I would take her and Mary Magdalene on the 707, or should she make other arrangements. ”
“Ursula Craig escaped from East Berlin by crashing through the Berlin Wall in a truck. She’s not going to consider sneaking into the Congo without a visa much of a problem,” Felter said. “Especially since Geoff—I’m sure—made sure she has access to lots of cash.”
“If she wanted to go to Léopoldville—”
“I don’t suppose we could get Hanni or Porter Craig—better yet, Helene Craig—to reason with her?” Felter interrupted.
“That failed,” Jean-Phillipe said. “As I expected it would. Helene went berserk. Hanni finally managed to convince her that Ursula and the baby would be safe in Léopoldville.”
“That’s a thought,” Felter said. “If we could get Marjorie out of Costermansville, to Léopoldville, that would be an improvement on what we have now,” Felter said. “They could both stay at your place, right?”
“Of course. But how do we get them to do that?”
“What we don’t do is order Marjorie to Léopoldville, or tell Ursula she can’t go over there. That would guarantee both of them in Costermansville.”
“So what do we do?”
“Ursula and Mary Magdalene know what happened in Stanleyville—they were there,” Felter said. “I think they’d much rather be in Léopoldville. Maybe they can talk Marjorie into going there.”
“So I should take them?”
“What choice do we have?”
As the 707 made its approach to Stanleyville, both Captain Dugan and Lieutenant Matthews noticed that both the blonde and the enormous black woman seemed disturbed, nervous; the black woman held the baby to her tightly, her lips pursed tightly, and the blonde woman seemed very tense.
Both officers suspected that the women were probably afraid of flying generally, and landing in some strange airport compounded that fear.
Once the 707 had stopped in front of the terminal, Captain Dugan and Lieutenant Matthews could see evidence of small-arms fire on the terminal building. And there were no Americans in sight, just Congolese paratroopers. Even more disconcerting, in the open door of a hangar just behind the terminal, a Congolese paratrooper was painting a somewhat crude coffin with what looked like flat black paint.
A movable stairs mounted on a badly shot-up pickup truck was pushed to the side of the 707 by a dozen or more Congolese paratroopers. The truck had no tires; it was rolling on its rims.
A stocky Congolese paratroop officer came quickly up the stairs.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” Lieutenant Matthews, who made sort of a hobby of knowing the rank insignia of foreign armies, said softly to Captain Dugan. Dugan nodded.
The Congolese lieutenant colonel made his way past the L-19s and the crates and infant accoutrements toward the cockpit.
He saw them.
“The aircraft is now at the terminal,” he said in heavily sarcastic English. “The captain has extinguished the FASTEN SEAT BELTS sign. What the hell are you two waiting for?”
Captain Dugan and Lieutenant Matthews unfastened their seat belts and stood up.
“Oh, Jesus Christ!” the Congolese lieutenant colonel said, in what sounded like Yankee English, to the blonde. “What are you two, gluttons for punishment?”
Then he said something in a language neither officer had ever heard before to the enormous black woman, who smiled at him and replied. It was the first time either officer had seen the woman smile.
“Good afternoon, Major Lunsford,” the blonde said. “How nice to see you again.”
Tears ran down her cheeks.
“Major Lunsford?” Captain Dugan wondered.
“Oh, Jesus, honey, don’t do that,” Lunsford said, and put his arms around her and the baby.
“I’m all right, Father,” she said.
“Father?” Lieutenant Matthews wondered.
“Trust me, honey,” Lunsford said. “Things are changed from the last time you were here.”
He saw Captain Dugan and Lieutenant Matthews looking at them.
“What do I have to do, stick a boot up your ass to get you off the airplane?”
Captain Dugan and Lieutenant Matthews descended the ladder. A slight Congolese paratroop captain waited at the bottom.
Lieutenant Matthews saluted him, and a moment later Captain Dugan did so, too.
The Congolese returned the salute.
“You don’t have to do that,” Captain Weewili said, smiling. “I’m actually a Spec7.”
[ TWO ]
5 Degrees 27 Minutes 08 Seconds South Latitude
29 Degrees 11 Minutes 19 Seconds East Longitude
(The Bush, Near Lake Tanganyika, Kivu Province, Congo)
1550 8 April 1965
It was not the almost impenetrable jungle that Hollywood Tarzan movies have taught us to envision when “African jungle” is mentioned. It was closer to “virgin forest.” More trees—many of them ancient and enormous—than vines. A vast assortment of bushes—hence the term “the bush”—and a two- or three-inch-thick padding underfoot of rotting leaves and branches. It was warm—they were five degrees