A Far Justice (28 page)

THIRTY-ONE

Southern Sudan

The sun was rapidly sinking when Hon stopped the truck. “Good place,
Boss,” he said. Toby nodded. Like the others, he was dead tired. They had been traveling since sunup, pressing ahead as fast as they could but on constant alert for the Janjaweed. They only had a few minutes before it was dark and Jason stood on the cab of the truck and scanned the flat grasslands with his binoculars.

Jason pointed to a heavy plume of smoke drifting in the still air. “According to the map, that smoke is coming from a village.” He motioned for Hon to pull behind a thorn tree for cover while he quickly camouflaged their tracks in the rapidly fading light.

“We might get some uninvited guests,” he told Toby. “We need to spread out and set up mutually supporting fighting positions. You and Hon next to the truck, and Paride and me over there.” He pointed to a pile of heavy brush.

“You’ll need to rig mosquito nets,” Toby warned.

“And don’t sleep on the ground,” Jason added. Africa was a stern teacher and he was learning very fast.

They set up camp and ate a cold meal. The night was amazingly noisy with insects and strange sounds, and, in the distance, the burning glow that marked the village. Toby tried to get some rest, but sleep wouldn’t come. He sat in the cab of the truck and stared into the night. Finally, he woke Jason. “I want to check on those villagers.”

Jason hesitated, considering the wisdom of it. But there was something in Toby that could not be denied. “Let me do it while it’s still dark. Hide in the night.” He spoke to Paride, who spoke excellent English, and explained what he wanted to do. The tall Dinka instinctively understood and readily volunteered. The two men charged their Heckler and Kock MP5 submachine guns, and adjusted their night vision goggles. With everyone in radio contact, they moved out in the early-morning dark. Jason took the point with Paride slightly behind and to his right. Toby and Hon stayed behind to guard the truck.

The burning smell grew stronger as the two men approached the village. Jason motioned Paride to a halt and studied the village through his NVGs. Little was recognizable and what had been a village of huts gathered in family compounds was now a pile of debris. Two fires were still smoldering and giving off a terrible stench. Jason keyed his radio. “No signs of life.”

“We’re coming up,” Toby replied.

Jason and Paride waited and before too long, they heard the approaching truck. “Stop where you are and come on foot,” Jason radioed. “Leave Hon to guard the truck.” Moments later, Toby emerged out of the shadows carrying the truck’s first aid kit. “I don’t think you should go in,” Jason cautioned.

Paride agreed. “Only death is there.”

“I don’t have a choice,” Toby said. His voice was soft but Jason heard the resolve. He knew when to follow.

The three men moved through the remains of the village and skirted a pile of dead bodies. Women, children and men had been herded together and cut down with submachine-gun fire. Two dogs were ravaging the remains, their muzzles bloody. Jason swung his MP5 around and fired a short burst, killing the dogs. He motioned Paride forward, and they worked their way towards the smoldering fires on the far side. Jason got there first and froze. Two bodies were staked out spread-eagled over beds of charcoal. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “They burned them alive. Who would do something like this?”

“Janjaweed,” Toby said from behind them. “Now you know our enemy.” He turned to leave but movement caught his eye. Jason also saw it and whirled around, raising his MP5. “Don’t shoot,” Toby commanded.

The Hague

Hank’s footsteps echoed down the empty corridors of the palace. “Two days before Christmas and the place is like a tomb,” he said to himself. He pushed through the doors into his office where Aly was waiting for him. “Sorry,” he told her, “there’s no word on Jason.” She nodded without a word and handed him a mug of freshly brewed coffee. “Thanks. I need three to jumpstart my heart.”

She tried to manage a smile but failed. “How is Catherine?” she asked.

“Made it home safe and sound and is in overdrive with the boys getting ready for Christmas. I’m booked out on a flight at noon but wanted to see you and Gus before I left.”

The phone rang and Aly answered. “It’s Winslow James, the American Embassy.” An image of the effete little man flashed in Hank’s mind. He pulled a face and took the handset.

“This is Winslow James, the deputy charge of mission speaking. Are you aware that the State Department has restricted travel to the Sudan and military personnel are specifically prohibited from entering? I’m calling to inform you that your actions have forced us to lodge an incident report with the Pentagon, and with the Department of Justice.”

“Jason Tyler is going after the one witness who can keep Gus from going to prison for a very long time. A witness, I might add, that the State Department hasn’t done squat-all to help bring here.”

“That does not justify your actions,” James retorted. “I cannot tell you how you have humiliated your country with these cheap tricks of yours in court, and your feeble attempts to embarrass the French foreign minister.”

“Really? I cannot tell you how embarrassed I am that my country allowed Colonel Tyler to be put on trial.”

“There is a distinct possibility that the Netherlands will declare you persona non grata at the conclusion of the trial. Another embarrassment that I must deal with.”

“Relax. They’ll only do that if we win. Have a merry Christmas.” He slammed the receiver down. “What a prick. Well, I’ve pissed off the State Department so I must be doing something right.” He gathered up his gloves and briefcase. “Let’s go see Gus.”

Southern Sudan

Toby bent over the young woman in the early-morning light and performed triage in the middle of the destroyed village. Even with a modern operating room and a team of skilled doctors, he doubted she would survive her horrendous wounds. He spoke quietly and made her as comfortable as he could. There was nothing he could do. Then he squatted in front of her four-year-old daughter. He cooed to the little girl in Dinka as he closed the deep gash in her left arm, and, for a brief moment, there was hope in her eyes. Then the fear was back. Toby stood. “How many?” he asked.

“Five all told,” Jason answered. “We found three more.” A seven-old-girl stood beside him holding an infant. A little boy peaked from behind Hon and then ran to Toby, his hand over his right eye. “They were small enough to hide,” Jason said. Toby bent over and gently moved the toddler’s hand aside. He examined his eye, flushed it as best he could, and gently removed a splinter. “What now?” Jason asked.

“They go with us in the truck.”

“We haven’t got enough room,” Jason replied, gesturing at the woman.

“We’re not taking her,” Toby said. The pain in his voice reached into Jason, tearing at his humanity. It was a decision he could not have made.

Gunfire echoed in the distance and they heard the sound of the truck’s racing motor. “Janjaweed!” Hon’s voice shouted over the radio as the distinctive clatter of an AK47 reached them.

“Paride!” Jason ordered. “Get them to cover. Over there.” He pointed to the far side of the village and a dense stand of brush. Toby scooped up the infant and toddler with the wounded eye as Paride hustled the two girls to safety. Jason picked up the woman and started to follow. He felt the life go out of her and gently laid her beside the ruins of a mud and wattle hut. He hoped it had been her home.

The gunfire was much closer and he saw the cloud of dust kicked up by the speeding truck. Jason keyed his radio. “Hon, what’s happening?”

“Janjaweed behind me. Seven, maybe eight. They ride horses and yell they only want truck. I no believe and outrun them.”

“Drive straight through the village and pick me up.” Jason checked his MP5 and moved to one side. His eyes narrowed as the sound of the approaching truck grew louder. A short burst of gunfire split the air and he knew the Janjaweed were not far behind. “If they want the truck, they’re gonna have to earn it,” he said to himself. The truck barreled into the village and Hon slammed on the brakes. Jason piled into the rear. “Go! Go! Go!” Hon mashed the accelerator and the truck sped ahead as Jason loaded the heavy machine gun mounted over the cab. He slapped the receiver closed and chambered a round. He fire a short burst, clearing the weapon. “Go back!” he roared.

Hon slewed the truck around as three horsemen charged through the village, coming straight at them. Simultaneously, they realized the danger and jerked their horses to a halt to reverse course. Jason fired a long burst, cutting into them, shredding the men and horses. Hon jerked the truck to the right as a volley of submachine gun fire split the air where they had been a fraction of second before. Jason found the mounted shooter hidden behind the debris of a destroyed hut. He raked the hut with a long burst, sending up a cloud of wooden debris. The horse reared and threw the Janjaweed, but he never lost the reins and dragged the horse down onto its side and safety. Now he waited.

Two more horsemen came at the truck, both firing from the hip. One slug ripped into the truck’s windshield barely missing Hon. It exited the rear of the cab and cut a crease in Jason’s right thigh. Jason brought the heavy machine gun to bear and raked the horsemen as pain shot up his leg. The Janjaweed and horses went down in a bloody heap. Automatically, Hon slowed as they passed and Jason emptied his MP5 into the men and horses. Then they were clear of the village. “Go back!” Jason ordered.

Hon spun the truck around and slammed to a stop. A lone Janjaweed holding a woman astride his saddle as a shield was coming at them. Jason thumbed his MP5 to single shot, aimed, and squeezed off one round, hitting the horseman’s right shoulder. He shrieked in pain. Jason fired again and the round ripped into the Janjaweed’s throat, cutting his scream off in full flow as his mouth worked, forming sounds that could not come. The woman broke free and ran, but another Janjaweed chased after her. He swung a machete and cut her down. Hon reacted automatically and gunned the engine as he twisted the wheel, going after the Janjaweed. Jason mashed the trigger of the heavy machine gun but missed.

The rider was a superb horseman as he guided his horse through the village, running for safety. But the determined Hon closed on the fleeing man and Jason was able to bring the machine gun to bear. He squeezed off a round, but the weapon misfired and blew the bolt back. Fortunately, Jason was wearing goggles and only suffered minor flash burns. The truck coasted to a halt. “Engine dead,” Hon yelled. An AK47 slug had punched a hole in the radiator and holed the engine block. “Look out!” the Dinka yelled.

The Janjaweed had spun around and instantly realized what had had happened. He charged the truck, firing wildly and driving Hon and Jason to the ground. Jason returned fire with his MP5, and emptied the clip. He missed. Now the Janjaweed was almost on them and Jason jumped directly into the path of the charging horse, denying the Janjaweed a shot.

At the last moment, Jason feinted to his left and then back to the right, on the horseman’s left, certain that the tribesman was right-hand dominate. He grabbed the horse’s mane with one hand and the Janjaweed’s bandoleer with the other. Jason was a big man and threw his weight against the horse, and the two men and the horse went down in a heap. Jason rolled over the man and grabbed his AK47. At the same time, he jammed his elbow into the rider’s sternum, knocking the wind out of him. The horse struggled to its feet and bolted free. Hon grabbed its reins, dragging it to a halt.

Jason stood the Janjaweed up and examined his clothes. “What do we have here?” His prisoner was no ordinary Janjaweed. He keyed the radio to check in with Toby while Hon lashed the Janjaweed to the truck. “We got ‘em.”

Toby’s voice came over the radio. “You two okay?”

“I got nicked, Hon’s fine. One hell of a driver. But the truck’s disabled.”

“Paride’s a good mechanic,” Toby answered, “and I’ve got the first aid kit. We’re on our way. Patch and repair as necessary.” Jason sat on the truck’s tailgate and waited as Toby and Paride, along with their flock of children, made their way back. Toby stopped and told the children to wait in the shade of a low bush. They had been through enough and he didn’t want them to see the carnage of what had been their village.

Suddenly, the Janjaweed who had been hiding in the debris of the destroyed hut bolted for safety. He was up and mounted and racing for the children, fully intending to use them as cover to make his escape. He turned and fired his AK47 from the saddle, driving Jason and Hon down. He galloped past the children and fired at them. But Paride was there. He stood and emptied his MP5, killing the Janjaweed and his horse.

For a few moments, there was only silence. “Where’s Toby?” Jason yelled.

“There!” Paride shouted. Toby was lying over the infant he had been carrying, his blood soaking the ground. The captive Janjaweed laughed.

Hon turned and shot him in the head.

THIRTY-TWO

Southern Sudan

Paride sat on the truck’s fender, his feet in the engine compartment as
the sun beat on his back. “Bullet make big hole in engine. Water all run out. Sorry, Boss, no can fix.” Without a word, Jason walked to the rear of the truck where Toby was resting in the shade of a tarp they had rigged.

“The truck’s kaput, and my friend, and you’ve got two nasty holes in your body. We need to get you to a doctor.”

Toby managed a grimace. “I am a doctor. You’ve got me pretty well patched up, and I’m not too worried about the wound in my side. Didn’t hit anything vital. Left leg’s a problem. I don’t think I’ll be walking.”

“Where’s the nearest town?” Jason asked.

“Duk Faiwil, about ten miles south of here. It’s about halfway between the mission and Juba, 180 miles either way.”

Jason thought for a few moments. “Paride, strip down all the weapons but the two MP5s, and bury the pieces. Hon, bring the horse over here.” While Hon rigged three packs, Jason tied the ends of two long poles to the saddle to make a travois. Then he lashed a litter across the back of the poles, creating an A-frame. When it was ready, they carefully lifted Toby onto the litter. “The kids can carry the canteens,” Jason said. He still had a problem. “Reverend, can you hold the baby?” Toby nodded and cradled the infant next to him.

The three men hefted their packs and set out. Jason led the way with Paride shepherding the two girls and carrying the little boy. Hon brought up the rear leading the horse and dragging Toby on the travois. But the ride was too bumpy and the wound in Toby’s side quickly reopened, bleeding profusely. He stayed conscious long enough to tell Jason that he had to cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding and then stitch it up. Jason stuffed the cleanest rag he had into the wound and pressed against it with his hands.

Hon ran back to the truck for the tool kit while Paride built a fire. Within minutes, Hon was back and the ends of a lug wrench and two screwdrivers were in the fire, heating up. “Please, God,” Jason prayed, “help me do it right.”

“God’s neutral when it comes to this,” Toby murmured, coming awake. He told Jason how to use the pointed end of the lug wrench and then how to finish up with the screwdrivers to seal the small arteries. “Do it quick,” Toby ordered. The smell of burnt flesh wafted over them. Finally, Jason was done and wrapped the wound with a fresh bandage. Toby was still conscious and his face was bathed in sweat. “Don’t want to do that again,” Toby admitted.

Jason told Hon to strap their backpacks to the horse’s saddle while he and Paride disassembled the travois. They suspended the litter from the two poles, and, with Toby aboard and holding the infant, they shouldered the poles. They walked slowly down the rutted track in tandem, the litter swinging between them. Hon followed close behind, carrying the toddler and leading the packhorse and the children. The sun, the heat, and the humidity bore down, demanding a ferocious toll.

Late that afternoon, the infant died in Toby’s arms. Jason squatted in the sun as Hon and Paride scrapped out a shallow grave. He listened as Toby sang softly in Dinka, the same song he had heard at the mission’s church. Toby kissed the infant’s cheek. Jason took the small body and gently placed it in the grave. He stood, forever a changed man.

It was late the next day and Hon and Paride walked side-by-side, leading the way as each shouldered one pole of the litter. Behind them, Jason shouldered both poles, carrying the backend of the litter. The oldest girl led the horse, which was now carrying their packs and the two other children. The horse was rapidly weakening under its load and in the heat. The American didn’t know how much longer he could keep pressing the men and hoped they were near the town. Twice, they had to take cover as armed men passed, and it was, without doubt, the longest ten miles and twenty-four hours in his life. The two Africans stopped. “Duk Faiwil, Boss,” Paride said. “Straight ahead.”

They all slowly sank to the ground, totally exhausted. The men breathed heavily. Finally, Jason came to his feet and checked on Toby. He was semi-conscious and sweating. “We got to get some antibiotics in you,” Jason said. He thought for a few moments. “Paride, can you trade the horse for antibiotics for the Reverend?”

“Don’t think so, Boss. Medicine hard to get and horses not worth much. Too bad no have cows. But for Reverend, they will give medicine.” The three men shouldered the litter and the small caravan made its way into town. A strange sight greeted them as brightly dressed Dinkas and Nuers mingled with refugees flooding into the small town. A haphazard array of decorations covered market stalls. It was uniquely African as harsh reality collided with a festive mood. “Christmas tomorrow, Boss,” Paride said.

“I forgot,” Jason admitted.

Paride spoke to a tall young man and was given directions to a sprawling compound crowded with people sitting on the ground. A faded sign announced they had found the hospital. They carefully lowered the litter to the ground and Paride worked his way inside, calming hostile voices and shouts for jumping the line. He was back in a matter of minutes leading a doctor, nurse, orderly, and two guards. “They all know Reverend Person,” Paride said. “He very important man in Sudan.”

Toby spoke quietly to the doctor who occasionally nodded. Jason did not understand a single word but heard an authority in Toby’s words that could not be denied. The doctor pointed at the children. “There are a few refugees from their village here.” He spoke to the nurse who took charge. She barked at the orderly, picked up the toddler, and led the two girls into the hospital compound.

“Will they take care of them?” Jason asked.

Hon looked at him for a moment. He had to make the American understand. “A village is a big family. Everyone have uncle or aunt. Children are future of family. No children, no future.”

The guards stayed with the horse and packs while they carried Toby inside. Paride and the doctor engaged in a lively conversation. When Toby was in the operating room, Paride pulled Jason aside and spoke in a low voice. “Doctor says there is much fighting to north and many people come this way. Some people say Sudanese Army attacks Mission Awana but no one knows for sure. Nurse says Army patrol drive through town last night.”

“Did she say how many troops?”

“Not many, maybe twenty. She says they have two armored cars and a truck.”

“Damn, that’s not good. We need a vehicle to get out of here.”

“Don’t worry, Boss. I go get one. Doctor says they have a telephone.” Paride pushed through the crowded room and disappeared into the compound.

Jason and Hon wandered around the compound until they found an office guarded by two armed men. Hon spoke to them in Dinka and money passed hands. One of the guards opened the door and allowed them in. Inside, a young man sat behind a desk talking on the telephone, speaking a southern dialect of Dinka. He ignored them. “He’s talking to his girlfriend in Juba,” Hon whispered. The young man finally looked at them, his eyes cold and unblinking.

“The phone is for official business only,” he said, switching to perfect English. “This is official,” Jason answered. “We’re taking the Reverend Tobias Person of Mission Awana to Juba. He has been badly wounded and we need to arrange transportation and medical treatment.”

The young man ignored him and returned to his phone call, speaking Dinka. After a few minutes, he again looked at them. “A call will be five-hundred dollars US”

“I lost all my money and credit cards when my helicopter crashed. If you give me a bill, I will make sure you are paid when we reach Juba.” The young man stared at Jason, his face a mask, his eyes lifeless. He waved his hand in dismissal and turned to the window, renewing his telephone conversation. He laughed.

Jason’s jaw hardened in anger and Hon touched his arm. “Time to go, Boss.” The Dinka looked at the door. Jason stormed out, only to be stopped by the guards who demanded more money. Hon again handed over a few Sudanese dinars and hustled Jason outside. “It’s okay, Boss. Some people give, some people take.”

They made their way back to the horse and Jason untied one the packs. He pulled out an MP5 and strapped on a web cartridge belt. “That won’t happen again.” He threw the other MP5 to Hon who looked very worried. “Pay the guards,” Jason ordered, leading the horse into the shade. Now they had to wait for Paride to return.

The Hague

Aly joined the large crowd milling in front of the Hugo Grotius prison on Christmas afternoon, and, like the others, waited impatiently for a guard to open the doors leading inside. At exactly two o’clock, the outer gates slid back and a guard unlocked the inner glass doors. The crowd surged in, carrying food and gifts. Aly joined the line and waited patiently to sign in and go through inspection. Gus was waiting for her, his cell door open. “It’s one big open house,” he said. “There is no way they’d do something like this in the States, not even in a minimum security prison like this one.”

“Our prisons are different,” Aly explained. “Rehabilitation is the goal, not punishment.” She smiled. “Hank called this morning with news. He said to tell you that the NSA monitored a telephone call from a town called Duk Faiwil in the southern Sudan. A young man was talking to a girlfriend in Juba and said there was an American with a missionary at the hospital where he worked. The man said the American had lost all his money in a helicopter crash so he couldn’t pay for a phone call.”

Gus exploded. “Jason and Toby!” He slowly calmed. “If Hank knows, Max Westcot knows. Max will get them out. Count on it.”

Therese Derwent knocked on the open door. “Count on what?”

Gus smiled. “Bringing good news.”

Derwent stepped into the cell with three plastic carrier bags. “Dinner,” she announced. She looked at Aly. “Please join us.” Gus sat on his bunk as the two women talked and enjoyed their easy conversation. Within minutes, Derwent had set the table and handed him a bottle of wine to open. “The superintendent only allows one per family,” she cautioned. The food was as close to a traditional American Christmas dinner as the psychiatrist could manage with sliced turkey, stuffing, vegetables and all the trimmings. When they had finished, the three walked the corridors, exchanging Christmas greetings and chatting with the other prisoners and their families.

Finally, they were back in Gus’s cell and Aly handed him a cell phone to call home. Gus eagerly dialed the Mayo, hoping the timing was right and Clare would be awake and able to take the call. His daughter answered on the first ring. “We’ve been waiting,” Michelle said, her voice radiating with happiness. She turned the camera towards Clare who was sitting up in bed, her hair carefully arranged.

Her lips moved and she smiled as Michelle held the phone close. “Merry Christmas, darling.” Her voice was weak but clear and distinct.

Gus smiled as tears coursed down his cheeks. It was the first time he had heard her voice since leaving home in late September. Aly and Derwent stepped into the hall to give them privacy. “I envy him his Christmas,” the psychiatrist said.

“He deserves it,” Aly told her. She considered her next words. “You don’t really know him.”

The psychiatrist gave her an indulgent smile. “I think I do.”