you.”
Hera grabbed her rucksack and rifle, cinched them against her chest, and squeezed past Danny and up the rungs. The sun had just set, and the field where they were was cast in deep shadow. This made it hard to judge where the ground was as she descended, and when she stepped off the last rail, she slipped and fell, pushing her weight against the ladder.
Taken by surprise, Danny barely kept it from hitting the fence.
“God, be careful,” he barked.
“I’m sorry. The damn ground is pure mud.”
“Ready?” Danny asked.
“Ready.”
Danny tested his weight on the first step, then the second. The ladder jiggled to the left but remained upright. He climbed up two more steps, then swung his leg around, barely avoiding the wire below.
“That was harder than it should have been,” he said as he reached the ground. “Help me get the ladder up.”
Hera moved to the side. They lifted it up carefully, Danny taking it up gingerly to clear the wire. He folded it and set it down near the fence.
Then he grabbed Hera as she started across the field.
“I didn’t think you had anything to do with McGowan’s death,” he told her. “Your attitude has been bad. You’ve been riding everyone.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, her tone anything but.
“All right.”
“I feel like you’re watching every step I make, every move. Like I have to prove myself.”
“We all have to prove ourselves, every single day,” said Danny. He reached into his ruck for the night goggles, not wanting to stop for them later.
“You don’t. Your medal says it all.”
“That medal doesn’t mean crap here,” he told her. “Come on. It ought be easier from here, at least until we get to the wall.”
61
Breanna hadn’t forgotten about the refugees, but they were pushed far to the periphery of her consciousness as she concentrated on rescuing her people. As she headed back toward the hill to blow up their gear, she saw them in their makeshift camp, nearly all of them standing and straining to get a view of the black aircraft hurtling through the nearby sky.
The firing had died down. The mercenaries were now on the hill, caught between the Ethiopians and the Sudanese regulars in the pickups, who’d stopped near the road.
The ready light lit on the detonator. Breanna was in range to blow up their gear.
She was about to push the button when she spotted a black speck in the sky to the north. It was the other Osprey, belatedly coming to back her up.
Breanna clicked on the radio. “Osprey Two, this is Osprey One. Can you read me?”
“Hey, roger that, Colonel Stockard,” replied Greasy Hands. His voice shook with adrenaline and nerves. “I’m here.”
“Good. Take the aircraft over the hill and orbit around the refugee camp.”
“I don’t have it in view yet.”
“You will. It’s south of us. You have weapons?”
“Oh, roger that. We are loaded for bear.”
“Copy. Hang tight.”
“Osprey Two.”
Breanna directed the computer to fly the aircraft near the camp and land. Then she got up and went into the rear of the aircraft.
“Boston, Sugar, Abul — we’re going to land by the refugee camp.”
“We’re landing?” said Sugar.
“We’ll evac the refugees to a UN camp. There are a dozen in northern Sudan.” Breanna looked at Abul. “Right, Mr. Abul?”
Abul felt as if he were walking down a long tunnel, coming back from a dream, approaching reality.
“There are refugee camps in the north run by the UN,” Breanna said to him. “We can take these people there.”
“Yes,” said Abul.
“Will you help me? I don’t speak Arabic.”
“Yes,” said Abul, still distant. “Yes, I will,” he added more forcefully. “Yes.”
“Good. Get ready.”
Aboard osprey two, Greasy Hands was having the time of his life.
Not that he wanted to do the pilot thing full-time. But sitting back and giving the computer orders, that he could live with.
As long as he didn’t have to use the weapons. Not that he couldn’t figure them out — he’d tested them many times — but the idea of using them against real people was a whole different kettle of fish, or ball of wax, or waxed kettle of fishballs, as his grandpa used to joke.
But hell, if he
Breanna estimated that there were just over seventy refugees: very close to the payload capacity of the Ospreys with their uprated engines. But even if it took two trips, getting them away from the border to a safe place would be worth it.
She stood at the back of the aircraft, holding the handle at the ramp as it settled onto the desert floor. She punched the ramp button and looked back at Boston. He nodded, though in truth he had started to doubt this was a good idea.
“Come on, Mr. Abul,” Breanna said, tugging at the bus driver’s shirt. “Come on.”
They walked down the ramp together. The sun had just set; it would be dark inside a half hour.
A small knot of refugees stared at the front of the aircraft as they came around. One or two thought they were about to be shot. The others were simply in awe at the strange looking plane that was able to land vertically.
“We’re here to take you to a camp,” Breanna said. “We’re going to help you.”
The Osprey’s engines were still rotating, and it was hard for Abul to hear her, let alone for any of the crowd. Breanna pulled Abul with her away from the aircraft. More refugees were coming forward. Boston had his rifle with him, pointing it at the ground, trying not to spook them.
More intimidating was the other Osprey circling above, its cannon hanging down from its chin.
“We’re here to take you to camp,” said Breanna again. “Tell them, Abul.”
Abul hesitated. These were not his people. None of them were Muslim, and he didn’t recognize their accent when a few asked him what he was doing. But the Americans had galvanized him. He was amazed that they would come back, that they would want to come back, after having so narrowly escaped death. They were risking their lives to save people they didn’t know. And Allah clearly approved, because he had rescued them and stopped the shooting nearby.
He was part of a noble project. Goodwill flooded into him. He felt stronger than he had ever felt. The things he had lost — his bus mostly — were no longer important.
And so when the elders of the group turned their backs when he told them they could go to the camp, he felt crushed.
