She finally reached the shore. Though still soaked to the skin, she felt a hundred kilos lighter. She moved more swiftly with Kendi and Disanka. They cleared the edge of the village and hurried toward the waiting helicopter. It looked military, an attack helicopter, with a large rear cabin and tiny wings that supported six missiles, three to a side.
Jameson spoke to the tall soldier with the bullhorn. He was a white fellow, tanned and grizzled with clipped hair. Maybe French or Belgian. He wore the same green camo as the rest, but he clearly had an air of authority about him. He mostly ignored Jameson, who gestured as much as he talked.
As Charlotte and the others joined him, the man’s dark green eyes flashed her up and down, then nodded. He turned to yell in Swahili, too fast for her to follow. Another man ducked around the camo-colored chopper and crossed over. He appeared to be Congolese, dressed like the rest. He stood shoulder to shoulder with the man holding the bullhorn. From the same gray hair and hard face, the two could have been brothers. They even shared the same green eyes. The only marked difference was the color of their skin.
They spoke with their heads bowed together, glancing occasionally at the dark skies, wincing at the spatters of lightning. Neither showed any deference to the other.
Finally, the one with the bullhorn faced their group, as the other one departed. “We cannot wait much longer. Are there any more of you?”
Jameson stammered, looking longingly at the helicopter’s open door. “Maybe. I don’t know if any are still—”
Charlotte shoved him aside. She wasn’t about to abandon the others. She pointed in the direction where she had last seen Ndaye’s group. “Another three. They’re likely holed up in that section of the flooded village.”
The leader grimaced but nodded. He barked to a cluster of men and ordered them to search that area. “And be quick about it,” he finished.
Thunder boomed, reinforcing his order.
11:45 P.M.
“What are we waiting for?” Benjie asked, shivering amidst the nest of snakes.
He had clicked on a small penlight from his pocket, shadowing it with a palm. He shone his light over the roil of serpents. He wanted out of here.
The timely arrival of the helicopter had chased off the baboons with all the noise, winds, and light. He had also watched the medical team cross out of the village. They now stood illuminated by the bright lamps of the aircraft.
Ndaye had retrieved his rifle and held it warily. Though the weapon was still waterlogged, he stared through its scope.
Faraji kept near the guard’s shoulder.
“They’re not Congolese military,” Ndaye warned, squinting through the scope. “The helicopter doesn’t bear the air force’s roundel. A yellow star in a blue circle.”
“Then they’re with another rescue group,” Benjie said. “Who cares who hauls our arses out of here?”
Ndaye shook his head and lowered his rifle. “Something’s wrong.”
Thunder rumbled over the Tshopo River, but rather than fading, it persisted and grew louder. It separated into the distinct bell-beat of thumping rotors.
Another helicopter.
Their gazes all turned from shore and focused downstream. A large aircraft swept across the roiling floodwaters. It blazed with light, some steady, some blinking.
Ndaye raised his rifle’s scope, swiveling his aim, then steadying it. His shoulders visibly tightened. “That’s a FARDC helo. From our air force.”
A second smaller helicopter followed behind the first, crossing over the riverside jungle. They definitely sent in the cavalry.
Relieved, Benjie turned toward shore as the first FARDC chopper reached the village. He pointed out the door. “Now can we go?”
Ndaye shoved him back. “Get down!”
As Benjie stumbled from the doorway, he spotted a fiery flash near the helicopter on the ground. A smoky white trail shot outward from it, curling through the night. The newly arrived aircraft exploded into a blinding fireball. The blast rattled the corrugated steel hut. The FARDC helicopter shuddered in midair—then plummeted into the dark water.
Ndaye grabbed a fistful of Benjie’s shirt and hauled him back toward the door. “We can’t stay here.”
The guard pointed toward the dark village. A handful of flashlights bobbled through the flooded homes, coming their way.
11:47 P.M.
Knocked to her knees by the rocket blast, Charlotte stared in shock at the burning wreckage in the river. She struggled to understand. Her chest ached from the concussion. Her hearing was muted to a muffled drone.
The others had dropped around her, too.
She turned to the soldier with the bullhorn. He raised a pistol to the back of Kendi’s skull as the guard struggled to his feet. A loud crack shattered through her dull hearing. Kendi’s head snapped forward, taking his body with it. He collapsed across the brightly lit mud.
The shooter shouted to his soldiers. “Get everyone on board!”
Shock kept her from reacting.
Gunfire rose from near the river. Another helicopter swept high. It was a hornet-like version of the first. Heavy cannon fire strafed the shoreline, tore into the village. Another RPG shot at the helicopter from the ground, but the swift craft dodged at the last moment. Still, the sudden maneuver threw off its own aim. A missile shot wildly from its undercarriage and blasted into the flooded village, casting up a flume of water and flame.
More rockets shot at the aircraft. It danced and spun above the river. Then a rocket-grenade slammed into its tail assembly. The blast sent the helicopter into a wild spiral. It fought against a crash, but the effort was futile. The helicopter spun, trailing smoke. Then it smashed into the shore at the edge of the village, casting up a whirlwind of flame and black smoke.
As Charlotte raised an arm across her face, someone grabbed her and shoved her toward the open door of the helicopter. Jameson did not need to be manhandled. He gaped at the threat, at the firefight, and fled inside.
The tall leader strode toward Disanka, who huddled on her hands and knees over her son. He lifted his pistol and waved the muzzle, directing another soldier. “Take the baby. We don’t need the woman.”
No . . .
Charlotte broke free of her captor and ran to Disanka, blocking the men. She struggled with how to save the mother, baffled by why they wanted the child. Still, she held up both palms and used that knowledge.
“He . . . he’s still nursing. If you want the boy, best take the mother, too.”
The bullhorn man fixed his hard eyes on her, then nodded. “Take them both aboard.” He turned. “But we don’t need any more extraneous cargo.”
He strode over to Byrne. The nurse was slouched on his knees, cradling his belted arm. He looked up in time to see the pistol raised at his forehead. Too dazed, maybe beyond caring, he showed no fear.
The blast knocked him backward.
Charlotte stumbled to the side, gasping, the world spinning around her. She anchored herself to Disanka as the woman was hauled to her feet. Charlotte kept with her and her boy and allowed herself to be forced into the rear cabin of the aircraft.
Once inside, she saw a strange sight.
Bodies were being shoved and rolled out the other side. The orchestration was led by the bullhorn soldier’s counterpart, the tall Congolese. He ordered the dumped bodies to be hauled away in different directions. Old weapons, some wrapped in duct tape, hung from dead shoulders as the bodies were dragged along. The corpses wore a motley display of different uniforms, all in poor condition.
She began to understand.
They’re framing all this on some ragtag militia force.
She was shoved into a seat and ordered to strap in. She first helped Disanka, before doing the same. Jameson already sat stiffly in a seat across from her. His face shone with sweat. His gaze was fixed and unblinking.
Outside, the tall European raised a radio to his lips. “Any sign of the others?”
Unable to hear the response, she gazed past the smoldering wreckage on the beach. Oily fires burned all around it. Flames quickly spread across the wooden structures. Thatch roofs smoked and blazed.
She willed the others to stay hidden.