How long could thirty or so American soldiers hold off an army of two thousand? Tamara guessed there was very little time left.
The helicopter was descending. Susan was about to pick everyone up. Where was Tab?
Then she spotted him. He was running along the north–south path, chasing the fleeing refugees, with a large child held unceremoniously under his left arm. It was a girl of about nine years, Tamara saw, and she was screaming her head off, probably more scared of the stranger who had grabbed her than of the mortars exploding behind her.
The chopper touched down. Over her headphones, Tamara heard Susan say: ‘Squad Three, board the civilians.’
Tab reached the outskirts of the camp, caught up with the last of the fleeing refugees, and set the child on her feet. She immediately ran on. Tab turned around and headed back.
Tamara ran to meet him. He embraced her, grinning. ‘Why did I feel sure you’d be involved in this rescue?’ he said.
She had to admire his cool nerve, joking on the battlefield. She was not so calm. ‘Let’s get going!’ she yelled. ‘We have to board that chopper!’ She broke into a run, and Tab followed.
Susan’s voice in her ear said: ‘Squad Two, fall back and board.’
Tamara glanced up at the ridge and saw half the soldiers there crawling backwards on their bellies then getting up and running into the camp. One man was carrying a comrade, wounded or dead.
As the soldiers reached the chopper, Susan ordered: ‘Squad One, retreat and board. Run like hell, guys.’
They followed her advice.
Tamara and Tab reached the chopper and boarded just ahead of Squad One. Everyone else was aboard. A hundred people were crammed into the passenger space, some of them on stretchers.
Tamara looked out of the helicopter window and saw the Sudanese army coming over the ridge. They thought they smelled victory, and their discipline was failing. They were firing, but hardly bothering to aim, and their bullets were wasted on the ramshackle shelters standing between them and the retreating Americans.
The doors were slammed shut and the floor beneath Tamara’s feet rose suddenly. She glanced out of the window and saw that all the Sudanese were now aiming their weapons at the helicopter.
She was almost overcome by terror. Although bullets might not penetrate the armoured underside of the aircraft, it could be brought down by a well-aimed mortar or a rocket from a shoulder-mounted launcher. The engines could be disabled, or a lucky shot might hit the rotors, and then – she remembered a grimly humorous saying dear to pilots: A helicopter glides like a grand piano. She felt herself shaking as the machine lifted and the rifle muzzles followed its trajectory up. Despite the noise of the engines and the rotors she thought she heard a rattle of bullets hitting the armour. She imagined this massive aircraft with a hundred people aboard falling to Earth, smashing to smithereens and bursting into flames.
Then she saw the Sudanese switch their attention. They stopped watching the helicopter and looked away. She followed their gaze up the western slope. There she saw the Chadian army coming over the ridge. It was a battle charge rather than an orderly advance, the soldiers running and firing at the same time. Some of the Sudanese fired back, but it quickly became clear that they were outnumbered, and they began to flee.
The passengers in the helicopter broke into cheers and applause.
The pilot flew directly north, away from both armies, and in seconds the helicopter was out of range.
‘I think we’re safe,’ said Tab.
‘Yeah,’ said Tamara, and she took his hand in hers and squeezed it very hard.
*
On the following morning, the CIA station in N’Djamena was busy. Overnight the CIA Director in Washington had fired a series of questions: What had sparked the battle? How many casualties? Were any Americans killed? Who won? What had happened to Dexter? Where in hell was Abéché? And, most importantly, what would the consequences be? He needed answers before briefing the president.
Tamara went in early and sat at her desk writing her report. She began with her meeting yesterday with Karim, who she described as ‘a source close to the General’。 She would give his name, if asked, but she would not put it in a written report if she could help it.
As the others arrived, each of them asked her what had happened to Dexter. ‘I don’t know,’ she said each time. ‘I found him unconscious with nothing to indicate what had knocked him out. Perhaps he fainted with fright.’
Along with other stretcher cases, Dexter had been taken to the hospital in Abéché when the chopper stopped to refuel. Tamara suggested to Mike Olson that he send a junior officer, maybe someone like Dean Jones, on the next plane to Abéché to visit the hospital and get a first-hand diagnosis from the doctor, and Olson said: ‘Good idea.’