Where Tomorrow Leads

by DiAnn Mills

  “Busy. Some of today’s patients have been walking for two weeks.”

  Paul envisioned the line of diseased and ill people. He should be in Warkou helping her. The patient load had to be staggering, whether she’d admit it or not. “I’ll be home tomorrow, and I’ll stick around until all those people are treated. Is Sarah holding up okay?”

  “She’s just fine.” Larson’s gentle tone put him right there beside her—claiming a kiss, wrapping his arms around her waist.

  “How about you? Mission accomplished?” Apprehension wove through her words.

  “Of course. I delivered the medicine in Xokabuc and visited the chief. We had many converts before, but now everyone is praising Jesus.”

  “I’m glad.” She paused. “Paul?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you playing Indiana Jones again?”

  She’d nailed him. “Whatever made you ask that?” He swallowed the ache in his heart for her. And the fear that had raced through him only moments before.

  She sighed, and he knew the gesture was for his benefit. “Because you always call me after you’ve escaped some mess by the skin of your teeth.”

  “Can’t a man call his wife to tell her he loves and misses her?”

  “Sure. But your habit is to call early in the morning or late at night . . . or after your life just flashed before your eyes.”

  “Now, Larson.”

  “Are you all right?” Panic rose in her voice, and he imagined the tiny lines deepening around her eyes.

  “I’m perfectly fine. A dead mamba is glaring at me. But what’s a little snake?”

  “Why don’t I believe you’re telling me the whole truth?”

  “I have no idea.” Paul took another breath and braved forward. “I talked to Ben, invited him to come by.”

  “He still feels slighted. Oh, I need to go. Call me later?”

  Before he could reply, the phone disconnected. What was the rush?

  * * *

  Larson rushed by Sarah, who stood in the doorway of the concrete building used as a medical clinic. She hurried past the line of patients while the contents of her stomach lunged to the top of her throat. Sweat soaked her shirt, and her body craved sleep. One o’clock in the afternoon. How would she make it until nightfall? Dizziness blurred her vision. In the next instant, she finished vomiting what she’d eaten today.

  Her thoughts clung to Paul. He’d experienced incredible danger, and his denial spoke fathoms. The source most likely didn’t include a snake, unless it was a two-legged one. Larson wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She felt as though a dreaded disease was attacking her, instead of a living, breathing child.

  A baby. The pregnancy test had overwhelmed her, and now morning sickness raged through her body, long past the morning. She hoped this misery ended at the first trimester. Sarah sensed the truth, but no one else must find out until Larson was ready to face up to unwelcome reality. What would she do with a baby? How would she balance her work with motherhood? Was it wrong to expect Paul to help?

  As horrible as she felt this very minute, with her increasing need to rest and her empty stomach churning with bile, a thin balm of peace covered her heart. She was going to be a mother. Soon there would be three of them. Although the danger of bringing a baby into the world of Sudan distressed her, she had to trust God had a better plan.

  But none of it made any sense. Pregnant on the pill, in the middle of Sudan’s civil war. Larson shook her head. No point in crying about it. For certain, her faith and her sense of humor would have to get her through.

  Larson massaged her temples and straightened. Rats, her back ached. She needed to rinse her mouth, wash her hands, and get back to work. She must figure out how to hide this until she had more time to think. She had no intention of telling Paul until her stomach looked like she’d swallowed a basketball.

  “Feeling better?” came a familiar voice.

  Larson turned to see Sarah, who handed her a damp cloth. “Thanks, and yes, I’m better.” She wiped her face and mouth. “What’s an upset stomach anyway?”

  “You want to try eating the clay for the sickness?”

  As much as Larson loved and appreciated Sarah, eating salty clay as many Sudanese women did during pregnancy didn’t appeal to her. “No thank you. I’ll be fine.”

  Sarah looked away. “How are you going to keep this from your husband?”

  Grateful for the dear woman’s discretion, Larson forced a smile. “I’ll find a way. Maybe this is the only time I’ll be this sick. I can hide a queasy stomach.”

  “This is not the first time. I’ve watched you. What about your monthly flow?”

  Larson shook her head. “Sarah, with as much time as Paul spends away, I doubt he knows when my period is due.”

  “Paul Farid is a smart man.”

  Larson wrapped her arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “I don’t want his work or mine interrupted. Neither do I want to leave Sudan.”

  “I wouldn’t want you to leave, but we don’t think like God.”

  “I can’t imagine Him ever wanting us to abandon the people we love.”

  Sarah gazed into Larson’s face. “I believe Paul will be very happy.”

  “I hope so.” Larson peered up into the clear afternoon sky, blue and pure.

  The two plodded back to the clinic. Larson didn’t want to talk about the baby anymore, especially when she didn’t have any answers.

  “Come on, Sarah. After seeing those two cases of Guinea worm this morning, we need to talk to these people about the filthy water. If we’re not diligent, we’ll have more cases of malaria and cholera too.”

  “I’ll call the people together.” Sarah shook her head. “We’ll make them understand the danger.”

  * * *

  Ben stared at the mass of dead enemies. The blood of lifeless enemy soldiers painted the thick grasses crimson. Arms and legs lay over brush, and empty eyes stared back in shock. He’d seen it all before, so many, many times. No cries of loved ones. No moans for help. Silence ruled the terrain, except for a swarm of flies and mosquitoes. Vultures flew overhead, circling and gliding on widespread wings as though completing a ritual before the feast. The smell of blood whispered a message to lions and hyenas. Although some of Sudan’s wildlife had been destroyed, the predators always sought out the prey.

  Ben shifted his weight, trying to ignore the throbbing in his right forearm. A stray bullet had pierced the arm straight through to the bone and out the other side. He could only hope infection didn’t take it or his life. But at least none of Ben’s men had perished today. Other firefights had not left his men so fortunate. The SPLA used the element of surprise to strike without warning. Ben watched the looting. His soldiers deserved whatever they found to use or barter. Someday the South might compensate these men, but that would be in the months or possibly years to come.

  A moan from a nearby body caught Ben’s attention. A GOS soldier lay in a pool of blood and mangled flesh. Half of his left side had been blown away. Standing above the man, Ben listened to him mumble a prayer to Allah.

  “There’s nothing ahead for you but hell.” Ben spat the words in Arabic.

  The soldier didn’t respond. Ben turned and walked away. How many Sudanese civilians had the dying man murdered and maimed? How many brave SPLA fighters gave their lives to free the South from Khartoum’s tyranny? The ravages of war continued, with or without a so-called peace treaty. He’d never believe the government cared for all the people. Even now Khartoum’s focus shifted to genocide in Darfur, Sudan’s westernmost province and the home of black African Muslims who’d displeased the Arab government. Ben intended to fight until every GOS soldier left his country.

  He needed to contemplate the next few hours. Nothing could slow him down, not even the recurring nuisance that often attacked his back. Plans had changed. Despite their victory, the immediate future didn’t offer any rest for his men. And there was his own injury to think about. Blood covered his torn and
ragged limb and dripped onto his pants and the ground. The pain grew worse by the minute, but it was the fear of permanent damage that terrorized him.

  “What now, Colonel?” Commander Okuk bound Ben’s arm with a soiled shirt.

  “Warkou.” Ben reached into his pant pocket with his left hand and pulled out his satellite phone. He clenched his left fist a few times before he attempted to punch in Larson’s code.

  “Ben, what’s wrong?” she said without greeting him.

  “I’m hungry. Are you cooking tonight? Some smoked fish sounds good.”

  “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

  “I thought I’d pay a visit.”

  “How badly are you hurt?”

  Her concern brought back memories, ones he’d rather forget.

  “A scratch.” Pain tore through him like an enemy attacking from every direction. “Bullet went through my arm. I think I need you to take a look at it.”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “Near midnight with the truck.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Ben dropped the phone back into his pocket. He attempted to stand, but the throbbing caused him to sway. He tasted the acid of too many firefights and untended wounds. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on maintaining control.

  “Colonel?” Okuk said. “Are you ready?”

  Bracing himself against the agony in his arm, he pulled out his phone again. They’d pick up Paul along the way.

  CHAPTER 3

  Paul and Ben bounced along the narrow road toward Warkou in Ben’s rusted and dirt-corroded truck. Commander Okuk had walked back to the battalion, leaving Paul to drive Ben to Warkou. The bald tires threatened to explode at any moment. The shattered windows invited in the calmness of night sounds and a brief respite from the heat. Unfortunately, it also brought mosquitoes and other insects. Exhaustion seemed to seep from the pores of Paul’s skin, a common occurrence after a stare down with death. He just wanted to sleep for about fourteen hours. But first he needed to get Ben to Larson. How selfish to think of himself when Ben’s right arm lay limp at his side. Paul hoped she could help him. If she couldn’t, they’d be calling for assistance from Nairobi.

  Paul didn’t claim to be a medical expert, but he’d taken a long look at Ben’s arm when they’d stopped to change the bandage. The gaping hole looked like it needed more than antiseptic and stitches. Larson often performed surgery in her clinic, but this wound looked like it needed a plastic surgeon. Ben’s whole life revolved around leading his men in warfare. What would he do if his arm were rendered useless?

  “How are you doing?” Paul switched on the overhead light and saw the blood oozing through the bandage and trickling down Ben’s arm.

  “My arm would feel better if I hacked it off.” Ben’s voice drifted weakly.

  “Can’t do that, partner. That’s your shooting arm.”

  “You’ve spent too much time in the States. A real hero can use either arm, like Okuk.”

  At least Ben hadn’t lost his sarcasm.

  “What did you take for the pain?” Paul said.

  Ben chuckled. “Nothing. One of my men might need it.”

  Paul wanted to stop the truck and shake him. “Sudan doesn’t pass out medals to its soldiers.”

  “Yeah, but now I have the prettiest doctor in Sudan to patch me up.” Ben moaned, then gave Paul a sideways grin. “That wasn’t necessary.”

  “No problem. I understand.” Not that Paul liked the comment. Two years had passed since he and Larson were married, but Ben held a grudge because they both loved Larson . . . and she’d chosen Paul.

  “You want to blow a hole through my other arm?”

  “Maybe.” Paul laughed. “At least we can joke about it.”

  “Not sure I’d handle it as well.” Ben shifted in the seat. “What’s going on with you?”

  Paul figured he might as well talk about Nizam. “My brother has written me three times. Says he wants to meet with me and learn more about my faith.”

  “I hope you’re not stupid enough to fall for that.”

  “I’m not. But it bothers me that they might target Larson. They know where I’m living, and the only reason they haven’t arrived at our front door is the fact that your battalion is close by.”

  Ben chuckled—a forced one. “They’re afraid of me. Be careful. I don’t trust any Arab—except you.” He laid his head back on the seat.

  Paul’s thoughts turned to the deadly scene he’d left in Xokabuc. “Larson and I decided not to have children. Too dangerous here.”

  “Smart move.” The truck hit a bump and Ben sucked in a breath. “I have a son.”

  Paul wondered what caused Ben to reveal that information. “When did you find out?”

  “Almost thirteen years ago. I’ve never seen him. Doubt he knows I’m his father. But lately I’ve been thinking about him.”

  Paul glanced at the man. “Sorry. Are you thinking about contacting him?”

  “Not sure.” Ben’s words grew fainter. “Too many things to think about. I haven’t talked to his mother since I learned she was pregnant. But sometimes I wonder what he looks like, who he looks like.”

  * * *

  Larson fought the urge to sleep while she waited for Paul and Ben. Uneasiness needled her. What if Ben needed surgery beyond her capabilities? Paul said the wound looked bad, but she needed to see for herself. What a shame a cease-fire had been signed, with a new government in operation, and still Ben had managed to step into the path of a bullet. Sure said a lot for the GOS’s commitment to peace and seemed to validate Ben’s cynicism about the possibility of a united Sudan.

  Worry for him continued to torment her mind. Ben used to talk to her about everything—even the things she didn’t want to hear. But since she and Paul had married, he stayed away. Hurting Ben had never been her intent. Under his crusty exterior was a man who loved his country and those who served under him. She’d seen him carry wounded men, women, and children to her after a firefight, often putting himself in more danger. Duty and honor aligned with his every breath.

  Memories of the past washed over her . . . patching up his men, arguing about the war, seeing the longing in his eyes, avoiding being alone with him, and the decision to send his teenage sister to California for her safety and education. Larson knew he still loved her, which made seeing him and Paul together all the more awkward. Perhaps, in time, Ben’s feelings would mellow.

  Headlights flashed into the window of the clinic, followed by the rumble of a truck engine. Snatching up a rifle, she peered into the darkness to make sure the truck held her husband and Ben, not GOS or raiders. Peace might be on the tongues of most Sudanese, but she couldn’t trust the government and its so-called commitment to peace. After all, she now had a baby to think about.

  “Hold your fire, Larson,” Paul called.

  She propped the rifle against the wall and hurried out to see how badly Ben had been hurt. Already Paul was standing on the passenger side with the door open. He reached inside the cab to assist Ben.

  “Need any help?” she said.

  “No. I’m not dead yet.” Ben attempted to stand with Paul’s aid, but he slumped against the truck door and nearly fell.

  “I’ve got him,” Paul said. “He’s lost a lot of blood.”

  The familiar ring of his voice, English words spoken in an Arabic accent, brought comfort—and a gnawing fear about the pregnancy. She’d deal with that later. Right now, Ben needed her.

  She inhaled a quick breath and grabbed Ben’s waist. He cursed, the sound echoing across the sleepy village. A guard stepped from behind a tukul. She nodded, and he disappeared. This was the Ben she knew and could deal with.

  Once inside, beneath a few strung lightbulbs lit by a diesel-powered generator, Larson examined his arm. She inwardly winced at the mass of mangled flesh. He needed a good surgeon. She caught Paul’s gaze. From the grim look on his face, he’d guessed the truth about their friend.

  “How much fuel
in the Hummer?” she said.

  “Less than half a tank. But there’s more in the back.”

  Ben opened his eyes. “We’re not going anywhere in your vehicle or mine. Patch me up, Larson. Do what you gotta do.”

  She shook her head. “Unless a good surgeon stitches your arm back together, you’ll never be able to use it again. Probably needs a plate and a few pins.”

  “I’ve seen you operate before.”

  “You’ve seen a lot of people die too. This isn’t a hospital for your kind of injury. I’m a doc-in-a-box gal.”

  “Get the instruments out and do it.” The agony in Ben’s eyes spoke volumes about the pain.

  “Do you want to know the odds of whether you could contract an infection or not? Or how about ever using that arm again?”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Larson turned to Paul. “Don’t listen to a word he says.” She gathered supplies to clean and bandage Ben’s wound.

  “I need to get back—” Ben’s face tightened.

  “Shut up, Ben. You’re not worth anything to your men like this,” Larson said.

  “You need to teach your wife some compassion.” Ben glared at Paul.

  “Listen to her. Then she’ll give you compassion.”

  She laughed, anything to ease the tension flaring around them like lightning striking dried grass. Ben needed to be airlifted to Nairobi. “Do you think a pilot from Africa Inland Mission could pick him up? See if there’s a medically trained person to ride along. I’ll start an IV.”

  “Whiskey would help.” Ben tried to pull himself up from the cot, but the loss of blood had weakened him.

  “Hey, I’ll get you a whole bottle of Johnnie Walker Gold once you’re taken care of in Nairobi.”

  “Where’s your plane?” Ben managed.

  “I lent it to another pilot for Feed the World,” Paul said. “Won’t have it back for another week. Sorry.” He pulled his phone from his backpack and punched in the numbers.

  “Paul Farid here. How soon can I have an AIM plane to Warkou? Colonel Ben Alier has been shot.” He tossed an anxious look at Larson. “Not till near sunrise. All right. We’ll be waiting. A nurse would help. He’s lost a lot of blood. . . . Yes, he’s conscious. Thanks.” Paul laid the phone aside.