Tamara said: ‘Fuck you, Bashir.’ She hurried away.
She had seen from the air that there were two long, fairly straight paths through the camp, one going roughly north–south and the other east–west, and she now decided the best way to search for Tab was to run the length of both. She would not be able to stop and look inside buildings: that would take too long, and she would still be searching when the Sudanese got here.
Running east, towards the soldiers on the ridge, she heard a single rifle shot.
There was a silence like a stunned pause. Then she heard a crackle as the rest of the American soldiers began shooting. Finally, more distant gunfire told Tamara that the surprised Sudanese had begun shooting back. Her heart thudded with fear, but she ran on.
The noise galvanized the people in the camp. Everyone came out of the tents to see what was going on. The sound of shooting was more effective than spoken instructions: refugees began running away from the camp, many carrying children or other precious possessions – a goat, an iron cooking pot, a rifle, a sack of flour. The journalists abandoned their interviews and ran for the buses, clutching cameras and trailing microphone leads.
Tamara scanned the faces without seeing Tab.
Then the shelling began.
A mortar exploded to Tamara’s left, destroying a house; and it was quickly followed by several more. The Sudanese artillery were firing over the heads of the American soldiers into the camp. She heard cries of fright and screams of pain as refugees were wounded. Medical orderlies among the American troops broke out collapsible stretchers and began to attend to casualties. The rush to leave the camp turned into a stampede.
Stay cool, Tamara said to herself. Stay calm. Find Tab.
She found Dexter.
She almost missed him. Lying on the ground across the open entrance to a dwelling she saw what looked like a pile of rags, but something made her take a second glance, and she realized it was Dexter’s blue-and-white seersucker suit, and Dexter was wearing it.
She knelt beside him. He was breathing, but shallowly. He showed little sign of outward harm – just scratches – but he was unconscious, so he must have been hurt.
She stood up and yelled: ‘Stretcher here!’
None of the medical orderlies was in sight and there was no response. She ran twenty yards towards the centre, but still did not see anyone. She returned to Dexter. It was risky to move an injured person, she knew, but clearly it would be more dangerous to leave him at the mercy of the Sudanese. She made a quick decision. She rolled him onto his front, lifted his torso, got her back under his belly, and heaved herself upright with his limp body over her right shoulder. Once she was standing she could bear the weight more easily, and she walked towards the helicopter and the buses.
She had gone a hundred yards when she saw two medics. ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘Check this guy – he’s from our embassy.’ They took the unconscious Dexter and laid him on a stretcher, and Tamara went onwards.
She noticed that some of the journalists were filming, and she had to respect their courage.
Almost every refugee had now left. An elderly woman was helping a limping man, and a teenage girl was struggling to carry two bawling toddlers, but all the others were already outside the camp, heading across the desert as fast as they could go, putting distance between themselves and the weaponry.
How long could thirty or so American soldiers hold off an army of two thousand? Tamara guessed there was very little time left.
The helicopter was descending. Susan was about to pick everyone up. Where was Tab?
Then she spotted him. He was running along the north–south path, chasing the fleeing refugees, with a large child held unceremoniously under his left arm. It was a girl of about nine years, Tamara saw, and she was screaming her head off, probably more scared of the stranger who had grabbed her than of the mortars exploding behind her.
The chopper touched down. Over her headphones, Tamara heard Susan say: ‘Squad Three, board the civilians.’
Tab reached the outskirts of the camp, caught up with the last of the fleeing refugees, and set the child on her feet. She immediately ran on. Tab turned around and headed back.
Tamara ran to meet him. He embraced her, grinning. ‘Why did I feel sure you’d be involved in this rescue?’ he said.
She had to admire his cool nerve, joking on the battlefield. She was not so calm. ‘Let’s get going!’ she yelled. ‘We have to board that chopper!’ She broke into a run, and Tab followed.
Susan’s voice in her ear said: ‘Squad Two, fall back and board.’
Tamara glanced up at the ridge and saw half the soldiers there crawling backwards on their bellies then getting up and running into the camp. One man was carrying a comrade, wounded or dead.
As the soldiers reached the chopper, Susan ordered: ‘Squad One, retreat and board. Run like hell, guys.’
They followed her advice.
Tamara and Tab reached the chopper and boarded just ahead of Squad One. Everyone else was aboard. A hundred people were crammed into the passenger space, some of them on stretchers.
Tamara looked out of the helicopter window and saw the Sudanese army coming over the ridge. They thought they smelled victory, and their discipline was failing. They were firing, but hardly bothering to aim, and their bullets were wasted on the ramshackle shelters standing between them and the retreating Americans.
The doors were slammed shut and the floor beneath Tamara’s feet rose suddenly. She glanced out of the window and saw that all the Sudanese were now aiming their weapons at the helicopter.
She was almost overcome by terror. Although bullets might not penetrate the armoured underside of the aircraft, it could be brought down by a well-aimed mortar or a rocket from a shoulder-mounted launcher. The engines could be disabled, or a lucky shot might hit the rotors, and then – she remembered a grimly humorous saying dear to pilots: A helicopter glides like a grand piano. She felt herself shaking as the machine lifted and the rifle muzzles followed its trajectory up. Despite the noise of the engines and the rotors she thought she heard a rattle of bullets hitting the armour. She imagined this massive aircraft with a hundred people aboard falling to Earth, smashing to smithereens and bursting into flames.
Then she saw the Sudanese switch their attention. They stopped watching the helicopter and looked away. She followed their gaze up the western slope. There she saw the Chadian army coming over the ridge. It was a battle charge rather than an orderly advance, the soldiers running and firing at the same time. Some of the Sudanese fired back, but it quickly became clear that they were outnumbered, and they began to flee.
The passengers in the helicopter broke into cheers and applause.
The pilot flew directly north, away from both armies, and in seconds the helicopter was out of range.
‘I think we’re safe,’ said Tab.
‘Yeah,’ said Tamara, and she took his hand in hers and squeezed it very hard.
*
On the following morning, the CIA station in N’Djamena was busy. Overnight the CIA Director in Washington had fired a series of questions: What had sparked the battle? How many casualties? Were any Americans killed? Who won? What had happened to Dexter? Where in hell was Abéché? And, most importantly, what would the consequences be? He needed answers before briefing the president.
Tamara went in early and sat at her desk writing her report. She began with her meeting yesterday with Karim, who she described as ‘a source close to the General’. She would give his name, if asked, but she would not put it in a written report if she could help it.