet armed resistance since the gunshot had been loud. As he ushered the last girl outside, he still heard no fighting.
There, in the middle of the compound, was Mbuno, saying, “You must be faster . . .”
The girls sprinted after Bob and Nancy. They reached the boxcar just as the first shots rang out. It was one man yelling, firing. Pero turned, dropped to one knee, and raised the Luger. He saw the white man who was yelling and waving his hands over his head. His firing was not at them; he
seemed to be shooting in the air. Pero didn’t much care for the man anyway, so he took aim and dropped him. He was not sure where the bullet hit but was glad an obvious boss had gone down. Without a leader, the remaining men might not follow. A guy can hope for a little luck, no? And he sprinted for the train.
Pero saw Madar climbing back into the locomotive cab carrying a bag he had gotten from somewhere. Then Madar was looking out the cab window, waiting for a command.
The twenty-six girls took a while to get on the train. They were malnourished and filthy. Some were embarrassed to be roughly lifted up and into the boxcar, but Bob, Nancy, Ube, and Pero persisted. Mbuno and Teddy kept watch—Mbuno’s bow was unslung, and an arrow was notched. Pero knew that any hit from the tip would be deadly.
Once all the girls were aboard, Pero urged them all to get further inside and waved at Madar to leave. As the train moved off, Pero slid the door partially closed and turned to Mbuno. “I don’t understand, the dining hall was packed with Boko Haram soldiers. They never fought back!”
Mbuno smiled. “Teddy is Okiek. Okiek know bees.”
Pero was stunned for a moment. “You mean? You don’t mean that was what was in the satchel!” Mbuno nodded. Pero called over to Teddy. “Bravo, Teddy, and all Okiek beekeepers!” Teddy beamed with pleasure.
Bob was puzzled. “What did you do, throw a beehive in there?”
Teddy answered, vigorously nodding, starting to laugh, “From my koret! Then Mzee lock door.” An Okiek’s koret is his honey farm with as many as fifty hives of African bees who do not like being disturbed. They do not like it at all.
Pero thought, Flying elephants, thank God, then brought matters back to the urgent present by saying, “We still need to locate Tone and Pritchett.” Then he realized he didn’t have the satellite phone; it was up with Madar. The train was making good time now, maybe five or six miles an hour just entering the first ninety-degree turn to the north. Where are they? Pero looked out the open door and felt a crack next to his head, making him recoil quickly. “Shooters!”