Chapter 2: Part 1: Chapter 2: Heat is nothing in comparison to betrayal.
Iraqi desert, March 2019.
Shocked he stared at the explicit photos.
Excessive perspiration dripped from him, unnoticed. The boiling heat; airless.
His attention arrested with the terrible images engraved in his mind. The betrayal left him in utter devastation.
Before long, uncontrollable hatred replaced the shock as he tossed them in the corner. It connected with a filing cabinet with a thud.
His marriage was a farce!
Vile tasting disbelief infiltrated his mouth. Balling fists pressed against the desk, his vision blurred. Automatically his fingers massaged his temples and pinched himself.
His lovely wife of twenty-five years. How could she? He had been home in February when they celebrated it, and now this.
He picked up the crumbled pictures and straightened them. The digital date and time on each caught his scrutiny - captured adequately over four years - the last one the day he left. Her track of deceit adequately defined in each emotion and position.
It joined the rest of the discarded pack. His personal world had tilted in seconds: from virtuous to depraved in a heartbeat.
The uncomfortable silence stifled the office and chairs moved. Colonel Curt McGee avoided the staff, disgraced.
He swiped the images from the table and collapsed back into his seat. Anger tightened his jaw which framed the day-old stubble.
"Sir, is everything okay?" Curt looked at his aid, speechless.
How could she? We made love that last day. We assured each other of our devotion. I was the luckiest husband on earth. The next night she was back in her lover's arms and by the roguish looks, enjoying herself.
"I'm going for a walk!"
"Yes, Sir!!" The Colonel's normal straight shoulders slumped, the long strides weaker.
Doug regarded the coloured prints with unease. The woman was in an appealing encounter. Buck naked, the guy pounded into her. Her hips held in a fierce grip. She was a looker.
Footsteps on gravel propelled him into action and jumbled them together, shoved it back into the large envelope marked in bold letters: Colonel Curt McGee. He then placed it in the desk's drawer.
He straightened as Sergeant First Class Ralph entered the office. A deep frown creased his rugged face. He glanced through the workplace.
"Is the colonel here?" the stern voice thundered. His DNA formed with military precision. The broad shoulders and perfect stance brooked no-nonsense.
Doug saluted him and the moment he acknowledged him, he relaxed.
"Just stepped out, Sir."
Curt walked to the furthest end of the camp. How could she? Sand drifted into the warm air. And with that person? More sand floated upwards. Out of breath he glanced around, his throat parched.
A jeep pulled up and he waved the soldier closer. The private saluted, but he demanded the keys with a careless gesture. He jumped in and stepped on the accelerator. The engine roared into action as it left the camp in a dust trail.
"That bitch!" he groaned, banging the steering wheel, with tears evaporating in the drive.
Fifteen minutes later Curt stopped at the local tearoom, the owner a well-known patron of the town. Usually Curt refused his subtle offerings, but today he wanted to forget.
Once inside he removed his shades. It took a few seconds to adjust to the dimness.
Elaborated carpets, curtains and cushions divided the room into sections. The cosy place was a favourite amongst the military staff. Satisfied that he had the place to himself, he relaxed. The owner manned the battered counter to the right of him.
Samer Sleiman, the proud owner of the establishment, met Curt with a slight bob. He beamed with pleasure. "Ah, my favourite officer," he said, twisting his hands with the unexpected fortune.
"What do you have?" Curt asked with added interest.
"I have anything you want, my leech." Sleiman fawned with submissiveness.
"Bourbon?"
"Ah, an excellent choice, my leech."
He scrutinised the colonel. Allah has blessed him with an unusual feast; one he will savour, he thought with a smirk.
He had waited for this officer to cave.
He hated the western capitalists. They walked into his place as if it belonged to them. It irked him every time he came face to face with one of them. He made money from their drunken debauchery with no guilt.
"Any other pleasures?" Samer's hands gestured two boobs in front of him. Curt did not understand the illustration until the penny dropped.
"Yes."
"Room?"
"Yes."
"Now I can entertain the officer in my modest abode," and the ugly face transformed into an uglier mug.
"Follow me, my leech," he ordered with arrogant confidence. Samer led the way deeper into the dimmed place. The steady gait of the client energised his own pace.
The depilated stairs led to a darkened hallway. At the door of a shabby room Samer stepped aside as the officer entered and closed it with a wicked grin. It took him minutes to collect the beverages and called for his wife's niece. She would do.
Back in the room the officer showed no interest when he approached him. With undeterred greed, he spoke: "You will love this, my leech."
Samer presented the bottle with a well-known bourbon sticker. For the first time the officer's attention perked while he opened the cap. He filled a glass with the rich amber and served it. The officer sniffed the content and rolled his eyes.
Samer knew it was the best batch of bourbon he had bought. The apt name of Heaven's door with its distinctive flavour, a favourite amongst the rich Americans. Today was undeniably an outstanding day to open the case.
Pleased with the label Curt swallowed the golden liquid, the burning sensation a welcome sensation and he smacked his lips. As he caught the greed filled face, he snatched the bottle from him and ignored the gleeful chuckle.
"Bring another!" he ordered, tossing money on the bed.
Samer bowed. "I have a present, with your permission."
He waved towards the door. A woman, enclosed in black, approached them.
"I'm sure she will pleasure you, yes?" The owner pressed the girl closer. Quietly he watched her approach. When she stopped Curt removed her hijab.
Hell, she is younger than my daughter! With scorn he looked at the man directly behind her, his beady eyes sinister and smug before it returned to the girl. Outraged he wanted to dismiss her, then paused. A moral fight inside weighed him down.
"Does she please you?"
"Isn't she too young?" Long black hair protected the face, her gaze diverted to the floor.
"No, my leech, I assure you she's twenty," Samer replied, smacking her on the butt. She shrieked and blushed. Her nervous giggle echoed through him. This was not him.
Curt groaned; she was someone's daughter.
He knocked back another swig, then got to his feet. Dust motes swirled upwards with the motion and she coughed. A small hand protected her mouth.
He touched her hair and let the silk glide through his fingers. Huge, scared eyes stared at him, her innocence a sharp contrast to the environment they were in.
With a sneer he pushed them aside and left; bottle in his hand.
Chapter 3: Part 1: Chapter 3: Lines upon lines of need.
The area of Bentiu, South Sudan, Africa. April 2019.
Sonia Main watched the human line intensely.
It often included women and children. Even early in the day sweat coated them with a glossy sheen. No one bothered to swat the persistent flies away - silence their only resolution. The ragged tent was not adequate, and a lengthy line trailed listlessly outside the tent.
It was the last day at this camp. Tomorrow they would continue to another line much bigger than this one, the war-torn country in desperate need of help.
In partnership with David Sulliman, her interpreter, they examined the patients. He was of average build, his constant smile exhibited pearly whites against the darker skin. Based in South Sudan for two years, they had developed a good working relationship. He genuinely cared about his fellow countrymen.
"David, she needs to see the doctor." Sonia pulled an older woman from the line-up. Her concealed face was feverish at the touch.
"As-Salam Alaykum, awewe," he greeted the woman and showed her where to go. With slow steps she met Alice inside the tent.
"It will be another long day," Sonia said.
"Yes, it will," came the answer.
Armed with the vaccine she followed him, the clipboard present while he spoke to each person. Scanning the crowd, she shifted her attention to the landscape. The deserted area gave no hope of rain. Each breath laboured, the patients a mirrored image of the countryside, as barren as the parched earth.
"They reported another case of diarrhoea." David broke the silence during a break.
"Head Office promised to look at the quality of water." Sonia redirected her attention back to her work. "They sure can send more tents. Food and medicine are much-needed."
"The critical needs are dire," David said.
"And personnel. We need more help," Sonia said.
"You know they struggle with trained personnel." Medical personnel were difficult to find. The hours, heat and minimal luxuries held no appeal for many.
"The war doesn't help," she stated.
A sudden outcry interrupted them and both scanned the people. A woman wailed as she gripped her abdomen. The next moment she fell. Wisps of dust swirled upwards before they spread over her. Impassive bodies stood aside.
"I got this." David motioned and went closer. Sonia administered the child's drops while monitoring David. By the time she reached them, the woman was comatose. Her black skin strained over a thin frame; dull eyes stared upwards.
"She is unresponsive," David said with trepidation as Sonia knelt next to them.
"Stretcher!" Sonia called when she detected a faint pulse. The heartbeat was cumbersome.
"What do you think?" On closer examination, she replied: "She is losing the baby," and stood aside as the two soldiers approached.
"Be careful with her." In her delirious state the woman slumped around on the stretcher and Sonia calmed her with a warm touch on the arm and reached the tent with no incident.
"Here." Sonia directed them towards a bed in the corner. People pushed against them before they stepped aside. With only cardboard on the worn springs, she pulled a sheet from an empty gurney.
"Lay her down." The acrid stink of rotting flesh and sickness made breathing difficult.
"Doctor … "
"What's wrong?"
Soft weepy sounds immersed from the patient's lips.
"The baby will not make it," the doctor whispered. A lonely tear trickled down the woman's frightened face.
"Doctor Wek will help you," Sonia said with a calmed tone. Her own heart rate already galloping.
"I struggle to find her pulse, Doctor," Sonia informed him.
The woman cried. A sudden spasm pushed blood-water from her legs. Sonia glanced at Doctor Wek knowingly, her own heart in pain.
The doctor's face was a blank canvas as he explained to the woman what had happened. More water stained the white sheet and with it came the foetus. In sync with her baby, the woman's last breath slipped from her parted lips.
Oh, Lord, no! Not again. Please!
Blocking her line of thought, Sonia turned back with a sheet. Dr Wek stood aside as she swathed her. Afterwards she notarised the death.
Another death in a senseless war no one cared about.
"Let's go people. We must be at home before dark," David called. Sonia closed the van's backdoor. David hitched the trailer as she took her seat, the sliding door the last act of the day.
Children ran alongside them, their energy appreciated as they waved at them. Amidst the poverty they still beamed with joy.
Behind them the sombre landscape displayed tints of orange and deep yellows from the last sun rays. It softened the harshness and tedious state.
As they sped away, a boy waved at them in his run. Up ahead his donkey's gait a two-step as the cans jiggled from side to side.
Each trip to the refugee camps met her with humbleness, the children's toothy grins a personal highlight. What she valued most was their carefree attitude. They cherished life in every moment. With only the bare minimum, they seemed unworried about the future.
For the medical staff it was crucial to venture out to lift the tremendous burden. The influx of exiles gave them no rest while they suffered. She could leave, but the South Sudanese people had no choice. To help them, remained the closest she could come to excellence.
At the hospital they filed out - a tired but satisfied group. Sonia unpacked the van like a robot.
"We will help you."
"Thanks, Alice."
"They shot a doctor today," David informed them when he returned.
"Where?" The weight of their predicament oppressive.
"Khartoum - trapped with protesters inside a house in Buri. They shot him without reason," David said.
"I don't understand this wave of murders. We are here to help them," Sonia said.
"These people have no consciousness," Alice replied.
"We have to be watchful," David agreed.
Reluctant and uneasy Sonia removed the bags with filthy linen. "Take this and I will take those bags inside."
"Thanks, Alice." Sonia placed the clean linen inside the marked crate and closed the lid.
"Good night, Sonia."
"Goodnight, Alice. See you tomorrow."
In the compact kitchen Sonia drank a supplement she always had at hand, showered and went straight to bed. Lathered with enough Tabard, she added a flimsy sheet as a shield against unwanted night crawlers.
It was well after eleven when she flicked off the light. A thick blanket of darkness wrapped around her. A miserable sense which devoured you if you were not careful. Restless she stared out the small window, her thoughts far away. The moment she fell asleep, the woman's face intertwined with her own. It haunted her till she woke. Drenched in sweat she reached for the water. Once her thirst was quenched, she laid back.
The soft mattress's peaceful embrace drew her back, but sleep evaded her.
When the orange globe tinted the sky, she prayed. A solitary commodity that kept her sane. The constant battle for self-control became worse in the last couple of days.
Sticky after the night's heat, she made her way to the showers for a refreshing spray of cool water. By 6h00 she left.
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