Maintaining an appropriately sober and stoic demeanor, Danno and the Fryguy followed their captain out of the hall way. The explosion of hysterical laughter didn’t occur until the door had almost closed behind them.
Kissidougu relief camp was a sprawling half-mile square patch of raw, muddy, and tightly packed tent rows set in the midst of the rank rain forests. Above it a thin haze of smoke hovered in the humid air, issuing from its myriad of charcoal and scrapwood fires. And below, on the ground, a mass of dispossessed humanity clogged its muddy streets — the newly nationless to whom the U.N. camp had become their sole refuge and home.
A rutted dirt road and a single spot helipad were the only links with the outside world, in and out. Cautiously, the Marine CH-60 flared out and eased down to its landing.
“How many DPs do you have here at Kissidougu, Lieutenant?” Christine Rendino asked her guide.
“Kissidougu is the smallest of the eight transit camps along the border.” The Belgian army nurse wore combat fatigues and had her light brown hair bound in a bun at the back of her neck. She might have been a pretty young woman were it not for the weariness ground into her features. “And, at the moment, we have roughly eight thousand refugees in residence. An exact count is hard to come by. Every day we gain a few from across the line and lose a few to the graveyard.”
“So Belewa has started to push more of his people across the border?”
“He has never stopped,” the nurse replied as they clumped along the rain-slick duckboards that led to the field hospital. “We aren’t seeing the big waves as we did at first. Now there are just little groups — ten, twenty, thirty. Sometimes even single families. And the Union soldiers are pushing them across through the heavy jungle and swamp areas now to avoid the Guinea patrols. The ones who reach the camps now are usually in poor condition, with much sickness, hunger, and exhaustion. We do what we can for them with the facilities we have.”
Christine glanced down the overcrowded tent rows. “I thought the U.N. master plan called for these border camps to just be way stations? Aren’t the DPs supposed to be moved out to the bigger cantonments along the coast?”
The nurse gave a small, bitter smile. “No one consulted with General Belewa before they drew up the plan. The high way out to Faranah has been mined… again. We haven’t been able to get a refugee convoy out to the coast for a week. Nor have we been able to resupply. Some rations are being airlifted, of course, but we are just one helicopter away from starvation up here. God have mercy if the weather closes in.”
“I brought some food up with me in my helo. Some cases of MREs, anyhow.” Christine found herself fumbling for words. The offering didn’t seem very impressive in the looming face of famine.
The nurse found a true smile somewhere inside of herself. “Add enough hot water and one of those ration packs can be made into a soup that can keep an entire family alive for a day. Thank you. It will make a difference. Come this way, Commander. The man you wish to speak with is in this ward.”
As with the living compound, the tent hospital was jammed far beyond its capacity. Every cot had long since been occupied, and now even the floor space between them was at a premium. The sick, injured, and dying occupied crude pallets on the canvas floor, and the U.N. and Guinean medical personnel made their way among them as best they could, moving with the zombie like rote of those who had worked too hard at the same task for too long.
Slowly they passed down the narrow aisle between the rows of cots and pallets. “What kind of wound profiles are you getting with the DPs?” Christine inquired, forcing herself to look to the right and left. “Any indication of systematic mistreatment by the Union forces?”
“It depends upon your definition of mistreatment, I suppose,” her guide replied, frowning. “If you mean torture, beatings such as that, no. At least not among those who did not try to resist. The Union wants these people in good enough condition to walk away.
“If you mean families, old people and children, being turned out into a wilderness without adequate food, medicine, or shelter, yes. That kind of mistreatment is universal.”
The nurse paused and indicated a small and very still form on one of the cots. “An example,” she said, lowering her voice. “This little girl, five years old. Shortly before she and her mother were picked up by an Army sweep, she was bitten by a snake. A boomslang. There is no anti-venom for a boomslang’s bite. She will die sometime this afternoon.”
Her face held emotionless, the nurse continued down the line. “We do get some wounds in. Frequently we see DPs who have been beaten, shot, and stabbed. But generally, that happens only after they have come across the line. The locals barely have enough food for their own families, and they look upon the DPs as a threat, a kind of two-legged locust. If a refugee is caught robbing from a field or storehouse, it goes hard for them.”
They reached the end of the ward and halted at the last cot in line. “Here, Commander, I believe this is the man you wished to see. But please be brief. He is old… and very tired.”
“I’ll try and take it easy, Lieutenant. Thank you.”
Christine reached up and keyed on the minirecorder in her shirt pocket, then knelt down beside the hospital cot. “Excuse me, sir,” she inquired softly, “but are you Professor McAndrews? Professor Robert McAndrews?”
The man in question was thin to the point of emaciation, the whiteness of his thinning hair a stark contrast to the deep brown of his weathered skin. The eyes, though sunken deep into the fine-boned skull, were still bright and alert as they opened.
“Southern California,” he said. “Am I correct?”
“That’s right, sir.” Christine found herself smiling. “Ventura, a Valley Girl.”
“I thought so.” The elderly man gave a slight nod. “I taught at UCLA for four years. A very colorful and rich dialect. Yes, I am Robert McAndrews. And you?”
“Lieutenant Commander Christine Rendino, United States Navy, currently attached to the United Nations Interdiction Force. If you wouldn’t mind, Professor, I’d like to have a talk with you.”
“And why not? A visit with an attractive young woman is a thing to be welcomed.” McAndrews struggled weakly for a moment to roll over onto his side and face Christine. “How may I be of assistance to you, the United States Navy, and the United Nations?”
“Professor, I’m an intelligence officer gathering information about what’s going on within the West African Union. And I’m hoping you can help me.”
McAndrews frowned slightly. I’m not sure how I could, Miss Rendino. If you are seeking for military secrets or troop deployments, I will be quite useless to you. I did not travel greatly in those circles.”
“I didn’t expect that you had, Doctor,” Christine said, rear ranging herself to sit cross-legged beside the cot. “I was hoping you could help me out in a much more critical area.”
“And what area is that?”
“I’m hoping you can help me to understand just what is going on inside of the Union, and inside of the head of General Belewa.”
The old man on the cot managed a rasping chuckle. “That will make for quite a dissertation, young lady. I hope you aren’t planning to stand on one foot for it.”
Christine smiled and shook her head. “Okay, then. Let’s start with something simpler.” She leaned forward to meet McAndrews’s eyes. “Look, Professor, I’ve been able to learn quite a bit about you over the past few days. Your doctorates are in the fields of history and political science, and you also have a noteworthy reputation in both. You were also born and raised in Liberia. When your country started its slide into hell back in the eighties, you got out and went on to teach at some of the most prestigious universities in the world. However, when General Belewa came to power, you went home again and you were made welcome. We know you were prominently involved in the reorganization of the Union educational system, and we know you were the driving force behind the move to open the Union’s first university.