Kidnapped on Safari

by Peter Riva

  CHAPTER 30

  Yupo Pale Kusaidia?—Is There Anyone There to Help?

  Bob interrupted Pero’s thoughts and handed him the phone, saying, “Sorry.” Pero looked at the small metal antenna, ripped clean off, and sighed. They were on their own.

  No! We’re not! Pero opened the cab door and went to the back left of the loco. He called back again to Pritchett, who responded. Pero asked as loudly as he could, “Do you or Tone have your cell phone?”

  The boxcar had started making a terrible hissing noise. Pero looked down and saw that the air brake tube was whipping around, unconnected. He lay flat on the loco back deck and caught the hose on the third attempt. It was no use. The hose was severed. The only brakes they had . . . Again, Pero corrected himself. No! That’s not right . . . when the tubing is cut, it applies the brakes! Pero leaned over and tried to visually check the wheels and braking mechanism. All he could see under the box car was glowing red-hot sparks showering the tracks.

  Pero yelled back to Pritchett, “Look, brakes are on in the boxcar, full on. They will fail and take a wheel assembly with them. We need to slow down. The satellite phone is broken. On your phone, call Tone’s office, get Sheila, and tell her to radio the Oasis. Tell Wolfgang to have Mary call Lewis.” He paused. “You getting all this?”

  Pritchett yelled back, “Tone and I are listening—go on.”

  “Mary needs to tell Lewis emergency support and rescue Sea Knight now. Can you repeat all that?”

  Pritchett did and added, “No mobile signal here, but when we get past this range of hills coming up, we’ll be coasting down to Uvinza, about an hour before we reach Ujiji, two maybe to Kigoma. The line of sight for mobiles might be okay soon.”

  Pero was grateful for Pritchett’s calm and knowledge of the area. “Thanks. We’re going to have to slow, so it may be an hour, but keep trying, okay?” Pritchett said they would and waved. Pero walked, carefully, back to the cab and asked Bob, “How’s Madar doing?”

  Bob rocked his head back and forth. “So-so. Actually, he seems better, but I have seen that before; it might only be the effect of his natural endorphins masking the pain. Any idea when we’ll get help?” Pero explained what he had asked Tone and Pritchett to do. Bob added a suggestion, “Couldn’t you have them also call his brother?”

  Pero patted Bob’s arm and thought, Stupid, I should have thought of that. He rushed back to the rear of the loco and passed the message to Pritchett. Pritchett responded, “No signal yet, but Tone also thought of that. We’ll get through, don’t you worry.”

  Coming back again into the cab, there was just enough of an early daylight glow to begin to make out the cab interior. Mbuno said, “Pero, you are bleeding.” His hunter’s eyes had seen what neither Ube, Bob, nor Pero had seen.

  Pero, looking around his body, asked, “Where?”

  Bob spun Pero around and saw the red patch below Pero’s scapula on the left side. He lifted Pero’s jacket and saw his shirt was soaked. Bob put his flashlight in his mouth again, aiming the beam at Pero’s back. He pulled the shirt up and said, “Bad one. Plenty of blood.” He probed around the wound. “Puncture. Doesn’t look like a bullet, too messy an entry.” He reached into his bag and pulled out long tweezers. “This is going to hurt. Lean forward over the dash there.” Pero did as he was told. Bob probed gently into the wound. “Aha, hold still.” Pero felt something moving in his body as Bob grabbed and then tugged it out. Bob held it out for Pero to see under the flashlight beam. It was a piece of wire. Pero recognized it from the boxcar cargo, the wire used to secure the fish crates shut.

  Bob moved back to looking at the wound, now oozing fresh blood. “Should be okay—it’s not too deep—but you’ll need medical attention.” He puffed some powder at the wound and then applied a gauze patch and several strips of medical tape. “Try not to do any more acrobatics.” Bob smiled. “That’s a professional opinion. Five dollars, please.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Pero looked at Ube, Bob, and Mbuno. “Anyone else injured and doesn’t know it?”

  Bob played the flashlight on each one of them. “All clear.”

  The train rumbled on, Mbuno at the controls. Pero watching the line ahead, suspecting there might be another ambush. Mile after mile—it was nerve-wracking, what seemed like time inching along.

  To change the thoughts in his head, Pero asked Mbuno, “What was the powder you gave Ube to use?” Just as he said that, bullets rang out from behind. Pero went through the cab door quickly and peered down the length of the train. He could see nothing, but then suddenly the train started a right curve, and he could see lights following. Whatever it was, it was firing and catching up. He went back to talk with Mbuno.

  “I do not think we should go faster, but something is catching up with us, and they are shooting. They are too far behind to actually aim, yet.”

  “Headlights?”

  “Yes, why?”

  “They are not a train.” Pero realized Mbuno was right. Then he had an idea. Could he release the last log flatcar and achieve the same result twice? Mbuno clearly was thinking the same thing. “You like trains, Pero—you drive.” He put Pero’s hand on the throttle, opened the door, and left.

  Mbuno was smaller than Pero, but, whitening hair or not, he was stronger and more physically fit. He leaped to the boxcar, climbed the ladder, ran across the roof and down the ladder. There was room for him to lay flat and undo the coupling, but then he got an idea. There was still moonlight, and that, coupled with the faint glow of the coming sun, enabled him to see the one log now sticking out at an angle, far out, as well as the single chain left holding all the logs in place. Peering under the flatcar, he could see and smell that the wheel assemblies were glowing red-hot, almost orange.

  Mbuno climbed onto the flatcar, went to the remaining chain ratchet fastener, and released the safety pin. The chain, under tremendous strain, whipped apart. The one log pivoted, quickly rolled off and bounced onto the train tracks. A bullet whizzed past his ear. Mbuno watched the remaining logs now jostling, moving. But they looked well set in place, three on the bottom, two on top now. Mbuno paid no heed to the bullets being sent his way. He had been shot at before, but when he had a job to do, nothing could deter him.

  Mbuno calmly but quickly unlatched all four of the loose three-inch-wide chains and tugged them, one at a time, back to the end of the flatcar, ducking down out of the path of the bullets. He pulled and pushed the hundreds of pounds of chain across the gap onto the boxcar, resting them across the boxcar buffers. There was nowhere for him to lie down on the boxcar, so he laid down on the flatcar end and undid the turnbuckle. When it was fully out, he went to the side of the flatcar. A bullet passed, sounding like an angry bee. He waved to the engine driver’s cab. Ube was watching and waved back.

  Pero pulled the throttle to slowest to put pressure on the buffers. Mbuno lifted the link and leaped to the ladder on the boxcar. The train started to accelerate, leaving the flatcar behind, brakes fully on. It came to a halt within a hundred and fifty yards. The train continued onwards.

  It was as Mbuno expected. The vehicle he recognized as the Mercedes SUV drove off the railroad ties, around the flatcar, and then back up onto the railroad ties. Now Mbuno was exposed, and they were gaining quickly.

  While the SUV had been taking evasive action, Mbuno had simply dropped one chain after another across the rails. He heard them clanking away as steel hit steel, one side of the buffer, and then the other. Each one was a hundred pounds, like a steel snake.

  Mbuno knew about driving on railroad tracks. You do not need to look for potholes or obstacles because railroad ties and rails are uniform, predictable.

  When the tire of the SUV hit the first chain, it exploded, instantly flat. The rim of the wheel scraped along the rail, sending a shower of sparks. The driver was fighting to control the car when the other side slid into the second chain that wrapped itself into the wheel well and ripped the left front wheel assembly clean off. The SUV’s energy was pi
tched forward, and, for a moment, it looked like it would skid. But the bumper caught a railroad tie, and it pitched the SUV into the air.

  At that moment, the SUV burst into a ball of flame.

  Mbuno hadn’t seen the missile and didn’t understand what had happened, but nonetheless he was quite pleased with his handiwork. He climbed back up the boxcar ladder and leaned over the open doorway, asking, “Everyone is all right?”

  Tone, waving his cell phone, was laughing, “Mbuno, you silly idiot, look over there!” Tone’s arm pointed off to the side of the train. Mbuno had never seen anything like it. An almost dragon-like metal airplane—at least he thought it was an airplane—was looking right at him. Lights flicked on, blinding him, and the plane seemed to be dancing sideways.

  Ube had seen the Harrier Jump Jet, too, and pointed it out to Pero. Pero flicked the loco switch to Off and, slowly, the train came to a halt. Pero got down from the locomotive and waved to the pilots who were shining their landing lights at the train. He ran to the open boxcar and peeked his head over the transom. “Everyone okay here?”

  Tone answered, “Frightened—a few bumps and bruises—but all fine otherwise.”

  Nancy said, “The girls want to know if it is over. They want to go home.”

  Then a tremendous noise was heard, and blinding lights illuminated the whole train. Pero waved as the Sea Knight settled moments later off to the side of the train tracks, its loudspeaker hailing, “Baltazar, report! Baltazar, report!”

  Pero ran over, arms up, waving, “Baltazar, I’m Baltazar. We have a badly injured man in the cab, internal injuries, some of us have small wounds and another shot in the leg. Do you have a medic?” And he added, surprised at his own desperation, “But Christ, first get these girls out of here!”

  The airlift took under twenty minutes to load; Pero nervously eyed the forest on the one side of the tracks and the cleared land on the other. He felt vulnerable, sitting in a trap.

  Nancy helped guide the girls aboard, encouraging them all the while, telling them repeatedly that they were going to safety and would soon be home. The Navy crew had come armed with candy. Pero smiled at that simple gesture. Communication with the Harriers and the F18s zooming overhead was constant; Pero could hear them chattering through the helicopter flight-deck speaker from the pilot’s open side window. Pero made sure they got Madar aboard with an IV plugged in. He handed the medic the case that Madar had brought into the train cab. “Make sure this always goes with him, okay?” The medic said he would.

  When Tone was settled comfortably, with Bob and Pritchett fussing over him, Pero moved up to the flight deck and talked with the pilot. “New orders, we are flying to Lake Rudolf—all of us except for the commissioner who needs a hospital. Can you drop him off and then continue on?” The pilot said those were not his orders. Pero insisted. “Call in for new orders; let’s get General Tews on the line.”

  The pilot’s head swiveled, amazed at Pero’s suggestion. “I can’t call the general!”

  Pero calmly said, “Try, and try now, please.”

  The pilot called the C-130 and asked for a link to General Tews. The C-130 responded that it was authorized, and the general came on. The pilot flicked on the cabin speaker. “Tews here. That you, Baltazar?”

  “Yes, General. Our thanks. But we still have a problem. We need to get the girls out of here, away from Tanzania. What I suggest is that you allow me to transport them to the Oasis Lodge at Loiyangalani on Lake Rudolf for a week. Reverend Threte is already there, or about to be, with specialists in hostage debriefing and rehab. Make a damn good story in the Stars & Stripes. Then, we can fudge the dates and have you fly them back to their families in Nigeria . . . not bad for Central African Command.”

  The general’s Southern twang came through loud and clear. “Pontnoire gave me a little lecture, son, on your abilities. Said you were a devious S.O.B.; happy you are on our side. Suggested I agree to anything you propose. Your Lewis ain’t so sure—he’s worried what you’ll get up to next . . . but heck, son, so far you’ve done okay. That chopper pilot listening?” The pilot said he was. “Orders: Do what the man says. Out.”

  The pilot’s expression was one of amazement. He got on the radio and told the C-130 and the Harriers to follow him. “Where to then?”

  “Dar es Salaam; we’ve got a patient to deliver to his brothers. Then on to Lake Rudolf.”

  With an “affirmative,” the pilot checked that his crew were all on board, buttoned up, pulled the commutator throttle up, and the Sea Knight lifted off.

  Once airborne, Pero went back into the hold and checked that everyone was doing well. The girls looked both terrified and hopeful. Bob, Nancy, and the onboard Navy medic were seeing to wounds, bruises, and other minor medical problems. The flight staff was handing out blankets and more candy. Madar was unconscious but looked to be breathing regularly. The IV was half empty. Pero went over to Tone and Pritchett, who were sitting together and watching the people around them. Pero said simply, “Thank you.”

  Tone looked at Pritchett, and both had to raise their voices to respond. Pero could see the two men were feeling safe, winding down after an experience that must have been as terrifying for them as it had been for him. But Pero had not counted on the British sense of humor to defuse tension when Tone replied, “What for? Did us good to be in the thick of things again. To win again. Wonder if we can ever tell anyone, though.”

  “Speaking of telling anyone, may I borrow your phone?”

  Tone passed over his cellphone. Pritchett, who Pero had come to understand was a bit of a prankster, commented, laughing at Tone, “Oh, sure, the cheap cell phone you save, but you lose this fellow’s expensive satellite phone tripping in the marsh!”

  Tone backhanded his friend’s chest. “Oh, do shut up, you idiot.” Both men smiled, still enjoying the feeling of success. “Try and remember I’m badly wounded here; you should have some sympathy. Go, fetch me a pillow and a cup of tea.”

  Pero left them to their banter. He asked the petty flight officer if he could use a cell phone in flight. The man nodded. Pero dialed Virgi and reported in. “It’s a bit noisy here, but packages retrieved, all safe as far as we know, so far. Need to drop off a slightly broken package to you for family care. Can you suggest where?”

  The chop-chop-chop of the helicopter blades carried across the airwaves. Virgi responded, “Ah, Mr. Pero, I have had a most useful conversation with your Mr. Lewis. Excellent planning. Most excellent. The bad”—he paused—“postmaster has been apprehended, so there should be no more illegal shipments or discussion of laws being broken. And a family of German rats from Zanzibar are enjoying a trap. A most sincere thank you. And a cable just came in from Lewis that says Avanti aircraft splashed crossing the Mediterranean Sea and to tell you ASAP. That make sense?” Pero knew then that Lewis had ordered the destruction of the Avanti carrying, as Mbuno had called them, the lions to Albania.

  Virgi waited a few moments, expecting no response. Pero could hear someone also talking to him. Then he said, “Amar says you are most welcome to come for lunch when you can.”

  Pero felt that was a generous gesture, and promised it was one he planned to agree to in the coming weeks. “What about the personal family package I need to deliver? It has gotten quite a bit damaged, but we hope it can be repaired.”

  “Ah, that is most sad, but we have a most wonderful building here, same name as the one in Nairobi, named after a generous spiritual leader . . .” Pero knew instantly he meant the Aga Khan Hospital. “Can you deliver the package there? We will have you met. It is most secure.”

  Pero said that would be fine and to expect arrival within two to three hours, before hanging up. He went and explained to the pilot, who only commented, “That’s a bit obvious in broad daylight . . . can I suggest we set down, transfer him to a small medical chopper, and then bug out to Loiyangalani?” Pero checked with the onboard medic, who said the patient was improving and was stable. As for Tone, the wound was sup
erficial, and he was already telling the medic to leave him alone. “Had worse than this from an infected thorn last year. I’m staying with you. I want to go home when you’re ready.” Nevertheless, the medic gave Bob antibiotics with instructions. Bob promised him that Tone would take them. Tone gave a “harrumph” and pretended to be going to sleep.

  The transfer for Madar should work out fine. Pero went forward and told the pilot to set it up and gave him Virgi Singh’s number. He left him to it. It’s time I stop trying to run everything.

  CHAPTER 31

  Mwisho wa Safari—End of the Safari

  The transfer of Commissioner Madar Singh at the Tanzanian Air Force base on the outer rim of the Julius Nyerere International Airport took twenty minutes. The base commandant wanted to detain the US Navy helicopter, accusing the Americans of subversive activity. As the Singh brothers had been alerted of the transfer site, they had arranged for Defense Forces, who showed up just in time and impounded the airbase, just in case. As soon as the commandant had weapons pointed at him, not to mention four Harrier Jump Jets patrolling his base perimeter, he changed his mind quickly. He claimed he had no idea what was going on. The hospital’s medivac chopper took off immediately, headed for the Aga Khan Hospital.

  The Defense Forces major, busy arresting the commandant, was also intent on listening to his radio. Finally, he came over to the Sea Knight, leaned into the helicopter doorway, and asked to speak to Baltazar. He shouted to be heard over the turbines above, “Message from Minister Singh: the logging camp of Zanzi-Agroforestry was captured after a deadly firefight. Our forces had some losses, but we have managed to capture twenty-one Boko Haram and the drug chemists working at the mill. The logging site in Moyowosi has also been captured, but no one was found to have remained. We are searching the area. The total count of dead and wounded on the train route you took is eighteen, six of whom are in medical custody, including one of the Schmidt family, recently returned to Tanzania from Germany. The last part of the message I do not understand, but I have written it down.” He pulled a folded paper from a breast pocket. “Postmaster now deceased, must not be mentioned for good of country.”