“Yeah,” Bower replied sheepishly.
“Not the most practical or fashionable of outfits,” Smithy continued, adjusting the straps for her. “But, hey, out here you don’t want to attract unwanted attention.”
“How do you do it?” Bower asked. She hoped Smithy understood what she meant by ‘it.’ Everything associated with Army life seemed so contrary to a pretty young girl like Smithy, but that was the thing about stereotypes, she figured, they never fit everyone.
Smithy shrugged her shoulders. She was shy, which surprised Bower. From what Bower had seen of the young lady, Smithy was able to hold her own with the male troops, and yet deep down she really wasn’t some tough-as-nails butch woman. If anything, she seemed more feminine than Bower.
“I’m the youngest of five kids, four of them boys, so I’m used to the banter.”
“But to fire at someone?” Bower asked, not able to bring herself to use the word kill.
“Yeah, that’s a bit nasty. I don’t think anyone really likes it, but it’s one of those things you’ve got to do, you know, like washing out an old garbage can with maggots and stuff. You don’t want to touch it, but you know what’s right so you just get on with the job.”
Bower was silent.
“Hey, I’ve got something,” cried Bosco, holding the handset for the shortwave radio. The radio itself was seated on the hood of the Hummer, its three-foot long aerial extended. Bosco kept talking into the radio as the others gathered around. Jameson was pointing at something on a map next to the radio, talking with Elvis. Kowalski leaned over, taking a good look, although Bower doubted he knew what he was looking at. Bower strained to understand the words being spoken over the haze of static.
“…avoid northern routes… main clear… sporadic rebel attacks on Dupoint Road…”
The mood among the soldiers was upbeat.
Jameson turned to her and said, “We can’t get hold of the Marines, but the Pakistanis have a convoy heading for the airfield this afternoon,” Jameson said to her. “There’s a flight from Nairobi, Kenya, heading to Pretoria in South Africa. It’s due to touch down to pick up stragglers and will be on the ground for no more than thirty minutes at 1500 hours. That’s our ticket out of here.”
He smiled, grabbing Bower by the shoulder. “You’re going home. 24 hours from now, all this is going to be a just a fleeting memory, just another wild yarn to share with your family.”
“And you?”
“We have to get in contact with Af-Com out of Dar es Salaam in Tanzania, but it would make no sense for us to stay in-country. We’re separated from our unit. More than likely, they’ll have us fly out with you to South Africa and from there, stateside.”
Bower forced a smile.
She wasn’t sure what she felt inside. She was grateful, of that she was sure, but it seemed too good to be true. Everything had fallen in place.
“Fucking US Air Force, baby,” cried Elvis, his eyes hidden behind his gold-rimmed sunglasses. “Ain’t no one keeping them out of the skies.”
One of the soldiers came running over from the checkpoint, having been talking with several of the African guards. “We’re good to go.”
“OK,” Jameson cried, grabbing his M4 from where it leaned against the side of the Hummer. “Let’s roll.”
They pulled out onto the dusty road. The African soldiers manning the checkpoint waved them on, their yellow teeth showing as they grinned and smiled cheerfully. Several of them called out, but Bower couldn’t make out what they were saying.
Elvis leaned out the window of the truck, yelling, “Yee-haw.”
The Hummer pulled ahead of the truck and began driving down the wide boulevard leading into the city. Tall palms lined the road. Ragged, single-story buildings stretched out on either side of the street. For the most part, they were made from large sandstone blocks, but beyond them loomed taller concrete buildings, stark and impersonal. It was as though Lilongwe had no soul. Black soot marred the walls above the empty window frames, marking where flames had licked out from within the burnt-out ruins.
Those few people on the street quickly disappeared at the sound of the approaching vehicles. Wary eyes peered out through broken windows. Ahead, smoke rose from the shattered frame of an overturned truck blocking a side road. Smoldering tires formed a barricade blocking the entrance to a narrow alleyway running parallel with the side road, barely wide enough for a soldier to move down. A bloodied arm hung from the scarred rooftop.
“You thinking what I am?” came a voice across the radio.
“Guerrilla warfare,” replied Jameson. “If this is the first mile, I suspect the army is being over-optimistic. I doubt they have control of the city. Best pick up the pace. Keep an eye on those rooftops.”
“Roger that.”
Bower could see rifle barrels sticking out of either side of the Hummer ready to return fire.
Jameson turned toward Bower, seated in the middle of the truck’s bench seat.
“If we come under fire, we keep moving, OK?”
“OK,” Bower replied, not sure what she was agreeing to.
“It’s important to understand that, regardless of what happens, our best option is to keep moving. If the Hummer takes a hit from an RPG it could disable the vehicle. If that happens, we won’t stop. If we stop, we’re concentrated in one place. The best thing we can do is to keep going, get out of the kill zone and then look to render assistance. If we get caught in the kill box it’s all over.”
Bower was silent. For Jameson, ‘disable the vehicle’ was a euphemism for seeing his men maimed and killed in an instant. These were people he’d served with for years. As a doctor, Bower knew what it meant to divorce herself in life or death situations. To disconnect her feelings wasn’t easy, compassion wasn’t something she could ignore, and yet once her head was in that space a sense of detachment allowed her to make swift, decisive, clinical decisions. She understood the necessity of that kind of thinking, but it wasn’t like unplugging a TV or switching off a light. It cost something.
“Likewise, if we take a hit, they’ll keep going. They won’t leave us, but they’ll move away from us so they can outflank any incoming attack.”
She nodded.
“If that happens, we will need to take cover until they can assist. We may have to move out on foot.”
He was looking deep into her eyes, maintaining an uncomfortable level of eye contact, and she knew what he was doing. He needed to know she understood. As simple as his sentences were, Bower understood the implicit meaning. If anyone was wounded or hurt, there was little that could be done for them in the short term. This wasn’t the movies. There were no heroics that could defy the physics of a bullet moving faster than the speed of sound.
“Left 200 meters,” came the call over the radio.
Elvis had sped up to keep pace with the Hummer, staying uncomfortably close to the lead vehicle. They raced around the corner. Africans, caught unawares, darted off the road and into side alleys. Several of them were carrying AK-47s, either slung over their shoulder or in a casual grip. In any regard, they seemed more interested in getting away from the Rangers than starting trouble. In the distance, Bower could see the blackened remains of a bus lying on its side, blocking the road.
“Right 100 meters.”
They turned down a narrow alleyway, reacting to the roadblock. The buildings reached three to four stories in height as they moved further into the city. The alley narrowed. Bower felt as though the walls were closing in. A cluster of power lines wound their way between poles running the length of the alley. Bower could see clothes hung out to dry between the buildings, splashes of color against the otherwise dull, sandy browns.
“Left 50 meters.”