by DiAnn Mills
“Your accent is heavy.” One of the children, a small, naked boy, crept closer and wrapped his arms around her leg. “Move back, Mangok.” Her gentle tone reverted to the language Paul believed to be Dinka. The child slipped into the small crowd, and a young girl lifted him onto her hip.
“I’m a naturalized citizen.” Paul breathed friendship into every word.
“Many Arabs are American citizens.”
He clenched his fist. Since September 11 and the free world’s war on terrorism, he had encountered a stream of hostility everywhere he went. “Do you want to see my résumé?”
“I might.” A thin-lipped smile met him.
He bit back a remark. “While you contact Feed the World for my personal credentials, I’d like to get these supplies unloaded.”
“Of course.” She turned to those behind her and motioned for them to join her. “What do we have?”
“A few thousand pounds of grain and medical supplies.”
She focused on him for a moment as though attempting to read deceit. “Thank you.”
Paul set out to make small talk about the heat, the cloudless sky, and the villagers, but Dr. Kerr chose not to reply. He stopped the questioning and idle remarks. Whirling around, he opened the plane’s hatch to where packed grain lay inside several large bags. They were tied to wooden pallets in case the village did not have a cleared landing path or the GOS threatened the pilot’s safety. If not for the precious medicine, he would have released the load from the air, and the bags and wooden pallets would have separated once they hit the ground. The people wasted nothing. The villagers would have snatched up the pieces of wood to construct furniture and the packing straps for whatever purpose the finders deemed fit. Even the cloth bags would be sewn into clothing or stretched over poles for shelter.
The sound of shouting women stole Paul’s attention. Two women who wanted the same bag of grain tugged with one hand and slugged with the other.
“There’s enough.” Dr. Kerr stepped between the women and nearly took a blow to the chin. She yanked on the bag. The struggle ceased. Larson Kerr could definitely hold her own.
Paul had seen this type of interference before. A woman needing food for her family was a formidable opponent. He couldn’t blame them. They were most likely mothers who only wanted their children to survive. The villagers’ emaciated bodies evidenced the need for proper nourishment, more than just grain, but this food offered the difference between life and death.
Once the last bag of grain was dragged away, Dr. Kerr lingered with a young woman and a tall boy as Paul unloaded the medical supplies from the plane.
Dr. Kerr scooped up a box of sterile gauze squares and gauze wraps. “I really need these. I’ve been using my old shirts as bandages.” She peered into the storage compartment. “Look, Rachel, antibiotics to treat malaria.” She laughed. “And lidocaine. And sutures. And plenty of Betadine.”
The tall, thin young woman smiled and held out her arms for a box. “God has blessed us.”
Paul handed Rachel a case of sterile gloves and took a glimpse at her. “Indeed He has.”
She couldn’t be much more than sixteen—high cheekbones, flawless skin, and huge eyes. She would no doubt bring a high bride-price to her family.
“You’re a Christian?” Rachel said. “I didn’t expect . . .”
Paul waved away her anxiety with his free hand. “I understand your reservations, but I do serve Jesus Christ.”
“I will pray for your dangerous missions.” Rachel stood erect.
“Thank you. I’m always in need of prayer.”
The boy stepped forward, his arms outstretched. “I want a heavy one.”
“Oh, you do?” Paul chuckled. “What’s your name?”
“Nyok, and I’m twelve.”
Paul saw the V-shaped lines etched across his forehead. The boy had gone through the rites of manhood. “And I see you’re a warrior.”
Nyok thrust back his shoulders, accenting his nearly six-foot height. “I protect Dr. Kerr.”
“I’m sure you do a fine job.” Paul doubted the doctor needed much protection, but he knew well the boy’s role. From the looks of Warkou, there were not many cattle for Nyok to tend—a shame for a culture that had revered its cows for hundreds of years. He piled two heavy boxes in Nyok’s muscular arms.
Paul gathered up two cases containing prescription medicine and headed after the small troop.
Dr. Kerr turned around. “You stay here. I don’t want those supplies disappearing.”
“All right.” He glanced about him and saw no one, but that didn’t mean a thief wasn’t lurking nearby. “One more load will do it.” He grabbed a bottle of water from inside the cockpit and again waited beneath the wing. The temperature felt around 43 degrees Celsius—almost 110 degrees Fahrenheit—noticeably hotter in the sun. It matched the upheaval in the area and in Paul himself.
A rustling caught his attention, and men in camouflage carrying Kalashnikov rifles filled the area. Guerrilla soldiers. Their Russian-purchased weapons made him inwardly squirm. He hadn’t heard a shot fired or the sound of resistance. Paul carried a handgun inside the plane, but it was useless against these weapons. Although the soldiers fought for the south, they didn’t always have the best interests of the civilians in mind—at least in Paul’s opinion.
A few moments later, Rachel and Nyok hurried back. Paul piled their arms with the remaining boxes and pulled the last two into his own. “Why are the soldiers here?” he said to Nyok.
“They’re watching you,” the boy said. “They don’t trust anybody.”
Least of all an Arab. Fortunately, he had all his papers with him, and they could peruse his flawless record. He had nothing to hide.
He trailed behind Rachel and Nyok. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d been the object of debate, and he certainly didn’t want to risk the lives of the two young people in front of him.
“You there, stop,” a soldier said in Arabic. “We want to see your papers.” He raised his rifle and pointed at Paul’s chest.
“Some are inside my shirt, and the rest are in the plane. Can I put down these boxes?”
The soldier nodded, but his weapon didn’t sway.
“Rachel, Nyok, take your load on to Dr. Kerr,” Paul said. He lowered the two boxes to the ground, making sure none of the contents would break. Holding out both hands, he turned his attention to the soldier. “Go ahead, take them from me.”
The soldier reached inside Paul’s buttoned shirt and pulled out the papers. He scanned them before calling for another soldier to take the FTW verification to their colonel. Paul wondered if the man could read English. Meanwhile, he waited once more in the torrid sun with sweat streaming down his face and neck and a familiar churning in his stomach. The longer he lingered, the more frustration at the situation ate at his heart.
“He’s all right.” Another soldier strode toward Paul, his Arabic rough. “Colonel Alier wants to talk to him.”
Paul inwardly sighed. Colonel Ben Alier of the Sudan People’s Liberation Army had a reputation for his clever tactics, courage, and ruthlessness. His guerrilla soldiers offered him undeniable allegiance. Under more pleasant conditions, Paul might have welcomed an opportunity to speak with the rebel leader. Plenty of media sources in the States clamored for such interviews.
The SPLA had interrogated Paul a few times, and none of them had been enjoyable. The forces held a common distrust and accused him of spying. He would probably do the same if his people had been persecuted by the Islamic-controlled government. Of course, who could be trusted when the different rebel factions warred against each other while fighting the GOS? If only the SPLA would recognize Paul’s name and the humanitarian organization that fed and administered medical aid to the suffering civilians.
“Move ahead.” The soldier stuck the rifle in Paul’s ribs.
“Can I take these supplies?”
“If you hurry.”
Paul had no idea where he was going,
but he plodded ahead in the direction he’d seen Dr. Kerr, Rachel, and Nyok venture. This circling of soldiers appeared to have the villagers a bit tense. They spoke in Dinka, and Paul didn’t understand the dialect. He could only surmise the meaning of the conversations from the rise and fall of the voices and the facial expressions of those speaking. From Paul’s observation, the soldiers seemed more intimidating than hostile.
“To the right,” said the soldier behind him, and Paul picked up his pace toward a far hut.
Dr. Kerr stood outside a dwelling that must be serving as a clinic. Some of the bags of grain were stacked outside the door along with the medical supplies. Nyok was at her side like a sentinel, and a soldier had his arm around Rachel. The young woman smiled, and the soldier planted a kiss on her forehead. Suspicions mounted in Paul’s mind at the gray woven through the soldier’s hair. He looked old enough to be her father. He had to be Colonel Ben Alier.
“Ah, Paul Farid,” the man said, releasing his hold on Rachel. A wide smile prefaced his words. “I’ve heard much about you.”
From information inside Khartoum? “I’ve flown several missions throughout Sudan.”
“Yes, and you are noted for your food drops in dangerous areas—Nubia one of them.” The smile did not leave his face while he extended his hand. “Ben Alier.”
Paul responded and noted the firm handshake. “It’s a pleasure, sir.”
“Your planes have never been shot down.” The colonel stuck his thumbs inside his belt loops. “How lucky you are when others face enemy fire constantly.”
“For the record, I have been fired on and nearly lost a plane. God is with me.”
“Not Allah, I presume.” Alier’s tone deadened, the pleasantness erased.
“I am a Christian, Colonel, and I believe you are too.”
“Rare for an Arab to follow Christianity, don’t you think?”
Paul refused to cower to the man. “There are many Arab Christians in this world.”
“Wealthy ones?”
“Sir, I don’t believe our Lord chose only the poor to follow Him. Those who have monetary means to aid the less fortunate are a blessing to those they serve.”
Alier chuckled. “I’ve been told as much. Would you like to contribute to the SPLA’s cause? We are in need of food, tents, weapons, uniforms, medical supplies. The list is endless.”
“My ministry is to the civilians suffering in this war. I’m sure there are others who would consider financing your army’s equipment.”
“But not you?”
“No, sir.” Paul stared into the colonel’s eyes. He would not waver from his cause or his purpose.
“Most men are afraid of me, Mr. Farid. And you are not?” Alier paused. A wry look met Paul’s gaze. “Do you know the power I have? I could have you killed on the spot, tortured for suspected spying.”
“I am very well aware of your capabilities.”
Alier studied him a moment longer. A hush had crept over the village. Paul sensed the villagers and soldiers observing the friction between the two men.
“Give me one reason not to kill you.”
Paul nodded slowly. He felt an amazing peace, a sense of calm that flowed through his veins, warm and comforting. “If you kill me, then thousands of people will not receive the benefit of the food and provisions my money buys. They’ll still get the aid of the many humanitarian organizations dedicated to Sudan, but their assistance is not enough, and you know it. If you kill me, how many Sudanese villages will harbor your men knowing you destroyed their chance for survival?”
Alier’s eyes narrowed. He clenched his fists and swallowed hard. “I asked for a reason, and you gave it to me. For now, you live. But I don’t trust you. I’ll be watching for you to make a mistake.”
“I don’t doubt your words, Colonel.” Paul forced a smile. “Now, may I take my plane and fly out of here?”
“I won’t delay you a moment longer.”
Paul turned to Dr. Kerr. He’d felt her scrutiny during the interrogation. Curiosity was evident on her face, along with a mixture of something else he couldn’t quite discern. If given the time, he’d like to get to know this woman.
“Thank you, Mr. Farid. I am most grateful for the provisions and your willingness to deliver them.”
The lines around her eyes softened, and for the first time he saw her beauty. Even here, in the wilds of Africa, without the aid of those things women used to make themselves more attractive, she was a rarity.
“Good luck to you.” Dr. Kerr crossed her arms over her chest.
“May God bless your work here.” Paul turned and walked toward his plane. He had no doubt Colonel Ben Alier would have enjoyed nothing better than to blow a hole right through him. Sometimes when Paul contemplated his own vile past, he wished someone would put him out of his living nightmare.
A small gathering of children was playing around his plane, most likely inquisitive as to how the flying machine worked, if they had ever seen one up close at all. Any other time, he would have spent time with them. Since most of his work was from the air, Paul seldom received an opportunity to mingle with the villagers.
“I have to leave,” he said to the children and hoped they were old enough to understand Arabic. “Make way for me. Perhaps we’ll talk another day.”
The children scattered, their laughter giving him the lift he needed. He opened the door and spied a small, fragile container meant for Dr. Kerr. The item, a wound staple gun, had been an afterthought from a medical adviser for FTW. Alier may have the opportunity to shoot me after all. Snatching up the box, Paul retraced his steps to the clinic where the rebel leader and Dr. Kerr stood talking.
“Put the bag down,” Dr. Kerr said. The doctor was facing Alier, who had hoisted a bag of grain to his shoulder.
“My men need the grain. You can contact Farid for more.”
“I said put it down, Ben.” Anger rose in Dr. Kerr’s voice, not loud but emphatic. “These people are starving.”
Alier laughed. “What can you do, Larson? And how can my men defend Warkou if they are hungry? It’s not as if we can put down our weapons and plant a garden.”
Dr. Kerr stepped inside her hut while the colonel continued to laugh. Before Paul had an opportunity to tell her about the additional box, she pushed back through, rifle first.
“So help me, I’ll blow your head off before I let you take that grain.”
CHAPTER 2
Larson Kerr aimed the rifle at Colonel Ben Alier’s chest, just above the left pocket underlining his heart. She trembled, not from fear but from fury. Her villagers needed the grain to survive—the bag he so easily lifted to his shoulders. No one would take it from them. All of her people bordered on malnutrition, and many were near perishing. Pregnant and lactating mothers needed proper nourishment, and the children . . . Well, she would gladly give her life—or take Ben’s—for one of those precious little ones.
“Larson, Larson, what is one bag of grain?” Ben said.
His singsong teasing moved her finger within a hair span of the trigger. “Don’t push me. My finger is itching to let you have it.”
“Now you sound like a character from some bad movie.” Ben chuckled, his irritating, sarcastic, obnoxious laugh that made her even more furious. “You know you aren’t going to do a thing. Besides, if you shoot me, then you’ll have to patch me up.”
“Not if you’re dead. Then all I’ll have to do is roll you into the nearest crater and pile on the dirt.” Larson meant every word. Ever since she had met the man seven years ago, he had strutted his arrogance in her face. He had tried to bully her, and when that didn’t work, he’d intimidated the villagers. This time would be the last.
“What about your oath to preserve life?” Ben raised a brow.
“I am preserving life,” she said. “I mean what I say. You’re not taking the food intended for my people.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Paul Farid. I thought he’d left. The man hadn’t said a word, just stood there with h
is mouth agape. With his small features, he looked like a boy. Where was a real man when she needed one? Nyok would be of more help than this so-called brave pilot.
Nyok stepped beside her. “Dr. Kerr, this is dangerous. You could be hurt. Why not let Colonel Alier take the grain?”
“Because it’s not his.” Larson refused to cast aside the weapon. “And he’s a thief.”
“Put down the gun,” Ben said. “I have things to do.”
“Not until you leave the bag.”
“Dr. Kerr—” Rachel began.
“Stay out of this. I know he’s your brother, but remember that when your stomach’s empty or when a child begs you for food.”
Larson steadied her attention on Ben’s face. Rachel always took Ben’s position, no matter what her power-hungry brother did. She loved him regardless, and there were a lot of unlovable things about this guy.
“All right.” Ben pressed his lips into a thin line. “I’ll get it later.” He dropped the grain with a thud.
“Thank you,” Larson said. “Farid’s still here. Talk to him about getting your supplies.” Her muscles relaxed. For a moment she had thought she would have to back up her threat, but Ben knew he had angered her beyond reason. Slowly she lowered the rifle. She had never used one on a human and really didn’t intend to do so now unless Ben goaded her.
“Sometimes you push the limits of our friendship.” Ben pushed back his cap and wiped the sweat with the back of his hand. “You know one of the villagers will give me their grain.”
“Not while I’m looking.” Larson swallowed down a dry throat. “And as far as the friendship goes, friends don’t steal from friends.”
He leaned on one leg and paused. She recognized his stubborn, know-it-all stance.
“Wouldn’t you steal from me if the villagers needed something I had?” he said.
Larson moistened her lips. Once again he had managed the last word. “My people don’t spend their energies killing innocent civilians.”
Ben blinked. “We’re fighting to stop genocide, Larson. We’re fighting so the southern Sudanese can govern themselves without Khartoum’s Islamic mandates.” His voice grew louder. “We’re fighting so the South can utilize its own oil and not have the government’s profits used against us. And we’re fighting so your villagers can once more grow their own grain and not have to worry about land mines!”