* * *
James was sitting at his office, his shoulders tense with impatience. At a corner of his desk sat an empty glass jug, filled with sagged, dried out lemons; it had been sitting there for days.
He threw cursive glances at the phone, as if he was trying to make it ring. When it did though, the voices of the men that talked to him rang hollow in his ears. He rarely answered in anything other than a curt, official tone; he could hardly remember what had been going on around Headquarters for the past couple of days.
There were reports and briefings, both from the British and their own intelligence branch; there were troop assessments and updated maps, but there was nothing very intelligent about them. Whatever Lagos thought about the war had little to do with the war itself; and those on the front had little idea of what they were actually doing, other than pushing forward, shooting at everything that moved.
But that was just hazy imagery in James’ mind’s eye. What he longed and waited for wasn’t in those reports. He was waiting for a phone call that never seemed to come. It had been days since Ethan had left; no contact whatsoever. It was a feat in itself keeping him loosely tracked by filling in the gaps from all the reports he could get his hands on.
He’d reached Owerri for sure, that much he knew; it wasn’t hard to find an Englishman, even amongst all the chaos and death. Especially when he made such dramatic appearances like the one in Onitsha. He didn’t expect him to have it in him; and there was no real chance the incident at the bar wasn’t Ethan’s handiwork.
It had began to take shape; everything was coming together nicely. All those years before, he could have never expected things to turn out that way; he had never expected fate to turn the cards in his favor. If only Enkele were still alive, he would taste the changing age, and know that it wasn’t all for naught.
The white elephant’s days are over, thought James. It’s our turn now, brother.
He had stopped the ceiling fan; the window blinds were closed but still the heat was almost unbearable. Sweat ran down his forehead and his cheeks. It touched his lips and he tasted it; it was sour and salty, with a hint of bitterness.
It must be all those lemons in the tea.
The phone rang and James heartbeat went racing. He looked at the telephone in awe, as if it was a thing of magic, a powerful beast in hiding. It rang twice more before James snapped out of his stupor and picked up the receiver hesitantly. A voice on the other end reported name and rank curtly and added in Yoruba:
“Your presence is required in the radio room, sir.”
“Concerning?” blurted James with annoyance.
“Operation Castor,” replied the subordinate hesitantly.
James eyes lit up suddenly and his face became slack. Sweat ran down the edge of his mouth which curled up suddenly in a grin.
“I'm coming down there. Don't lose contact or I'll have you shot,” he said, dropped the phone receiver and stormed outside his office.
His mind raced with the last details. It would probably be a matter of few hours, no more than a couple of days at the most for this blasted ordeal to end. He hadn't expected the waiting would have been so unforgiving; all he could do was wait, hope and remember.
James went down the flights of stairs fast, with practiced ease. Officers and guards along the way to the radio room had saluted but he had paid them no attention; they were nothing more than dark shadows in his eyes.
When he reached the radio room, he motioned the guard to stand aside. The guard seemed to hesitate for the barest moment, but a mere look from James made him move aside and let him enter. The radio room was a small, crammed affair with three radio sets, matching operators and a young lieutenant in charge. He was still holding up the headphone set, when he saluted and addressed James with fear concealed in his voice:
“Major, sir.”
James grabbed the headphones and said with authority:
“Everyone out. You do not have the clearance for this communique.”
The lieutenant looked surprised instantly. He was about to say something when James told him through gritted teeth:
“Get out.”
The young lieutenant nodded, saluted and motioned the men to follow him outside. When they closed the door behind them, James wore the headphone set and said with expectation into the attached microphone:
“Ethan? Do you copy? Ethan? This is James.”
There was some static and a lot of interference when James heard Ethan's voice crackle and fizz through the headphones:
“James? I copy but there's lot's of noise.”
“It's good to hear you, Ethan. Where are you?” said James urgently. After a short moment, the reply came in equally poor:
“Never mind that, it's a miracle this radio's intact. I've got Andy's location. I'm getting him back. Give me two days; come by nightfall. That landing zone near Omuku should fit the bill.”
“Where is Andy? How did you find him?” asked James with genuine interest in his voice:
“It's a hell of a story, James. Let's talk it over a stiff one, all three of us,” said Ethan through a hail of noise.
“I read that, Ethan. At nightfall, two days from now. Near Omuku. Do you copy that?” said James slowly, clearly and loudly. A moment later Ethan replied:
“I copy, James. I owe you one.”
“You sure do, Ethan. Good luck and godspeed. Over and out,” said James and changed the channel on the radio. Nothing other than a loud buzz of static came through the earpiece. He took the headset off and tossed it on the small desk. He opened the door, saluted the men standing outside and walked away without a word, his face a stony mask.
When he went back to his office, he sat on his desk and sighed with relief. A moment later he was peeking through the window blinds; he looked at the garden plaza and saw the same, tiny swarm of men that he saw everyday.
They haven’t got a clue. Poor bastards.
He shook his head, picked up the phone receiver and dialed a single digit. An operator came on the line, and James told him in his professional, strict manner:
“Get me flight operations.”
The bonds that tie
It was almost dawn. They were walking slowly, Nicole leading the way while a few feet behind her Ethan traced the tiny path in front of them, mindful of his surroundings. His eyes darted this way and that with a nervousness compounded by the lack of sleep. Each tree, bush and grove ahead seemed to him a perfect place for an ambush, but none carried the tell-tale signs. Nature all around them continued to be ever present; the plentiful cries of small monkeys and night-birds mingled with the brushing up of leaves from small rodents and the occasional snake or lizard.
The wet ground teemed with rotting vegetation; it was the rain season after all. It made walking an unpleasant experience, since the earth below one’s feet shifted, the feeling of mushy undergrowth around one’s ankles weighing on every step. Ethan had learned his way around such marshy terrain but that did not make it agreeable at all.
A distinctive shrieking cry pierced the air around them and Ethan felt a sudden swoosh of air. His eyes barely caught the glimpse of a bird sweeping up and away into the rosy red sky with some small prey wriggling in its feet.
“Bloody thing caught me off guard,” said Ethan mostly to himself.
“That’s a harrier,” said Nicole
“A what?”
“A kind of hawk. Weird though; that was an African marsh harrier.”
“This is a swamp,” said Ethan and gestured around them, prodding Nicole with one hand to keep moving, while all the while he kept looking around, as if waiting for more of the damnable birds, or perhaps something really dangerous to make an appearance.
“It’s a forest,” said Nicole as she minded her steps through a thick, rustling brush. “Obofia forest, actually. It’s more of a swamp, granted, but it’s not a marsh. Marshes don’t have trees,” she said, with evident enmity in her voice.
“I’m no
t interested in natural science. You’ve kept your mouth shut about Andy, so all you’re useful for is getting me to this rendezvous of yours.”
“What rendezvous?” she asked in a provocatively nonchalant manner, as if they were taking a stroll through the woods.
Ethan paused for a moment and yanked the rope that bound Nicole’s hands behind her back, signaling her to stop.
“Look at me!” he said hoarsely, his voice rife with indignation. She did not comply, but rather stood there, trying to straighten out her back, sore from all the walking with her hands tied so uncomfortably.
“Damn you woman, look at me!” said Ethan and grabbed her chin, forcing her to turn around. Nicole was staring at him with a cold, icy gaze fit to petrify a man. It was calculated anger; a precisely tuned show of hate.
“Do I look that much of a fool? Do I?” shouted Ethan, his bottled up anger and frustration finally welling up.
Nicole didn’t make a sound. She continued to look at him as if he were a mildly irritating curiosity, feeding his anger.
“I’m just waiting to spring whatever trap your friends have put in place. Then maybe we can arrange some sort of swap.”
“With Andy? You think, he’s my captive? ’Our’ captive?” she said sniggering on the brink of uncontrollable laughter. Ethan pulled out his knife and put the blade against her nose. His voice was somehow deformed, barely recognisable when he said with a strangely glazed look:
“Do you know of the Sharia?”
“Islamic law,” replied Nicole, unfazed.
“I’ve heard some Fulani men talk about it. Do you know what they do to women who shame their family up in the north?”
“Oh, now I’m family? How kind of you,” she said mockingly. Ethan grabbed her mouth and while still holding up the knife near her face, trembling from the effort to control himself, he told her:
“They cut their fucking noses off and stone them to death.”
“Go on then, have your way with me! Isn’t that what you’d like?” she said with a taunting, yet venomous voice.
“Dear God, I just might!” cried Ethan and threw her down on the wet, mushy ground.
“I didn’t think you were such an ignorant, stupid brute until now.”
“Well, it never occurred to me you’d be such a double-crossing little cunt, but that’s just how things are!”
“I was just following orders. You’re a soldier, you should know better.”
“We’ll see when we get there. Up on your feet,” said Ethan and pulled on the rope wrapped around her waist. She planted her feet and managed to stand upright. She looked at Ethan through a lock of ruffled hair, soaked in sweat and said shaking her head:
“Like a fucking mule, huh?”
“I should’ve taped that mouth of yours. Now walk. I hope we’re not late for the festivities.”
“Always the English gentleman. It’s right over that bluff. I told you-”
“Right. Now shut up and start walking because I can be very unkind when I have to. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again.”
“For Queen and Country?” she said smiling in front of him. He then closed his eyes and a moment later punched her in the stomach. Nicole let out a grumbling sound and bent down on her knees before she threw up her dinner from the night before. Ethan yanked the rope and she grudgingly obliged, starting to walk after she gave him a wary, almost curious lopsided look.
“For you, I’d do it for the fucking laughs. Move,” said Ethan and rattled his jaw before starting to walk right behind her, the rope on one hand and the knife on the other.
The bluff up ahead was rather steep. The rain from the night before had turned the dirt into slippery, thin mud. Nicole could find little purchase using solely her feet. She grunted as she fought to stand upright and walk at the same time. She almost fell down a couple of times but Ethan was right behind her, holding her steady whenever the need arose, for no other simpler reason than she would drag him down the slope with her if she fell.
The sun came right above the horizon when they settled on the top of the bluff to catch their breath for a moment. As they both drew in deep breaths, Ethan looked at Nicole derisively and said:
“That’s not a bluff. That is a proper bloody hill.”
Nicole gave him a rudimentary nod and squatted, trying to flex the aching muscles on her back and her legs. From where they stood, a gleam of light came off a thin strand of murky water that flowed lazily to the southwest. Ethan’s gaze followed the course of the water for a moment and then started surveying the brown and green mass of vegetation in front of him. Most of the land was covered in mangroves and oil palms.
There were small groves of flat, brownish ground that dotted the landscape. His eyes caught a glimpse of one such grove where he saw what he’d been searching for so long: a large tent, with a red cross inside a white roundel painted on top. Around it lay scattered crates and sacks. A Land Rover lay near the estuary, burned to a crisp, all the way down to the chassis.
He suddenly felt his hopes rising and his fears subsiding. When he asked Nicole though, it was with reticence in his voice:
“Is that it? Was that Andy’s caravan? Out here, right next to that muddy river?”
“That was the one. That’s the Orashi, one of Niger’s streams.”
“Come on then. Let’s see whether your people are going to be here on time. I just might get my hands on something useful first.”
“You’ve turned paranoid.”
“Better than turn up dead. Move,” he said and Nicole complied. The slope on the other side of the bluff wasn’t as big and going downhill was a lot easier. The sun was already shining above the treetops and the heat was building up fast. Ethan wiped his forehead and asked Nicole, while she navigated through the thick, swampy bushes:
“Their caravan was hit on the Biafran side.”
“Yes,” she replied with a flat, indifferent tone.
Ethan looked at her with a deep-seated frown, before he almost spat the words:
“What the fuck was a Red Cross caravan doing this far down the River in Biafra? There’s not a fucking soul around!”
“There is Okumu, down south. About 3 miles from here,” she said, roughly pointing to the south with her head. They kept moving towards the grove, the morning sounds of the jungle echoing their every step.
“There’s a road for Okumu. What the bloody hell where they doing in the middle of this god-awful jungle?”
“You still don't get it, do you?” said Nicole and swung her head around, gazing at the surrounding trees as if they were on a sightseeing jungle trek. She let out a small, polite laugh before she added with a lilting, unusually fresh-sounding voice:
“Can’t you smell it?”
“Smells like a rotten jungle alright. What’s to like?”
“There’s more to it than the rot. It is essentially the same though.”
“The same with what.”
“Gas. Swamp gas. Methane.”
Ethan took a moment and stood still, holding the rope firmly. It became taut soon enough and Nicole turned around to complain when he shushed her, the knife still firmly held in his hand. He was sniffing the air, his gaze wandering at the ground around his boots. His head leaned to the left and to the right for a few more moments.
“What are you doing?” asked Nicole.
“I’m trying to use my senses,” he said calmly in contrast to his earlier demeanor. After a few seconds, he told her:
“They’re here, aren’t they?”
“I’m telling you, there is no rendezvous,” she said stressing the last word with a purely French accent, while her gaze flickered to somewhere behind him for the barest moment.
That was enough to warn Ethan someone was behind him. He instinctively swung around, letting go of the rope that held Nicole and blindly aiming his knife for a low stab in the leg. As he did so he had time enough to shout, “You cunt!” but he wasn’t quick enough to avoid whatever it was that connected violen
tly with his head.
The world around him flashed intensely white as he staggered and in the blink of an eye everything went dark as his body met the soft ground. The last thing that went through his mind before the lights went out was what Onko from his last scout team had told him after their last drill: he was growing soft.