Kidnapped on Safari

by Peter Riva

  Oh great, out of the frying pan and into the fire, Pero thought.

  CHAPTER 29

  Kimbia, Kimbia Haraka—Run, and Run Hard

  Pero remembered Lewis advising him to get in and out and run like hell. Now he knew what Lewis had been intimating. He put his hand out to Madar and said, “Give me the phone.”

  At the same moment, Mbuno, who had been watching out the side window, brought his head back in and said, “There is truck, large truck, catching us on the road, Pero. Ten minutes unless we go faster.”

  Madar talked with the driver, who was shaking his head. The throttle was already fully open, and the speedometer showed eighty kilometers, fifty miles per hour.

  Pero opened the antenna and dialed Lewis. “Baltazar for Lewis, most urgent.”

  “Standby.” The wait seemed interminable. “Lewis here. Where are you? I hear that noise again—still on the train?”

  “Yes, now here’s the rundown, copy?” Lewis told him to go ahead. Pero relayed all that had happened to make sure there was a record of precisely what they had done in case it was needed later to prove that Tanzania did not harbor Boko Haram nor kidnap girls.

  Lewis did not sound that impressed and said, in a cold and unfeeling way, “You sound like a lawyer at a deposition. Just give me your assessment of the situation now.”

  “We have a truck gaining on us, on a parallel service road. That road ends in about three miles. That may be enough time.”

  “Copy,” was all Lewis said.

  Pero quickly added, “Okay, but there’s another road later on that connects with Moyowosi Reserve and crosses the train tracks, and we know they have logging operations in Moyowosi. They may have already radioed ahead for help or a barricade.”

  “And by help, you mean they plan an armed attack? Why?”

  Then Pero realized that not even Lewis would be so careless with the lives of the girls. Angrily, he almost screamed into the phone, “You are mistaken to think they would not attack the girls. We are not on Zanzi-Agroforestry land now. If the girls die here—especially at the hand of a CIA agent and the commissioner of police—Tanzania will be lost. Do you understand?”

  Lewis’ calm voice came through clearly. “Oh yes, we always did.” He yelled back at Pero, “That’s why I told you to stay away. Now you are there, putting an entire country and the United States in danger.”

  Mbuno, hearing only part of the conversation, got Pero’s attention and said, calmly, “It is the girls.”

  Sighing, Pero responded to Lewis, “Mbuno is right—we needed to save the girls. Can you help or not?”

  Lewis was still angry, but the edge had left his voice. “We always planned to rescue them, you idiot, but you have ruined our plan!”

  Pero gave in. “Okay Lewis, but please, we do not have time for this political crap. Can you help us now or not?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” Lewis had calmed down. “You asked for airlift to standby. The best I could do for that big of a load—and yes, we figured out what it was you wanted to lift—is a Sea Knight off of the Eisenhower currently off the coast of Kenya. It is en route to you already, second air-to-air refueling being completed. Expected ETA for Kigoma vicinity within one hour. And, before you ask, a C-130 tanker is loitering for further refueling.”

  Pero was impressed. He had not expected that much support. The Sea Knight was a heavy-lift, twin rotor, helicopter. The C-130 was also called the Hercules, four turboprops and . . . Pero had an idea. “Lewis, is the C-130 armed?”

  “Standby.”

  Pero looked at Madar and explained what was coming to help. Madar asked, “On whose authority did they get overflight permission?” Pero shook his head. Madar pleaded, “It is vital we know who!”

  Pero asked, “Lewis, Commissioner Singh wants to know who gave the Navy overflight permission?” Pero motioned to Madar to put his head next to Pero’s to hear the answer.

  Lewis responded, “Permission was asked through US Central African Command in Germany to Tanzanian delegation. They reached . . . let me see, I have that here somewhere . . . the Minister of the Interior.”

  “Quick, Mr. Lewis, what time was that permission requested?” Madar’s desperation could be heard by Lewis clearly.

  “Midnight Zulu, why?”

  Madar grabbed the phone. “It is a trap. Tell the helicopter to divert, go away. The Minister of the Interior is Stephan Nyerere, and he’s the one planning the coup.”

  Pero took the phone back. “For God’s sake, Lewis, call them immediately . . .” But Pero could hear nothing. He waited, then heard, “Standby.”

  Mbuno said in Swahili that the truck was no longer gaining ground and that it seemed to be bouncing on a very rough road. The train driver confirmed that the road was ending because it had been washed away several times in the last year.

  The phone beeped. “Lewis here. Got through. Emergency divert undertaken. C-130 pilot reports possible SAM fired, no target. Countermeasures deployed.” SAM was a surface-to-air missile.

  Pero, feeling desperate, needed to take control; he felt it in his bones. “Lewis, am I still in charge?” He heard a somewhat reluctant, “Affirmative.” “Good, then here is what I need. If there is an ambush coming for us, it will happen at Moyowosi Reserve north-south road where it crosses the train tracks. Copy?”

  Again he heard, “Affirmative.”

  “I need C-130 to loiter that area and be prepared to destroy anything, repeat, anything other than this train anywhere near that junction. Confirm?”

  “Confirm destruction requested. Estimate time of arrival junction?”

  Pero asked Madar, who talked to the engineer. Madar responded, “Twenty-five minutes if he can keep up this speed, but it may be longer.”

  Pero related that to Lewis and added, “By destroy, I mean lethal, big show, kill every last one. Copy?” Madar, listening in, was nodding.

  “Confirmed destroy everything. May I ask why?” And Pero heard Lewis issuing instructions while he waited for Pero’s response.

  “Lewis, we have here, on this train, a lethal combination for all of East Africa. US meddling with internal affairs, a corrupt government seen to be harboring Boko Haram, and terrorist-kidnapped girls from one country held in another, which will infect all Organization of African Unity relations, so the OAU . . .” And Pero stopped. He thought. “Question: Who paid for the freighter in Beira?”

  “Back on that? We found out it was a company owned by Mikael Petrov.”

  “Petrov ties to the Kremlin?”

  Then it was Lewis’s turn to be silent. When he came back on, his voice sounded more worried than usual. “Petrov is the main financial backer to the current president, you-know-who. Do you mean to tell me you think all this is part of a plot by the Russian government to destabilize African unity?”

  “Think about it, Lewis. The Chinese are buying up everything—logs, tobacco, all the mineral rights, food production. But the Chinese refuse to lend military or defense support, being mainly merchants. That leaves the OAU underfunded for defense, which is why the US created the Central African Command, like NATO. But Russia and the ex-communist allies are left without any reason to link up at all—there are no spoils left. What better way to destabilize the whole region and have some countries reestablish ties with Russia than to cause international strife and possible war? Do you think Nigeria and most of the world’s press will believe Tanzania wasn’t harboring Boko Haram and the kidnapped girls? Forget the Arab Spring; this is like lighting the fuse on the African Split.”

  Madar took a step back and stared at Pero. Then he bowed, and Pero could barely see, in the glow of the nightlights’ red glare, tears rolling down Madar’s cheeks. Mbuno understood as well and shouted so that Lewis could hear, “This must not be allowed.”

  Lewis came back on. “Okay, we’re linked here with State and an old friend of yours, Pontnoire. He says you are right.” Pontnoire had been the ambassador in Berlin the previous year and had helped thwart the uranium
smuggling operation. Lewis continued, “We’re also linked up here with General Tews at Central African Command . . . good guess by the way, Baltazar. General, are you there?” Pero heard an “affirmative.” Madar pressed his ear closer. “General,” Lewis continued, “your assessment?”

  “Sea Knight now loitering near border with Kenya, passing over Lake Victoria, out of SAM range. C-130 at altitude, beyond SAM reach, awaiting instructions.”

  A new voice chimed in, “This is Pontnoire. General, can you lend more military assistance to the region the train is in, top priority, effective immediately?”

  “Affirmative, awaiting command and control instructions.”

  Lewis cut in, “We’re getting that, General. White House is informed; president will be issuing orders ASAP. But we need something in the air, in case.”

  The general’s soft Texas twang came in clearly, “No shit. Two F18s scrambled seconds after SAM attempt. They will arrive on scene in minutes to protect the Sea Knight and the C-130. Inbound, from within Kenya airspace, are four Harriers undergoing a joint-training exercise near Malindi that have been diverted to Lake Victoria, flight permission granted by Burundi. On station within minutes.” Burundi was only a couple of hundred miles to the northeast of the train. “I need permission for hot weapons, but not to protect assets.”

  Lewis thanked him and said they would await the White House Situation Room’s assessment and orders.

  However, Pero was not convinced. “General, this is Pero Baltazar in Tanzania. Am I not an asset?”

  “Affirmative, you are,” came the reply from African Central Command in Germany.

  “Okay then, I would like this asset protected, please. Come and get us!”

  “It ain’t that simple son . . . hold on.” The line went silent. When the general came back on, he called for a roll call and then stated, “Permission for hot weapons received, diverting F18s to overflight protection inbound Harrier squadron, ETA ten to twenty-five minutes.”

  Lewis’s voice sounded elated. “That was quick . . .”

  Mbuno, leaning out the window, started yelling, “Hatari! Hatari!”

  The driver peered into the gloom and reached for the brakes while pulling the throttle control back. Pero felt the shift. Lewis called out, “What’s happening?”

  Just before he disconnected, Pero said, “It may be too late. We’re in trouble here.”

  Mbuno turned to Pero. “Big Volvo, I think.”

  Pero peered ahead. Maybe a mile away he could see big lights, right in line with the tracks that were now straight as an arrow. He said to Madar, “We need all the power we can get. We need to smash our way through.” And with that he handed Madar the phone, opened the cab door, stepped out, and ran along the locomotive’s side, grabbing the railing to keep from falling. When he reached the gap between them and the boxcar, he leaped across, grabbed the ladder, and climbed on top. Inching his way as fast as he could to the middle, he lowered himself to find the foothold on the door’s slider mechanism and then kicked the door with the other foot. The door opened. He extended his arms, lowering his torso, and then felt arms holding his legs and then his middle before he let go. He managed to swing inside as many hands grabbed him and pulled.

  Pero could see they had restacked all the crates of fish against the side walls. Pero thought, Bullet protection, good thinking. But the two dead men that Ube had silenced were still on board. “Tone, Bob, Nancy, dump those two and then get everyone down, flat on the ground. We’re going to crash.” Pritchett dragged one man, then the next, and dumped them out the door. Bob, meanwhile, pushed, as gently as possible, the girl nearest to him down to the ground. Ube, Nancy, Teddy, and Tone did the same with the others. Nancy was yelling instructions in Hausa, telling them it would be all right. When all the girls were down, the men covered as many of the girls with their own bodies as possible, Nancy still chattering away in Hausa to keep them calm. The open door allowed Pritchett to peer ahead, and, seeing vehicle lights ahead, he grabbed his rifle and squeezed off shot after shot. Pritchett saw that one of the lights went out.

  They were within ten yards of the obstacle when bullets started hitting the boxcar. Pritchett stood and kept firing, saying, “Got one . . . and you, ya bastard . . .” The rest was lost in the din that followed.

  The crash, when it came, was louder than anything Pero had ever experienced. Thirty tons, however massive the Volvo truck was, was no match for almost a hundred tons of locomotive. That and its cargo of thirty tons of logs crashed through and swept away the Volvo truck like it was a toy. The train shook, the boxcar contents flew about the interior, and some girls were hurt by the boxes of fish that fell off the stacks piled against the walls. One hit Pero square in the back, causing a sharp pain.

  There was a new strange sound coming from behind the boxcar.

  “Is everyone all right?” One by one, voices of his team confirmed they were still alive and helping the girls.

  When the bullets stopped and they were clear of the roadblock, Pero rose and leaned out of the open door. Up front he could see the locomotive had sustained massive damage—metal was twisted, and it looked like the top of the cab was torn partially back. The train powered on, but Pero could see no movement from the driver’s compartment. A clanking sound behind him made him turn around. One of the logs was partially hanging off the side of the flatcar, held in place only by a remaining chain, the other four chains dragged along the side, whipping and lashing the side of the flatcar.

  The log was cracked open, and globs of what looked like wallpaper paste were blobbing out, splattering on the gravel along the train tracks.

  Pero looked at Bob, who had gotten out the flashlight and was checking on the girls with Nancy’s help. “Bob, I need to get back up front. Give me a lift?” Bob laced his fingers and hoisted Pero back up. Pero, exhausted, nearly missed the handhold. He was thinking everyone up front must be injured and needing his help. He leaped off the boxcar front ladder onto the loco and made his way along the side. His trousers ripped on jagged metal. The door would not open to the cab. There were no lights, and the front window was gone, blasted away by the impact. He called out “Mbuno!” through the hole where the window had been.

  “I am here. Mr. Madar is hurt. It is very bad.”

  “The driver?”

  “He is dead. I drive.”

  “Okay, hold on.” Pero went to the back of the loco and yelled back to the boxcar. “Can you hear me?” Pritchett’s head appeared. “We need first aid here. Can Bob come over?”

  Pritchett’s head disappeared. Bob stuck his head out. “On my way!”

  Pero watched first a figure, presumably Bob, make his way up and over and onto the roof. He was followed by a second, and when the face turned forward to crawl across the roof, Pero saw it was Ube. Both made their way to the ladder, climbed down, and jumped onto the loco. Pero said, “Bob, we cannot get in this side; see if you can on the other side.” The two of them inched their way along the right side of the locomotive. Pero went back along the left side and considered climbing in through the mangled window opening. Then he heard, “We’re in—this door works.” Pero could not make out the conversation, but Mbuno was telling Bob about Madar. Pero went around and joined them.

  A smashed body is both horrifying and messy. The driver had been ducking down behind his console. A chunk of metal, torn off the Volvo, had impaled him through the upper chest, the yellow truck fragment passing clean through and sticking into the cab deck. Pero and Ube, working together, took hold of the upper part of the metal skewer, said sorry to the driver’s soul, and moved it back and forth, easing it from the decking. Eventually, the metal shard and the driver fell sideways to the floor. The two men tugged the bloody mass clear of the driver’s station.

  Madar was on the other side of the cab, sitting up while being administered to by Bob who held his pencil flashlight in his mouth, leaving his hands free. Mbuno had been jammed into the corner of the right-hand side of the cab, standing next
to the impaled driver, keeping the throttle wide open. None of the instruments seemed operational, although it was hard to tell because there was no light in the cab or from the console. Ube crossed behind Pero and went to assist Bob.

  Weakly, Madar said to Pero, “That case, it has documents. Get it to my brother.” Bob told him to save his breath while he tried to assess the damage.

  That the locomotive was functioning at all amazed Pero. No one was operating the deadman switch. Pero knelt and felt for the foot pedal. It was depressed, being held in place with a metal clamp. Many drivers did that—hour after hour of pressing on the spring-loaded pedal was exhausting. It meant, however, that accidents could easily happen. In this instance, the illegal clamp had saved them when the train had not stopped within range of their guns once the driver died. No, he didn’t die. Pero corrected his thinking. They killed him.

  When Bob eventually stood after attending to Madar, he told Pero, “I’ve sedated him. He’s badly wounded, looks internal. There’s massive bruising across his chest, and he’s coughing a little blood. Could be a pierced lung. I can’t tell more. We need—”

  “Yeah, I know, as soon as we can. Search his pockets. I need the phone.” Pero went over to Mbuno and said, “I think we need to slow down a little, brother. This train may be too damaged to keep up with this speed.”

  Mbuno pulled the throttle back halfway. The diesel engine seemed to slow but the deck still pulsed beneath their feet. “I do not know how to stop, brother. Do you?” Pero shook his head. “Then we will just have to go so slow until we can turn it off . . .” He pointed at the master control switch that had the words On and Off printed in luminescent paint.

  It was the only control they could discern in the darkness. Pero looked ahead, the oncoming wind blowing mist and the smell of the forest into the cab. He realized there were no longer any functioning headlights. The train and tracks ahead were dark.

  They were also invisible to anyone out there, friend or foe.