The Liberty Intrigue

by Tom Grace

“Hmm?” Egan responded absently.

  “William Barret Travis. These were his words.”

  “They were indeed. And like you, Travis borrowed them from another soldier locked in a desperate struggle for liberty.” Egan handed the helmet back. “Why are these words now yours?”

  “I fought in the last war, the one that split my country.”

  Egan studied the soldier’s face. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-three.”

  “You would have been just a boy”—Egan quickly reconciled the two facts—“a boy soldier.”

  “I was from a small village in what is now the demilitarized zone. Early in the war, Cudjoe’s men raided it in retribution for our support of the rebels. All the women of the village, my mother and my sisters, were raped and murdered. My father, the village elders, and other men were forced to watch before they too were executed. I was taken with the other boys and made to—”

  Egan held up his hand to halt the soldier’s painful narrative. “I know what they made you boys do. There is a special place in Hell reserved for the Glorious Leader.”

  The soldier nodded. “I am a husband. My wife has just given me a son. I gladly risk my life to protect theirs.”

  “I understand.”

  Egan extended his hand to the soldier, who accepted it with a strong, firm grip. Though more than twenty years his senior, Egan knew both the man’s pain and his motivation.

  “Victory or death,” the soldier offered.

  “For us all.”

  Egan left the soldier to his duties and resumed his walk around the grounds of the power plant. He knew every square foot of the place, having rebuilt much of it from the ground up. The facility had been badly damaged in the civil war, stripped of all but the heaviest pieces of equipment and abandoned by Cudjoe’s retreating forces. The same was true of all the territory ceded by Safo—lands that emerged as the Republic of Dutannuru.

  During the 1960s, the Safolese government dammed the Umoja River and built the 300-megawatt power plant. The plant stood near the tip of a peninsula formed by a sharp bend in the river. Unfortunately, from the Dutannuru point of view, the plant was on the wrong side of the river.

  The agreement that ended the civil war divided the two nations down the center of the Umoja River. The power plant, which was the primary source of electrical power for Dutannuru, stood squarely on Safo’s side of the river. Over Cudjoe’s strenuous objections, the diplomats straightened the border at the river bend and severed ten square kilometers of the jungle peninsula in Dutannuru’s favor. As the Safolese army withdrew from the ceded peninsula, they left nothing behind but wreckage.

  A pair of fences ringed the power plant, a ten-foot-high electrified inner fence to deter human intrusion surrounded by a five-foot-high livestock version to ward off jungle fauna. Due to a recent spate of incidents along the Dutannuru-Safo border, the army’s corps of engineers had augmented the power plant’s defenses with fortified gun emplacements. Combat troops were now in place and ready should open hostilities commence.

  The dull thump of rotor blades grew louder until a military helicopter appeared over the power plant.

  “Sir,” the soldier he’d just spoken to called out as he ran toward Egan.

  “Yes?”

  “Orders, sir. I’m to take you to the helipad. You have a visitor.”

  “All right.”

  Egan kept pace with the soldier as they briskly strode across the open yard. An officer dressed in fatigues emerged from the helicopter, followed by a pair of khaki-clad civilians. Both toted shoulder bags, the woman of the pair protectively cradling a digital camera. The trio hunched down beneath the whirling blades and trotted out toward them.

  As they closed the distance, the officer returned the salute offered by Egan’s escort and dismissed the soldier before turning to the engineer. Egan’s gaze darted from the officer to the civilians. From beneath the brim of the woman’s jungle hat, he noted the hint of a distantly familiar smile.

  “Niki?” Egan shouted over the din as his mind put a name to the lovely face.

  Clear of the rotors, Niki Adashi stood and nodded, her face beaming. Slender and nearly as tall as Egan, she threw her free arm around his neck in a friendly embrace.

  “You remember me!” Niki said happily.

  “It hasn’t been that long,” Egan replied.

  “Please come with me,” the officer said, interrupting the reunion.

  Egan nodded and they quickly moved away from the helipad.

  “It is an honor to meet you, sir,” the officer said once they were inside the command post. “I am Major Opoku. I apologize for my abrupt arrival.”

  “Not necessary, Major,” Egan replied, “but why are you ferrying out visitors with God knows what about to happen?”

  “Orders, sir. These people represent the international media.”

  From the tone of Opoku’s voice, Egan knew the man was less than thrilled with the idea of shepherding reporters into a likely battle zone.

  “I’m Edward Turcott, freelance journalist with the Times,” the man said as he thrust his hand toward Egan. “I gather from your meeting outside that you are already acquainted with Ms. Adashi.”

  “I am,” Egan replied.

  “Excuse me, Major,” Turcott interjected. “I know you gentlemen have business, but the daylight is waning and we’d like to have a look around before dark.”

  Niki stood quietly by Turcott, holding a long-lens camera in the crook of her arm the way a big game hunter would have cradled a Holland & Holland .375 Royal Deluxe.

  “And I thought you came halfway around the world just to visit an old friend,” Egan said to Niki.

  “Sadly, no,” Niki said. “I am here in the event that Cudjoe attacks. President Mensah wishes the world to know.”

  “I can think of no one better than you to capture Dutannuru’s plight,” Egan said. “I assume your selection for this assignment wasn’t purely by chance?”

  “Like you, I place my trust in higher powers,” Niki replied with a knowing smile.

  “As I said, I’d like to have a look around,” Turcott reiterated, perturbed. “President Mensah assured me that Ms. Adashi and I would have full access to this facility.”

  “Your access is not quite as full as you think,” Egan replied. “Talk to whomever you like, but you cannot enter or photograph the interior of the powerhouse.”

  “Why not?” Turcott asked.

  “National security,” Opoku interjected tersely. “If you take any unauthorized photographs or enter restricted areas, you will be imprisoned.”

  “You’re joking,” Turcott snorted haughtily.

  “I am not,” Opoku replied stonily. “Go now.”

  Turcott retreated from the trailer quickly, thankful to be out of Opoku’s sight. Niki shared a quick glance with Egan and an unspoken promise to talk when they had an opportunity.

  “I can’t believe Mensah has you running a press tour,” Egan said once the door closed behind Niki.

  “He kills two birds with one stone. You are the primary reason I am here. The Embassy of the United States has issued an evacuation notice to all of its citizens in Dutannuru. President Mensah has ordered that you be brought to the capital and evacuated with your fellow countrymen.”

  “He knows better than that.”

  “The President warned me that you might be difficult.” Opoku turned to the duty officer. “Do you have the secure line I requested?”

  “Yes, sir. You can take the call in my office.”

  Opoku led Egan into a small room at the end of the trailer. A light on the multiline phone blinked expectantly. Opoku picked up the phone and identified himself, then waited. After a moment, the major’s posture stiffened as if a superior officer had entered the room.

  “Yes, Mr. President. He is with me.”

  Opoku listened for a brief moment before offering the handset to Egan.

  “Mr. President,” Egan said warmly.

  “Ross,
your government has chartered a plane that will depart the capital in one hour. I think you should go.”

  “Is that why you sent Niki?”

  “No, but I will not complain if her presence results in you achieving a longer life. I do not wish you to suffer the fate of Archimedes. You are too valuable, my friend.”

  Egan recalled the murder of the brilliant Greek mathematician during the chaos that followed the fall of Syracuse to the Romans during the Second Punic War.

  “This is as much my fight as yours,” Egan countered.

  “And the first thing Cudjoe will attack is your power plant.”

  “We always knew that would be the case—plus it just irks the Illustrious Leader that we can keep the lights on and he can’t. All the more reason for me to stay. And if Cudjoe does take this plant, he’ll find it just as he left it.”

  “I hope it does not come to that.”

  “You and me both, but if there’s no other choice …”

  “Very well. Give Major Opoku this phrase: Mtoto shupavu sana.”

  Egan smiled and repeated the phrase. Opoku nodded and left the command post without him.

  “Maggie used to call me that,” Egan said.

  “She was right, and you remain a stubborn child.”

  Egan heard the rustle of papers over the phone.

  “I have received some new intelligence,” Mensah continued. “Satellite images from just a few hours ago show Cudjoe has moved additional forces into the border region near the power plant. There are staging areas for armored troop carriers and attack helicopters. My generals believe the attack will come soon.”

  “The US government is providing you with information?” Egan asked, incredulous.

  “We acquired the images from a private firm.”

  Egan detected the bitter undertone in Mensah’s reply. When the prospect of a second war over Dutannuru had emerged, many of the world’s leading political figures made speeches urging dialogue and brokered negotiations. Shuttle diplomacy by the globetrotting American Secretary of State resulted in little more than a well-staged photo opportunity for the saber-rattling dictator. A UN resolution denouncing Safo’s increasingly hostile stance toward its smaller neighbor was killed by nations that were quietly trading arms for access to the vast natural resources of the repressive people’s state.

  “There was a time when the United States stood shoulder to shoulder with nations like Dutannuru in defense of liberty.”

  “A pragmatic approach is the current political fashion,” Mensah offered. “And the pragmatists believe Dutannuru’s days are numbered.”

  “Pragmatist is just a polite way of saying pessimist. I believe in the people of Dutannuru.”

  “I, too, believe in my people. And in you. May God be with you in the coming storm.”

  “May He be with us all, Mr. President.”

  Egan left the command post and resumed his tour of the grounds around the power plant. The automatic lights that normally flickered on at sunset remained off—the facility and its defenders cloaked themselves in the jungle darkness. Above him, a clear, moonless sky sparkled with the tiny lights of distant stars.

  The younger soldiers were restless, eager for snippets of news, rumors, and speculation about the looming conflict. Veterans of the last war knew from experience that the future would take care of itself and that a soldier must concern himself with the present. Those who were off-duty ate or slept, knowing both those activities become elusive in battle. Others ritually inspected and cleaned their weapons and equipment to ensure that all was in peak working condition.

  The jungle takes on a different character at night, and the presence of so many men had disrupted the natural rhythm of the nocturnal creatures. Darkness and silence enhanced the palpable sense of anticipation.

  Egan’s iPhone vibrated silently in his belt holder. He checked the screen and read the text message: LOOK UP.

  He holstered the phone and scanned the sky. The message was an application that he’d written to text him whenever the International Space Station was passing overhead. He remembered a cool, July night in his childhood when his parents woke him and sat with him in front of a grainy black-and-white television to watch Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin walk on the moon. He had retained a passion for space exploration to this day.

  Egan heard the metallic click of a camera shutter.

  “Wishing on a star?” Niki asked, her face subtly up-lit by the faint glow of the camera’s LCD screen.

  “Not quite,” Egan replied, his gaze still fixed upward.

  Then he saw it. The bright object streaked out of the northwest, moving diagonally across the sky.

  “Look there,” Egan said, pointing skyward.

  “A meteor?” Niki asked.

  “A space station,” Egan replied.

  “With war so close, it is hard to imagine that people can accomplish something so extraordinary. It is very fast.”

  “Has to be,” Egan offered, “or it would quickly come crashing to Earth.”

  “Might not be such a bad thing,” Turcott opined as he uploaded a story from his iPad. “I think the manned space program is a colossal waste of time and money.”

  “So says the man whose livelihood depends on technologies born from man’s hopeful desire ‘to slip the surly bonds of earth’ and ‘touch the face of God.’”

  “Touché,” Turcott conceded, “and very poetic.”

  “My wife was a great reader of poetry. I guess some of it rubbed off on me. High Flight is one of my favorites.”

  Niki laughed fondly. “She described her attempts to expose you to literature as cultural diffusion. I think of her often. She was a good woman.”

  Egan nodded. “Our time together was too brief, but I’m thankful for it.”

  They watched the ISS hurtle across the night sky until it disappeared behind the distant jungle canopy. The pointed tip of a crescent moon emerged over the eastern horizon.

  “And may that be the only thing we see lighting up the sky tonight,” Egan said. “Though it’ll mean you wasted a trip out here.”

  “Wars are like cabs in Manhattan,” Turcott said. “There’s always another one just around the corner.”

  “I took some interesting pictures and met an old friend,” Niki offered. “However, it turns out this trip will not be fruitless for me.”

  “Do you shoot landscapes?” Egan asked.

  “If I like the scenery,” Niki replied.

  “Come with me.”

  Egan led Niki and Turcott toward the power plant. The complex of buildings seemed eerily quiet in the darkness. They skirted the main buildings and approached a guarded gate. After a quick check of his credentials, Egan escorted the reporters onto the upper deck of the dam. The lake formed by the dam spread lengthwise to the east. To the west, a steep cliff face of concrete plunged to the river valley below. He stopped at a point near the center of the dam.

  “Oh my,” Niki gasped.

  From this vantage, the thin sickle moon hung low in the sky over the far end of the lake, reflecting perfectly in the placid water. Niki unfolded a tripod and quickly calculated the settings required to capture the image.

  “That is what really should have brought you here,” Egan said. “Not another war waged by a murderous parasite.”

  “Not a fan of Kwame Cudjoe?” Turcott asked.

  “Hardly,” Egan replied. “The thug seized power in a coup that threw his country into civil war and led to the deaths of tens of thousands. He took three-quarters of the land along with the major oil fields, mines, and industry, leaving Dutannuru with next to nothing. A decade later, Cudjoe has nationalized everything, his people are starving, tens of thousands more are dead, and his nation is a total basket case. And right next door, the spit of land he left in ruins is fast becoming the economic lion of Africa. This isn’t a war—it’s a heist. And the cop who used to patrol this beat is nowhere to be found.”

  “If war comes again, do you think it will go badly
for Dutannuru?” Niki asked.

  “Wars rarely go well when an enemy is massing on your border.”

  “If you’re an American, why are you still here?” Turcott asked. “That helicopter we arrived in was sent to whisk you away from this place before hostilities commence.”

  “My wife came here with the Peace Corps when all of this was Safo. The government then was ineffective and riddled with corruption, but foreign aid was welcome and she fell in love with the people.”

  As he spoke, Egan watched Niki patiently work her camera. Sensing him, she paused.

  “I was still a girl when I met his wife,” she explained to Turcott. “Maggie became part of our community, like family. I miss her to this day.”

  Egan nodded. “Bettering the lives of the people here was my wife’s calling. After we married, I returned with her and this is where we made our home. That’s why I refuse to leave.”

  Niki finished shooting the moonlit landscape and detached her camera from the tripod. Ripples on the far end of the lake disturbed the reflection, wakes radiating from the black silhouettes moving in a straight line toward the dam. She saw that Egan had noticed the incoming boats as well.

  “Are those boats Safolese?” Turcott asked.

  “Don’t know,” Egan answered, “but it’s probably not a good idea to wait here to find out.”

  Niki quickly stowed her tripod and they all headed back the way they came. The moon illuminated the plant buildings and cast long, dark shadows.

  “What are you hiding in there?” Turcott asked casually.

  “Nothing,” Egan replied with a hint of evasion.

  “Then why all the security? I’ve been inside power plants before, if that’s your worry. I did a piece on the Three Rivers Gorge project in China a while back.”

  “That’s cutting-edge hydro. What’s in there isn’t nearly as impressive.”

  Turcott eyed him suspiciously. “When you say it like that, you just make me more curious.”

  “We all need a little mystery in our lives.”

  As they neared the end of the dam, a figure climbed onto the walkway and strode toward them. It was Major Opoku.

  “Ah, I have found you,” Opoku said, relieved.

  “I thought you returned to the capital,” Egan said.