Frank reached to Kane and roughed the dog’s scruff. His fingers felt a lacing of old scars under the fur, a calloused map of this soldier’s past. He noted the gleam of matching scars across Tucker’s cheek. They were both survivors, wounded and scarred together into one, bound to each other’s heart, through loss and grief, but also joy and companionship.
Frank was glad he was considered part of that family, even if only tangentially. Back in Iraq, Tucker had readily accepted him as part of their pack—which he appreciated, especially as a Black officer. Biases and prejudices still persisted in the military. Back in World War I, there had been only five army veterinarians with his skin color. Today those numbers were better, but they were still far from what they should be. Then again, that was true for the veterinary profession in general. Even now, only a little over two percent of veterinarians were Black. And maybe that was part of the reason for the closeness of Frank’s relationship with Tucker: they had both stood slightly apart from the rest of the forces.
The Gazelle bounced hard through the air, throwing Frank back to the present. He grabbed his shoulder strap. The belt was all that kept him in his seat. He glanced back to the window. They had cleared the last of the cataracts and sped over the Tshopo River’s flat waters, easily a quarter mile across, fringed by black jungle on both sides.
Lightning flashed ahead of them, igniting the river’s length for a breath. Thunder followed, booming hard enough to shake the helicopter.
Tucker leaned forward to the pilot, who hunched over his controls, leaning his nose closer to the rainswept windshield. Small blades battered back and forth across the canopy, fighting the sleeting downpour.
“Any word from the advanced team?” Tucker hollered to the beleaguered man.
The pilot simply shook his head.
The Gazelle was running twenty minutes behind the other two FARDC aircraft. So far, there had been no news—good or bad—about the status of the relief camp.
With his eyebrows knit tight, Tucker turned to Frank. The question on his face was easy to read. Do we continue or turn back?
The answer rose from outside.
A blinding flash of lightning burst above and around them. Chains of crackling fire split the sky, racing across the belly of the clouds. A blazing bolt snapped down and struck the river ahead of them. The dazzle burned its image across his retinas.
Thunder followed in the next heartbeat, blasting all around, pummeling the aircraft, as if trying to slap it out of the air. The pilot struggled with his controls as the Gazelle dipped and bucked. Finally, the man swore loudly and swung the helicopter away from the storm wall growing in front of them.
Frank gripped his seat and his shoulder strap.
He did not fault the pilot’s decision. They could go no farther. It would be up to the FARDC team’s two helicopters to assess the situation at the camp. Having ducked under the worst of the storm, the others were likely grounded there for the night. He and Tucker would join them in the morning.
Frank readjusted the timetable in his head. Instead of collecting samples, he would use the rest of the night to set up and calibrate his mobile lab at the University of Kisangani. That way, when he collected samples from the camp in the morning, he would be ready to analyze them immediately.
Maybe I won’t lose all that much time . . .
He settled back in his seat as the Gazelle made a hard turn over the fringe of jungle, preparing to return to the airfield.
Tucker lunged forward and grabbed the pilot’s shoulder. “Wait!”
The man scowled over his shoulder
Tucker thrust an arm at the river. “Look! There’s a light. On the water.”
Whether cooperating or merely returning to their original path, the pilot rolled the aircraft back toward the dark river. Frank pressed his cheek against his window, searching ahead, to where Tucker had pointed. Without the illumination of the helicopter’s lights, the water flowed black across their path.
He squinted.
I don’t see any—
Then a tiny flash of light blinked, waving near the river’s surface, reflected in the rainswept water.
“I see it!” Frank blurted out.
Tucker still gripped the pilot’s shoulder, peering ahead. “Someone’s down there.”
11:52 P.M.
Benjie sagged with relief, finally letting his arm drop to the raft next to him. His tiny penlight shone in his fingertips. He shook, letting a single sob escape him.
Ndaye risked letting go of his perch atop the broken section of wall to pat Benjie’s leg. Faraji lay sprawled near the front of the raft, his lips moving in a silent prayer, either of thanks or continuing supplication.
A minute ago, they had spotted the helicopter sweeping upriver, coming toward them, brightly lit in the storm gloom. Benjie had snatched his penlight from a pocket and waved it wildly, trying to signal the aircraft. He didn’t know if those aboard were friend or foe, but he didn’t care. The helicopter was their only hope to escape the river before the raft reached the deadly cataracts.
Still, Benjie’s efforts had seemed for naught. The helicopter had sped unerringly along the river, never shifting its course or dropping lower, oblivious of his signal. He feared the aircraft’s own lights were blinding those aboard to his little twinkle in the river.
Then the world had burst with a blinding cascade of lightning, accompanied by a brilliant spear that exploded into the river behind them. As thunder boomed, he had watched with despair as the helicopter turned away, sweeping wide over the jungle as it headed off.
Only now it returned, driving straight toward them, dropping swiftly.
As it reached the river, a hatch opened in the side. A ladder unfurled, its length tumbling toward the river. The storm winds whipped and tore at it. It danced and snapped like a downed power line.
How can we possibly grab that?
Benjie glanced to Ndaye for an answer.
The guard only winced. The raft bucked and rolled and spun in the current, threatening to topple at any moment. Worse, their makeshift craft raced faster and faster along the powerful current.
Faraji ignored the thrashing ladder, his gaze fixed forward.
The roaring ahead drowned out the approach of the helicopter’s engines.
We’re running out of time—and river.
11:53 P.M.
Tucker clutched a handgrip beside the open hatch. He stared down as the helicopter reached those trapped below. The pilot ignited the Gazelle’s spotlight, pinning it to the foundering raft. Three people clung to that precarious purchase. The ladder swung wildly over them. Its end was weighted, but not heavy enough to withstand the strength of these winds.
The three below would have a difficult, if not impossible time, grabbing it.
And that’s not the only problem.
Tucker glanced to the south. A billowing mist marked the maelstrom downriver.
He shook his head.
Screw it . . .
He shifted around and mounted the ladder’s top rungs.
“What’re you doing?” Frank hollered at him.
“We need an anchor!”
And that’ll have to be me.
As he started to climb down, Kane edged across the cabin’s seat. Tucker met his partner’s eyes. “STAY,” he ordered with firm command, knowing the dog would follow him anywhere if asked.
But not this time.
Kane sat at the hatch’s edge, not looking happy.
“Sorry, bud,” he muttered as he descended.
Once he cleared the leeward side of the helicopter, the winds slammed into him. The length of ladder swung outward. He tightened his hold on the rough plastic rungs, waiting a breath to adjust to the motion, then set off again.
Frank yelled above, but not at him. “Steady this damn bird!”
Tucker knew the pilot was doing his best. Still, Tucker spun and swung on the ladder, but this was not his first rodeo. While he and Kane had served in various capacities during the war—search and rescue operations, covert infiltration—their main duty was exfiltration, the surgical extraction of high-value targets.