The Threat

The state dinner that evening was at a palace on the river that had once been “Chinese” Gordon’s headquarters. Dan thought he’d seen the grand staircase before in some film. He vaguely remembered Gordon being speared to death on it by a howling mob of the Mahdi’s fanatics. Islamic uprisings, jihad, massacre, were old stories here. He stood by in an anteroom. The power went out during the performance, which was children doing traditional dances. Guards brought in torches, and the show went on. The effect was exotic and frightening; strange whining music, guttering torchlight, the fixed expressions of the dictator’s staffers-slash-henchmen.

The De Baris retired early, but the State people stayed at the palace for a night session. Dan overheard enough to get the feeling this wasn’t the fact-finding jaunt the press people had made it out to be.

The second day a huge, grizzle-bearded black man arrived, surrounded by bodyguards. Now three gangs of guards, all heavily armed, including the Secret Service’s SWAT people, glowered and elbowed each other outside the carved doors of the conference room. He wondered what would happen if one of the Sudanese decided the Mahdi had been right about Christians after all.

The highlight was the photo op, when the session finally broke. No, the Moment. Garang and el-Bashir were both bald, fat, ugly thugs whose suits did not fit at all. A beaming De Bari shepherded them into a reception room with the pontifical bonhomie of a don brokering a gangland truce. He announced they’d just signed a cease-fire. The Sudan People’s Liberation Army would end twelve years of civil war, and Garang would join a coalition government as el-Bashir’s vice president.

The two shook hands like tranquilized grizzlies as the press teemed and shouted questions, which they ignored. Dan noticed el-Bashir looking at him. His heavy-lidded eyes examined his uniform, then dropped to the satchel. As soon as the handshake was over Garang left, his security crowded so close he could not even be seen.

It was probably a historic occasion, but he was busy trying to rejuggle the seating arrangements on Air Force One for the next leg, to Zaire. He’d have been more impressed if he hadn’t also seen the oil company executives with the State people the night before, and heard them discussing exploration blocks, probable reserves, and a pipeline to the Red Sea. He recognized these men now. They were De Bari’s golfing buddies, his intimates and presumably his donors. Not only that, one of the companies was the China National Petroleum Corporation. A reporter told him the deal was that the Nuer and Dinkas wouldn’t attack the oil fields, in exchange for a third of the revenue.

The more he saw of politics, the better he liked the Navy. It had its share of assholes and incompetents. But being ready to step in front of a bullet, or face a hurricane, sheared away at least some of the greed and ego.

But the next moment he answered himself. Who cared if the Dinkas got paid off? If this thug or that lobbyist got rich? Wasn’t ending a civil war a good thing?

He stood with the satchel between his boots, pistol under his jacket, watching the smiling men congratulating each other. The president’s back was to him. He stood rigid, struggling again with the demon that whispered, Do it. You fucking coward.

* * *

The next day, in Zaire. He’d located a marginally navigable road out to the camp, so they took the motorcade. In the command van, enjoying air-conditioning while he had it, he rode in silence across from McKoy. Dan thought after a time: Maybe I should tell him. Or somebody.

He envisioned it. “I’m having thoughts about killing the president.” Yeah right … or maybe, “I’m having doubts about my fitness for this job.” That might be better. But phrase it how he might, it’d still put the last nail in his coffin.

If he could just finish, he might still get back to sea. It was possible, with the medal, with his record … not that it was such a great record … too many damaged ships, too many dead, too many internationally inconvenient episodes swept under the carpet. Still, he’d done his duty. There were those who disagreed. But you couldn’t please everybody.

But could he go on? Being in this situation day after day … More pressure wasn’t what he needed. His neck hurt. He had flashbacks. He didn’t need this.

But if he couldn’t handle it, he’d never get another ship …

“You’re deep in thought,” the lead agent said.

“Just going over the schedule.”

“One more country, then we can head home.”

“Well, I’ll be ready.”

But to himself he wondered: Home? And where was that? An empty house? A wife who’d left? He looked out at the ash and patches of tortured volcanic rock that got larger and more frequent, the vegetation more sick and stunted-looking, the closer they got to the Goma Refugee Camp.

* * *