A Far Justice

by Richard Herman

  Hon slewed the truck around as three horsemen charged through the village, coming straight at them. Simultaneously, they realized the danger and jerked their horses to a halt to reverse course. Jason fired a long burst, cutting into them, shredding the men and horses. Hon jerked the truck to the right as a volley of submachine gun fire split the air where they had been a fraction of second before. Jason found the mounted shooter hidden behind the debris of a destroyed hut. He raked the hut with a long burst, sending up a cloud of wooden debris. The horse reared and threw the Janjaweed, but he never lost the reins and dragged the horse down onto its side and safety. Now he waited.

  Two more horsemen came at the truck, both firing from the hip. One slug ripped into the truck’s windshield barely missing Hon. It exited the rear of the cab and cut a crease in Jason’s right thigh. Jason brought the heavy machine gun to bear and raked the horsemen as pain shot up his leg. The Janjaweed and horses went down in a bloody heap. Automatically, Hon slowed as they passed and Jason emptied his MP5 into the men and horses. Then they were clear of the village. “Go back!” Jason ordered.

  Hon spun the truck around and slammed to a stop. A lone Janjaweed holding a woman astride his saddle as a shield was coming at them. Jason thumbed his MP5 to single shot, aimed, and squeezed off one round, hitting the horseman’s right shoulder. He shrieked in pain. Jason fired again and the round ripped into the Janjaweed’s throat, cutting his scream off in full flow as his mouth worked, forming sounds that could not come. The woman broke free and ran, but another Janjaweed chased after her. He swung a machete and cut her down. Hon reacted automatically and gunned the engine as he twisted the wheel, going after the Janjaweed. Jason mashed the trigger of the heavy machine gun but missed.

  The rider was a superb horseman as he guided his horse through the village, running for safety. But the determined Hon closed on the fleeing man and Jason was able to bring the machine gun to bear. He squeezed off a round, but the weapon misfired and blew the bolt back. Fortunately, Jason was wearing goggles and only suffered minor flash burns. The truck coasted to a halt. “Engine dead,” Hon yelled. An AK47 slug had punched a hole in the radiator and holed the engine block. “Look out!” the Dinka yelled.

  The Janjaweed had spun around and instantly realized what had had happened. He charged the truck, firing wildly and driving Hon and Jason to the ground. Jason returned fire with his MP5, and emptied the clip. He missed. Now the Janjaweed was almost on them and Jason jumped directly into the path of the charging horse, denying the Janjaweed a shot.

  At the last moment, Jason feinted to his left and then back to the right, on the horseman’s left, certain that the tribesman was right-hand dominate. He grabbed the horse’s mane with one hand and the Janjaweed’s bandoleer with the other. Jason was a big man and threw his weight against the horse, and the two men and the horse went down in a heap. Jason rolled over the man and grabbed his AK47. At the same time, he jammed his elbow into the rider’s sternum, knocking the wind out of him. The horse struggled to its feet and bolted free. Hon grabbed its reins, dragging it to a halt.

  Jason stood the Janjaweed up and examined his clothes. “What do we have here?” His prisoner was no ordinary Janjaweed. He keyed the radio to check in with Toby while Hon lashed the Janjaweed to the truck. “We got ‘em.”

  Toby’s voice came over the radio. “You two okay?”

  “I got nicked, Hon’s fine. One hell of a driver. But the truck’s disabled.”

  “Paride’s a good mechanic,” Toby answered, “and I’ve got the first aid kit. We’re on our way. Patch and repair as necessary.” Jason sat on the truck’s tailgate and waited as Toby and Paride, along with their flock of children, made their way back. Toby stopped and told the children to wait in the shade of a low bush. They had been through enough and he didn’t want them to see the carnage of what had been their village.

  Suddenly, the Janjaweed who had been hiding in the debris of the destroyed hut bolted for safety. He was up and mounted and racing for the children, fully intending to use them as cover to make his escape. He turned and fired his AK47 from the saddle, driving Jason and Hon down. He galloped past the children and fired at them. But Paride was there. He stood and emptied his MP5, killing the Janjaweed and his horse.

  For a few moments, there was only silence. “Where’s Toby?” Jason yelled.

  “There!” Paride shouted. Toby was lying over the infant he had been carrying, his blood soaking the ground. The captive Janjaweed laughed.

  Hon turned and shot him in the head.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Southern Sudan

  Paride sat on the truck’s fender, his feet in the engine compartment as the sun beat on his back. “Bullet make big hole in engine. Water all run out. Sorry, Boss, no can fix.” Without a word, Jason walked to the rear of the truck where Toby was resting in the shade of a tarp they had rigged.

  “The truck’s kaput, and my friend, and you’ve got two nasty holes in your body. We need to get you to a doctor.”

  Toby managed a grimace. “I am a doctor. You’ve got me pretty well patched up, and I’m not too worried about the wound in my side. Didn’t hit anything vital. Left leg’s a problem. I don’t think I’ll be walking.”

  “Where’s the nearest town?” Jason asked.

  “Duk Faiwil, about ten miles south of here. It’s about halfway between the mission and Juba, 180 miles either way.”

  Jason thought for a few moments. “Paride, strip down all the weapons but the two MP5s, and bury the pieces. Hon, bring the horse over here.” While Hon rigged three packs, Jason tied the ends of two long poles to the saddle to make a travois. Then he lashed a litter across the back of the poles, creating an A-frame. When it was ready, they carefully lifted Toby onto the litter. “The kids can carry the canteens,” Jason said. He still had a problem. “Reverend, can you hold the baby?” Toby nodded and cradled the infant next to him.

  The three men hefted their packs and set out. Jason led the way with Paride shepherding the two girls and carrying the little boy. Hon brought up the rear leading the horse and dragging Toby on the travois. But the ride was too bumpy and the wound in Toby’s side quickly reopened, bleeding profusely. He stayed conscious long enough to tell Jason that he had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding and then stitch it up. Jason stuffed the cleanest rag he had into the wound and pressed against it with his hands.

  Hon ran back to the truck for the tool kit while Paride built a fire. Within minutes, Hon was back and the ends of a lug wrench and two screwdrivers were in the fire, heating up. “Please, God,” Jason prayed, “help me do it right.”

  “God’s neutral when it comes to this,” Toby murmured, coming awake. He told Jason how to use the pointed end of the lug wrench and then how to finish up with the screwdrivers to seal the small arteries. “Do it quick,” Toby ordered. The smell of burnt flesh wafted over them. Finally, Jason was done and wrapped the wound with a fresh bandage. Toby was still conscious and his face was bathed in sweat. “Don’t want to do that again,” Toby admitted.

  Jason told Hon to strap their backpacks to the horse’s saddle while he and Paride disassembled the travois. They suspended the litter from the two poles, and, with Toby aboard and holding the infant, they shouldered the poles. They walked slowly down the rutted track in tandem, the litter swinging between them. Hon followed close behind, carrying the toddler and leading the packhorse and the children. The sun, the heat, and the humidity bore down, demanding a ferocious toll.

  Late that afternoon, the infant died in Toby’s arms. Jason squatted in the sun as Hon and Paride scrapped out a shallow grave. He listened as Toby sang softly in Dinka, the same song he had heard at the mission’s church. Toby kissed the infant’s cheek. Jason took the small body and gently placed it in the grave. He stood, forever a changed man.

  It was late the next day and Hon and Paride walked side-by-side, leading the way as each shouldered one pole of the litter. Behind them, Jason shouldered both poles, carrying the
backend of the litter. The oldest girl led the horse, which was now carrying their packs and the two other children. The horse was rapidly weakening under its load and in the heat. The American didn’t know how much longer he could keep pressing the men and hoped they were near the town. Twice, they had to take cover as armed men passed, and it was, without doubt, the longest ten miles and twenty-four hours in his life. The two Africans stopped. “Duk Faiwil, Boss,” Paride said. “Straight ahead.”

  They all slowly sank to the ground, totally exhausted. The men breathed heavily. Finally, Jason came to his feet and checked on Toby. He was semi-conscious and sweating. “We got to get some antibiotics in you,” Jason said. He thought for a few moments. “Paride, can you trade the horse for antibiotics for the Reverend?”

  “Don’t think so, Boss. Medicine hard to get and horses not worth much. Too bad no have cows. But for Reverend, they will give medicine.” The three men shouldered the litter and the small caravan made its way into town. A strange sight greeted them as brightly dressed Dinkas and Nuers mingled with refugees flooding into the small town. A haphazard array of decorations covered market stalls. It was uniquely African as harsh reality collided with a festive mood. “Christmas tomorrow, Boss,” Paride said.

  “I forgot,” Jason admitted.

  Paride spoke to a tall young man and was given directions to a sprawling compound crowded with people sitting on the ground. A faded sign announced they had found the hospital. They carefully lowered the litter to the ground and Paride worked his way inside, calming hostile voices and shouts for jumping the line. He was back in a matter of minutes leading a doctor, nurse, orderly, and two guards. “They all know Reverend Person,” Paride said. “He very important man in Sudan.”

  Toby spoke quietly to the doctor who occasionally nodded. Jason did not understand a single word but heard an authority in Toby’s words that could not be denied. The doctor pointed at the children. “There are a few refugees from their village here.” He spoke to the nurse who took charge. She barked at the orderly, picked up the toddler, and led the two girls into the hospital compound.

  “Will they take care of them?” Jason asked.

  Hon looked at him for a moment. He had to make the American understand. “A village is a big family. Everyone have uncle or aunt. Children are future of family. No children, no future.”

  The guards stayed with the horse and packs while they carried Toby inside. Paride and the doctor engaged in a lively conversation. When Toby was in the operating room, Paride pulled Jason aside and spoke in a low voice. “Doctor says there is much fighting to north and many people come this way. Some people say Sudanese Army attacks Mission Awana but no one knows for sure. Nurse says Army patrol drive through town last night.”

  “Did she say how many troops?”

  “Not many, maybe twenty. She says they have two armored cars and a truck.”

  “Damn, that’s not good. We need a vehicle to get out of here.”

  “Don’t worry, Boss. I go get one. Doctor says they have a telephone.” Paride pushed through the crowded room and disappeared into the compound.

  Jason and Hon wandered around the compound until they found an office guarded by two armed men. Hon spoke to them in Dinka and money passed hands. One of the guards opened the door and allowed them in. Inside, a young man sat behind a desk talking on the telephone, speaking a southern dialect of Dinka. He ignored them. “He’s talking to his girlfriend in Juba,” Hon whispered. The young man finally looked at them, his eyes cold and unblinking.

  “The phone is for official business only,” he said, switching to perfect English. “This is official,” Jason answered. “We’re taking the Reverend Tobias Person of Mission Awana to Juba. He has been badly wounded and we need to arrange transportation and medical treatment.”

  The young man ignored him and returned to his phone call, speaking Dinka. After a few minutes, he again looked at them. “A call will be five-hundred dollars US”

  “I lost all my money and credit cards when my helicopter crashed. If you give me a bill, I will make sure you are paid when we reach Juba.” The young man stared at Jason, his face a mask, his eyes lifeless. He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to the window, renewing his telephone conversation. He laughed.

  Jason’s jaw hardened in anger and Hon touched his arm. “Time to go, Boss.” The Dinka looked at the door. Jason stormed out, only to be stopped by the guards who demanded more money. Hon again handed over a few Sudanese dinars and hustled Jason outside. “It’s okay, Boss. Some people give, some people take.”

  They made their way back to the horse and Jason untied one the packs. He pulled out an MP5 and strapped on a web cartridge belt. “That won’t happen again.” He threw the other MP5 to Hon who looked very worried. “Pay the guards,” Jason ordered, leading the horse into the shade. Now they had to wait for Paride to return.

  The Hague

  Aly joined the large crowd milling in front of the Hugo Grotius prison on Christmas afternoon, and, like the others, waited impatiently for a guard to open the doors leading inside. At exactly two o’clock, the outer gates slid back and a guard unlocked the inner glass doors. The crowd surged in, carrying food and gifts. Aly joined the line and waited patiently to sign in and go through inspection. Gus was waiting for her, his cell door open. “It’s one big open house,” he said. “There is no way they’d do something like this in the States, not even in a minimum security prison like this one.”

  “Our prisons are different,” Aly explained. “Rehabilitation is the goal, not punishment.” She smiled. “Hank called this morning with news. He said to tell you that the NSA monitored a telephone call from a town called Duk Faiwil in the southern Sudan. A young man was talking to a girlfriend in Juba and said there was an American with a missionary at the hospital where he worked. The man said the American had lost all his money in a helicopter crash so he couldn’t pay for a phone call.”

  Gus exploded. “Jason and Toby!” He slowly calmed. “If Hank knows, Max Westcot knows. Max will get them out. Count on it.”

  Therese Derwent knocked on the open door. “Count on what?”

  Gus smiled. “Bringing good news.”

  Derwent stepped into the cell with three plastic carrier bags. “Dinner,” she announced. She looked at Aly. “Please join us.” Gus sat on his bunk as the two women talked and enjoyed their easy conversation. Within minutes, Derwent had set the table and handed him a bottle of wine to open. “The superintendent only allows one per family,” she cautioned. The food was as close to a traditional American Christmas dinner as the psychiatrist could manage with sliced turkey, stuffing, vegetables and all the trimmings. When they had finished, the three walked the corridors, exchanging Christmas greetings and chatting with the other prisoners and their families.

  Finally, they were back in Gus’s cell and Aly handed him a cell phone to call home. Gus eagerly dialed the Mayo, hoping the timing was right and Clare would be awake and able to take the call. His daughter answered on the first ring. “We’ve been waiting,” Michelle said, her voice radiating with happiness. She turned the camera towards Clare who was sitting up in bed, her hair carefully arranged.

  Her lips moved and she smiled as Michelle held the phone close. “Merry Christmas, darling.” Her voice was weak but clear and distinct.

  Gus smiled as tears coursed down his cheeks. It was the first time he had heard her voice since leaving home in late September. Aly and Derwent stepped into the hall to give them privacy. “I envy him his Christmas,” the psychiatrist said.

  “He deserves it,” Aly told her. She considered her next words. “You don’t really know him.”

  The psychiatrist gave her an indulgent smile. “I think I do.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  Duk Faiwil, Southern Sudan

  Jason glanced at his watch and tried to go back to sleep. It was still dark and the hospital compound was quiet, perched on the edge of morning. The hut he shared with Hon had lost its stifling heat a
nd was comfortable enough, but frustration laced with anger twisted his stomach into a hard knot, driving the last vestiges of sleep away. He glanced at his watch again. But other than the passage of a few minutes, nothing had changed. It was still Wednesday morning, December 29, and Toby was still in the hospital running a vicious fever. They had to get Toby to Juba and proper medical care but he hadn’t been able to find transportation and Paride still hadn’t returned after three days. “Too damn many ‘stills,’” he muttered to himself.

  The knot in his stomach tightened as his mental alarms screamed at him, warning him that the trial was entering its final stages, and they were marooned in this forsaken Sudanese town. His right hand flashed out and he squashed an insect between his thumb and forefinger before it could bite the still sleeping Hon. At least he could still do that. He stood in the open doorway as the hospital compound slowly came to life. What had D’Na said about morning in Africa? It was the best time of day when all was new and fresh. He wanted to believe that.

  A commotion outside the compound drew his attention and woke Hon. “Something is going on,” Jason said.

  “I go see, Boss,” Hon said. “I try to find food.”

  “That would be nice,” Jason said, trying to ignore the hunger that was part of their life. Hon pulled on his T-shirt and headed for the gate while Jason sat in the doorway. A fact of life was that one of them always had to stay and guard their meager possessions or they would be stolen.

  Hon came back, running for all he was worth. “Boss! Soldiers come!”

  “Pack up,” Jason ordered. “I’ll go get the Reverend.” He ran for the hospital as the sound of approaching helicopters beat at him. He looked up as two tan colored helicopters flew low over the town. Their distinctive roundels flashed in the sun – Sudanese Air Force. A third helicopter flew past. A wall of people rushing out of the compound blocked his way but he managed to push and shove his way into the ward where Toby was staying. Fortunately, the missionary was sitting on the edge of the bed and pulling on his clothes. His face was bathed in sweat and he swayed from the effort. Jason knelt down and slipped on Toby’s boots, quickly tying them.