The helicopter touched down, and a ramp was lowered at the rear.
Susan said: ‘Go, go!’
The soldiers ran down the ramp. As ordered, most of them turned east, up the slope, and hit the ground near the ridge. The rest fanned out around the camp. Tamara went looking for Tab.
As the soldiers gave their message a few refugees began leaving the camp at a desultory pace, apparently sceptical of the urgency.
Most of the visitors were wandering around and conducting interviews and they, too, responded sluggishly to the orders. Others had gathered around a hospitality table, where people from the government press office were handing out drinks from an icebox and snacks in plastic containers.
‘There’s going to be trouble,’ Tamara yelled at the government people. ‘We’re here to pull you out. Tell everyone to get ready to board that chopper.’
She recognized one of the reporters, Bashir Fakhoury, with a bottle of beer in his hand. He said: ‘What’s going on, Tamara?’
She did not have time to brief the press. Ignoring the question, she said: ‘Have you seen Tabdar Sadoul?’
‘Just a minute,’ said Bashir. ‘You can’t just order us around. Tell us what’s happening!’
Tamara said: ‘Fuck you, Bashir.’ She hurried away.
She had seen from the air that there were two long, fairly straight paths through the camp, one going roughly north–south and the other east–west, and she now decided the best way to search for Tab was to run the length of both. She would not be able to stop and look inside buildings: that would take too long, and she would still be searching when the Sudanese got here.
Running east, towards the soldiers on the ridge, she heard a single rifle shot.
There was a silence like a stunned pause. Then she heard a crackle as the rest of the American soldiers began shooting. Finally, more distant gunfire told Tamara that the surprised Sudanese had begun shooting back. Her heart thudded with fear, but she ran on.
The noise galvanized the people in the camp. Everyone came out of the tents to see what was going on. The sound of shooting was more effective than spoken instructions: refugees began running away from the camp, many carrying children or other precious possessions – a goat, an iron cooking pot, a rifle, a sack of flour. The journalists abandoned their interviews and ran for the buses, clutching cameras and trailing microphone leads.
Tamara scanned the faces without seeing Tab.
Then the shelling began.
A mortar exploded to Tamara’s left, destroying a house; and it was quickly followed by several more. The Sudanese artillery were firing over the heads of the American soldiers into the camp. She heard cries of fright and screams of pain as refugees were wounded. Medical orderlies among the American troops broke out collapsible stretchers and began to attend to casualties. The rush to leave the camp turned into a stampede.
Stay cool, Tamara said to herself. Stay calm. Find Tab.
She found Dexter.
She almost missed him. Lying on the ground across the open entrance to a dwelling she saw what looked like a pile of rags, but something made her take a second glance, and she realized it was Dexter’s blue-and-white seersucker suit, and Dexter was wearing it.
She knelt beside him. He was breathing, but shallowly. He showed little sign of outward harm – just scratches – but he was unconscious, so he must have been hurt.
She stood up and yelled: ‘Stretcher here!’
None of the medical orderlies was in sight and there was no response. She ran twenty yards towards the centre, but still did not see anyone. She returned to Dexter. It was risky to move an injured person, she knew, but clearly it would be more dangerous to leave him at the mercy of the Sudanese. She made a quick decision. She rolled him onto his front, lifted his torso, got her back under his belly, and heaved herself upright with his limp body over her right shoulder. Once she was standing she could bear the weight more easily, and she walked towards the helicopter and the buses.
She had gone a hundred yards when she saw two medics. ‘Hey!’ she yelled. ‘Check this guy – he’s from our embassy.’ They took the unconscious Dexter and laid him on a stretcher, and Tamara went onwards.
She noticed that some of the journalists were filming, and she had to respect their courage.
Almost every refugee had now left. An elderly woman was helping a limping man, and a teenage girl was struggling to carry two bawling toddlers, but all the others were already outside the camp, heading across the desert as fast as they could go, putting distance between themselves and the weaponry.