The Lion Killer (The Dark Continent Chronicles) (26 page)

“So, Dinka, Allah has brought us together again.” He picked up his gun and accidentally pointed it at Tabitha causing her to flinch. He reached forward to reassure her, but she flinched again.

“Why are you frightened of me? I am also married to a Nuer woman,” he whispered, nodding at Abel. He glanced nervously over his shoulder as if he was embarrassed.

“Dinka, why aren't you speaking?”

“Can I give this water to the others?” Abel asked.

“Why would you waste water on those old people? Better to give it to the camels.” Osman got up and walked over to his camel.

Abel glanced at the rifle, but the Arab was too close. Ali walked back carrying three waterbags and dropped them in the sand at Abel's feet. “Dinka, your people are ignorant savages, but you're different. Give them this water. Tell them it's a gift from Allah.”

Abel slung the water bags over his shoulder and headed back to the others. Ali waited until Abel was out of earshot before turning to Tabitha. “I think maybe we could become friends, I mean, the Dinka and me. What can you tell me about him?”

“When I first met him, I thought he was just a skinny boy, but I was wrong. He's the wisest, most decent man I've ever known.”

“The man he just killed might have a different opinion of him.”

“Can I ask you a question?” When Ali nodded yes, she continued. “Why do you hate us?”

“I don't hate you,” he answered.

“Then why do you rape our mothers and kill our children?”

“My people have lived in the Sudan for thousands of years. The great Nubian pyramids in the north prove that I am telling you the truth. Your people have invaded us from the west. Some of the tribes look like pre-historic monkeys. Their customs makes us look foolish to the rest of the world. It's my duty as a devout Muslim to purify this land.”

“When you say purify, you mean kill. Is this a gift from Allah? Do you discuss these things with your Nuer wife?”

Osman raised his hand to strike Tabitha, but something stopped him. He looked at her for a few seconds before speaking. “Tell the Dinka to take you south. In two days, I will lead a glorious attack on a camp not far from here. I give you this fine camel as a gift. One more thing—tell him he saved my life and I spared his. Now we are even. If he should appear in my rifle sights again, I will not hesitate to kill him.” Ali Osman stood up and walked into the night.

Tabitha led the camel back to where the others were camped. Abel looked over her shoulder expecting to see the Arab following her. She told him of the warning.

“We must leave at once.” Abel stared into the night and shivered. There's nothing in that camp but old people. Why would they attack it?” he asked himself.

***

Rigby listened to the dispossessed natives pouring out of the Darfur. It was obvious the Sudanese government had ordered a massive genocidal sweep. Helen and Lynn treated as many of the sick as possible, but the sheer number of patients was overwhelming. Otto Bern's Cessna was pressed into service as an ambulance plane. He flew out the injured and brought back medical supplies. The hunting camp was turned into a field hospital.

Getting Arthur Turner out of the Darfur was put on the backburner. That was until Otto relayed the message that Max Turner had chartered a helicopter and would be arriving at the hunting camp the next morning.

Rigby knew the rescue wouldn't be easy. With tension on the Chadian border escalating, it became evident the Darfur was becoming more dangerous. Arthur may not have known it, but he needed to get out of harm's way.

Rigby and Dutchy set aside the humanitarian work and refocused on the rescue. They reassembled the two Barrett fifty-caliber rifles. Dutchy tried mounting one of the weapon's tripods on the back of the truck, but the vibration from the engine made sighting of the rifle impossible. The men were discussing what to do with the weapons when Otto Bern buzzed the camp in his Cessna. Otto made another low pass, circled and landed in the opposite direction. He taxied up and parked under a large mahogany tree. The cloud of orange dust kicked up by the Cessna engulfed Dutchy and Rigby.

“Well now, look what the cat dragged in,” said Rigby as Jesse crawled out of the copilot's seat. “What do we owe for the honor of this visit?” He slapped his hat against his thigh to knock off the dust.

“Croxford, Dutchy,” Jesse said, shaking each man's hand. “Where's Lynn?”

“She's with my wife tending to sick Africans,” Rigby answered.

“The Sudan's becoming very unstable,” stated Jesse.

“Did you hear that, Dutchy? I buy him a book and he chews on the cover. Spooner, what other tidbits of top-secret intelligence have you uncovered?” Rigby's smirk infuriated Spooner.

“Look, I admit I'm no expert on this fucked-up continent. Just hear me out.”

“Please continue, President Mandela, we're all ears.”

Croxford pretended to pay attention, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He was consumed by the nauseating prospect of meeting Max Turner. When Jesse mentioned that he had talked Otto into making a reconnaissance flight over the refugee camp, Rigby's interest was renewed.

“You say you saw militia encampments just east of the refugee camp?”

“We counted three. Take a look at this note. Someone slid this under my door at the hotel in Kampala.”

As Rigby read the note he scratched his stubble. “Who do you think wrote this?” he asked, handing Dutchy the note.

“My hunch is that it was written by a man I met at the American Embassy.”

Rigby put his hand on Dutchy's shoulder and smiled. “I guess we should have snatched Arthur Turner before he got so bloody popular. We may have to give these Arabs a chance to meet those seventy-two vestal virgins—or is it two seventy-year-old virgins?” Rigby laughed at his own joke.

“I can't believe you find humor in this,” said Jesse. “It's like the Zulu warriors taunting the British soldiers before the battle of Isandlwana.” “Did the Zulus win?” Jesse asked. Secretly, he was hoping for a Zulu victory.

Rigby ignored Jesse's question. He blew a smoke ring in the still air and raked his fingers through his hair before speaking. “My friend, you should go find Lynn and get Otto to fly you both back to Kampala. I'd have you take my wife, but I know she'll tell us both to go to hell.”

Spooner walked over to the truck and examined one of the Barrett fifties. “Have you ever fired one of these M-82s?” he asked.

“No.”

“It's not as easy as you might think.”

“And I suppose you've fired a fifty-caliber sniper rifle?”

“I'm an ATF agent. That's Alcohol, Tobacco and
Firearms
. I've fired every weapon manufactured in the United States. I went to a training school on this baby,” he said, stroking the barrel. “Somali snipers were firing at American soldiers and then ducking behind concrete walls. A sniper, using a Barrett can fire three feet right or left from the last muzzle flash. Bang, right through the wall—one very dead sniper.”

“You're so full of shit.”

“All right, what's this called?” Jesse asked. He touched something that looked like a microprocessor.

“I haven't the foggiest,” admitted Rigby.

“It's called a Barrett Optical Ranging System, or BORS. It measures air temperature, barometric pressure and bore line angle. In other words, it takes the mystery out of bullet drop.” Rigby stooped to inspect the mechanism. He rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“Oh no, you don't. I know where this is going. There's no way you're going with us.”

“Why not?”

“Why? You've lied to me so many times, I've lost track. And you'll shit in your pants if there's any real shooting. You see, I went to school too. It wasn't some technical weapons class. It taught me to kill real people with real bullets. It was called a war.”

Dutchy put his hand on Jesse's shoulder. He spoke softly. “What about the buffalo hunt? You said he saved your life.”

“That buffalo just happened to get in the way of Jesse's bullet.”

“I shot that buffalo in the leg because that's where I was aiming,” Jesse said. “Now that is bullshit, and you know it.” “Croxford, I've seen you shoot. I could outshoot you blindfolded. I don't give a shit what you did in your war. That's ancient history.”

“Dutchy, I believe I've been challenged. Pity dueling's been outlawed.”

“If I win—you take me with you,” said Jesse.

“Done.”

Jesse let Rigby pick the weapon and the target for their shoot-off. Croxford opted for his namesake rifle, his old bolt-action .416 Rigby. Jesse fired three practice rounds to get the feel of the gun. The target was a whiskey bottle hung from a tree at two hundred meters. Both men would shoot from a standing position without the aid of a brace.

Helen and Lynn suspended their medical duties to join the spectators.

Jesse motioned for Rigby to step forward. “You go first.”

Rigby set his rifle in the crease of his shoulder and placed his face against its walnut stock. He had already calculated the bullet drop, which made a leaf on the tree above the bottle a perfect target. Exhaling, he put the crosshairs on the leaf and began to squeeze the trigger. The earsplitting crack sent a cloud of fruit bats into flight. Monkeys screeched and baboons barked. The whiskey bottle moved from the bullet's airstream, but didn't break. He frowned and handed his rifle to Jesse. “Whatever you do, don't hit Otto's airplane.”

Jesse waited for the mayhem to settle before squinting through the scope. He held the gun rock-solid against his chin. The sound of the shot echoed through the jungle. The bottle disintegrated. When Jesse heard Lynn cheering, he turned, but she stopped her applause and looked down.

“You beat me fair and square. That was a damn fine shot. Now, I want you to tell me the truth. Where were you trying to hit that buffalo?”

“What buffalo? I was so scared I don't remember pulling the trigger.”

“The truth becomes you, Spooner. Why don't you take care of the real reason you came back?” Rigby nodded at Lynn.

Jesse walked over to Lynn. They talked briefly before moving to one of the tents. Helen put her arm around her husband's neck and pulled him down to whisper in his ear. “You haven't changed one iota in thirty years. You've never lost a shooting contest in your life. You missed that bottle on purpose, didn't you?”

“You know it and I know it, but let's keep it between us girls,” he confessed. “Helen, I couldn't find a better man to cover my backside.”

***

Lynn studied Jesse's face. He sat down and propped his elbows on his knees. She got down on the floor in front of him and crisscrossed her legs. “What made you come back?” she asked.

Jesse stood up and looked out at the setting sun flirting with the top of the jungle canopy. With his back to her he answered. “I've been thinking about us, you know, about what we talked about. Lynn, it won't be easy. People will stare. They'll whisper behind our backs. If we do have kids, they'll get teased.”

“I've seen mixed couples make it. Besides, I'm a Louisiana coonass. I'll bet my great grandfather was blacker than yours.” She moved next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her waist. They stood together watching the orange equatorial sun slip behind the trees. There was no need to speak.

***

The men drove out of the hunting camp two hours before sunrise. Rigby wanted to avoid seeing Max Turner. He had no illusions about Turner. Max was despicable, but Rigby didn't buy Lynn's chilling account of Max's intentions. How could a father kill his own son?

After four grueling hours of driving, they hid the truck in some acacias. It gave them time to rest, and it gave Spooner a chance to teach them how to aim and fire the fifty-calibers.

As they got ready to leave, Rigby described what they might face. He remembered large sand dunes at the south end of the refugee camp. Rigby would walk into the camp alone, in case the camp was controlled by the Janjaweed. Dutchy and Jesse could use a dune as an observation point. If something went wrong, they would have to leave him.

Jesse made a weak argument that he should be the one to walk into the camp, but Rigby's exasperated expression dissuaded him. “If you stripped naked and we had time to burn those tribal markings into your face, you might pass for a Dinka. Of course, you'd need to shed thirty kilos.”

“It was a stupid idea. Let's forget I mentioned it.”