“Did we at least get the powdered milk?”
Bower gestured to the empty ground around her, saying, “I’m sorry.”
They’d ordered milk powder to help the premature baby gain some weight. Caring for a premature baby was no easy task in a Western hospital, let alone in the middle of a scorching, fly-blown African summer. Even with mosquito nets and fans, insects were a real problem and could cause complications for newborns.
Jameson jogged back over to his waiting troops.
Alile left them, walking back to join the other nurses. Bower wanted to tell her she didn’t have to go, that this wasn’t some exclusive foreigners-only club, but Bower understood her mindset. For Alile, there was always a sense of us and them, and having US soldiers around only accentuated that perception. Bower tried to treat Alile as an equal, but the very act of making that effort reinforced the inequality between them.
Sixteen soldiers crouched down on the edge of the landing zone, half sitting on their heels, their elbows resting on their knees as they squatted in front of Jameson. The sergeant explained what little he knew as the two civilian doctors stood to one side.
“So I’m asking for volunteers,” Jameson added after walking the troops through the plan to evacuate by land to Ksaungu and then move on to the capital, Lilongwe. “You should know, the crew of the Osprey have radioed our intentions through to theater command. They’re not happy about the decision, but they’re deferring to our judgment on the ground. Command said the last flight out of Lilongwe is scheduled in two days. If we make that, we get a free ride. If we don’t, we’re on a forced march across the mountains.”
“I like it,” said Private Mathers.
One of the other soldiers joked with him, saying, “You would, you sadistic bastard.”
“Finally, a chance for a little action. I’m in,” Bosco announced.
“Humping through two hundred miles of jungle. Sounds idyllic,” Smithy added.
It was only at hearing Smithy’s voice that Bower realized Smithy was a woman. At first glance, Bower had assumed Smithy was simply a shorter, less muscular male soldier, but now that she looked closer there was no doubt about Smithy’s gender. Strands of blonde hair protruded from beneath her helmet, while her baggy camouflage shirt barely obscured her breasts. Her hands were petite. Bower could not imagine violence being unleashed by such slender hands. Without make up, Smithy’s face looked like that of a clean-shaven teen, but her thin lips spoke with a distinctly feminine pitch.
“It’s a walk in the park,” Smithy continued. “An overgrown, bug infested, leech filled park. I love it.”
“Hell, yes,” said Elvis, giving Smithy a high five.
With his sideburns and diamond-rimmed sunglasses, Elvis looked out of place in army fatigues, and that was clearly the image he wanted to portray. Bower had no idea whether his southern accent was genuine or put on for show, but he sounded like The King. The Rangers all sported buzz-cuts, all except Elvis who had a mop of hair growing over his short back and sides. How he got away with that must have been quite a story, thought Bower, but he looked and sounded like his namesake, Elvis Presley, right down to his cheesy grin and his beautiful white teeth. Elvis looked completely out of place in Africa. He should have been on a movie set.
“I’m asking for two fire teams, eight men,” Jameson said.
Although all the hands went up, there were some that shot up like a pheasant being flushed by a golden retriever. Jameson called out those soldiers by name. Bower realized precisely why Jameson wanted these particular men with him, but why Smithy? Jameson had selected her among others, like Elvis and Bosco. Something within Bower objected to putting a woman in harm’s way. It was irrational, of course, and deep down Bower understood that. Putting anyone in danger of losing their life was morally dubious at best, but Elvis and Bosco seemed more robust, better suited to the risks. Smithy, though, grinned, and Bower could see she relished the opportunity.
Smithy slapped Elvis on the arm, saying, “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Big Guy.”
“Absolutely.”
The rest of the team was dismissed and grudgingly piled into the Osprey.
Jameson explained his decision to the loadmaster as Bosco scavenged a radio and extra munitions from the soldiers on the Osprey. Elvis and Smithy joked around with the other troops loading into the helicopter.
“It’s your funeral, buddy,” the loadmaster said to Jameson. He walked off and raised the tailgate.
Smithy jogged away from the Osprey, grinning like a little girl on Christmas Day as she rested a machine gun over her shoulder, the proud spoils of banter with several of the soldiers on board the aircraft. Elvis joked around with her, carrying two ammunition cans for the gun.
“Goddamn,” he cried. “It’s Combat Barbie, complete with a lightweight plastic SAW.”
Smithy cocked her head to one side, exaggerating her movements as she twisted from her hips, looking very much like a living, plastic doll. She posed for the remaining soldiers and waved with her hand, saying, “Look what’s new from MATTEL.”
The remaining soldiers laughed and whistled. Smithy hammed up her act with a fake smile as she said, “Ken. I want a divorce. Now, where did I leave my handbag?”
Bosco was grinning too. He had conned someone out of a civilian band radio. He held it up as though it were a trophy and the soldiers cheered.
As the turboprops on the Osprey wound up to speed, a hail of fine stones and grit again sprayed out across the grassy plain. The remaining soldiers along with the two doctors moved back, catching the death defying sight of the clumsy Osprey banking above the trees before the craft turned and flew over the village and out across the lake toward Tanzania.
As silence fell, Bower felt a twinge of regret. Even with Jameson standing beside her in his seemingly invincible US Army uniform, Bower felt abandoned. And yet she knew she’d have felt unbearable guilt if she’d boarded that flight. Watching the Osprey disappear into the distance, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d made a mistake, one she wouldn’t be able to take back, one that could cost them all their lives.
Elvis put on his finest Mississippi accent, waving at the troop carrier as he called out, “Y’all come back now, ya hear?”
That brought a smile to her face.
Jameson, though, wasted no time.
“Bosco, get on the net and see if you can figure out what the hell’s got everyone so spooked.
“Elvis, take Mathers, Jones and Smithy and go get those trucks from Mzimba. Borrow, beg, steal. Do whatever it takes, but make sure there’s plenty of diesel.
“Chalmers, Davidson and Phelps, recon the area and start thinking about approaches, defensive positions, and fields of fire.”
The soldiers dispersed as Jameson escorted Bower and Kowalski to the makeshift hospital, a series of three tents on the edge of the village with its grass topped mud huts and low stone walls. He spoke as they walked, briefing the doctors in a formal tone.
“The rebels on the tableland are going to see our troops pulling out. The fox is going to assume the hen house is open. I doubt they’ll waste any time. If we can, I’d like to move out before nightfall.”
“We’ll get everyone ready,” Bower replied, brushing the dust out of her hair. “Mitch, if you work with the nurses, I’ll pack up the medicine and burn our records.”
Less than an hour later, while Jameson was helping to fold up cots and Bower was packing vials of malaria vaccine, Bosco came running in with the civilian radio. “You’ve got to hear this. There’s some serious shit going down.”
Bower stared at him, surprised at his profanity. Not that she was a prude, but that he’d so quickly normalized her as being one of the group.