Somewhere in the middle of that is Michael.
It had only been five months since the Soviet Republic had invaded Orlisia for the second time in the little country’s short history, bombing ceaselessly for days. The airports, railways, roads, harbors – all leveled. The survivors had made their way to the southern border where soldiers had stopped them outside the town of Parnaas. They’d been ordered to camp in a nearby field, given food and temporary shelter. When their ranks had swelled to the tens of thousands, the tanks had come and the fences had gone up.
But Parnaas was no ordinary refugee camp.
A spicy aroma drifted into the room. Sophie’s stomach growled, reminding her of the late hour. “Did you order food?” she asked. Will pointed to the doorway.
Sophie turned, her face breaking into a grin as a lithe figure in a bright red winter coat sailed in the doorway. “Why, Dr. Shah! I didn’t know you delivered.”
“I’m an obstetrician, so of course I deliver. It’s the only way I can get a meal with my husband and best friend these days.” Anjali Shah set down two paper bags of fragrant Chinese takeout on a desk. “Hi, husband.” She gave Will a quick hug and a smile. “Hi, best friend,” she said, blowing Sophie a kiss. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
“Any updates from the coalition?” Anjali asked. As RCI’s medical director, Anjali – together with Will and Sophie – formed the executive committee of their aid agency.
“It’s going well.” Sophie piled noodles onto her plate. “We’ve got agreement on our overall strategy, and now we’re documenting the entry plan. Next step is negotiating who’s on the strike team. And, of course, convincing the Soviet government to let us into Parnaas.”
Once it became clear that the Soviets’ intent was to hold as many Orlisians as possible within the borders of Parnaas, every humanitarian agency in the world demanded entry. The Soviet Republic refused, fueling speculation that Parnaas was a modern-day concentration camp. But while it wasn’t a death camp, it became equally apparent as the weeks rolled by that Parnaas was not a traditional refugee camp. The Soviets wanted the refugees alive, isolated from the outside world, and fully under their control.
The huge number of displaced people inside the camp had finally worn the invading nation down. An overture came from the Soviet Republic via diplomatic channels, suggesting that an non-governmental organization (NGO) presence might be tolerated temporarily to keep the refugees alive through the approaching winter. Sophie leaped.
Her proposal was simple: Given the scope of the Orlisian crisis, all NGOs should work together as a coalition. She’d brought together all the major agencies in America via web conference to sell them on her idea.
Within forty-eight hours, every agency in the meeting agreed to the coalition approach, and several smaller ones caught wind and wanted in. They called themselves the Refugee Crisis Coalition. Sixteen development agencies – many with profoundly different mandates – held together by ideals, duct tape, and sheer determination.
It was a groundbreaking, history-making agreement, if it could hold. Sophie got a story with her picture on page three of the New York Times. Six months ago, she would have been ecstatic. Now, she couldn’t care less. All she wanted was to get into Orlisia. In and out again, with Michael Nariovsky-Trent safely beside her.
She should never have let him go in the first place.