They turned into a broad street. An overturned truck forced them onto the other side of the road for a few seconds.
“Looking an awful lot like a coordinated system of barricades,” Bosco said over the radio.
“You think they’re corralling us?” Jameson asked. “Setting up a choke point?”
“They were corralling someone,” came the reply, “But I doubt they’re targeting us. I doubt they want to tangle with US soldiers.”
“Let’s get the fuck out of here before they figure out we’re not an effective fighting force.”
“Roger that.”
The sweep of the road curved to the left and the Rangers found themselves bearing down on a battle easily a quarter of a mile in the distance. The sound of gunfire echoed off the buildings around them. Government forces were spread out along either side of the street firing on rebels further down the road.
“Get us the hell out of here,” Jameson cried over the radio.
“Already on it,” came the reply. “Right 20 meters.”
One, two and then three bullets struck silently on the windshield, high and to the left above Elvis. Cracks ran through the glass like spider webs. Elvis hit the brakes hard as he turned to follow the Hummer. Bower thought he’d been hit by the gunfire. She was surprised by how suddenly and quietly the bullet holes appeared. She wasn’t sure what she expected, but a lethal blow landing without warning, without any pomp and ceremony, didn’t seem right.
As they raced down the alley, she turned toward him.
“I’m OK,” he snapped as her fingers poised by his shoulder ready to help. Elvis never took his eyes off the alley. There were holes behind him, marking where the incoming rounds had punched through the sheet metal and into the rear of the cab. The canvas lining on the outside of his helmet had been torn in a sharp, horizontal line, marking where one of the bullets had grazed the Kevlar.
“I’m fine,” he growled.
For Bower, the realization of how close they’d come to disaster was terrifying.
“Indirect fire,” Elvis barked. “Unlucky stray. Goddamn, what a stupid, fucked up way to go out, not even on the end of accurate fire. Shit.”
He seemed to be angry with himself, which confused Bower.
Jameson was on the radio to Bosco. He must have known Elvis was fine and had already rolled on to the next issue, whereas Bower was caught in the moment, reeling from what had happened.
She bounced uncomfortably in her seat as they darted down the alleyway. Women held their children back as the Hummer and truck raced by just inches away. Dogs scampered for cover. They crossed a main road and continued on down the alleyway. They were traveling too fast. As they hit the curb, leading up back into the alley, Bower found herself propelled in the air, almost hitting the roof.
“Can the Pakis render support?” Jameson cried into the radio.
“Negative,” Bosco replied. “They’re holed-up. They’re not going to risk troops before the push to the airfield. We’re on our own.”
“Fuck,” Jameson replied, his knuckles white as he gripped the radio.
“Left 50 meters. We’re no more than four miles out.”
They turned onto a dual highway with a low, concrete median strip in the center of the road. People walked along pushing hand-carts, moving with no particular sense of urgency, staring at them in wonderment as they sped by.
Bower was relieved to hear they were heading in the right direction, cutting down the distance to their destination. It had felt like they were going in circles. All the buildings looked the same: drab sandy brown facades stained by the desert. At the frantic speed they were traveling her body felt as rattled as her confidence.
The two-vehicle convoy drove past a park. There were no trees. Dead grass covered a small hill. Heat waves shimmered in the bright sunlight. A set of swings and a slide sat side-by-side on the dry, dusty ground. Beyond the swings lay a burnt-out tank with its right track blown off. Kids crawled under and around the tank, having no interest in the swings. They were pointing their fingers, firing at each other.
Black smudges marred the ground sporadically throughout the park, as though someone had spilled oil, but Bower knew better. The odd skeletal frame of an alien pod’s umbrella lay in the scorching sun. The pods themselves were gone, having melted like snow in summer.
Further along the road they raced past a hospital. Bullet holes scarred the five-story building. There was no movement from inside, at least no obvious movement. Most of the windows were broken.
Bower felt a pang of guilt. She knew what was happening within those walls. The lack of regular, consistent power, poor hygiene, limited supplies and an absurd workload would have rendered the hospital no better than those of the American civil war. Surgery would be little more than butchery. So much misery; so little that could be done. That hospital represented everything that was wrong with Africa: good intentions overwhelmed by the cruelty of man. She’d seen it before, countless times throughout Africa. Anyone with injuries that warranted hospitalization fared no better than a condemned man on death row.
“Coming up on the markets,” came the call over the radio, and the vehicles backed off, slowing as they turned into a broad, open square. A sea of heads spread out before them, marking hundreds if not thousands of people in what amounted to little more than a dusty field. Makeshift stalls struggled feebly to shade buyers and sellers. Horses, cows, goats and pigs were penned up in absurdly small stalls, looking languid in the heat. Leafy vegetables wilted in the sun. Flies buzzed in swarms around those stalls selling raw fish and freshly slaughtered meat. The noise of people bartering overwhelmed the sound of the truck engine.
The Hummer slowed to a crawl as a sea of Africans swarmed around them, trying to sell them produce. They called out, holding up live chickens by their feet, holding melons, pumpkins and gourds.
Elvis was busy turning people away from his door while trying not to run down any one foolish enough to scoot between the vehicles. Kids called out, asking for candy. Women held up ornate garments and golden jewelry, all calling for attention.
Bosco was on the radio.
“Smithy wants to know if you want her to fire a burst over their heads to get them to clear out.”
“Negative,” Jameson replied. “We’d cause a stampede. Just keep rolling slowly forward.”
Bosco kept hitting his horn, honking at the throng that lay before them. A couple of kids climbed up on the sidesteps of the truck, hitching a ride. They were harmless. Bower could see they were showing off, putting on an exhibition for their friends. They smiled, revealing crooked, yellowed teeth and unrelenting joy. They weren’t wearing any shirts. Their skinny arms looked anemic, but that didn’t bother them; they’d found Americans.
“Come on, kid,” Elvis said. “Let someone else on the ride.”
Bower couldn’t believe him. Elvis was encouraging them. Sure enough, that kid of eight or nine hopped down, only to be replaced by another in his early teens. The teen cheered, holding onto the window frame as he stood on the running board. He pumped his free arm in the air.
It took almost twenty minutes to clear the market. As they approached the far side of the market the crowd seemed to understand they were departing and peeled away, allowing them to leave.
“Can you believe that?” Bower asked.
“That’s the thing about Africa,” Jameson replied. “They’re not that different from us. We just think they are. They love, they hate, they cry, they make mistakes. They’re human, just like we are.”
Bower was genuinely surprised by Jameson’s attitude. She’d only ever seen soldiers as hired muscle, mindless thugs that happened to be on her side rather than the other guy’s side, but she couldn’t have been more wrong. Her few days with the Rangers had shown her a different side to the army. They were doing a job, a nasty job no man would ever wish on another, but one that needed to be done regardless, and yet they too were human.