Page 103 of Never
‘We have to rescue the civilians,’ Tamara said, thinking mainly of Tab.
‘We sure do,’ said Susan. ‘I’ll need authorization from the Pentagon, but that won’t be a problem.’
‘I’m coming with you.’
This was logical, as she had supplied the key information, and Susan nodded agreement. ‘Okay.’
‘Let me know when you’re leaving and where to meet you.’
‘Of course.’
Tamara went to the door.
Susan said: ‘Hey, Tamara.’
‘Yes.’
‘Bring a weapon.’
CHAPTER 15
Tamara put on body armour and requisitioned the Glock 9mm pistol that had saved her life at the N’Gueli Bridge. The CIA station was being managed by Michael Olson, in Dexter’s absence, and Michael did not raise any petty objections of the kind Dexter would surely have dreamed up. Tamara drove with Susan to the military base at N’Djamena airport where they met up with a platoon of fifty soldiers and boarded a giant Sikorsky helicopter that held them all and their gear. Tamara was given a radio with a microphone and a headset so that she could talk to Susan over the noise of the rotors.
The aircraft was full. ‘How are we going to take forty civilians on board for the return journey?’ Tamara asked Susan.
‘Standing room only,’ she replied.
‘Will the chopper take the weight?’
Susan smiled. ‘Don’t worry. This is a heavy-lifting machine, originally designed for recovering downed aircraft in Vietnam. It can hover with another helicopter the same weight strapped underneath it.’
The journey across the Sahara took four hours. Somehow Tamara was not scared for herself, but she was tortured by the thought that she could lose Tab now, today. Just imagining it, she felt nauseous, and for an instant she feared she might throw up in front of fifty tough soldiers. The helicopter flew at a hundred miles an hour, but it seemed so slow as to be almost stationary over the unchanging landscape of sand and rock, and before the end of the journey she came to realize that she wanted to spend her life with Tab. She wanted never again to be separated from him like this, ever.
This was a life-changing thought, and she played out its consequences in her mind. She was sure that Tab’s feelings were similar to her own. Despite her record of marrying men who were wrong for her, she thought she could not be mistaken about him. But there were a hundred questions for which she had no answers. Where would they go? How would they live? Did Tab want children? They had never talked about that. Did Tamara want children? She had never thought much about it. But I do, she realized; I do now. With other men I was lukewarm, but with him, yes.
She had so much to think about that the journey seemed too short, and she was surprised when they descended over Abéché. The distance they had covered had been close to the limit of the helicopter’s range, and they needed to refuel before they began to search for the media party.
Abéché had once been a great city, a stopping place on the trans-Saharan route used for centuries by Arab slave traders. Tamara imagined the camel trains plodding tirelessly across the vast desert, the great mosques with hundreds of kneeling worshippers, the opulent palaces with their harems of bored beauties, and the human misery of the teeming slave markets. After the French had colonized Chad, the population of Abéché was nearly wiped out by disease. Now it was a small town with a cattle market and some factories making blankets out of camel hair. Empires rise, she thought, and then they fall.
There was a small US army base at the airport, staffed on a revolving six-week rota, and the current shift had the refuelling truck ready on the runway. Within minutes the helicopter was lifting again.
It turned east, heading for the last-known location of the media group. Finally Tamara was getting near to Tab. Soon she would know if he was in trouble, and whether she could help him.
After a quarter of an hour they saw a grim encampment: rows of improvised dwellings; dusty, lethargic inhabitants; and dirty children playing with stones in the littered pathways. The pilot flew the length and breadth of the place three times: there was no sign of a media party.
Susan studied her map, identified the next nearest camp, and gave the co-pilot directions. The machine lifted fast and headed north-east.
A few minutes later they flew over a large military force moving east. ‘Troops of the Chadian National Army,’ said Susan over the headset. ‘Five or six thousand men. Your information was correct, Tamara. They’ve got the Sudanese outnumbered two to one.’
Hearing this, the soldiers looked at Tamara with new respect. Good intelligence could save their lives, and they valued anyone who provided it.
The next camp appeared similar to the first except that it was located in a shallow dip, with slight rises to the east and west. Tamara looked for signs of people from the city: western-style clothes, bare heads and dark glasses, camera lenses flashing in the sunlight. Then she spotted two buses, their paintwork layered with dust, parked in a row in the centre of the encampment. Nearby she noticed a purple blouse, then a blue shirt, then a baseball cap. ‘I think this is it,’ she said.
Susan said: ‘So do I.’
A small helicopter, which Tamara had previously not spotted, suddenly rose from the camp. It tilted and veered away from the Sikorsky, then headed west, going fast.
Tamara said: ‘My God, what’s that?’
