Whiplash

After about an hour and a half, Da

The area was warm, but not as warm as he’d thought it would be; the night became more pleasant as they left the moist air of the coast. The mountains and foothills of the eastern part of the country received much more rain than the desert to the west. While the fields and hillsides were hardly lush at this time of year, grass, shrubs, and trees grew in the thin but well-drained soil. Here and there farms made a stab at civilizing the land.

Da

Boston had no trouble staying awake. He’d been drinking coffee practically nonstop since arriving in Africa, but it wasn’t the caffeine that made his muscles buzz. The idea of being back in action after so many years thrilled him.

As far as he was concerned, he’d spent the last few years as a mascot for the Air Force brass. He’d had plenty of responsibility, but responsibility and action were two different things. His job really didn’t call for him to do all that much. The men and women he directly supervised were mostly chiefs or senior NCOs themselves.

It had been years since he’d really done anything. The elite nature of the units he’d served in meant that even the lowest person on the totem pole not only knew his job, but did it in textbook fashion. Boston had sometimes perversely hoped that a screw-up would find his or her way to the unit; it would give him a project.

All of this might have been a tribute to his organizational and leadership skills—or maybe just colossal good luck—but in truth Boston was not comfortable with the role that had settled on him: that of father figure. He had always looked up to the chief master sergeants he’d known; even in the few cases where he didn’t respect the men, he always admired the rank. But becoming chief made him feel not so much honored and respected as simply old. He didn’t mind the kids at all, and having people jump when you said boo was easy to get used to. But there was also a kind of distance between him and the others that made him uncomfortable. He felt as if he was always on stage, a plastic role model who could not deviate from what preconceived notion the audience had. Inside, he knew he was just good old Ben “Boston” Rockland, tough kid from the streets, snake eater ready for action…not the rocking chair.

Being with Colonel Freah—several times he’d come close to calling him captain, as he’d been in the old days—made him a snake eater again. Just being called Boston felt good.

Not that Da

The bus’s headlamps caught a black shadow in the road as they came out of a sharp curve. There was a truck in the road.

“Shit,” muttered Boston.

Da

“Can you get around it?” Boston asked the driver.

“I don’t know,” said Abul, downshifting. He left his right foot hovering over the gas and used his left foot to slow and work the clutch.

“Somebody behind us, too,” said Boston. “This ain’t no coincidence.”

The truck’s lights came on ahead of them. It was a military vehicle. Two men with berets stepped in front of the lights, arms raised to stop them. They had M-16 rifles.

“This is the army?” said Da

Abul shrugged. It was impossible to know who was stopping them. The reason, though, was easy to predict—they wanted money.

“I see six,” said Boston, who was looking behind them. “I think we can make it past them.”

Da

“What are these guys going to ask for?” Da

“Money.”

“What if we shoot them?” said Boston.

“Bad, bad. They have many guns. Plus, the army will not be happy.”

“Stop the bus,” said Da

The driver hit the brake.

“Keep the engine ru

Abul looked at the space. It might be possible, but it would be very tight. “A chance,” he said.

“If I say go, you go,” said Da

“What are we doin’, Cap?” asked Boston.

“Playing it by ear,” said Da

Outside, the soldiers surrounded the bus. The two men who’d held up their hands pounded on the door, yelling.

“He wants us to come out,” said Abul.

“That, we’re not doing.”

Da

“Open the door and tell him we’re scientists,” he told Abul. “Poor scientists. We don’t have any money.”

Abul glanced at his passenger nervously. “They will just take some money and leave,” he said.

“If we let them do that, they’ll see us as easy marks,” said Da

Abul disagreed. But rather than telling Da

“They’ll rob us again and again,” said Boston. “And then probably kill us.”

“You can’t get away from them,” said Abul. “If tonight you escape, tomorrow they will come.”

“Tomorrow will take care of itself,” said Da

The soldiers pounded on the door again.

“Go ahead and open it,” said Da

Abul put his hand on the handle and pulled it toward him. Robbery was a simple cost of business here; resisting was foolish.

“Out!” shouted the leader of the small band of soldiers. He’d been in the Sudanese army for five years. He was nineteen.

“Tell him,” said Da

“My passengers are scientists,” said Abul in Arabic. “Poor men.”

“We will see their papers!” yelled the leader. He pointed his M-16 at the driver. “And they will pay for our troubles.”

“They only want to see your papers,” Abul told Da

“How small?” asked Da

Abul asked the gunman how much the inspection might cost. The soldier replied that it was impossible to say beforehand.

“There are only two men, and they are very poor,” said Abul.

The number displeased the soldier. Ordinarily a bus like this would carry at least a dozen foreigners and yield a good amount of loot. Ten U.S. dollars would feed his men for a month; a hundred would give them a new store of ammunition, which was starting to run low.

“Tell them to come out,” he told the driver.

“He wants you to come out,” Abul told Da

“We’re not coming out. If he wants his money, he’s coming in,” said Da

Abul turned back toward the door, not sure what to tell the soldier. But the man saved him the trouble, bounding up the steps angrily. In the Sudan, the gun was law, and best obeyed quickly.

Da

“First one is mine,” he muttered to Boston as the Sudanese leader came onto the bus.

The soldier raised his rifle and shouted angrily. Then he fired a three-shot burst through the roof of the vehicle to show he meant business.

As he started to lower the rifle, something hit him in the side of the head, sharp and hard—Da