Safe Haven, Paul Sande [best e reader for academics txt] 📗

The unmistakable crackle of gunfire echoed through the surrounding hills. Augusta McLean lay prone in the tall moist grass just off an unpaved road, her five-foot six frame stretched out to its full length. An acrid cloud of smoke from the damaged Hummer that she had just abandoned hung over her. A coughing fit could mean death, so she fought the urge.

‘Don’t panic and you’ll be fine’, she reassured herself.

Removing a walkie-talkie from one of the many pockets in her parachute pants she uttered a silent thank you to her friend and mentor, Anthony Tanner. Early in her career he had lectured her on the reasons that all foreign aid workers should carry one whenever they left camp.

“HQ? This is Augusta McLean, over.”

“Go ahead McLean. This is HQ, over."

The reply was almost lost in a burst of static that made Augusta cringe. She could hear voices now, as the rebel army pushed the weakened government forces back.

“I’m under fire,” Augusta dispensed with the formalities of radio etiquette. Checking her GPS watch, she provided coordinates.

“Sit tight. We’ll try to get some security forces to you.”

Try? Augusta thought to herself in disbelief. Not very reassuring! “I’m going silent. I’ll head toward the main highway. I was almost there when we got hit.”

Augusta strained to hear every sound, trying to determine the best avenue of escape. Concluding that the fighting must be directly in front of her, she decided to go back the way she had come. She moved like a wild cat, staying as low to the ground as possible and avoiding the smoke.

Circling around the vehicle she paused to listen. The voices appeared to be receding. With a grouping of trees within throwing distance she decided that she had to take a chance. She sprang to her feet and was about to break into a run when she heard a command in English from behind her, the accent so thick that she almost didn’t recognize the words.

“Do not move.”

Instinct made her look back and she caught sight of a short Congolese man. From his torn clothing and ancient rifle, she knew that he belonged to the rebel army.

“I’m not armed,” she said, a tremor in her voice as she raised her empty hands.

From the uncertain expression on his face he seemed torn about his next step when a tall, muscle-bound man armed with a machete emerged from the woods to their right. All he wore was a short pair of pants, the cuffs frayed. He yelled something that Augusta couldn’t understand in Lingala, one of the country’s four national languages. In response, Augusta’s captor lowered his weapon with sudden disinterest and strode past her.

The tall rebel soldier stared at Augusta, pointed his weapon toward her Christian Outreach Hummer and said in French, “You are not our enemy as long as you do not interfere.” He then disappeared into the deep grass as he had come; without a sound.

Augusta let out a deep breath. Running to her vehicle, she reached inside and grabbed the file folder from the seat-back pocket. She scanned the area, but her Congolese driver was nowhere to be found. Without further hesitation, she turned and ran toward the highway.

Publication Date: 03-21-2009

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