CHAPTER TWO

 

Harris stood, stretching his muscles. One inch under

seven feet tall, his 245-pound frame was cramped from sitting

in the humvee for most of the night. The warm sun felt good

on his aching muscles.

“Colonel Harris, there is a Dr. Walsh on the radio for

you,” said Akintunde.

Harris slid back into the driver’s seat. “Call me ‘John.’ We

do not use rank nor salute when we are in the field.”

“As you wish, John.”

Harris picked the mike up. “John here. Over.”

Walsh’s voice was almost ecstatic. “I heard you were

coming back. But I didn’t believe it until now. There’s a group

of people here waiting to see you.”

“Actually, I returned several times but never could locate

any of you, guys. The old satellite threw me off with false

readings. I barely made it back home. Over.”

“We’ve moved around too. First we headed south—

away from the lava flows. We ran into hostile tribes, some

downright murderous. We had a bloody time of it. A few

years ago, Mutwa, the shaman, talked the young king into

moving the tribe back toward Mount. Kenya. He said that

Bull Warrior was coming and would meet us there. We are

now due north of the hill. Come to the southwest corner of

the village. You’ll see the hospital tent. Can’t miss it—it’s the

largest tent, and there are trailers attached. My tent is next

on the right. We’ll brief you on the situation when you get

here.”

“Can you give me your coordinates?”

 

“We haven’t had a workable GPS in a long time. We’re just

south of a lake that was created when the ground split open. We get

our water from the creek that comes out of it.”

“Be there as soon as we can—if the creek don’t rise and

the cows come home. Out.”

“Ready, Momagattu?”

Akintunde gave a thumbs-up. “The Pepto did the trick.

I’m good to go.”

Harris cranked his engine then stuck an arm out the

window and gave the up-and-down signal. The convoy’s

engines coughed to life. Harris pointed forward then drove

around the hill, the others trailing at fifty-meter intervals. He

turned east to line up on the hill then swung north toward

Mount Kenya.

The outlines of lava flows were visible under the grass.

The Athi and Nairobi rivers had cut new beds through the

lava, and the hard lava and shallow rivers made for faster

travel between low rolling hills on the route toward Mount

Kenya . After ninety minutes, the village appeared ahead.

Harris slowed and threaded his way between tents, finally

coming to a halt near the hospital tent, marked with a fading

red cross on its roof.

“For future reference, do a GEOPOS reading on this

spot,” said Harris.

After a moment, Akintunde said, “The village is one

degree south precisely, and thirty-seven degrees, twenty-eight

minutes, zero seconds east.”

“Thanks.” Harris marked it on his map.

An elderly white man, nearly bald, and dressed in a clean

but tattered white coat came out of the hospital and hailed

them. Harris stepped out of his vehicle and stuck out his

hand. “Colonel David Walsh, it is good to see you again.”

They shook hands. “Still the farm boy. What is it with ‘If

the creek don’t rise, and the cows come home’?”

“I spent the summer helping out on my dad’s farm. He’s

getting too old for farming, but he refuses to admit it.”

 

“I only wish our meeting was under happier circumstances.

Come on in. By the way, did you happen to bring any

scotch?”

Harris nodded affirmatively. “And Momagattu Akintunde

is our Kenyan Army liaison.”

“Then have Momagattu bring the scotch,” said Walsh,

gesturing toward the tent.

Harris popped the trunk. He and Akintunde each carried

a case of Johnny Walker Blue Label Whisky inside.

Sunlight filtered through mesh windows and tent flaps.

Harris noticed candles on the center table. Electric lights were

off, and the tent was quite warm. He wondered if Walsh had

run out of fuel for his generators.

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Harris recognized

Martin Stockdale, his former assistant weapons NCO; Weapons

NCO James Peck; Medical NCO Billy Bloody Knife;

and his assistant, Matt Thunderstorm, all seated on folding

chairs.

They were all in their late forties and wore green berets

atop hair that fell past their shoulders. Bloody Knife and

Thunderstorm had braided their hair in the Sioux fashion; the

others combed it straight. For uniforms, they wore vests of

animal hides and well-worn fatigue trousers cut at the knees.

Their canvas-and-rubber boots had been altered into sandals.

Only the berets and the military patches and insignia sewn to

vests offered any clue that these were U.S. Army noncoms.

“TEN-HUT!” shouted Sergeant First Class Peck as the

men got to their feet.

“As you were,” said Harris. “Where is Captain Roundtree?

Anyone know where he went?”

Harris thought it was odd that instead of greeting him or

speaking up, the men merely shook their heads.

“No,” said Colonel Walsh, indicating a folding chair.

“Please be seated. Sergeant Bloody Knife will now brief you

on recent events, but I say now that I don’t believe this is the

whole story.”